What it means to be lucky

It was a slightly uncomfortable situation for me at the Durango Discovery Museum. It was the second Saturday in February 2013, and I was surrounded by hundreds of close friends of Peter Carver. They had paraded down Main Avenue and packed the museum beyond capacity to mourn the death of their friend and to celebrate his profound yet tragically short life. I almost felt ashamed to be around all these people who had shared so many adventures and had forged such a strong bond with Peter. I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t a close friend. I didn’t have any fond memories to share. I hadn’t experienced any of the adventures that made Peter such a unique individual. I was only lucky enough to have met him one week prior.

My group and his paused a moment atop the skin track above Corkscrew Pass to catch our breath. It was the second time the six of us had crossed paths while skiing laps in the glades below. Our gazes took in the magnificent view of Velocity Basin and the rest of the San Juans extending seemingly forever on the horizon. As we snacked, chatted and allowed our legs and lungs to recover for the third and final run back to the road below, the conversation turned to how lucky we were. It was Saturday morning and the fourth day of Snowdown, Durango’s week-long winter festival and excuse for the townsfolk to act like they are still in college. While most of the town was likely just rolling out of bed with a raging full-body hangover (the kind reserved only for Snowdown and trips to Vegas), we had already been playing around in the powder for several hours and were relishing the precious February sunshine.

We laughed and smiled and allowed this wonderful feeling of contentedness to settle upon us all before my trio began to strip our skins in preparation to ski down while Peter, Duncan and Nate continued traversing around the cirque toward their intended line. As we parted ways, the consensus was that we were living life to its fullest and all of us were incredibly fortunate that day. 

Fifteen minutes later, our luck would turn. As I snapped a picture of my friend Justin gliding past me through the trees, I turned upslope to see the snow surface breaking apart and rushing toward me. I barely had time to yell at Justin before bear-hugging the tree next to me as the snow barreled into me, packing firmly against my knees, then my waist, then my chest before mercifully stopping just below my arms. Complete silence. I immediately yelled for Justin and received a quick confirmation that he was 20 feet to my left on the flank of the slide, upright with debris just to his ankles. We then both heard Terry’s cries from above. He had witnessed Justin trigger the avalanche and tried to alert us as he watched the moving snow engulf us. But we didn’t hear him until after the freight train had passed and the snow had settled around us. Upon hearing his voice, I was filled with elation. We were all alive! Terry skied to me and quickly dug me out with his shovel while Justin was able to wriggle himself free. As we carefully descended the debris field to the road, my head was filled with these four words playing on repeat: “We are so lucky.” But fickle fate would change yet again.

Half an hour later, thinking the worst was behind us, Terry, Justin and I found ourselves reversing course. While we had been skiing down Corkscrew Pass en route to the car, I noticed the now very familiar pattern of avalanche debris. It was at the foot of a slide path known as “the clothesline” because of an old braided steel mining cable strung across it. As I looked toward treeline, I shuddered at the sight of a crown of another avalanche extending across most of the start zone. We got to the car and raced back up the road as fast as humanly possible. When we arrived at the trailhead where Peter’s car was parked, there was no sign of the group. It didn’t take us long to put skis and skins back on and head up into what seemed like a war zone. We caught sight of Nate just as we reached the debris and my brain struggled to process his reply to my barrage of questions: “one dead, one broken leg.” 

Throughout the following hours of the rescue and the subsequent days, weeks and months, I wrestled to accept how we could have been so lucky, yet the others so decidedly unlucky. I tried to balance the risk of that one unlucky day compared to the fleeting glory and hedonistic pleasure that the lucky days deliver. But the answers and peace of mind did not come easily. I returned to skiing in the backcountry within several weeks, tempting bad luck to just try and find me. But my thoughts frequently returned to that fateful February day, and I couldn’t get past wondering if it was all worth the risk. The lyrics from a Neil Young song resonated in my mind with meaning: “the same thing that makes you live, can kill you in the end.”

Almost three years passed before I finally returned to the slopes above Corkscrew Pass early this ski season. It is, after all, a really good place to ski. Feeling the sun on my face and the gentle breeze cooling my brow as I crested that hill I last stood on with Peter and company, I was reminded of our conversation. I was finally convinced that despite the tragic outcome of that day, we were all lucky. And those of us who continue to embrace the call of wild places and experience all the magic and wonder that this world has to offer will forever be.

– Jarrod Regan