Colorado, January 1979 

On a sunny Saturday in January, I drove with one of my friends from Boulder to the top of a high mountain pass in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. We parked our car and headed off into the wilderness with our skis strapped to our backpacks. Our spirits were high.

A few days prior to our outing, this particular area of the Rockies had seen a heavy snowstorm that dumped an estimated two feet of snow in the mountains. On the day of our outing, the weather had warmed to well above freezing. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Jamey was thrilled to get away from the grind of day-to-day work. He did consulting for a well-known investment company and wrote poetry in his spare time. As a former rock climber and Outward Bound instructor, I longed to spend more time outside. The premed program I was completing kept me overly focused on my studies. My forays into the wilderness helped me stay balanced in mind and body.

We carefully picked our way down the mountain on a rocky ridge-like outcropping until we came to an area where the angle of the slope was not as steep and appeared safe for backcountry skiing. We stepped onto the snowy slope. While breaking trail in search of a spot conducive for putting on our skis, I noticed that the snow felt hollow under my feet. I heard “whumping” sounds, indicating that the snow was settling, arousing in me a sense of foreboding.

I told Jamey that I feared we might cause an avalanche, given the angle of the slope and the freshly fallen snow that had not totally consolidated. I knew that sunny days after a snowstorm can cause some of the snow on the surface to melt and trickle down through the snow. During the cold nights, the water freezes, creating a sliding surface for the snow. I discussed my concerns with Jamey. He agreed that we should go back to the rocky outcropping and walk down until the slope became less steep.

Jamey had already taken off his pack and untied his skis when I expressed my concern. Instead of waiting for him while he worked with his gear, I turned around and began walking back to the ridge. Not long after I stepped onto the rocky ground, I heard a terrifying rumbling sound that reverberated throughout the narrow valley. I turned and watched in horror as the entire slope cracked several yards above where Jamey stood. Within seconds, Jamey disappeared in a huge cloud of snow and ice that roared down the mountain like a raging river. The avalanche felt like it lasted an eternity, but in reality it probably was only a few minutes. I had lost all sense of time as I watched in a state of primordial terror and awe.

After the avalanche completed its descent, total silence enveloped the valley. Big blocks of compacted snow and ice the size of small cars lay at the base of the slope. With my heart racing, I carefully picked my way over to the area where the avalanche had swept Jamey away. I removed the baskets from my ski poles and poked them into the snow, probing every couple of feet, hoping to find Jamey’s body.

I walked and probed an area the size of a football field, zigzagging back and forth, beginning where Jamey first disappeared, all the way to where the avalanche ended. My eyes grew weary from straining to spot something other than the various shades of white. Over and over I cried out my friend’s name in desperation. “Jamey! Jamey! Jamey! God, help me find Jamey!” The mountain responded to my cries with deathly silence.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was already 3 pm. I had searched in vain for Jamey for what felt like hours. The winter sun would set in less than three hours. Even with my headlamp, it would be hard to find my way to the paved road after dark, given that there was no trail.

I had to make a gut-wrenching decision. Do I leave now to save my own life? Or do I keep looking fruitlessly for Jamey into the night and risk freezing to death? I felt ripped apart inside, having to make such a horrible choice. I decided that risking my life would be of no benefit to Jamey and would cause deep pain for my family.

I kneeled down and said a prayer for Jamey. As I sobbed, I said out loud, “I’m so terribly sorry to leave you, Jamey.” With a heavy heart, I stood up and walked down to a more level place where I could put on my backcountry skis. As I untied the skis from my backpack, I saw something out of the corner of my eye—something that was not white. Off in the distance a pink-colored object protruded from the snow. I decided to see what it was. As I got closer, I could clearly see the shape of a hand and forearm. I screamed, “JAMEY!” His fingers moved. I held his hand and yelled, “I’m here, Jamey. Hang on. I’m going to dig you out.”

My hands could not even make a dent into the hard packed snow. I took the end of one of my skis and used it like a shovel. Slowly, and with great effort, I cleared the compacted snow away from Jamey’s head. He had instinctively placed his gloved hand over his mouth, keeping the snow from suffocating him and giving him a pocket of air to breath. He was in a stupor and barely responsive. He looked at me and, in a tiny, barely audible voice, said, “Thank you, Erica.”

After an exhausting hour of digging, Jamey’s chest and arms were free. The rest of his body took much less time to dig out. At last, Jamey extricated himself from his tomb. He had lost his backpack, skis, poles, camera, hat, and one of his gloves in the avalanche. I hugged him tightly while his whole body shook in my arms. His clothes were wet. I gave him my hat and gloves and insisted that he drink the rest of my water.

