I smiled to myself when I saw the name of our helicopter painted boldly on its underbelly as it descended toward us. Icarus. This is auspicious, I thought to myself, already feeling some trepidation about the heli-skiing adventure I had chosen for my son and me. I nudged Will in the ribs as the downdraft from its rotors engulfed us. He smiled, quick to appreciate the irony.
Icarus was a cute name for a helicopter. It seemed also a warning against too much hubris. In mythology, Icarus had a burning desire to fly, and constructed wings of feathers held together with paraffin wax. The wings worked! Icarus could fly, but he was ambitious. He was not content like the Wright Brothers (who perhaps remembered his folly) to fly just a few feet on his initial flight. Icarus was so exhilarated by his achievement that he flew straight into the sun, whose heat melted the paraffin, plunging him to his demise.
For me this little machine offered an incredible perspective, not only on the towering Alps of northern Italy, where Will and I encountered it, but also back in time to my ordeal with cancer and a bone marrow transplant. The anticipation I felt about skiing off these towering alpine peaks was heightened by my memories of battling cancer. A year earlier I was recovering from a bone marrow transplant, and at that time, I was much less certain that I would ever return to the adventures which had so enriched my life over the years.
I am no stranger to high mountain peaks, but a ski vacation to the Courmayeur Mont Blanc region of Italy was particularly precious because my twenty-four year old son, Will, was able to accompany me. Will was about to finish college and get married. So for this reason too, this was special father-and-son outing. Will speaks several European languages, the alpine languages in fact, French, German, and Italian. We chose Italy for this vacation because he was studying Italian at the time. We chose Courmayeur because of their helicopter ski outings this region offers. I had skied steep slopes, glaciers, deep power, but never the spectacular runs that are accessible only by helicopter.
So Will and I engaged one of the famous Courmayeur guides, a gregarious young man named David (pronounced Da vide). His infectious enthusiasm and relaxed nature reinforced my confidence that we could tackle any challenge. He picked us up at our hotel and drove us to an Italian village with a French name, Bonne. Good. We were just a few miles from France. Bonne seemed auspicious. When the helicopter arrived and we noticed its name painted on its belly, we began to have second thoughts.
I was also exhilarated by my newly reclaimed health. I was ready to spread my wings, metaphorically speaking. As Icarus approached we tucked our heads under our arms (like birds) to protect our eyes from the dust and debris stirred up by the turbulence. We strapped our skis to the underside of the helicopter and jumped into the cozy passenger compartment. As we rose above the village Bonne, we were met with a dazzling view of mountains on all sides. The pilot flew up a peaceful valley. My heart raced with excitement. I looked for the ski runs which would soon greet us. The pilot rounded a corner, darted behind a ridge, and began to climb straight up a steep mountain face. I glanced at the altimeter. Up 1000 meters. 2000 meters. 3000 meters. The conversion was not complicated. 3000 meters is 9000 feet. What goes up must come down. I knew what was in store for us.
The helicopter landed on a little shoulder of the mountain, short of the summit. Of course it would be impossible to land on the pinnacle. We would have to climb to the top from this little shoulder, klein sheidig, petite bisselle, spalla picola. The racing heart and labored breathing were not just from the excitement. These physiological signs told us how thin the air was at this altitude, and how hard we would have to work to get oxygen to our muscles.
The views were magnificent. The fact that we had to work for them made them all the more precious. In the distance we could see the Matterhorn, Il Cervino, it is called in Italy. My wife Sue and I had climbed it on our honeymoon, 31 years earlier. It had lost none of its power to inspire.
The skiing was more challenging than I had expected. The descent was steep, and because it was a warm, Spring day, the snow was heavy. When we finally reached Bonne, we had earned a hearty lunch of beet roots and pasta marinara, which we shared with some British sportscasters, who had also been skiing from the ambitious little helicopter.
That evening back in our hotel in Courmayeur, we shared our adventures of the day with our compatriots, most of whom went out to charter helicopters the next day. Our hotel was filled with americanos, mostly young professionals, younger than I, but older than Will. Will's Italian was pressed into service to assist with ordering meals, and he offered Italian pick-up lines when they were most needed.
The next day we were scheduled for a more relaxed outing: La Valle Blanche, a gentle, twenty kilometer glacier, flowing down the French side of Mont Blanc into Chamonix. The Valle Blanche would be the more gentle glacier I had imagined, but on this day, it would elude us. Perhaps this was our downfall. Perhaps we had exhibited too much pride and accepting the ascent in Icarus. The Valle Blanche was closed because it was snowing in France. There would be too much risk of losing skiers in crevasses. We couldn't have that. We were offered the Toula Glacier on the Italian side of Monte Bianco instead. It was suggested as a nice alternative. I should have known better.
