Sometimes the highest peaks bring the deepest lows. Drew Petersen recovers after being struck by a boulder on Mount Hood, OR. After some serious bandaging and personal reflection, Petersen summitted a month and a half later. Photos: Zach Halverson MILE 4,831; MAY 10; MOUNT HOOD, OR; 11,250 FEET Crack. That is definitely a rock, I think. It is too late to do any-thing but huddle over. The rock hits me. Hard. MILE 4,910; MAY 10; PORTLAND, OR; 50 FEET Wiping the tears from my face seems pointless. I won’t stop crying anytime soon. I have just received the results from the CT scans and X-rays, taken from all over my body. No breaks. No fractures. No hemorrhaging in my brain. Nothing. I am O.K. I’ll have a scar on my arm, but that is trivial in the grand scheme of things. The nurses, the doctors, the trauma sur-geon—they are all as surprised as I am. I ask Zach to hand me my helmet. I need to see it myself. The gash leaves no doubt in my mind: I would be dead if it weren’t for this. The rock—which we later estimate to have been a 300-pound boulder—had landed directly on top of me, simultaneously striking the back of my head, the middle of my back and my left arm. In the hours after, Zach and I had battled with every ounce of strength to get ourselves off the mountain. The fears of bleeding out on the hillside, having a broken back, and potentially losing my left arm are gone. I am O.K. Today, I am the luckiest human on the planet. MILE 5,752; MAY 14; SALT LAKE CITY, UT; 4,536 FEET I lie on the hardwood floor to relieve the pain in my back, crying. I am alone, but I am alive. I am O.K. I am home, and I drove here under my own power. The solo drive was a good thing, to have a chance to think for myself, even talk to myself. The same road that had held so much wonder and promise a week before was not nearly as appealing or romantic going the other direction. I am lost. I am weak. I feel smaller than I ever have. Atop the American West 075
The Ski Journal Volume Eleven, Issue Two: Page 75
