where it all began

As I tumbled down the mountain, my brain registered the sheer terror of knowing that this could be my death.  The proverbial flashing life played out in front of me.   I picked up speed and completely lost control. 

We were on a family ski trip in Stratton, Vermont.  With my daughter in ski school, my husband and I were free to ski with my two boys, 9 and 12 at the time.  Bundled in our gear, the cold air stinging our lungs, the crackle of our skis cutting the packed snow--we embraced the day with joy.

After a rigorous run down from the peak,  we came to Dancing Bear, a black diamond trail that led into the woods.  I have seen some of the most divine natural beauty on these wooded trails.  Though it can be nerve-wracking trying to maneuver long skis between tree trunks, mounds of snow, and wild brush, it is all worth it when a pause in the middle reveals a wooded wonderland:  pine trees draped in white, sunlight steaming through holes in a canopy of branches, and the silence--simply breathtaking.  

             beginning of Dancing Bear trail 

On this day, however, conditions were not ideal.  Ice covered most of the trails and our toes and fingertips felt numb midway down the mountain.  "It's not a good idea," I told the boys.  Before we could turn our skis, my husband and I heard the clatter of the boys' skis as they began working their way through the forest.  We had no choice but to follow.  

It would have been easier to windsurf in a hurricane than it was to ski this trail.  Thick roots popped up before us at each turn; the narrow path shone like an ice sculpture; thin branches scratched our cheeks; and our skis bent in crazy angles, bringing our legs with them.  

Somehow, we managed to make it to the other end.  An open trail greeted us.  We gathered together and laughed at our victory.  Skiing over to the edge of our next juncture a dozen feet ahead, we looked down.   I'm no mathematician but I'd have to guess that the angle presented to us was somewhere in the 70 degree range.  The icy moguls, which covered the entire slope, sparkled in the sun.  A glance behind us toward the top of the trail revealed a black rope with tiny orange flags:  the trail was closed.  

Looking around us, we noticed the complete emptiness of the trail.  Not one other person in sight.   Fierce panic began to set in but for my sons' sake, I shoved it right back down.  We had skiied far enough away from the woods to make our return there impossible.  There were not many options.

     double black diamond trail--the photograph, taken from my beloved tree, doesn't begin to capture the moguls and sharp angle 

My husband went first.  Awkwardly edging his way in between moguls he began to descend.  My youngest son followed, falling immediately and sliding down half of the mountain on his butt.  My older son cautiously took a go at it, fell, and remained seated in front of a mogul, surveying what lay ahead of him.   At this point, my husband and son had daringly skiied/slid to the flat clearing at the bottom of the trail.   They were tiny, unreachable dots, looking up towards us.  

It was my turn.  I looked to my son, who sat about 30 feet in front of me.  Just focus on getting to him, I told myself.  Slowly, I edged my skis into the side of each patch of snow.  Within seconds I fell face-first into a sharp piece of ice.  I decided to take my skis off and walk down the mountain.  With skis in one hand and poles in another, I began the short walk toward my son.  Digging the front of my ski boots into the icy ground, I took three steps when my boot slipped on the thick ice and sent me flying.

                my son trapped by a mogul 

In a moment that I look back on with shame, I grabbed onto my son's red jacket as I went hurtling past him on the mountain.  The material slid through my grip and I continued to tumble, desperately trying to hold onto the earth underneath me to stop the motion.  This was not just frightening:  it was the stuff of nightmares.  My head (thank G0d I was wearing a helmet) was banging hard into the ground, my body was thrown against the moguls and all the while I felt myself picking up speed.  White, black and brown blurs of the earth flew past me and I kept expecting to wake up safely in my bed.  When that didn't happen, the very possibility of death lurked in front of me like a stalker.

Then time stopped:  I sat there beind the mogul that had finally broken my fall, and began sobbing.  I have never cried in front of my children.  This was animalistic:  sounds erupting from within me that could not be controlled. 

I am claustrophobic:  elevators; crowded malls; tunnels--I hate them all.   Sitting on that mountain that afternoon, I felt more claustrophobic than I have ever felt in my life.  The tremendous sky, closer than it had ever appeared, hovered over us like a dome; the white shiny snow all around us was an endless blanket that we could not get a single grip on. Panic began to set in again, only this time it would not go away.  

There was a thin line of trees a hundred feet away that separated our trail from another one.  Against my better judgement, I began inching my way toward them.  I was obsessed.  I had to get to the trees.  I may even have been murmuring "trees," the whole time I dug my boots and bare hands into the snow.    When I finally reached them, I became a true "tree hugger."  I have never felt that much love for a tree--I actually kissed it.  

Within the next 1/2 hour ski patrol showed up.  I don't know how, but our expert savior succeeded in easing my son and me all the way to the bottom of the trail (while managing to hit on me with some rather forward comments in the procecss).  

Surprisingly, we all continued skiing that day, though I remained, more than the rest of them, deeply affected by my experience.  Sometimes, while folding laundry or reading a book, those moments will flash through my brain.  Tumbling, tumbling, faster and faster, your life, your death:   the speed of it is deafening.