My Ego Led To The Hardest Crash of My Life in Alaska

Report from April 13, 2024

On Saturday, I took the hardest fall of my life.

It was 100% preventable…

On the first run of the day, we found 75 cm (30 inches) of new snow.

“The deepest snow of my life!” yelled our buddy Travis Ganong (former World Cup ski racer) after his first run.

• Related: U.S. Ski Racer Travis Ganong Announces Retirement

It was insanely deep.

The snow was bizarre and it was hard to not fall over forwards.

Where it was steep it was easier to ski.

We had the legend Donny Pelletier with us and he put on a show.

On our second run, we stepped it up into some spines, and everyone crushed.

First Malou Peterson (pro freeskier), then Travis, then Donny, then MiMi (another former World Cup skier).

It was my turn next.

There were 3 viable spines on this face and one that didn’t work.

This spine was shorter than the others and there wasn’t a way to beat your sluff.

I discussed this with MiMi and we all decided not to ski it.

Then I heard Keoki Flagg (world-class photographer who didn’t have any information of the line or its risk profile) ask MiMi if she could ski that untouched spine – the one we’d agreed not to ski.

She held her ground, said no, and said she wasn’t comfortable skiing that spine.

I internalized this dialogue knowing that Keoki had a good angle on that forbidden spine and that he wanted a shot on it.

I’d already sworn that spine off but now I wanted that shot.

I wanted it.

I was guiding this film group and I should’ve just been taking it mellow, but I wanted that photo.

I knew Keoki was leaving the next day and that this would be my last chance to get a high-quality shot with this illustrious photographer.

I started hiking up to the virgin spine without a plan.

I guess I just decided it would all work out even though I’d already seen that math on this line and it most certainly did not work out.

On top, it was clear that I could escape sluff on the right side, but not on both the right and left.

I had to keep the sluff on the right side of the spine, which wouldn’t have been that hard.

Even with this knowledge, my default was to get a good shot so I hiked up to the very top of the spine.

Travis even called me on the radio and explained to me that I had to keep the sluff on the right side only.

I agreed and said that was my plan.

Again, I didn’t calculate accordingly because I was more focused on getting a good photo.

Geoff counted me in:  “Miles dropping in 10, 9, 8, 7…”

I dropped in in high gear focused on skiing the line as hard as possible.

Not focused on my sluff.

Not focused on my safety.

Not focused on my team.

The top turns were spectacular.

Deep snow billowed and sprayed off my skis and over my head, as I barrelled down on the spine.

I hit the top of the initial spine knob and popped a turn falling straight down into the second rib of the backbone.

I almost hopped up on top of the lower spine knob but decided to keep my speed up to beat my sluff.

On my last turn, the right corner of my mouth turned up in a smirk as I realized I’d beaten my sluff on both sides.

Then I saw the sluff on the right come screaming down beside me.

No worries I thought, I’ve got an escape route to the left.

I pointed my skis straight downhill and slightly left ready for high-velocity apron glory.

It was then that I saw the left-side sluff come racing in.

It had even more speed than the right sluff and in less than an instant it collided with the right sluff exactly one ski length in front of me.

I tried to jump on top of it – an old trick I’d learned in Alaska years ago – to no avail.

I went down instantly.

The initial fall was soft and I expected to be spat out of the tumultuous snowstorm quickly.

Then I got bodyslammed.

And then bodyslammed again.

Then again.

And again and again and again.

My knee joints were being maxed out.

My calf muscles strained to their breaking points.

One ski ripped off.

I started really tumbling now with the newfound lower resistance.

Snow filled my goggles.

Snow filled my mouth.

I couldn’t breathe.

The adrenaline hit.

I popped up my goggles and fought to get my head above the snow.

I quickly realized that I was going to the valley floor if I didn’t fight out of this sluff avalanche.

I fought like crazy to get my one ski pointed downhill.

I leaned back and rode that ski with my butt on my ski tail with arms outstretched and quickly escaped the rolling snow mass.

I was worked…

My right MCL had been lightly torn.

My left knee (2 previous surgeries) was OK but rocked.

My calves were dramatically strained.

My entire body was exhausted.

I had no poles, no helmet camera, and only one ski.

I’d tried to pull my avalanche airbag handle but the thrashing was too violent to execute such a coordinated movement.

I quickly got on the radio and announced that I was OK.

I caught my breath and couldn’t believe I was alright.

Now started the hard part:  skiing down 1,000-vertical-feet in 75 cm of fresh Alaskan powder.

The effort was exhausting.

I mostly skied down on my right leg as my old beat-up left knee wasn’t up to it.

When I tired the left knee I felt my old, dismantled meniscus grinding…

It must have taken me 30 minutes to get down to the heli pickup zone.

I was highly fatigued, endlessly embarrassed, and extremely grateful to be OK.

I thanked my team down there and they were stoked I wasn’t hurt.

I apologized to them all for causing so much drama and delaying the team’s film day.

I was soaked on the inside from sweating and on the outside from wallowing.

The next morning I opened the guide meeting with a short, standing speech where I explained that my ego and desire for a photograph had marred my better judgment and led me to make a major mistake that endangered myself and my team.

I apologized for my behavior and promised it wouldn’t happen again.

I meant it.

I am beyond grateful that I’m OK and for the violent lesson that I have learned.

Thanks, Alaska!