A drop of blood rolls down my leg as Dr. Clevenger removes the staples from the 9-inch long incision running down the outside of my right thigh. Suddenly, I am reminded of the two selfless strangers whose blood is now a part of my body. There were so many strangers the night of my rescue, and amazingly enough, I can remember almost each and every one of them in vivid detail. I am overwhelmed by a feeling of profound gratitude for these beings, and I will never forget them nor the lessons that this experience has taught me. I had been backcountry skiing for several seasons before Judy invited me to take her husband’s place on this trip. My own husband was heading off on a week-long backcountry adventure with his buddies, and I was excited at the prospect of doing an overnight hut trip with my good friend. I hadn’t yet met any of the other eight members of the party, but had been on at least two prior hut trips with Judy and trusted that the participants would be the same kind of responsible backcountry-loving people who usually go on these types of trips. I met Judy on Friday afternoon, hopped into her Subaru, and headed up to the Donner Pass area to spend the night at a friend’s cabin. Saturday morning, we packed up our gear and trekked the two and a half miles up and over a ridge into the lovely snow-covered meadow where the Peter Grubb hut is located. We reached the hut at 12:30, ate lunch, and took an afternoon nap with the intention of getting at least one long run in before dinner. When we awoke at about 2pm, the rest of the crew were coming in from a morning of exploring the surrounding peaks and bowls. I met Chris, a doctor who plays ultimate frisbee with my husband, his wife Amy, and their friends with whom we were looking forward to sharing a meal and wine by the fire when we returned from our outing. It was a fiercely windy day, and the group warned us to bundle up. As we were leaving, someone casually offered us a walkie talkie. I’ve never brought a walkie with me, but I thought, “why not.” We headed out the door and skinned up the steep ridge towards beautiful outcroppings and Castle Peak. We had almost reached the top of the ridge when we both agreed that we had had enough of the strong winds and decided to veer left through the trees toward an open bowl we had seen from the hut. The dark skies had not been predicted, so of course they were not threatening in my mind. We were just going to ski down the bowl to the hut anyway. We would certainly beat the coming storm. After a long traverse on a pair of tracks through the trees, we reached the open bowl. We took a short rest as we took off our skins and fueled up on trail mix and water. The slope below us was steep, but not unusual from my previous experience. As Judy headed down, I followed. It was a quick end to the fun as on only the third turn my right ski got stuck in the thick, wet snow and the rest of my body kept going down hill. I didn’t feel any pain. I didn’t hear any cracking noise. All I know is that I felt my inner thigh stretching in a direction it’s never been and something in my hip area pulling out and backwards as I fell headfirst down the hill. I remember screaming, and when I landed, I knew immediately that something was horribly wrong. Judy didn’t. She did exactly what I would have done had I seen her take such a tumble. She laughed and asked, “Are you okay?” It’s amazing how self-sufficient “type A” personalities respond to crisis. We think we can handle it. I remember looking at my leg and trying to analyze exactly what was wrong with it. If I knew what was wrong with it, surely I could fix it. This is one of my core traits. I am able to and indeed insist upon handling everything on my own. The way the upper femur was heading toward my inner thigh, the way the end of the lower femur sort of floated above my knee cap, and the way my shin was externally rotated, Dr. Nicole figured that the leg was dislocated. As Judy huddled around me to protect me from the elements, she called the hut for help on the walkie talkie that might not have been there. I remember grabbing the walkie and saying, “Chris, you’re a doctor, maybe you could talk me through this.” Talk about denial! Thank God Chris doesn’t have the ego that I do. Chris did however believe that he, along with Judy and some of the other friends, could get me safely down the mountain. And I did, too. Chris headed up the ridge with Brent and Regina, two of the friends whose names I hadn’t even gotten yet. It was beginning to sink in to me that my accident would be ruining a perfectly good evening for not only myself and Judy, but for the rest of the hut dwellers as well. Nice people who didn’t even know me. Nice people who were probably really annoyed with me. As they searched for us, the weather grew more stormy and the sun was getting lower. We maintained radio contact, and after about what I’d say was an hour, Brent and Regina radioed to say that they were heading down the mountain to get help from Search and Rescue. “Search and Rescue?!!! I can’t believe this!” I was incredulous. Looking back on that moment, I just thank God for the wisdom that Brent and Regina had to see that we were helpless against the mountain, the coming storm, and the inevitable darkness that would soon surround us. My own stubborn nature would have kept trying to go it alone. At that point Judy began to dig a snow cave with the shovel she carries on backcountry ski outings. Again, I proclaimed, “I can’t believe this!” She seriously believed that we might have to spend the night here! I watched my strong, beautiful friend dig like a maniac as I sat by helpless, lodging my left boot into the snow to relieve the pressure on my ever-swelling right leg. I felt most comfortable leaning back on my elbows, and I had to hang my head down with my Goretex hood shielding the blowing snow from my eyes. I was in survival mode. I sat quietly, coming to terms with the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do but to sit and wait. It felt surreal as I grappled with a predicament that left me totally reliant on not