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After the news about Antonio's tragedy, on another day in the mountains—a day nearer my Ridgway home with us doing chin-high bumps or floating on waist-high powder through the spindly white aspen
trunks of Telluride—we would have found our way down some safe, groomed cruising runs while cutting gentle S-turns in rough formations, descending methodically to the base area, intent on rushing home to hold
Marilyn's hand. But we were in the middle of the Bugaboos in the Canadian Rockies wilderness on the border between British Columbia and Alberta, only halfway to the rendezvous with the helicopter that was our only
way back to civilization.
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