Timing is everything
"Are you with this crew?” The red jacket of the ski patroller was about 50 feet above me, just above the X-crossed skis that are the universal sign for trouble. Often just a broken leg or arm, but sometimes much worse. In this case, the X was marking the spot of a panting, panicked skier who was laying on his back, staring up into the sky and talking rapidly, adrenaline fueled by the fact that about 20 minutes ago he almost died from suffocation, head far below his feet in the trap known as a “tree well.” “Yeah. My son is the one who found this guy.” “Well … your son saved his life.” The guy was still clearly processing what had just happened, and was still rambling away about how he had taught skiing in Europe, about how he had just watched a video about avalanche safety, and about how he and my son should exchange phone numbers and stay in touch. He knew that this skinny 19-year old had been the difference for him, and told him so repeatedly about how that last cry for help was
