Today I want to share the story of how I got stuck on a mountain, at the top of a 20ft drop off, alone, in waist deep snow.
(Mom and Dad, I’m sorry you had to find out about this via blog, but I’m hoping that since you’re currently on your way to Georgia, you won’t see this until I see you. If it freaks you out, just remember: I lived to ski another day.)
* * * * *
I grew up skiing. Every year my family would take a week in February and drive to Colorado or Utah to shred the slopes. Back when we lived in Germany, “ski week” was part of Christmas vacation.
I’m a good skier. I like powder; I like tree skiing. I can get down a double black diamond—not prettily, nor quickly—but I can do it. And so, when an opportunity came to go skiing on the Race, with a group of people who know what they’re doing, I couldn’t pass it up.
That’s how I ended up at Gudauri, the biggest ski resort in Georgia.
* * * * *
Here are two important things you need to know about Gudauri:
1) There are no trees.
2) There is no map.
The mountain is essentially just a loose net of groomed runs that outline wide swathes of powder. By the time we got there, the powder had already been heavily skied (to the point where it makes bumps) and had crusted over a bit after a few days of melting in the sun then freezing at night.
Also, there are rocks.
I’ve decided I like trees better. You fall just as hard if you hit either, but at least you can see the trees.
* * * * *
Jake and I decided to split off from the group to go further up the mountain. Now I know Jake is much more in shape than me, but on our first run up, I realized he’s also much faster. I stop every 100 ft or so to stretch out my cramping calves and navigate a complicated section; Jake just points his board downhill and goes.
On our second run, we went all the way to the top: three lifts total. We decided to do the first section (probably a black) together, then split off. He asked if it was okay if he didn’t wait for me; I told him that would be fine.
At this point it’s about 1pm; we’d planned to meet the others at the lodge at 1:30 for lunch.
We started the run and Jake got ahead of me in seconds. I was trying to keep up but also listening to my body. I saw him go around the corner and dip into a powder section on the left, but quickly lost sight of him.
Why not? I thought. So I went down that way, too.
* * * * *
Here’s a third thing you need to know about Gudauri:
3) There’s a river.
Lower on the slopes, you can actually see the water. Higher up, it’s just a deep valley between two hills.
And in one place, there’s a snow-covered, frozen, waterfall.
In my defense, there wasn’t a map. I had no idea where I was on the mountain.
I was, however, pretty confident that I wouldn’t have a problem. The mountain is wide open (see #1 above), so I’d seen all the powder sections from the lift. Maybe it would get steep, sure, but I could handle steep. I’d skied powder before.
I could do this.
* * * * *
I get down a powder slope into this little, narrow valley. I can’t see over either ridge. It’s like I’ve found a mini wasteland in the middle of a crowd; no other skier or boarder follows me down. The only people I can see are far below: little ant-skiers making their way back to the closest lift.
The way ahead crosses the valley. I don’t want to get stuck in the bottom; I want to stay on top of the ridges. I can see the line I want, but it’s also pretty bumpy. I know I need to keep up speed or I’ll get stuck in the powder, so I just send it…
… and completely crash, sliding down the mountain and losing one ski. My entire back is covered in snow.
Not a big deal, I’ve lost skis before. I take a moment to shed (most) everything I’m wearing and brush off the snow. Cold is fine; wet and cold is a day-ender.
I get up, snap my ski back on, and keep going, trying to keep a high line and hoping the other side of the hill is safe. All I can see in front of me is two white hills, and on an unfamiliar mountain, the last thing I want to do was go sailing over a ridge when I can’t see the other side.
My ski catches on a bank. I go down again, losing another ski.
Now I’m starting to get nervous. Crashing doesn’t hurt but it’s a lot of work to climb back up, and I’ve lost a lot of the speed I need to make it through this safely if the terrain turns ugly. I like technical, but this is a bit much when I’m alone and can’t trust my muscles. Also, I’m hungry, since all I had for breakfast five hours ago was a single fried potato and half a cup of oatmeal. Besides, Jake is definitely down the mountain by this point, and probably wondering where I am.
I really need to get out of here.
I keep skiing, deciding to keep to the valley because it’s easier than the sides. About three turns later, I’m only two yards from a twenty-foot cliff. No doubt this is where the river would run in the summer.
I’ve found the top of the waterfall.
