It was a wintry day in 1990 and the most anticipated event of my fourth-grade year was upon us—the skiing field trip to Wild Mountain in eastern Minnesota.
I had never been skiing before, but based on what I had heard, this was going to be the single greatest, most fun day of my entire life. That morning, a couple hundred 10-year-olds wearing 20 pounds of winter gear each, plus a few parent chaperones including my very own father, piled into a caravan of school buses that carried us to the ski spot.
As the bus wound its way up the mountainside, I could barely contain myself. I just knew it was going to be an experience to remember. And it was. But not in the way
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