Page 2 of Double Exposure

I duck and join Ryan inside the chopper.

The helicopter cabin heater is effective, but the draft coming off the blast from the blades is biting. It’s a new vehicle, a Bell 525, compliments of Ross Colton. Don’t know how he managed it and there’s got to be some money there somewhere, but Brock’s lips are sealed on this one. All I know is the company was renamed and we all have T-shirts, sweatshirts, pens and pencils now with the new logo. Knowing Riley, mugs will be next.

We’re just grateful Ross decided to invest in us. After what our family went through and what danger he put himself in, he’s become an honorary member of the Westons in just three months.

The chopper lifts and Ross steadies her as a downdraft pushes us sideways for a moment. There's always that little thrill when we're heading off and I feel like a kid again. I look over to Ryan. He sits eagerly looking out at the sunrise. The very tips of the mountains are frosted pink. Below the snowline, you can tell when the temperature warms up. It's as if someone took out a wide, broad brush and just wiped the coat of frost away.

Ryan says nothing. When it comes to conversation, he’s either on or off, and right now he’s dialed it down. I take a sip of coffee and without looking at me, he does the same.

With a nod from Ross at the controls, we rise, swing north, and then head out at a forty-five-degree trajectory, still climbing.

΅

Forty minutes later, it takes two passes before Ross can find a place to settle the aircraft. We descend and touch down, but he doesn't cut the engine. This is a quick drop. As we unpack the chopper, each of us will carry two detonation charges weighing in at about fifteen pounds apiece. Having those in our backpacks even with skis and skins on will make going uphill rough. It's not so much the weight. Your center of gravity changes, and the result is a shift, leaning into the mountain which makes it difficult to be light on your feet.

The only reason we hike with skis is in case we need to move fast.

This time of year, with the snow shelf so unstable, the second threat in the back country is falling. Out here, you can't misstep. You have to be very careful. There are fissures—icy ravines buried under snow—places where streams and melt-off have carved crevices five to twenty-five feet deep and you don't know about until you stick your foot through sheer ice and plummet.

People have been lost down ice crevasses only to have their bodies discovered in mid-summer. I’ve been on one body retrieval effort.

One was enough.

All the equipment is on our backs now. Skins on, goggles in place, I watch Ross rev the engine and the Bell starts to lift. Ryan and I each raise a pole in salute.

Within a minute, the chopper has gone, ducking over the top of the range and disappearing. That’s our cue. Ryan and I start up the mountain face, step-by-step, the skis making very large drunken duck footprints as we make our way toward the top.

Except for the growing wind, it's desolately quiet. In summer, parking lots off the highway are filled with cars right up to the trail heads. Sometimes, it's bumper to bumper with a steady stream of hikers. You can’t tell if it’s the weekend or not because there are so many cars and the trails are thick with people.

In winter, it's skiers who come from all over the world.

Hiking, skiing, snowshoeing—all lonely endeavors—sure aren’t that anymore. There are subcultures within subcultures and the social climate can be rough.

Up here though, in the back country it’s different. You can go for weeks and not see a single person.

I let Ryan lead and his breath threads behind him as we make our way up. It's definitely quiet except for the crunch of skis sinking into crusted snow. A hawk calls against gray clouds. Usually, we wouldn’t be setting off an avalanche this close to a storm, but the park service is worried about this mountain. With colleges’ spring break next week, a storm could trigger a string of avalanches that could bury trails, obliterate bridges, or sweep up skiers and snowboarders.

I adjust my wool cap under the hooded parka. Up here, the wind seems to blow constantly. You can never escape it. The mountains, with their valleys and peaks create their own microclimates and snow swirls in tiny tornado funnels. Ryan and I stop for a moment to watch one float by.

Whatever sunlight there is turns the funnel to glitter. It's beautiful but a reminder of how fragile life is out here. In half a minute it tears apart and there’s just the breath of ice on our faces. I point with a ski pole in the direction we need to go: up.

We keep moving.

Every fifteen feet or so, we stop and assess the snowpack with our poles, making sure we're on solid terrain. When we’re not walking, the faint trickle of water can be heard, running under our feet.

Above us, the timberline falls away. Staying at a diagonal we traverse the open face of the mountain. This ensures less of a chance of us creating an avalanche and being caught in a sudden torrent of snow.

The shelf lies directly ahead, a staggering white bluff of snow lying against the ridge of the mountain in a yawning crescent.

“Man, that’s high,” says Ryan, shifting his goggles to his head for a better view.

“I think if we set charges about twenty feet apart coming in from the edge, that ought to do it.”

Ryan nods in agreement. “We have what? Like a four-hour window before this storm hits?”

The wind is already shifting, kicking over the ridge, pulling clouds with it.

“Probably a little more.”