The first thing I remember was the shock of feeling the snowflake land on my face. I gasped and snapped my head back. I saw the tiny flakes drift down from the sky. One of them landed on my eyelash and my vision was momentarily blurred as it melted. My mom called me over to help unload the sleds and then we started the trek up the hill. My excitement heightened as we neared the top. I was starting to get tired, but I was so close. The determination rose up inside me and I plowed through the last feet of snow. Finally, I was at the top. I looked back at where I had walked. My footprints were tiny next to those of my parents. Other than our tracks, there was nothing marking the slope of the hill.
My brother (of course) was the first one down the hill. I watched him whiz down the hill and then slow to a stop as the slope lessened. I wanted to go next. I sat down in the sled and pushed off the ground. As I gained speed I gripped the rope tighter, and then laughed at my fear of falling off the sled. I loosed my grip again and even let go with one hand. I let the free hand trail along in the snow on the outside of the sled. All too soon, I was at the bottom of the hill. Once again I walked up the slope. When I reached the top, I got an idea. I went back farther and got a running start. Just before the hill started to slant, I jumped in the sled. I was going double the speed than I was the first time. The wind that whipped my face was so cold that my eyes started to water. I slowed down and continued the pattern of going up and then back down.
Before I knew it, we were packing up and I was climbing in the car. As we drove away, I looked back at the hill that was covered with footsteps and sled tracks. I smiled, knowing that we had left our mark on the mountain.
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