The Fear of What’s Below

Pushing myself forward, I peer over the edge. Dense fog consumes the descent. Not a person nor pine in sight. I find myself alone on the desolate summit. The howl of a biting breeze is accompanied by a high-pitched whistle gnawing at the back of my head. A cold sweat grips my ski poles. Lead fills my boots. Breath is taken from me by the fear of what’s below.

I’m able to break free of its grasp, pulling myself away from the drop-off. I decide to start the day with a simpler run instead. Bunny Slide appears significantly more inviting. The snowy trail has a gradual decline, with gentle turns and a full view of the fresh morning powder ahead.

Following the condescending signs of “Easiest way down”, I find entertainment in weaving through crowds of marshmallow coats. One young snowboarder emerges from the crowd. I’m immediately enthralled as she carves through powder like a miniature Shaun White. She suddenly banks right at an approaching fork, plummeting down the mouth of a black diamond trail. My stomach drops with her. My heart beats out of my chest, as I watch helplessly as the child disappears, consumed by the fear of what’s below.

I push myself ahead, accelerating down Bunny Slide, eager to escape the poignant ring echoing inside my helmet. Through the rest of the run, I find myself glancing longingly over my shoulder.

The lift returns me to the summit. Staring past my skis, I notice the morning fog begin to fade below me. I’m unable to remove my grasp of the safety bar, as my thoughts still remain with the fear of what’s below.

The morning is exhausted, as I master the rest of the simpler green runs. Adrenaline finds me, as I’m able to rekindle my footing, tearing through the snow-covered terrain with ease. The afternoon uncovers the more difficult blue runs. I decide to test myself with the sharp-turning Tomahawk Ridge.

My skis pivot side to side, winding myself around jumps and rails that litter the run. Never been one to voluntarily remove my skis from the ground. I hit a stretch of straight descent, as I’m able to push my speed. Ahead of me appears a turn I’m particularly familiar with. About the turn lies an enormous mogul in the middle of the run, with a narrow, winding path to the left of the mound. Beyond that path, opposite of the mogul, is a shear drop-off. Suddenly, I see something emerge from behind the drop-off, risen by the fear of what’s below.

A young skier climbs to his feet and plants himself firmly in the middle of the entrance to my desired path. His head is clad white, wrapped in bandages. My skis clip one another, as I’m viciously slammed to the ground by the fear of what’s below.

Ringing erupts my head upon impact. Memory begins to lapse. I’m hurled over the edge. A brutal grip drags me deeper and deeper into what I can only assume is the core of the mountain.

Suddenly, I’m standing at the base of the mountain, my lead feet sinking into the snow. People clad in red and white examine me. The ringing evolves into sirens. Pulsing bright flashes surround me. I’m suddenly encased inside steel walls. Wet, heavy snow seeps through the ceiling and begins to cover me. Everything is drowned by darkness…by the fear of what’s below.

I raise my aching body from the snow-covered ground. The ringing subsides, as memory returns to me. I’m still on the mountain. I’m still in the middle of Tomahawk Ridge. The large mogul is still a few yards down the slope. My path between the drop-off and the mogul is clear. I look about myself. There was nobody else here. There was nothing blocking my path. Nothing, but the fear of what’s below.

I reattach my skis and finish the run down the mountain. The lift brings me back to the summit where my day began.

I gaze down the overwhelming black diamond slope, The Grandhammer. The afternoon breeze, pushing away the morning fog, reveals a gorgeous sea of frost-covered pines that create a valley of sloping powder. Colorful specs decorate the white backdrop before a frozen lake at the base of the mountain. Steady hands grip my poles. A slight twinge stalls me, before I force myself into the plunge.

Endorphins flare as I carve the face of the mountain. The overwhelming force of snow and air against my body breathes life into me, as one brought back from the brink of death. Slicing through powder, I feel I am able to outrun time itself.

Time, however, finds its way to catch up to me, as I suddenly realize I’m nearing the bottom of the run. Those specs that once dazzled the side of the mountain, morph into full-bodied skiers and snowboarders. The herd of people now blanket the base of the mountain, awaiting my imminent impact. I’m going too fast. Gravity has overtaken me. There’s no time to slow myself or veer myself in another direction. Nothing can stop me. Nothing…besides the fear of what’s below.

I reach for its hand and am pulled into the side of the mountain. My body is whipped about, tumble after vicious tumble, before I slide down the rest of the run. My entire body aches. There’s a ringing at the back of my head, but I’m still able to raise my unwilling body and limp back up the slope to retrieve my separated skis. I then trudge on to meet the other survivors waiting for lifts back to the summit.

I glance back at The Grandhammer, the sun magnificently setting over its peak. Can’t say that I won’t be sore for the next month or so. I can at least say, for one glorious moment, I had conquered the fear of what’s below.

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