At the bottom of the mountain, I stood with my friend, Janice, catching our breath and looking for the lift. I could see the light wearing out every hour, and the sky was full of dark, fast-moving clouds. Snow came down on our heads like fat white rain.

“Maybe we could make our last round on Jerome Hill Express,” I suggested.  

“Okay, but we gotta be quick,” Janice answered. “The snow’s getting thick.”

On the lift swaying back and forth, Janice and I could see people below leaving one by one, heading towards the lodge. We watched cars pull out of the ski resort, leaving only a few SUVs in the parking lot. People trudged through the snow as if they’d spent their whole day running. On the lifts we watched the clouds moving so quickly as if a snowstorm was about to come. When we reached the top of the mountain, we saw only a few people skiing down the hill. As my dad put on his snowboard, I heard the grinding sound of the lifts being turned off, and then nothing besides the wind swishing past my ears. Looking behind me a crewman wearing a snowsuit was raking the snow back and forth to make it even for the next day’s skiers. At first, I thought we could ski down and ride the lift again, but as I looked at my watch it was already 3:30 and the resort closed at 4:00.

When my dad finished putting on his snowboard, we were ready to go down the mountain. Since this was our first season at this resort, we looked at the signs saying “Black Diamond,” “Blue,” and “Green” and hesitated. The fog and the wind made my snow goggles cloudy so I couldn’t tell whether I saw a slope or just flat ground.

Pretty soon, my friend, my dad and I were picking up speed, going down the slope, and then up a smaller slope, and then down again.  With my skis, I picked up speed enough to get up the hill, but my father’s snowboard moved as if it had weights. I could see the expression on his face as if he anticipated his lack of acceleration would give him trouble. When my dad reached the top of the hill, his pace slowed and his snowboard sunk down into the snow, cutting deep into white powder, the snow up to his knees. At that moment, I watched my father who was now sitting in the snow, pondering whether I should worry because his yellow jacket was now covered in white. He was panting laboriously, and all I could think about was how frail he looked.

All my life, my dad had always been a protector and a saint. Once when we were hiking in Point Reyes National Park, I tumbled down a hill and hurt my ankle. I was only five years old. My dad had to carry me, a backpack full of water, and a stroller all the way down the hill. I remember the sound of his panting, as if he might run out of breath and strength to carry me down, but he made it. When we got to car, he looked as if he’d spent his whole day working outside in the sun. A year later, when I had a fever over 103 degrees, my skin felt on fire. My dad put ice packs on my back to loosen the heat. It helped, but after hours of rotating the ice, he said, “We better go to the hospital before it gets worse.” I didn’t realize at the time how much it would cost, but now I know his sacrifices. No matter what, even if I had a cramp, he would load me into the car, and drive me to the Good Samaritan, a white building on a hill next to the freeway. Though our insurance had a huge deductible and we would be paying bills for months, he would still take me. At times when I was sad after losing a soccer game, he’d say, “It’s okay. This is your last game with this team. Cherish this moment with them. There will always be plenty of games to win.”

This time, the roles were reversed. I watched as my dad took deep breaths. I could see his breath disappearing in the air. With one hand, I reached over to help him up. When he grabbed my hand, he felt ten times heavier than his actual weight.  I almost toppled over on my skis, so he let go. “Can you try to get up one more time?” I asked. Though he used my ski poles to push off several times already, he tried again but couldn’t budge himself. Around the mountain, I looked to find help, a ski patrol maybe, or one of those guys raking the snow to make it even. But I saw only snow-covered trees and snow everywhere around us. It was no use because we were in the middle of the mountain. The fog began to overtake Jerome Hill so that we could see only the closest trees. My friend and I breathed heavily, our breath like smoke, so thick you’d think we were smoking. The wind was now howling and the snow was falling on us clump by heavy clump. I envisioned one of those stories you read in the newspaper about skiers that go missing and are found defrosted in the spring.

“Dad, let’s take your snowboard out so that there won’t be any weight on your foot to make it easier for you to get yourself up,” I said.

With our hands, Janice and I dug in the snow around my father’s feet. It took quite a while to dig in the deep snow to find his snowboard and unattach it from his foot. When he couldn’t get up and was about to give up, I told him that we could do it together. And I hoped that if I encouraged him more, he would be able to use that strength to pull himself up. When he finally managed to get up, I could see the snow literally at the height of his knees, and the happiness on his face, the bright eyes of knowing he was free.

All three of us still panting and breathing heavily, we made our way like turtles towards the bottom of the hill where the snow wasn’t as thick. There my father put back on his snowboard and snowboarded down the rest of the mountain.

At the bottom of the hill, my dad thanked Janice and me. He said, “Without you guys, I would still be up there stuck and cold and maybe dead already.”

It was four o’clock when we came down the mountain. As we packed our bags, snowboards, and skis in the back trunk, I still felt that feeling of being on the top of the mountain, stuck in the snow, freezing one limb at a time. I could see my dad trying so hard to get himself up. I could imagine myself still trying to get him out of the snow. I could see him shivering, and I could taste the snow going into my mouth.

I wrote this piece after a ski trip to Sugar Bowl Ski Resort. My hope is that my readers will understand that parents sometimes need help, too.

Skiing, Near death experience