The Sign Said, “Low Avalanche Danger.” The Sign Was Wrong.

The plan went bad at the fork in the trail. It had been one hour since Conor and I had seen either Tristan or Rich through the blur of white that had whipped up as we started hiking down Mount Washington. We had split into groups so each pair could go at its own pace. Conor and I were ahead and intended to wait for Tristan and Rich at the junction. They planned to stay and hike a few days, so they were loaded down with overnight gear. We were all experienced climbers, but either we were moving faster than we’d guessed or they were moving slower. Maybe both.

In a few minutes, the sweat on our skin started to ice. If we stayed still, it wouldn’t be long before frostbite set in. We waited as long as we could, maybe 15 minutes, but no figures appeared through the snow. So we turned to the trail and, being more sure of our shivering than of our direction, went right at the fork and hurried along 
to warm up.

Then I felt one of those seismic shifts that drive your stomach into your throat and trigger something primal in your brain. And I knew, very suddenly and very clearly, that I had walked onto the lip of a dangerously loaded snowfield, and now we were in an avalanche.

I tried to spike an ice pick into the ravine to anchor myself, but it 
was much too late for that. Then I was in the air. All I could see was empty, cool whiteness no matter how long I turned in the air or which way the snow and the ice ground me up. Then the white went dark, along with the rest of the world.

The four of us grew up together in Oak Bluffs, on Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts, but now we’d been scattered by college and work. Back home for the holidays, we had planned a trip to New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Tristan and I were new to Mount Washington, but Conor and Rich had both summited it a few times in winter. In their experience, they’d said, the path up the Tuckerman Ravine Trail from Hermit Lake was simple. It was. Even for a first-timer, the hike was straightforward. I snapped a picture of the Forest Service’s warning sign about avalanches. One more shot to remember the trip by but not relevant to us: Our ascent was by a 
different route, and the posted avalanche danger was low for the day.

Conor and I traveled quickly over the well-trod snow. Our packs were light, with just extra clothes, water, and some food. But Tristan and Rich were carrying heavier loads, so their progress was slower. Early in the hike, we decided to split up so that Conor and I could tag the summit and make it back before dark. By 2:30 p.m., Conor and I had reached the summit, and we stayed awhile to snap pictures. Before we even started back down, the snowfall had set in, and we knew it would be better if we were off the mountaintop before the sun set. On the way back down, we crossed paths with Rich and Tristan. They turned around, and we made plans to meet at the fork in the trail, staying in our separate groups.

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I woke up on top of the snow. 
Initially, I’d thought I was going to die or be buried, but I had only 
a broken arm. The rest of my body hurt, but I still couldn’t tell how badly—the adrenaline was pumping hard. I tried to sit up, and blood started oozing down across my face. I decided it was better to lie back down. It was like lying in a room with white walls and a white ceiling, and there was no sign of Conor. I could see my boot sticking out of the snow, knocked clean off by the force of 
the impact. I lay there for maybe 
15 minutes, weighing my options and trying to stay calm. Then the crunch of snow under boots brought me back. There was Conor, well enough to walk, climbing down to me. He must’ve landed on a higher ledge. As he came closer, I could see his face, a cluster of purple bruises. He considered me for a moment, blood dripping from his forehead down to his jacket. “Who are you?” he asked.

I told him that we were good friends who’d been climbing this mountain all day and that we’d been in an avalanche. I’d spent six summers working as a lifeguard, and I knew a concussion when I saw one. I also knew that as long as we didn’t fall asleep out here in the snow anytime soon, he was likely to be fine. As for my own condition, between the arm that I was sure was broken and the stab I felt in my back, I knew I was hurt badly but not beyond repair. There was a voice, very soft, in the back of my brain, telling me that maybe no one would find us, that if I was so right about the “low avalanche danger,” I wouldn’t be down here to begin with. Conor and I did what we could: We consolidated our water and food and waited. It wasn’t long 
before I could hear Tristan’s voice 
cutting through the wind. It was the best sound I’d heard in my life. “We’re getting help!” Tristan promised from somewhere up in the white. “Hang in there!” Not that we had a choice.

You learn a few things about yourself in these situations. For one, you find out whether you’re a pessimist. Conor, from either head wound or natural disposition, gave up. He talked about how he couldn’t believe this was the end and what he thought might come next. He thought death might be an improvement, spiritually speaking. “I’m at peace with dying,” he told me. 
I love Conor, and I knew that it was the knock on his head talking, but this wasn’t any good. “I’m saying this for you as much as me,” I answered. “Please shut up.”

Once I knew help was on the way, it was very boring being down there in the snow and ice. I thought about the next hike I’d take, how long it would be before this broken arm healed, how I was going to tell this story the first time a girl asked about the cast. But 
I knew I wasn’t going to end like this, spooning with Conor. Five hours after our fall, I saw the lights of the approaching snowcat. I can’t remember now if I was laughing as the emergency workers slid me onto the backboard, but if I wasn’t, it seems I should have been.

When we got to the hospital, the doctors confirmed I had broken not just my arm but my back. Conor had sustained a massive concussion. The rescuers estimated we’d fallen more than 800 feet, skidding off patches of rocks and snow and ice. It was pure luck that Tristan and Rich had found us. When they had reached the split in the trail and found it empty, they’d had no way to know we’d taken a wrong turn. Tristan just had a hunch, and lucky for us, he 
listened to it.

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