Page 8 of Double Exposure
I grab the pit shovel from my pack, shove it at the apex of the mound and hit stone. Ryan follows with a second thrust and strikes nothing.
This means we’re at the edge of the rock.
“Keep going,” I say, kneeling quickly to shove the snow out of the way as he digs. We work swiftly, silently for a minute until something light blue emerges from the snow. It’s the tip of a gloved hand.
“Stop!” I flop onto my belly, reach down, and squeeze his hand. A feeble pressure is returned. That’s when I notice the first few flakes beginning to fall. The wind is kicking up as well.
“He’s alive,” I tell Ryan. Instantly, the two of us are on our knees, scraping snow out of a two-foot-deep pocket.
“He’s got to be right up against the rock,” I say, panting, shoving snow as fast as I can. We work our way down, letting the edge of the slab be our guide. Next, the light blue of a parka hood is visible, dusted off, and free.
If the person is still standing, extracting them will be tricky. I gesture to Ryan to start on a sideways approach. Freeing someone’s legs from a vertical position can be difficult.
It takes a matter of seconds to bring the snow up and over to clear the hood. The person’s dark goggles are still in place, the rims slicing a definitive line in the white snow.
I need to make an air pocket. Tearing off my glove first, I shove my hand between the person’s nose and the compacted snow, pulling away the snow and ice. Their head moves instinctually, trying to create a wider air pocket. A small gasp escapes.
Very small. The only reason I hear it is because my head is right next to theirs.
“We’re going to get you out,” I say loudly, forced to raise my voice above the rising wind. “Keep your head up,” I say, continuing to scoop, or trying to anyway. It’s like scraping at a giant ice cube. In front of us, tall firs sway in the wind and the snow falls faster.
We have to move. I dig quickly.
Compacted snow grips you—it squeezes your lungs and makes it almost impossible to breathe even if you have an air pocket.
In a second this person is going to have more than an air pocket—their head will be completely clear. They still can’t move, but I have to offer some kind of reassurance. Panic can be deadly. I get back on my belly and lean down into the hole we’ve dug so they can hear me. Snow pelts my back.
“I’m Carter Weston. This is my brother, Ryan Weston. We’re a search and rescue team.”
The parka hood nods slightly in agreement.
“I know you’re having a tough time, but it will be over in a few minutes. Just hang on.”
The person’s hand, now free, wipes the goggles back and pushes the parka hood down. As their head tilts up to meet my gaze, I look down on the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
It’s not a guy. It’s a young woman. Her vulnerability is heart wrenching. There’s more here in her eyes than physical pain—more than just being stuck in snow.
Claustrophobia? Concussion? Fear?
Her face is a small, curved oval, and her eyes are a deep, velvet brown. Her hair is jet black and straight. I can’t tell the length as her mane is caught up in the parka.
“Oh my God,” I say.
Even Ryan pauses for a second. “Shit me.”
Her eyes close and dark lashes, damp with melted snow, lay against her cheeks. Her mouth is perfect. “Get . . . me . . . out,” she gasps.
“We’re going to extract you,” I say, a hand at the back of her head. “I know you feel like you can’t breathe, but you can. Breathe with me.”
I lean deeper into the well, near her face and take in small four quick breaths in a row and exhale hard. She tries, fails, then matches my tempo.
“Try again.” I breathe near her ear so she can hear me. We take in four together and exhale. We do it again, and again, and again. “Keep doing that,” I say. Then over my shoulder: “Ryan—you come in from the side.”
Using his pick, Ryan can scrape snow away faster at an angle.
I return to her. “What’s your name?”
No answer. Her eyes remain closed. I try again, trying not to shout. Dark clouds have turned the afternoon to dusk. “What’s your name?” The wind whips the words from my mouth.
