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Let’s hear your story… send three paragraphs and a photo (or three) to jhastings@procutusa.com
Henry Johnstone on the Andover NH K38M, his “home hill” – a 90 minutes drive from his home outside Boston,MA. Photo from 2015.
Curator’s note- For context, the email below accompanied Henry’s story. For further context on Henry’s wonderful energy and the effects of living 90 minutes from the nearest jump- it became tradition in the East that no competition is truly over until every competitor has had their 2 scored jumps AND Henry Johnstone has run back to the top for a third, unscored, “post jump.”
Hello Mr. Hastings,
I would like to submit a story; it details my first jump on the Andover, NH 38, and was my college Common Application essay. I submitted it to Williams College early decision, and found out few days ago that I was accepted! It should be noted that the excessive explanation of the mechanics of the jump as well as my later accomplishments were for the sake of the admissions officers, but I thought it might be interesting to read in the context of a college essay.
HENRY JOHNSTONE
Andover Outing Club/Carlisle, MA
hjohnstonenordic@gmail.com
Ski jumping is an obscure yet beautiful sport. Jumpers strap on long skis, shoot down a steep inrun, and launch into the air. Leaning over skis spread wide in a “V” to maximize lift, they glide as far down the landing hill as possible. For a few fleeting seconds, they fly.
Despite being the third generation of ski jumpers in my family, my introduction to the sport came late and unexpectedly slovenska-lekaren.com. My father harbored no intentions of pushing me off a jump, and it was only when he happened to learn of a ski jumping club that I decided to try this sport that is so embedded in my family’s history. I admired this legacy, and yearned to be part of it.
Every Tuesday after school, my father and I would drive for an hour and a half from the suburbs of Boston to Andover, New Hampshire. From the backseat I would watch the familiar scenery pass, neglecting my homework as nervous excitement mounted in my chest. Finally, the car would bump down a frozen dirt road, frost and gravel popping under the tires, and emerge before the jumps: the ten- and eighteen-meter hills to the left, and the formidable thirty-eight-meter hill towering above them to the right.
For a fleeting, frigid hour as daylight faded, I would take as many jumps on the small hills as possible. Skis over my shoulder, taking the steps two at a time, I would negotiate every familiar stair, slope, and icy foothold before reaching the top. Waiting for my turn, bindings fastened, I would shoot down the snowy inrun, sail through the air, skid to a stop at the bottom, and repeat the process. With three-hour school-night commutes, I was intent on milking each practice for all it was worth.
With practice came improvement, and soon the eighteen-meter began to feel small. But it was with great trepidation one chilly Tuesday evening in February that I agreed to jump the daunting thirty-eight-meter hill. The hike to the top of this unfamiliar giant was solemn and foreign. I paled as I passed a faded sign reading “Jump At Own Risk.” Looking down the long, steep track for the first time, the knot of anxiety in my stomach grew tighter. I had never been more scared in my life.
I thought of the story I wanted to tell my family that night: a story of achievement, not defeat. I had traveled too far to walk back down. Equipment on, I sat on the bar, perched above the inrun. I saw the village far below, and purple mountains beyond. A call from below told me all was clear. Letting go was all it would take. Once I started down the hill, there would be no stopping.
With a deep breath, surprised at what I was doing, I let go of the bar. My skis chattered down the track, carrying me faster and faster. My whole body tensed, gaining speed, losing control. The takeoff hurtled towards me, and I instinctively jumped. A roar of air hit. I experienced flight. Skis slapped the hill, and I stiffly returned to the ground, alive, snowplowing to a stop. Hiking back up, I kept my goggles on to hide the tears filling my eyes. I was soon embarrassed to learn that I had been screaming all the way down.
I have moved on from the now-tiny Andover hill with greater ambitions, graduated to 120-meter Olympic-sized hills, competed internationally, and won a national championship. My career will continue to take me to new hills and first jumps, but my accomplishment that night left an impact that will last a lifetime. Overcoming fear, letting go of comfort and safety, and committing to my dream began a wonderful journey.
In the beginning- Henry’s first year jumping, ready atop the 18 meter hill at Proctor/Andover with alpine skis, a soft ear helmet, and no suit.
The jumps at Andover decorated for competition day. The K38M on the right looms above the 10M, the 18M and the 30M (far right).