I must have a talent for picking the wrong place to drop into powder. Even more ironically, I had literally pointed that valley out to Jake on the lift, telling him we needed to be careful we didn’t get stuck.
I can see a line out of where I am, but the path is only wide enough for a snowboard, and bumpy. If I try, I’ll fall, sliding into a canyon with rocks to break my fall. There’s no way I can make it on skis without a lot more speed or a higher line up the hill.
Going around is also out of the question. Both sides are way too steep with too many rocks. There’s no way I can survive either direction without breaking something.
Reality sinks in: I’m stuck in the only valley on a wide-open mountain. Unless someone comes over either ridge, I’m invisible. There is no one down here with me, no one knows where I am, and I can’t get out.
I start crying.
“Oh God, I can’t do this! I can’t do this!”
* * * * *
Most people probably would have said that last sentence out of frustration. I was stuck, slightly hysterical, and exhausted, but in that moment, I had a crazy realization:
I wasn’t saying it out of frustration.
I was literally talking to God as if he was skiing down the mountain with me.
Ladies and gentlemen, if you want to get closer to God and you feel like he tells you to do something crazy, like, I don’t know, go on a 11-month round-the-world journey…
JUST DO IT.
You won’t regret it. And he’ll answer your prayers in ways you don’t expect.
* * * * *
Standing in ski boots is uncomfortable; all the pressure is on my quad muscles, since my legs are fixed at an angle. So, I unbuckle from my skis and sit down in the snow, trying to figure out a way down this cliff. After a few minutes I have the idea to try and slide out on my butt, dragging my skis behind me, but as soon as I dig my boots into the snow and try to move, I slip another foot. It scares me enough to make me cry again.
I’m about 3ft from the edge now, and sitting on an incline. “I can’t do this, God! I want someone to come and rescue me!”
So many thoughts cycle through my head. Half-formed prayers. Desperate pleas.
I didn’t do anything wrong to get here, it was just a mistake! I’d like a rescue, please!
You’re a God that saves, so save me!
Surely my friends have noticed I’m missing. I told Jake I would be slower, but an entire half an hour when we were on the last section? Come on. Something went wrong.
But how would know where I was, or even get to me, without getting stuck themselves? How could I get out?
“God, you have to help me!” I say again.
No spotlight shines from the sky. The clouds don’t open; no angels appear. But I happen to look back uphill, and as I do, the thought crosses my mind: Go back up.
Call me crazy, but until that moment I hadn’t even considered backtracking.
I mean, duh.
* * * * *
Did you know that a woman wearing high heels exerts the same amount of force on the ground as an elephant?
It’s not an insult, it’s just a lot of force concentrated on a small space. That’s the scientific definition of pressure: force over space (area).
For this reason, polar bears don’t walk on thin ice. Instead, they slide themselves across spread-eagled. They intuitively understand pressure: if I weigh a lot, I need to spread that weight out over space to keep from concentrating it on one section. Bada bing, bada boom, Ice doesn’t crack, polar bear lives.
* * * * *
Skis are long for a reason: in powder, they help you float by spreading out your weight. Less pressure, less sinking.
The snow I’m caught in, however, is knee deep, and since I’ve taken off my skis, my pressure is back to normal. My poles sink three feet every time I try to use them. I can’t get my skis parallel to the incline in a way that they won’t slip or bow, and I am not going to risk losing one over the cliff.
Still, I try. My boot pushes the ski so deep I can’t even see it.
I remember the polar bears. Taking my poles in one hand and my skis in the other, I start crawling up the mountain.
It takes a lot longer than expected to get a lot less distance than I want. The snow is light and fluffy. This is ideal for the sport, but not for a crying, desperate skier—I just sink right through. I’m dragging my knees through a foot and a half of snow rather than crawling on top of it, but when I try to stand, it gets worse.
A few times, I can see people on the ridges. Twice, they come into the valley.
No one stops.
I don’t really blame them. Most of them look like they are concentrating on making it out of there just as much as I am. What could they do to help, really? Talk me through it? Maybe, but the odds are pretty low that we speak the same language.
I don’t blame them, but I do resolve to stop anytime I see someone struggling, or at least let ski patrol know when I get down the mountain. Especially when they’re crawling up a mountain in knee deep snow….
Twice, I try to go up the sides, first the left, then the right. If I can get to the top, maybe I can see more. Maybe I can get some help.
Bad idea. Because it’s such a steep valley, all the snow drifts to the bottom. Crawling up the sides goes from knee deep to waist deep in about 2 feet.
