Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ray waved at my cousin and me as we went up on the ski lift. I was excited to hit the slopes without anyone holding my hand—at ten years old, I was ready to be responsible for myself and seven-year-old Noah. Besides, the bunny slope at Snow Summit was a piece of cake.
I looked around as we climbed. Strange, I thought. Did the lift always take this long? Why were so few skiers on it? Finally we reached the top. There was no lift attendant. Only the sign: Black Diamond Run. We’d taken the wrong lift!
The lift dumped us onto the snow. We slid down the steep slope, finally stopping at the bottom of a snowbank. Expert skiers jumped over the bank, flying above our heads so fast that they didn’t notice us. Noah began to cry.
“God,” I pleaded, “help us! We’re freezing and we can’t get down!”
Just then, we heard the drone of engines. Two snowmobiles zoomed toward us. We were wary of strangers, but the drivers wore gold helmets and gold uniforms with ski patrol insignia.
We wrapped our arms around their gold jackets and they raced up the mountain. At the summit, they put us on the ski lift headed down. Then they drove off into the woods.
Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ray brought us into the ski patrol office to thank the unit for sending their “golden angels.”
That’s when they told us: The official ski patrol uniforms are red.
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