Page 3 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

I reach for my radio. "Rhett to Base. We've got a situation."

"Go ahead, Rhett."

"Fresh ski tracks heading into the closed area northwest of Silverback. Single set, recent. Looks like someone went off-boundary right before closing."

A pause, then: "Shit. Do you want backup?"

I hesitate, looking at the darkening sky. Proper protocol would be to call in the team, set up a coordinated search. But that takes time—time this skier might not have if the snowpack decides to give way.

"Negative. Aspen and I will follow the tracks and make contact. Have backup on standby. I'll report in twenty."

"Copy that. Be careful out there. Those readings weren't looking good."

I clip the radio back to my belt and whistle for Aspen. She comes bounding over, already alert to the change in my demeanor.

"Let's go, girl. Someone needs a lesson in mountain safety."

As we move toward the boundary rope, I check my rescue pack: probe, shovel, first aid kit, emergency blanket, extra batteries for the radio and headlamp. The familiar weight settles on my shoulders as I clip into my specialized bindings designed to work with my prosthetic.

The light continues to fade, casting long shadows across the snow. The tracks lead directly into a sheltered bowl—a perfect terrain trap if the snow above decides to slide. Exactly the kind of picturesque spot that lures skiers to their doom.

Five years ago, I would have been furious at the skier's stupidity. Now, all I feel is a cold dread in my stomach. I knowtoo well what it feels like when the mountain breaks beneath you. When the world becomes a churning white hell. When you realize, in perfect clarity, that nature is completely indifferent to whether you live or die.

As Aspen and I cross the boundary, following those single, arrogant tracks into the gathering darkness, I can only hope we find this fool before the mountain decides their fate.

The last light glints off the western peaks as we push forward. Behind us, the resort lights twinkle like stars fallen to earth. Ahead, only wilderness and the reckless tracks that disappear into the shadows of Darkmore's unforgiving embrace.

three

Jade

Pure.Freaking.Heaven.

That's the only way to describe the feeling of cutting through untouched powder, my skis floating on eighteen inches of pristine snow. No chopped-up runs, no weekend warriors snowplowing their way down, no children's ski school snaking across my path. Just me and the mountain in perfect harmony.

The setting sun paints the snow in shades of pink and gold as I carve my way down the bowl. My breath forms clouds that trail behind me, and the only sound is the soft swoosh of my skis and my own exhilarated laughter.

This is why I can't give it up. This feeling. This perfect moment of freedom where nothing exists except the next turn, the next drop, the next sensation. It's better than any drug, better than sex—well, the sex I've had, anyway.

I catch air off a natural lip in the terrain, suspended momentarily in flight. God, if Carlson could see me now, he'd have an aneurysm. Worth it, though. So worth it.

I land smoothly and continue my descent, heading toward a gully that will lead me back toward the resort's outer boundary. Five more minutes and I'll be back in bounds, none the wiser.

The late-day shadows make it harder to read the terrain, but I've always had good mountain sense. I adjust my line slightly, aiming for a passage between two stands of pines. The snow here is even deeper, reaching mid-thigh when I cut through it. It's getting heavier too, not quite the champagne powder from higher up.

That's when I hear it. A deep, resonant "whumpf" sound that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

My blood turns to ice. Every skier knows that sound. It's the sound of snow layers collapsing. The sound of death.

For one suspended moment, nothing happens. Then, a crack appears in the snow about fifteen feet above me, spreading like lightning across the slope. The entire surface layer begins to move.

"No, no, no," I whisper, but the mountain doesn't care about my protests.

I turn my skis downhill, pointing them straight in a desperate attempt to outrun the slide. For a second, I think I might make it—I'm accelerating, pulling ahead of the advancing wave of snow.

Then my right ski catches something beneath the surface. In an instant, I'm tumbling, skis releasing from my boots as designed. The world becomes a violent, spinning nightmare of white.

The force of it is incomprehensible—like being hit by a truck, then dragged behind it. I'm rolled and flipped and crushed all at once. Snow forces its way into my mouth, my nose, my clothing. I can't tell which way is up. I try to swim, to fight against the current as I've been taught, but it's like battling a liquid concrete tsunami.

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