only a good friend, but on a plethora of strangers whose generosity towards me I couldn’t fathom. Receiving is very difficult for me. It makes me feel weak and guilt-ridden. I like to give. It makes me feel needed and competent. As I watched Judy carve out a shelter, I was so grateful for her friendship. My only comfort in her discomfort was knowing that at least her body must be very warm from the frenetic activity of digging. Little did I know that the same heavy, wet snow that claimed my leg was soaking Judy’s clothes to the core. But she persisted, pausing only to receive calls from Chris who was heading back to the hut to regroup, and the snowmobile team who got our radio channel from Brent and Regina. I remember their intermittent messages and feeling so hopeful that help was on its way. It was dark, the storm appeared to be getting worse, and the visibility was horrible, which was why Chris had to head back. We thought we could hear the snowmobile engines, or was that the howling wind? It must have been the wind, because the snowmobiles never arrived. Finally, at about 8:30pm, Chris, Amy, and their friend Julie radioed us to say that they could see us. I looked up the hill and was so relieved to see them, these strangers whom I had just met that afternoon. I remember saying “Thank you so much for coming,” as if I’d invited them to a party of some kind. Yes, they were the responsible kind of backcountry loving people who usually go on these types of trips. They had brought backpacks filled with sleeping bags, thermarests, food, water, and extra clothes. They immediately set to the task of increasing my chances for survival. Chris gave me two Vicaden. I remember Amy saying, “I’m a physical therapist” as she checked my leg and determined that the kneecap was intact but that the upper femur was broken. Julie unpacked a thermarest and a sleeping bag and they all made sure that I was warm, fed, and as comfortable as possible. Chris stuck a snowshoe under my left boot that had been supporting the weight of my whole body for four hours. They put a backpack behind my back so that I could then get off of my elbows. I can’t describe how physically relieved I felt. And then came the guilt of knowing that these kind strangers had already had an exhausting morning climbing this same ridge. Chris had climbed it a second time in his first attempt to find us. And now, here they were, again. I know that I would have done the same thing under the circumstances, but my self-effacing nature couldn’t handle the fact that my accident had torn them away from the warmth and safety of the hut. I had to let go of the guilt and allow these people to help me. The situation was such that I had absolutely no other choice. I had started therapy on this exact issue as recently as January, and I thought I was making pretty good progress, but this incident had thrown it blatantly in my face to deal with. I guess I wasn’t progressing as quickly as God wanted me to, so the universe dealt me a lesson that I couldn’t possibly avoid by my usual subconscious strategy of keeping busy doing “important things.” After taking care of me, the trio turned to Judy. What foresight they had in bringing extra clothes! It was at this point that I realized that Judy was wet and freezing. As I watched Chris, Amy, and Julie care for Judy as tenderly as they had me, I suddenly realized that I wasn’t the only one suffering and in danger here. My robotic survival mode had previously shut out all such thoughts, but now, with warmth, comfort, and Vicaden, I had the luxury of looking outside of myself. I encouraged the group to hunker down in the snow cave after assuring them that I was as comfortable as I was going to get under the circumstances. The atmosphere momentarily took a lighter tone as the four of them squeezed into the cave, onto the extra thermarests and under the extra sleeping bags to get warm. I remember hearing giggling and silly remarks from my perch above the cave. The Vicaden even allowed a wisecrack of my own. “Judy, did I forget to thank you for inviting me on this trip?!” Three hours passed in a surreally slow but quick fashion. Finally, we heard from the snowmobilers who were flashing their lights in an attempt to locate us. They couldn’t see us, but could we see them? Judy and Chris climbed out of the cave to look for lights while Julie manned the radio. Every time the snowmobilers flashed lights, they let us know via the walkie, and we were to report back our findings. Nothing. There was a bit of confusion as Julie played the middle person between the snowmobilers and Judy and Chris. Again and again, we were told that they had flashed their lights. We looked in the direction we thought they’d be, to our left. We looked up the mountain. We looked down the mountain. We even looked to the right, wondering if they could possibly be over on the opposite side of the ridge we climbed up. Were those flashing lights? Judy couldn’t be sure. Finally, the snowmobilers set up flares. After some time had passed, each of us gazing up into the overcast night sky, we finally saw a red-colored beacon floating high in the sky to our left. “We see it! It’s to our left!” Now the team could determine our location, and within what seemed like minutes, a small troop of headlamp-clad skiers appeared from the forest of trees that harbored our tracks. When I first saw the lights shining through the trees, they looked like fireflies hovering on a hot New York summer’s eve. We were ecstatic. We howled and whistled and flashed our own lights to be sure that the fireflies wouldn’t fade back into the woods. When this new set of strangers arrived, once again, I remember saying, “I can’t believe this!” and that same pathetic “Thank you so much!” that will never be worthy enough for what these wonderful souls did for me. I’m amazed at the detail with which I remember the rescue, specifically with the fact that I remembered so many of the names of the rescuers. In processing the experience by writing this account over the last three weeks, it occurred to me that perhaps I remember