I finally get some measure of success when I return to the base of the valley and start crawling along lines where skiers and boarders have already packed the snow. I sink about 6 inches with every drag of my knee, but that’s better than my usual 1.5 ft. Still determined to get up the side (it’s the quickest way out and I won’t have the energy to crawl all the way up the valley), I pick a board line and give it my best effort.
Even worse idea. I’m now in chest-deep snow. I’m lying in the snow in an almost-upright position. It’s like trying to climb up a pile of feathers.
I see a few people up on the opposite ridge, so I wave with my poles, screaming “help!” as loud as I can. They don’t seem to see me.
I’ve never called for help in my life. I’ve asked, sure, but not from a place of physical desperation. At this point, I’m exhausted and hungry and delirious and my sunglasses are fogged from all the crying and sweating and crawling I’ve done. I’ve had spurts of courage and determination, balanced by exhaustion and fear, and… well, I could go on.
I try again, but just slip. I slam my poles onto my skis and lay my face down on the snow. “You have to help me, God! I can’t do this on my own!”
I’ve been saying this to him for the last hour, and in reality, he’s already helped me: he gave me courage, and the idea to go back up. But I’m still just as stuck. I don’t even know if salvation is waiting on the other side of the ridge. For all I know, the way I’m going is just going to get me into more trouble.
How am I going to get out of this valley?
* * * * *
Here’s three things you need to know about God:
1) He never, ever leaves us.
2) He always answers our prayers.
3) His idea of rescue often doesn’t look like what we expect.
* * * * *
For some reason, I take a moment after that prayer to look back at how far I’ve come. It’s a lot further than it felt like, and I’m also higher up on the hill than I’d realized.
My eye follows tracks that run parallel to where I’m laying.
You’re high enough now that if you can get your skis on, you could probably make it out of this if you cut a high enough line.
Probably half an hour ago I’d realized my skis would float me better than boots. Since then, I’d been looking for a way to put on my skis, but hadn’t been able to because of the aforementioned knee-deep situation. And now here I am, sitting against a hill. It would be an easy matter to just put my skis next to my feet and clip in, then push myself upright.
The last thing in the world I want to do is put on skis. Waist deep snow is no friend to stationary skiers. I could try to ski out, sure, but I’m not sure I can hold that high line, and I’ve already fallen twice with skis on. What if I fall again, and get myself into a bigger mess?
Put on the skis, Sarah. You’ll feel more confident with them on. Remember, you know how to do this.
That was a clear thought from the Holy Spirit. So I put my skis on, and He’s right, I do feel more confident. I side-step a few times to get to a higher line, but mostly ski my way out.
Ten seconds later, I’m on the hard pack.
Turns out, salvation had been just over the ridge.
* * * * *
As I ski down, I talk out loud to God, thanking him for getting me out of the mess and apologizing for my attitude and anger toward him.
I finally arrive at lunch at 2:45, a full hour and thirty minutes after I’d started my last run.
My friends haven’t missed me at all. They went up one more run and it took longer than expected to get down. They’d beat me to lunch by 10 minutes.
* * * * *
I share this story for a few reasons:
First, to share with you how God can be part of your every day.
I was literally yelling at him about how to navigate down a ski slope for crying out loud! Maybe you think that God should only be bothered with big things, but he wants your little things, too. That’s what builds relationship.
Second, I started thinking about how God got me out of that place, and how those principles apply to my life when I make mistakes.
First, He told me to go back the way I had come, in a significantly more humble attitude than the way I’d arrived.
Then, He asked me to try again, trusting that humility had brought me to a higher point than I could have achieved on my own.
Third, I wonder how often God’s rescue doesn’t look like what we expect.
By the time I realized I was high enough to ski out, I’d spent an hour dragging my body through knee- to waist-deep snow, using my poles and skis as leverage so I wouldn’t sink to my shoulders. It was grueling, exhausting work.
I did not want to get back on those skis.
I wanted ski patrol. Another human being to help me up. A friend to come find me. Even just someone to tell me what was over the next ridge. I didn’t want to get out myself. I didn’t feel equipped.
And I wasn’t, really. It was His courage that kept me moving even though I was stuck at the bottom of an unclimbable valley; His patience that let me recover before crawling a bit more; His ideas that got me to the place I needed to be, and His encouragement that got me back up on those skis.
