LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 29 free myself, but I couldn't generate enough leverage to extract the pole from beneath my weight. Hours had passed since I'd seen another person. I knew my ski tracks would vanish quickly in the summit winds, leaving no breadcrumb trail to my location. This realization only fed my mounting anxiety. But if fortune favors the frightened, panic sometimes brings the gift of adrenaline. I thrashed and twisted, using my free hand to claw snow away from the ski pole. Again and again, I at- tempted to push my body clear, only to move the pole a fraction of an inch before collapsing back down. Five minutes of frantic, Houdini-like contortions fi- nally yielded results. In one desperate burst of energy, I managed to push myself just far enough to wrench the trapped pole free. I began jabbing it frantically toward the opening above, hoping one of my blind strikes would find its mark on my ski binding. After twenty misses and a stream of curses, I heard the "click!" The binding jaws released, freeing my left boot from its ski. With my newly liberated foot, I kicked at the other binding. Another click announced my freedom, and both feet dropped into the hole. I twisted around and clawed my way out of the snowy cavern. Those five minutes stretched like an eternity. My heart was racing. Back on solid ground, I gathered my scattered equipment and fought to steady my nerves. From the depths of my pack, I retrieved a SPOT emergency lo- cator—an older model offering no two-way communi- cation, just a few pre-programmed messages and the dreaded SOS button you pray never to need. Still trapped somewhere in this arboreal minefield, I knew that if I plunged headfirst into another tree well, I at least wanted my family to know where to find me. I pressed a button, sending a generic "I'm ok" message with my GPS coordinates. Within a minute, the satel- lite delivered the text to my brother and parents. They immediately called each other, knowing something was wrong. I had never used the device before. They understood that things were probably far from "ok." I stubbornly, and quite nervously, committed to con- tinuing on and tagged the summit of Iroquois, cross- ing my fingers lightning wouldn't strike twice in a day. When I finally made it back down to the car I vowed that my days of solo ski touring in the High Peaks were over. There was safety in numbers. Doug and I would do this as a team from now on. The ordeal in the trees had reminded me of how fragile life can be, how quick- ly things can go wrong, and how much we rely on the people we trust. That sense of vulnerability would soon become all too real in my personal life. Tracy During the summer of 2019, my wife Tracy began experiencing unusual nosebleeds and chronic head- aches. As summer progressed, these symptoms grew more frequent and intense. We co-owned a wine bar in Kingston, NY, and when she missed several evening shifts—something completely out of character for her— I knew something was not right. Tracy never missed a day. She was never one to complain. One night, after finishing my shift, I came home to find her curled in a fetal position on our bed. Her face bore an expression I'd never seen in our 28 years to- gether: a haunting mix of pain, fear, and tears. "I think I'm dying," she said. The next morning, I drove her to an ENT doctor who discovered a large tumor in the back of her nasal cavity. Within a week, we received the diagnosis: stage IV nasopharyngeal carcinoma, a rare form of head and neck cancer. I find myself wincing now when I hear outdoor enthusiasts use the term "sufferfest." It's a recent personal bias, I admit, and I've used the phrase plenty myself in the past. I understand the sentiment, but there's a stark truth I've come to recognize: we out- door enthusiasts often elect to put ourselves in chal- lenging situations. We choose — with free will — to push our bodies to their limits, to embrace discomfort, to face fear. We make conscious decisions to take calculated risks that feel thrilling, challenging, and potentially life-changing. We are privileged to have the luxury of choosing our suffering in pursuit of personal challeng- es. But now, skiing took a back seat. Instead of driving north to the Adirondacks, I found myself heading south to NYU's Langone Cancer Center in New York City. Tracy would spend nearly 200 days in hospital rooms over the next two years. Above: Jamie Kennard's late wife, Tracy Kennard, in New York City. Photo Credit: Jamie Kennard

• Cover