8-Years After Accident and Embracing the Unknown
At the end of November, friends Mike and Kim asked if I’d join them on a backcountry ski trip from Dec 11th-18th, giving me just over a week to prepare for an epic adventure. At first, I thought, No Way! It’s too soon. I’ve got work. I’ll slow everyone down. What if my body can’t handle it?
The excuses piled up.
But after careful consideration and encouragement from Mike, I realized an opportunity like this to join a trip with experienced mountaineers in a remote part of the BC backcountry may not come up again (at least not for a while), so I jumped at the opportunity.
It literally gave me the butterflies just thinking about the trip. I knew I had to go.
Life begins at the edge of your comfort zone
I didn’t know 75% of the people going on the trip. I didn’t know what I needed to pack or how to pack for the helicopter for that matter, how much food I needed, and more importantly, what the terrain was like. Would it be too advanced? I wondered, could I even ski it?
I asked Mike and Kim a couple of important questions to make sure I wouldn’t be a complete liability on the trip then went all-in knowing I was about to spend my 8-year neck-break-iversary in the backcountry. I’d be staying at an off-grid cabin nestled deep in the Selkirk Mountains with 20 people—mostly strangers!
Have you ever felt confident but incredibly uncertain at the same time?
I thought I could manage the skiing and find terrain appropriate for my limitations, but I have very little backcountry experience. Prior to breaking my neck on December 16th, 2013, I’d only logged about 15 days in the backcountry near Whistler. Some people on the trip had 250-300 days under their belts. And, this was a ski-touring trip, which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, “earn your turns.”
I knew I was very much the rookie, and on top of that, I manage neurological deficiencies on a daily basis thanks to my spinal cord injury. I often lose my balance just trying to put on pants or do menial tasks on any given day.
It would be interesting, to say the least.
DEPARTURE DAY
Due to weather, our helicopter could not fly on our planned departure day, so we hunkered down to weather the storm in the Kimberly BC boys’ vans, Franzi Unterberger and Diver Relph (@radioflyer_van). Not a bad way to kill some time, and there was a silver lining…
…The snow subsided leaving behind a 40-50 cm blanket of fresh powder! So, we excitedly took to the skies and flew to our mountain oasis.
For me, unloading the helicopter was hard work. Trudging through the deep snow with all our gear to the cabin door took almost all my effort, but it would be nothing in comparison to the mountains we were about to climb. After we unpacked the helicopters, it was finally time…
Let’s go skiing
Following a powder-hungry group out of the cabin, I put my climbing skins on my skis and set off. There’s a level of unconscious incompetence when starting a new sport which means you don’t know how bad you really are until you try—a bit of ignorance is bliss. I only made it 20-30 feet from the cabin before I was laid out flat on my face in the snow.
An embarrassing start. I became vividly aware of my incompetence almost immediately. My confidence was shaken and things were about to get worse.
I dusted myself off and continued up the trail, which ascended a wide-open alpine slope. I made it to the first corner and awkwardly shuffled my skis around to continue upward.
One of my new friends on the trip, Mirae Campbell, a photographer who exudes positivity and stoke, was chasing me up the trail.
She caught up to me in no time and thankfully began helping me with my technique. I tried to follow her instructions only to fall backward off the trail into deep pow. Mirae helped me back to my feet not once but twice before the top of the first ascent. She was patient and kind. I felt a burden and it seemed my fears before the trip were coming to fruition. I found myself wondering, “Am I in over my head on this trip?”
Evidently, the answer was, yes.
I watched the rest of the crew gliding comfortably uphill in awe. Before I’d reached the top of the first climb, some of them already had one run in the books.
Once I reached the top, I transitioned my gear from climb mode to ski mode and prepared for the first descent. My first run of the trip was with Eric Anderson. Eric is a warrior, sporting two bionic knees after 5 surgeries in the past three years. Both knees and growth plates were shattered in a crash where he aired about 40 feet to flat in Revelstoke. Although he’s far more experienced in the backcountry than I, we were a good match!
