Where’s Laurie? She’s Gone.

 

Here’s a lesson for vacationers and anyone else who skis in the West.

Let me set the stage.

A snowstorm dumped several feet of light, fluffy snow, and we were skiing at Brighton, UT, our home resort. We know every inch of the mountain—its steeps, its trees, its gentle slopes.

Dreams are made of fresh snow like this. Fearsome steep slopes become mellow ones. Moguls disappear. It was deep, and it was bottomless. It was hero snow.

Then to get back to the lift, it was a wide open slope. Learning skiers like the slope because of its gentle pitch. It had been recently groomed, so the new snow there was only half as deep. Although it’s a basic, easy slope, it’s still fun to bounce along in the fresh snow.

Then Laurie—my skiing companion—disappeared. Where’d she go? Did she ski around the little grove of trees? Did she pass me? Where is she? She’s gone. Holy cow, she’s suddenly vanished.

Scanning the slope I saw a black dot. It was just a few inches of the bottom of a ski—her ski—sticking out of the snow. After all the steep, deep slopes, she fell on the easy slope.

But why wasn’t she wallowing to get up? Why was there no movement? Something was wrong. I struggled up slope and reached the ski, but still no Laurie.

There was no crater. There was no hollow. There was no indication that an entire human being was buried right there. The only tell tale was the tip of her ski sticking out of the snow. I began digging,

She had fallen forward, head first, into snow that was as soft as feathers. The soft snow poofed up, buried her, then settled over her as though nothing had happened. It pinned her down. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t thrash. Couldn’t call out for help.

She could have died there. It was an avalanche burial—but there was no avalanche. It was in bounds, on an easy slope, and in snow that wasn’t very deep.

It was a lesson that verifies what we all know: Mother Nature can play nasty tricks. Don’t ever ski alone.

To read more from Harriet click here for her stories on SkiUtah.