Page 6 of Double Exposure

Move, move, move.

Every step seems to take forever and I try hard not to watch the crashing wave of snow above. Then I’m at the rock. I turn sideways, tuck the skis in a crevice and crouch down, cover my head and neck with my hands and squat, curling up into a ball, and pressing my back hard against the boulder using my quads.

The raspy hush of moving snow grows louder and, in seconds, snow and ice crashes all around. Its force thunders in my eyes, my nose, and creates a shockwave tearing the air from my lungs. Snow shoots like water from both sides and above. The ledge vibrates with the force of the avalanche and I’m suddenly terrified the boulder will also dislodge and take me with it.

I take a deep breath and hold it, not sure if the white torrent will ever stop.

The rocky ledge is an obstacle creating a “V” where I’m protected. On either side, rivers of ice and snow continue to flow past. I don’t dare open my eyes to see where it converges. Instead, I close them tight, while ice particles fill my nose and mouth, and I keep my hands over the back of my neck.

I remember the two figures on the mountain.

Did they see me?

Then the rock ledge is overwhelmed and snow starts buffeting me, hundreds of small punches on either side. Snow cascades from above. I thrust both hands over my face.

Make an air pocket.

Snow starts to wedge between me and the rockface and in less than a second, I’m buried.

My heart pounds loud. I realize I can hear it because the sound of the avalanche is dissipating. In just moments, it’s quieter. A hawk screams somewhere above, but the call is muffled.

Above . . . Where’s that?

I can’t move. It’s like I’ve been suspended in quick-set concrete. The snow is heavy, and presses on my back, ribs, stomach, legs.

I’m helpless.

Slowly, I work my hands away from my face, enough to breathe a little.

I can't move.

The cold, once just an annoyance, is biting, slashing through outer gear and seeping into my bones. I don’t know if I’m still hunched down or standing. I can’t track my own body.

I can’t even wiggle my fingers.

Because of how compact the snow is, I can only take shallow breaths.

That’s when I realize an awful truth. I try to push it from my mind and I struggle to breathe. But with every breath, it returns.

I will suffocate.

Panic rises, and I stuff it down, slowing my breathing, but I almost can’t help it. The breaths I’m forced to take are too small, too fast and shallow and I’m left dizzy.

I try pushing up with an arm. Something shifts from above, and a little snow slides away. The light above seems brighter. I push as hard as I can and then my hand breaks through to soft snow.

I need to breathe.

I can’t. My chest is under so much pressure—the snow is a vise and it’s slowly squeezing the air from my lungs.

I work to keep my ribs expanded as much as they will go while I take each breath. This time five breaths . . . 1-2-3-4-5. I don't possibly think I could expand my ribcage any further. Hold it there while exhaling.

It’s exhausting. I have a head rush and vertigo sets in.

I’m going to pass out.

In another moment, there’s shouting and the sound of skis being pulled off.

More talking.

My vision warps. I can’t maintain the counter pressure against all that snow with just my diaphragm anymore. Short breaths. 1-2-3-4-5. Keep breathing. Sparks flash in my vision and I lose count. I forget to hold my diaphragm still. When I exhale even this small amount, the snow constricts my ribcage even further.

Breathing is impossible.

I can’t yell. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I’m entombed.

I’m dying.