I Threw a Snowball in August

Sam W
Grade Level 4
School District 97
Prose

The faint sounds of my dad and mom walking behind me mixed with the twitter of the birds and the sound of rushing water. My brother David urged me up the rugged trail. We were in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado, and had hiked almost straight up for four miles.

The trail merged with a waterfall, and water splashed down on us as we climbed. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the sun beat down like midday. I could feel the sweat beneath my backpack and under the brim of my hat.

As I clambered over the rocks, I could see the main part of the waterfall above. But that was not where we were going. We were headed farther up the mountain, so far that even though it was midsummer, I knew that ahead of us lay snow. Lots of it.

The mosquitos swarmed so thickly around me that they seemed like a veil before my eyes. As we climbed and the temperature grew colder, the mosquitos disappeared. We grew closer and closer to the snowfields. Now the trail was even steeper, almost vertical. Small hairy marmots hidden in the nearby rocks whistled warnings as we passed.

Another 20 minutes, and we reached our destination, the Lake of Glass. That's when I saw the snowfields. David and I raced across the rocks to the snow.

A few snowballs flew. A few snowballs hit their mark. A few dark clouds loomed. A few boys scrambled down rocks. A few people hiked down five miles. Quite a few hailstones fell. A few busses drove down the mountain road. And a few tired yet satisfied people settled down in their tents.