I heard some of the crew cheering for us as we skied down together.
For me, the first day was a struggle. I had a hard time on the way up and the way down, but made it back to the cabin safely after logging two runs.
After my crash in 2013 while lying in my hospital bed, I imagined myself ski-touring on easy terrain and skiing sparsely treed powder runs. However, I thought it would take at least 10 years—if it were even possible. Needless to say, I felt I’d jumped the gun by going on the trip.
At dinner the first night, there was a frenzy of excitement in the hut. All 20 people were pumped to be in such a special place with a week of skiing ahead. We began sharing our experiences from day one. Joel Fuller, a vibrant, all-around great human from Squamish, made mention of Eric and my first run together. It didn’t occur to me until he said it, but everyone was cheering in recognition of two triumphant returns to the mountains. It was Eric’s first time in the backcountry since his accident and my first time on a trip like this.
Joel evoked a sort of ah-ha moment for me. I was so caught up in my imposter syndrome and not feeling worthy of being a member of this experienced group I hadn’t taken any time to celebrate the victory of the first run with Eric. It was amazing!
I felt grateful for the perspective shift at a time I really needed it. Still, that night I drifted off to sleep still wondering why I’d been so ambitious to attempt a backcountry ski touring trip after just 8 years since my accident.
Day 2
Morning came early accompanied by aches and pains all over. I arduously dressed in my gear and got ready for another ambitious ski day.
I started the first climb on sore legs with my self-confidence at an all-time low, but I had a supportive group to give me a push. I listened to their helpful advice and with great intention learned to improve my technique. The ascent got easier, and I made it through the day without falling on the up track.
We skied a few runs of some of the best snow of my life. It was amazing!
I finished the day wanting to celebrate. What a contrast to the previous afternoon!
DAY 3
On Day 3, we skinned to some terrain that took me way outside my comfort zone. I found myself on top of a steep run I had no idea how I would get down—let alone back up. I am a shell of the skier I once was. In my past life, I would have looked at the run as a playground, but in this life, it bordered on terrifying. Nonetheless, our fearless leader, Mike, assured me I could do it.
As promised, he showed me a way I could get down the steepest part safely. I made it to the bottom of the run and my legs were like Jello. I decided to call it a day and walk out with Jason Richardson, another passionate skier and all-around awesome dude who was also exhausted.
PILLOWLANDIA
It should be an easy trek back to the cabin. So, we set off riding a high from the run we just skied, but things were about to get worse before we reached our cabin’s salvation.
I’ve heard if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space. It’s true, life begins at the edge of your comfort zone, but what was about to happen was the scariest thing I’ve done in years.
Jason and I headed up an existing skin track which was filled with about 15 cm of new snow that fell the previous night. We thought as soon as we got around the first stand of trees, just out of sight, it would be a straightforward traverse back to the cabin. Wrong.
As we got around the corner, the trail all but disappeared. There we were, standing at the edge of a steep chute atop a 300-meter pitch to the valley drainage below, and the skin track we’d been following was completely filled in. In low light, it was hard to tell if it were the way forward.
It seemed crazy to me at my skill level, and while Jason is more experienced than I, he was also on edge. We could barely make out the faint impressions from the guys who set the track before us.
Jason and I went back and forth on whether we should go onward or go back, but there was really no other way forward. I was in front, so I started the traverse, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
For Phil Gibney, Liam Ellicott, Greg Denton, Lowell Richardson, and Mike Chapman, the mountain men who set the track the day prior, it was probably a piece of cake. According to them, “It was a bit technical.” But admittedly, also “a no fall zone.”
We couldn’t make a mistake.
Jason encouraged me as I tentatively made my way across the chute. We knew the snow was stable, but avalanches are always in the back of your mind on a slope that steep.
Once I made it across the 10 to 15-metre chute, I had to make three tight and ‘technical’ kick turns. I zigged and zagged my way up a short but steep pitch to the safe zone. I moved slowly and intentionally. My focus, unwavering from each placement of my already shaky legs. I couldn’t afford to lose my balance.
