The Snow is Quiet, But Never Still
Wasatch Mavens, Atla Ski Resort
Even now, as I crouch over the snow pit we’re digging, my breath fogging the frigid air, I can hear the snow shifting beneath a fragile crust. Much like the part of me I’ve buried under motherhood. My shovel bites into the powder with a satisfying crunch, and I pull away layers, each one different from the last. Some are light and granular, others dense and icy. I glance at the instructor, waiting for her to translate what I’m seeing.
“This one’s our persistent weak layer,” she says, pointing to a thin, penetrable line dividing the pit towards the bottom. “It’s from the storm we had on December 15th—heavy, wet snow followed by cold, clear night skies.” She taps her finger higher making a small indentation. “Then here—this lighter layer is from early January. Cold, dry, granules of snow. Graupel. Doesn’t bond well. A classic setup for instability.” She looks up at us. “See the problem?”
I can feel the others nodding along, their helmets bobbing in agreement, but I wonder if they really see it. Do they understand how this stack of layers could collapse with the slightest shift to create an avalanche? All I see is snow.
I nod too but I’m thinking about my own weak layers. Motherhood, while beautiful, has a way of piling on its own kind of snow, layer after layer, until I forget what lies beneath. I wonder how much weight it would take for me to collapse, too.
Later, we practice partner rescue. I fumble with my beacon—turn it on, adjust the range, follow the signal. It beeps steadily in my hand, a sound that reminds me of the audible heart rate in the operating rooms I used to work in as a nurse. My palms are sweating inside my gloves though the air temperature is 15 degrees Fahrenheit.
Was taking this avalanche course a mistake? I think of my recent mornings spent packing lunches, answering endless questions, soothing scraped knees. The safety of our routine. But safety, as comforting as it is, has a way of dulling the edges of who I am.
My beacon starts to beep louder, faster, and I drop to my knees. I stab the probe into the snow, again and again, searching for the body buried beneath me. It’s not real—it’s a rectangular dummy wrapped in duct tape—but that doesn’t seem to matter to my heart.
I shovel frantically, snow spraying up and out, my breath quick and shallow. My hands ache, snow is heavy if you didn’t know, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop because the silence is unbearable. I don’t stop because I’m supposed to find this dummy fast. Within ten minutes, I think. When the dummy finally appears, a gray shadow in the white, I grab it quickly and raise it high in the sky, like I’ve won some prize. I sit back, chest heaving.
I glance up at my partner who looks relieved. She’s brushing off the snow I must have flung on her, others in the class are laughing at something I didn’t catch. I pull my gloves off and place one palm on my chest, trying to slow the beat of my own heart.
The instructor says something about the time—how long it took me, how that time translates in the real world. I nod, desperately wanting to be a good student.
Later, on the skin track back to our parked car, I lag behind the group. The snow is crusted in places, soft in others, and every turn feels like a gamble. The cold air burns my throat, but it also grounds me, sharpens me. I think about the snow pit again, the layers of change buried beneath our feet. How one shift—barely perceptible—could set it all in motion.
That night, lying awake in the dark, I continue to wonder why I signed up for this course. Me, a stay-at-home mother of two, with little experience in the backcountry.
What am I doing?
I think of the snow, of how its surface hides the risks beneath. I think of myself—how motherhood has been its own kind of avalanche, burying me in love, responsibility, and routine. The chaos I once thrived in—the adrenaline of saving lives, the sharp clarity of fear—has been replaced with quiet, predictable days. And while I wouldn’t trade the life I’ve built, I’ve felt myself growing softer, slower, smaller over these mothering years.
Out here, in the cold and uncertainty, I’m learning to feel alive again—to find the sharp edges of who I am, buried beneath.
I left my career a few years ago—an Army nurse for five, a critical care nurse for fifteen. I couldn’t begin to count the number of lives I saved or the ones I couldn’t. Chaos once filled my days, and while it was exhausting, it also anchored me. In fear, I was forced to confront what’s hidden. Holding life and death so closely in my hands jolted me into the present in a way nothing else does.
Maybe that’s why I’m here, digging through snow, searching for a duct-tape dummy. Maybe I’m not just trying to unearth a body but a part of myself I thought I’d lost.
I didn’t sign up for the backcountry course for the thrill or the chance to ski the freshest powder. I signed up because I wanted to feel alive again—the way fear strips away the noise and forces me to reckon with everything I’ve buried beneath the surface.
The snow is quiet, but it’s never still. Neither am I. Maybe that’s the point.
