Kristina Drobny Bond & Narrative Photography

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Winter Firsts

Some Quick History

I have never been a graceful human being. In sixth grade, I wanted to be part of the school's talent show. So, I attempted to team up with eight or so of my friends and create a little dance number to a Black Sheep song. Well, four or five of my friends were decent dancers (at least in their opinions), and were, oddly, the most popular girls as well as the deciders in the group. They also didn't quite believe that I was up to snuff (they had a reputation to keep!). They obviously had not seen me sweating away to Naughty by Nature's "Ghetto Bastard" in my basement. I thought I was pretty good. At least it felt like I was moving in all the right ways. However, they were skeptical.

So, in order to appear thoughtful without coming across as snobbish (dude, you're killing my vibe), the cool girls decided that eight would be too many to have on stage all at once. So, sadly, the best way to resolve this would be to take one for the team and divide into groups of five. Perfect! Guess who got to choose the groups? Not me! I got clustered into a sorting of two girls (who really weren't part of the main group, but were sort of constants due to the fact that they lurked nearby during recess and could be easily associated with us by relative distance to where we stood) and me. It was obvious that we didn't want to work together because we all pouted and chose to concern ourselves with the goings on of the cooler kids who were certain to win the talent show with their spectacular dance piece. Plus, because they were the geniuses who came up with the idea to divide up, they got to keep the Black Sheep song. I didn't know any other really cool songs, except for "Ghetto Bastard," and something didn't seem quite right about three well-bred white girls dancing on stage to a song written about impoverished African Americans living and dying in the ghetto.

Needless to say, I did not enter the talent show. But, I did get my own quiet revenge when the cool girls botched their dance number. (Yes!) Anyway. The point of this story is that I wasn't a very good dancer. I couldn't keep rhythm and I tripped over my feet, even when I wasn't dancing. Today, that has fully manifested into me being a klutz. I get easily distracted by thoughts firing around in my constantly processing brain, and then I have difficulty maintaining control of my body parts. It's okay. I've come to terms with this sad truth. I like to believe that most people consider it endearing.

Proving Everyone Wrong

Naturally, when I moved to Vermont, I was dissuaded by my own internal logic and the logic of my friends to not ever strap skies or a snowboard to my feet and then careen vertically down a snow-covered mountain. Most people would call that skiing or snowboarding ("shredding" if you're savvy), but I called it near-certain death. For three winters, I shied away from ski resorts and made up excuses as to why I live in Vermont but don't partake in the winter festivities.

But, then, a strange event happened. I was given a snowboard by one of my friends. Is it possible that I actually had it in me this whole time? And, is it possible that my friend believes that I can make it down the hill without hitting a tree and going into a coma?

So for the first time ever, I decided to actively seek danger. The first time I went to a mountain, I spent most of the time on a slope that was more akin to a suburban home's backyard berm. Though completely benign, to me the slight ground swelling seemed like a bad day on Mount Everest. After some initial shock of being obviously the worst snowboarder on the mountain, I realized that it was possible for me to get the hang of winter sports. And, finally, I would feel justified in drinking a delicious beer after being outside in the cold for extended periods of time. Somehow, slinging back a Guinness after shoveling my driveway was never as satisfying.

I am proud of my bravery. Thus, lies the reason why I am posting these photographs. The following images were taken during my trip to the Balsams. It's a small resort/ski area in New Hampshire, fairly close to the Canadian border. We took my husband's son there. It was his first time on a chairlift and it was my first time going to the top of a mountain with the intent to slide down it. And, I'm still alive and well. No major injuries were incurred, save for maybe a bruised pride for when I got stuck on a flat area and a fellow skier had to extend his ski pole and pull me to the next incline.

First step: getting geared up.

Getting Booted

Second step: Getting off the bunny slope and onto a real hill without losing the will or drive to live.

Burton Kid's Ad

Third step: Keeping the spirit alive.

Encouragement

Fourth step: Knowing when to send the kid home with Grandma.

Done

The rest of the images in this series involves my first few runs down a mountain. It certainly wasn't Breckenridge, but it was cheaper, less crowded, and I didn't have too worry too much about looking bad—there were hardly anyone there to look bad in front of!