If I don’t think about my footing, I can lose my balance up to 50 times a day. There was no room for error here. Step by step, I made it to the other side.
Now Jason’s turn, and I don’t know what was harder, watching me knowing he had to make the crossing behind me or blazing the trail into the unknown. Either way, I wasn’t envious of what Jason was about to do.
Crossing the chute was straightforward, but Jason’s courage was evident as he controlled his breathing and made the three tight kick turns necessary for ascending the steep embankment on the ‘home free’ side.
Once past the chute, we hugged and high-fived. Strangers at first, we bonded over the adrenaline inducing obstacle.
THE SAFE ZONE
We took a moment to celebrate our victory, but it was short lived. Like most things in life, you don’t know what’s around the next corner. In some cases, you may think you’re at the hardest part, but then there’s another setback.
For us, around the next corner wasn’t exactly salvation, but another large, exposed rockface we had to cross over top. We weren’t perched as precariously over the rocks as we were over the steep chute, but we had to walk across an ice bridge with water streaming down the rocks beneath.
The words “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast” replayed in my mind.
Brad, the person we collectively deemed “the philosopher” of our group, shared this quote from the US Navy Seals at the dinner table the previous night. Most of us were privileged to have a deep and meaningful conversation with Brad on the trip, and in that moment, I was grateful for the slow is smooth and smooth is fast guidance.
I didn’t spend any unnecessary time overtop the rushing water but crossed smoothly so not to disturb the potentially fragile base beneath my feet.
I made it past the hazard and around the next blind corner on the trail.
Finally, salvation, but where was Jason?
I turned and looked behind me expecting my friend to follow my footsteps shortly thereafter.
I waited and wondered. Where was he?
“Come on Jason!” I yelled.
Enough time went by that I began to fear something had gone seriously wrong. I had no idea if I could be any help if he was in trouble or heaven forbid, if he fell over the rocks.
Have patience.
Moments later and to my relief, Jason popped his head around the corner and made his way up the trail toward me. Once past the danger zone, his grimace turned to a giant grin.
“My ski came off at the worst possible time above the cliff!” he exclaimed.
I couldn’t believe his misfortune. That was one of my biggest fears, but he pushed through!
When we made it back to the cabin after our unexpected adventure, there was more than enough reason to celebrate.
In reflection, we knew the experience was probably going to be the most challenging part of our trip and likely the most rewarding, but the trip was far from over! We still had three days of skiing ahead, which included an alpine ski run under the glow of the moon and countless powder turns.
The Night Ride
your test becomes your testimonial
This trip was a massive challenge. Pushing through fear and tentatively trusting my ability to succeed against uncertainty and obstacles proved to be the highlights of the trip—for me anyway.
Jason kept repeating, “things don’t happen to you, they happen for you” and he couldn’t be more right. Navigating the steep chute and overtop the running water increased my capacity. For the rest of the trip, none of the skin tracks I struggled with in the days prior were a challenge at all by comparison.
The moral of the story:
Embrace uncertainty in your life and lean into the unknown. Our biggest obstacles are our biggest opportunities in disguise. Trust that you have it within yourselves to push through.
This week was special. Beyond great snow, weather, stable conditions, and a mountain playground on our doorstep—which would alone constitute a phenomenal trip—the people made the experience unforgettable. It’s not often you get to spend a week with practically 20 strangers in the mountains where the connections are so strong.
There was a resounding sense of gratitude among the group. You didn’t need to bounce back from five knee surgeries or a spinal cord injury to know we were all lucky to be there. I’m grateful for the shared experience with friends both old and new.
Mike, Kim, Eric, Franz, Diver, Jason, Brad, Liam, Chris, Greg, Bambi, Mirae, Lowell, Shota, Allison, Rob, Phil, Ryan, & Joel,
It was a trip I will never forget!
Thanks for helping me get back out in the mountains!
