I heard it before I saw it. There was a crack followed by an unmistakable whoosh signifying disaster. A quick look over my left shoulder confirmed my fears. An immense slab of snow had broken loose and was barreling toward me like a white locomotive that had jumped the track. I skied for the trees in an attempt to outrun the monster, but the slide was on me faster than thought and I only made a couple of yards. It slammed me with an angry surge, tossing me skyward before sucking me back down. I ended up riding its surface, a snow surfer at the front edge of a crystal tsunami that, like batter in a blender, kept threatening to pull me under. All my senses were on alert as the world flashed past in a river of white, trees folding like dominos, immense walls being carved into the terrain to either side.

Trying to keep my position atop the monster was like trying to leash a rabid dog. Pulling to mind every survival technique in my reservoir, I started swimming, which was like trying to do the breaststroke in mud. But I had to do something to stop it from towing me under and encasing me in a concrete coffin. My frantic mind recalled how they found Billy Rineheart's battered body last spring after the melt, his legs tucked behind his head in a morbid backbend, his spine but a memory. I swam harder, fighting to hold the surface, my frantic paddling like that of a non-swimmer thrown into a pond.

Thankfully, the force of the avalanche had knocked off both skis, so my legs were tracking directly behind me instead of being pin-wheeled into spiral fractures. Something hard hit from behind and bounced off my helmet. A moment later a tree branch swept past in the debris. My captor had funneled me into a chute and we were plummeting towards the valley below at mind-bending speed.

Ahead of me, the wave plumed upwards, crystals of snow turning to explosive white clouds. My helmet ripped off and then one of my gloves along with my left ski pole. My right pole was still attached and while I feared the strap might break my wrist, I also hoped it would stay with me so there might be something poking through the surface to let people know that a possibly breathing creature lay somewhere in the area.

I'd heard stories about a person's life travelling before their eyes when they know they are facing death, but that sure wasn't the case for me. There was no such luxury of time to recount my life, though I did think of my brother and wondered how he would take the news of my demise. Down and down we went, the white bronco trying to buck me off while every fiber of me struggled to stay on its back. My eyes flicked up to the clear blue sky that lay on the other side of the crystal fog. It looked so tranquil with the mountains carved into the blue and the rays of the late-afternoon sun slipping around the peaks.

And then, as quickly as it started, the slide came to a halt. My efforts appeared to have paid off, allowing the possibility of survival to occur to me. I was on the surface. Well, part of me anyhow. My legs, left arm and torso were encased in a snow cast, but my head, right shoulder and right arm were free. I was looking at Castle Creek Road winding lazily through the valley below. Miraculously, my right ski pole was still with me and I waved it in hopes of attracting the attention of some passing vehicle. In January, the sun set early, and if I wasn't rescued before it went down the chances of survival were slim.

My braid rested in front of me, a thick blond snow-packed piece of rope that I pushed aside to reach around my neck. I felt a surge of relief as my hand took hold of my avalanche beacon. Being on patrol, I always wore it. It was in the receive mode. I turned it to transmit and went back to waving my ski pole with an exhausted arm. A car in the valley flashed its lights and a wave of euphoria swept me. I was going to live.

The small glimpse of optimism was short lived, however, as another crack echoed through the valley followed by the sound of the locomotive bearing down on me again. The second slide took longer to hit, but this one knocked my ski pole free and shoved me from behind, taking the slab of snow that encased me along with it. I was travelling downhill again, the creature claiming victory as it pulled me underneath and enclosed me. When it came to a stop this time, I was in complete darkness. But somehow I'd had the presence of mind to keep my right arm in front of me. My right hand was inches from my face, protecting the world's smallest pocket of air. I said my prayers and tried not to panic. Panic meant hyperventilating and oxygen was precious enough as it was.

I wasn't cold or aware of any pain, but I was completely immobilized. I took miserly breaths, holding them in as long as I could, having no idea how long the air pocket would last. Time went into suspension, and an odd sense of acceptance came over me as I lapsed in and out of consciousness.

I was deep in conversation with the powers that be when a dull thump broke the absolute silence. I would have gasped had there been enough oxygen. The thump was followed by another thump and then another. The thumps started getting louder and more regular until it dawned on me it was a shovel I was hearing. And then a weak crack of light penetrated my tomb. Gray dusk brushed the sky above like variegated layers of smoke settling down after a fire.

A dark mustachioed face wearing a red ski cap was hovering over me.

'Are you an angel?' I asked.

Fierce dark eyes glared at me. 'Dammit, Westerlind. If you hadn't already got yourself buried alive, I'd do for you.'

When I woke up, I was alone in a hospital room with all kinds of tubes and cords protruding from my bruised and battered body. A beeping monitor behind me only made my already intolerable headache worse. Though my vision was blurry, I managed to focus on the far end of the bed and could see the outline of two feet poking up beneath the sheets. That was a good sign. I wriggled my toes, and the sheets moved. Even better. My arms lay exposed atop the blanket and I played imaginary scales, first with my right hand, then my left. Another victory. I tried to raise my right arm. That hurt like hell, but with some effort I was able to bring it up above my head. The left was no problem.

A doctor came in, a good-looking one I might add. He had a light complexion and was clean-shaven with short straw-colored hair, a square jaw and small, oval-shaped wire-rimmed glasses. That his face wasn't familiar puzzled me. Since I usually stopped at the hospital to check on the skiers I'd brought down the hill, I thought I knew just about every doctor in that ER. But the season was early and I hadn't been to the hospital a whole lot yet, so I figured him to be new.

The doc gave me a smile that momentarily overrode the feeling that my body had been pummeled by a rock in a sack. It was a warm and heartfelt smile with evenly spaced white teeth, except for one side tooth that was charmingly crooked in a Hugh Grant sort of manner. His nametag read Dr Duane Larsen.

'Well, you're a miracle,' he said. 'Remind me to book my next flight on your plane.' He huddled over me and I noticed the eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses were mismatched, one green, one brown. His mounded muscles beneath the green scrubs told me that aside from practicing medicine, the doctor practiced body building as well. He put his finger to my right eyelid and raised it, shining a light into it, flicking the light...