We could see the steep Italian side of this highest Alp right from our hotel window. It rose straight up from the valley floor. More properly from a skier's point of view, it plunged straight down. There is no way this would be easy. It didn't occur to me not to accept the challenge. Three funiculars took us to the top of the part of Mont Blanc called Punta Heilbronner.
Before we could start skiing, it was necessary to rappel down a steep ice face on our skis. Rapelling was nothing new to Will and me. We were familiar with rope techniques and rapelling from earlier mountain adventures. Sue and I had attended a rope school in preparation for our Matterhorn ascent. Will, and his brother Cliff, and I had gone to the Philmont Boy Scout ranch in New Mexico. At Philmont Rock climbing had been part of the curriculum we had most enjoyed together. Rapelling on skis was an added twist.
But the rapelling was not the most difficult part of the descent. Once we got off the ice face, we were met with seven flights of fire-escape type open stairs, which carried us down to the glacier proper. These were even more intimidating. There was no turning back. Holding skis over one shoulder, we used the free hand to hold on to the railing as we clomped down the icy stairs in heavy ski boots. I recalled a memory that I hadn't thought of in fifty years. I recalled the first fire drill in school when our class of five-year-olds had exit our second floor classroom by way of the outdoor fire escape. Confronting the open stairs provided occasion to reflect on fear. Fear is an emotion than galvanizes you to face challenges you can't avoid. I had chosen to come to Mont Blanc, and I was thrilled to be here. Mont Blanc was reminding me of the lessons the bone marrow transplant taught me. The bone marrow transplant was an adventure I hadn't chosen, but once set upon it, there was nothing to do but face what lay ahead.
Mont Blanc offered yet another challenge before we got to the glacier itself. Before we could start skiing, we had to traverse the lip of the glacial headwall. Without any hesitation, I assumed it would be my role to find the path across. I had brought Will here, and I owed him the benefit of my experience. It had always been my job to find the path. As a Registered Maine Guide in college and med school, as a Boy Scout leader, as a medical school administrator, that was my job: find the path.
Snow conditions were not ideal this day on Mont Blanc. They were what is technically known as "crud". Yesterday's tracks were frozen under this morning's powder. Our guide, Rudi, a more serious individual than David, made a motion with his arms to indicate where the track should be found. I glanced down the steep face of the headwall, took a deep breath, and pointed my skis in the direction the Rudi had indicated.
I think it would have been bad karma to anticipate a fall, but of course a fall would be a possibility. I don't remember catching a ski tip, but that must have been what happened. What I remember was suddenly glissading down the slope head over heels, not exactly a freefall, but close to it. I remember looking up and seeing Will and our companions a long way up. I couldn't see down. I remember having a lot of time to think. First I thought I should try to self-arrest with my ski poles. That proved impossible. Then I calmly told myself I would not fall forever. Sooner or later I would come to a stop. I t is the nature of glacial headwalls that they form a bowl for the ice. Eventually they level out. Finally, out of options, I contented myself to wait for that to happen. Eventually it did.
The kind of fall I took has a technical name. It is called a "yard sale." Everything you own is spread out on the side of the mountain: skis, poles, hat, camera, gloves. A yard sale is a skier's greatest embarrassment. I wondered what Will thought of his father at that moment. I decided it would be best not to ask him. Later his mother did. He said he was worried that he would be next. However, Will managed the traverse without any difficulty.
That night after dinner with our amici americanos and after the effects of the vino rosa wore off, I settled in for a contented, well-deserved, and hard-earned night's rest. I would sleep well. When I crawled into bed, I noticed I couldn't lie on my right side, my rib cage would not support my weight. I knew immediately that I had broken a rib. Another rib. It was a familiar occurrence to me. I had broken many ribs before my cancer, multiple myeloma, was diagnosed. At that time, broken ribs were so alien to my experience I couldn't comprehend what was happening to me. Now they were so familiar I know immediately what the sensation meant, I had broken yet another rib. For a few minutes, I wondered if this rib fracture were a tell tale sign of a return of the cancer. No, I decided. I had a good enough explanation for this fracture. It was a souvenir of my most memorable fall on Mont Blanc. I had earned this one. Cancer was a thing of the past. There is life after cancer. Mountain adventures would be as much a part of my future as they were of my history.
I rolled over onto my left side and drifted into a thoroughly contented sleep, dreaming of the sound of helicopters, putting anxieties to rest.
Life is a daring adventure
or nothing. —Helen Keller