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No Rest for the Wicked Arriving at the summit of the mountain in Breckenridge, Colorado, nestled at the middle of the great Rocky Mountains, I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun’s powerful light even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the damp, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would only be a short time before white flakes took over the mountain. As I prepared to make my first run, which ended in embarrassment and pain, I took a second to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up there. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, was much more powerful. Its cold bite found my nose. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, prompting me to zip my jacket over my chin. It’s strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really didn’t appear that high anymore. If I were only a couple of feet taller, I suspected I could reach my hand into them. As I gazed out ov