two
Rhett
"Find it, Aspen. Search."
I watch my German Shepherd's body language change instantly—ears forward, nose working overtime, her whole being focused on the task.
She bounds across the snow, tracking the scent I know is buried beneath three feet of packed powder.
This isn't just training; it's the difference between life and death.
The wind picks up, sending a spray of snow across the ridge where we're working. Darkmore Peak looms above us, indifferent to our presence. The mountain doesn't care about human lives. I learned that lesson the hard way.
Aspen barks sharply—once, twice—then begins digging frantically. Good girl. She's found the training dummy with the scent article buried inside. I click my stopwatch. Four minutes, seventeen seconds. Not her best time, but the wind is making conditions difficult.
"Good girl!" I call, my voice echoing across the empty slope. I pull the training reward from my pocket—a bright orange tug toy —and she bounds over, tail wagging. For her, this is a game. For me, it's duty.
My radio crackles. "Base to Rhett, come in."
I adjust my jacket and grab the radio. "Rhett here. Go ahead, Base."
"Weather station update. Barometric pressure dropping faster than expected. Wind gusts up to forty on the north face."
"Copy that." I squint up at the sky. The clouds have that heavy, gray look that promises more snow. "We're wrapping up training now. Should be back soon."
"Roger that. Oh, and Carlson from the resort called. They've closed the north ridge trails. Readings from the snowpack monitors are in the yellow zone."
"Tell him I'll check the monitors on my way down." I clip the radio back to my belt and whistle for Aspen.
My leg aches as I trudge through the deep snow toward our equipment.
Five years since the accident, and it still protests when a storm is coming.
The titanium and carbon fiber that replaced my left leg below the knee doesn't feel the cold the way flesh and bone did, but the place where man meets machine never quite forgets the trauma.
I kneel to pack up the training gear, adjusting my weight to accommodate the prosthetic.
The morning routine flashes through my mind—the meticulous care of both skin and socket, the specialized liner that prevents chafing, the extra socks I carry for when the fit changes throughout the day.
Little rituals that have become as natural as breathing.
Before the avalanche that took my leg, I'd been reckless. Cocky. The best climber and skier on the SAR team, always the first to volunteer for the most dangerous rescues. I'd thought the mountains respected me because I respected them.
Now I know better. Now I understand that respect means caution, preparation, and sometimes, walking away.
"Come on, girl," I call to Aspen, who's nosing around a patch of trees. "Let's get these readings and head back."
The snowpack monitoring station sits on a ridge overlooking the resort's northernmost boundary.
I pull out my tablet and sync it with the sensors embedded throughout the area.
The data confirms what my instincts already told me—increasing instability, rising temperatures followed by rapid cooling, wind loading on lee slopes. Classic avalanche conditions building.
I tap out a message to the resort and the town's emergency management office, recommending they extend the closure to the entire resort. Better safe than sorry. Better temporary disappointment than permanent loss.
By the time I've finished the readings, the light is fading fast. Darkmore is notorious for its quick sunsets—the high peaks stealing the light long before the official end of day. In the winter, we often joke that the town should be called "Darkmore-than-half-the-damn-day."
The radio chatters with end-of-day reports from the ski patrol and my SAR team members.
Standard procedure—everyone checking in, reporting conditions, confirming they're headed home or to the next assignment.
This team is my family, more so than my parents who still don't understand why I chose to stay in this remote town after the accident.
I'm about to call Aspen to head back when something catches my eye—a flash of movement along the treeline beyond the resort boundary. I pull out my binoculars and scan the area.
Fresh tracks. A single set, cutting across virgin snow toward the northwest face. The exact area where our morning tests showed substantial weak layers in the snowpack.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, adjusting the focus. The tracks are fresh—made within the last thirty minutes. Someone has gone off-piste despite the closed trails, despite the warnings, despite the goddamn obvious signs of danger.
My jaw clenches as anger and anxiety battle for dominance. Another thrill-seeker thinking the rules don't apply to them. Another person who doesn't understand that mountains don't give second chances.
I reach for my radio. "Rhett to Base. We've got a situation."
"Go ahead, Rhett."
"Fresh ski tracks heading into the closed area northwest of Silverback. Single set, recent. Looks like someone went off-boundary right before closing."
A pause, then: "Shit. Do you want backup?"
I hesitate, looking at the darkening sky. Proper protocol would be to call in the team, set up a coordinated search. But that takes time—time this skier might not have if the snowpack decides to give way.
"Negative. Aspen and I will follow the tracks and make contact. Have backup on standby. I'll report in twenty."
"Copy that. Be careful out there. Those readings weren't looking good."
I clip the radio back to my belt and whistle for Aspen. She comes bounding over, already alert to the change in my demeanor.
"Let's go, girl. Someone needs a lesson in mountain safety."
As we move toward the boundary rope, I check my rescue pack: probe, shovel, first aid kit, emergency blanket, extra batteries for the radio and headlamp. The familiar weight settles on my shoulders as I clip into my specialized bindings designed to work with my prosthetic.
The light continues to fade, casting long shadows across the snow. The tracks lead directly into a sheltered bowl—a perfect terrain trap if the snow above decides to slide. Exactly the kind of picturesque spot that lures skiers to their doom.
Five years ago, I would have been furious at the skier's stupidity.
Now, all I feel is a cold dread in my stomach.
I know too well what it feels like when the mountain breaks beneath you.
When the world becomes a churning white hell.
When you realize, in perfect clarity, that nature is completely indifferent to whether you live or die.
As Aspen and I cross the boundary, following those single, arrogant tracks into the gathering darkness, I can only hope we find this fool before the mountain decides their fate.
The last light glints off the western peaks as we push forward. Behind us, the resort lights twinkle like stars fallen to earth. Ahead, only wilderness and the reckless tracks that disappear into the shadows of Darkmore's unforgiving embrace.