We had to start moving right away, not only to help warm Jamey’s body, but also to avoid getting lost after the sun went down. I put on my skis and packed down the snow with each step so that Jamey would not sink into the snow as he walked behind me. In spite of my efforts, he still sunk into the soft snow, sometimes up to his knees, as we plowed through the willows along the stream we followed. We made painfully slow progress.

We had less than an hour before the sun would go below the horizon. Jamey sat down on a log and said he couldn’t go any farther. I talked to him firmly, using my Outward Bound instructor voice, “Jamey, you just have to keep walking no matter how tired you are. Get up now. We have to keep moving.” I knew he was severely hypothermic from his wet clothes, beaten and battered from the fall, and running on empty. He would have to rely on pure will power to get out of here alive.

He trudged on, but stopped again saying he had to pee. He walked away from me behind some trees. After a few minutes he hadn’t returned. I followed Jamey’s tracks into a wooded area and found him with his arms around a tree, softly crying in gratitude for being alive. Once again, I took on the role of drill sergeant and insisted that he keep walking. “I’m not going to let you die out here, Jamey.”

After enormous effort, we managed to make it to the highway just as darkness fell. I saw the headlights of a car coming in our direction. Desperate to get help, I stood in the road with my arms outstretched, forcing the driver to stop. I explained our plight to the man. He kindly drove us to our car on top of the pass. Thankfully, Jamey still had his car keys in the pocket of his down jacket. With the heater blasting, I drove down the highway, trying not to exceed the speed limit. Jamey shivered in the passenger seat.

I saw a sign for a restaurant not far away. When we got there, I asked to speak to the owner, an older woman with a kind face. I recounted briefly what happened. She went into the kitchen and brought out a large bowl of steaming hot soup and a blanket to put around Jamey. Her generosity warmed our hearts and bodies.

When we arrived at Jamey’s home in Boulder, I urged him to take a hot Epsom’s salt bath. I waited until he finished soaking and then helped him to bed before going home. I called Jamey in the morning to check on him. We both admitted to having had nightmares about being entombed in the snow.

More than a decade after being buried alive, Jamey sent me a poem about our avalanche misadventure. With his carefully chosen words, he was able to transmute the horror into poetry.

One Day

I walked with my friend

along the high spine of the mountains–

that beautiful bitter edge–

all the clouds and the round world

now lower than my feet.

I should have known better–

stepping down the yielding froth

of early-season snow

as clean as sugar.

I heard the thunder first

and wondered, but everything began

the terrible jiggling–

everything, I say:

the whole locomotive of winter–

nothing solid

but a maw of snow

sucking my feet.

“This is it,” I thought;

and I watched,

each moment expecting

Now?  Or now?

The sky sunk upward.

Then:   mountains of silence.

 

I could see some bleary crystalled light;

my right forearm waved in the air.

Years later I learned

my friend had looked

and looked

and looked

and almost left

but looked again.

I remember my one free hand

clawing for my nose.

I remember calling out.

 

Getting down from there to timberline

was larceny:  stealing elevation

from the jaws of avalanches.

One pair of skis between us now.

Wet and cold.

No trail.  And losing daylight.

We crashed through willow thickets

knee-deep in snow,

and found the road

just before we would have lost

our hands in front of us to darkness.

 

Though, like most of us,

I think I know what happens next

from day to day,

sometimes a moment blazes like a diamond

and everything is as it is

and holy,

swaying from a dark stem.

To my dear readers: You might be wondering what inspired me to write about the avalanche. Outside Magazine is sponsoring a writing contest in which the subject is “the most terrifying experience in nature that you ever had,” recounted in 1,500 words or less. They used a close encounter with a mountain lion as an example of a terrifying experience. I had already written about my close encounter with a mountain lion in my book, “Medicine and Miracles.” My next most terrifying experience was the close encounter with the avalanche. On a whim, I entered the contest.The results will be made public in two months.

Some of my readers have asked me why I have posted so infrequently over the past year. With every spare moment, I have been working on memoir #2,  “From Mountains to Medicine: My Search for Purpose.” Just this week I finished the manuscript and will be submitting it to Bear & Company/Inner Traditions, the publishing company that re-published my self-published book, “Medicine and Miracles.” I’m crossing my fingers that they will want to publish all of my memoirs, probably a total of four, I predict.