their names because the darkness shrouded their faces. The lack of visual input may have sharpened my auditory processing. I think that it’s also possible that I so desperately wanted to be connected to these strangers that I subconsciously grasped onto their names to make up for the lack of eye contact that usually makes me feel closer to people. So I remember Dirk directing the team members and how quickly and efficiently they all worked to get me comfortably into the sled. I remember Peter offering me emotional support and a delicious Snickers bar. I remember Dirk hooking up the front pulling device. I remember someone being sent ahead to flatten the trail for my comfort and safety. I remember Bernie offering me luxuriously hot tea. I remember Sarah taking the bottom side of the slope to keep the sled level and comfortable. Sarah lost a skin and kept on going. I remember Bernie being on the upslope and having to climb around all kinds of obstacles. I remember someone keeping the sled steady in the back. I remember Dirk pulling and safely leading the sled down the tracks. I remember finally reaching the ridge, heading down and up and over humps and rocks. They all kept me so comfortable in spite of the difficulty of making it so. I remember a group of other people (the snowmobilers?) meeting us and helping to get me up the hills. I remember getting lifted into the SnowCat where John, the paramedic, tried to relieve my pain with morphine but my veins wouldn't cooperate. And when he poked around with the needle, I suddenly felt these strong fingers massaging my temples. I thought it was my friend Judy, but when I looked up behind me it was Scoop, the SnowCat driver! I couldn't believe the compassion that each person showed me. I remember Scoop apologizing for the bumpy ride. When we finally got to the bottom, at about 2am, there stood the sheriff. When I saw him standing there, I remember being in utter amazement at how many people were involved and at what kind of wonderful people they must be to do this kind of work. I was gingerly transferred into the ambulance, where I met yet another compassionate, selfless soul. I think his name was Patrick. John and Patrick were so incredibly kind. After I gave them permission to cut my favorite fleece off of me, they put some warming devices under my armpits and continued to try to relieve my pain. They still couldn’t get a proper vein, so they gave me a muscular injection of morphine. The level of pain seemed to remain the same, but I guess the morphine helped me to be happier about it. John and Patrick wheeled me into Tahoe Forest Hospital at 3am. After admittance procedures and a series of x-rays, I was surprised to see my friend Judy still with me at 5am. She had brought me some of my belongings, including my camera. Ms. Morphine asked to be photographed on the gurney. It still amazes me that despite my pleas to “just leave my stuff (skis, poles, backpack) on the mountain,” Judy and my newfound friends made sure that it was all returned safely to me. I so desperately did not want to inconvenience them. When I was finally wheeled into my room, I was still lying on the search and rescue team’s sleeping bag, so the nurses had to transfer me from it to the bed. For the first time, I was in excruciating pain as the nurses pulled the sleeping bag laterally from under my injured leg. It was so obvious to me that the bag needed to be pulled vertically to avoid pain! I remember becoming impatient with the nurses as Peter looked on sympathetically in the doorway waiting to retrieve the bag. I couldn’t believe that after all of the delicate care I had received during the most difficult part of the ordeal, getting down the mountain, I would experience such carelessness in the presumably safe and secure environment of the hospital. Fortunately, the rest of my hospital stay proved to be more testimony to the kindness of strangers. I slept for about an hour and was then taken down to be prepped for surgery. Dr. Stites, the surgeon, asked me to sign a series of documents that I didn’t read in my drug-induced state. I thought, “What other choice do I have but to get this fixed?!” It seemed to be a running theme for me. I’ve been told by many of the people involved how brave and stoic I was throughout the whole ordeal. All I can say is that I didn’t see any alternatives to getting down the mountain, so I just accepted it without complaint. I was encouraged to opt for a spinal rather than anesthesia by yet another kind stranger, the anesthesiologist. It was frightening to make so many important decisions alone and without my wits, but now I realize that it was just the continuation of a series of moments of letting go of control and trusting my life to other people, even people I don’t know. It’s a lesson that I’m still grappling with daily as I recuperate at home. I’m creating lesson plans that I have to release to a substitute teacher to follow through on, in the hopes that she can do them as well as I can (but not better!). I’ve had to let go of my independent nature as I allow my mother to care for me as if I were a child again. I’ve had to trust that my husband can indeed make a delicious meal without my meddling. I’ve learned to graciously accept the outpouring of love, cards, phone calls, and flowers from my family and friends, without feeling guilty. As I continue the therapy I started in January via telephone, I’m amazed at the richness of life lessons this experience offers me. I am so deeply indebted to each and every soul who so unselfishly answered the call and came out on that stormy night. In rescuing me from the mountain, they actually rescued me from myself. I believe that God works in mysterious ways, and when I recount the story to family and friends, I don’t cry when I talk about the fall. I don’t cry when I talk about being helpless out on the mountain for eight hours. I don’t cry when I talk about the surgery and recovery. I cry when I talk about each of the wonderful individuals who went out of their way to help me that night. I will remember them for the rest of my life.