Four years ago, March 4, 2006, my life ended. Right here in this valley, enjoying the bejesus out of the signature sport many of us came here to pursue, I got pulled up short on I-80, and everything changed in an instant. Every single thing about the way I lived, loved, laughed, breathed, worked and otherwise acted out my existence stopped, and it’s never coming back.

Nearly a month ago, as my dubious anniversary date approached, another little drama played out among a small group of us, right back here in this beautiful place. It was my first foray back into the mountains I love, and I don't believe I'd have had the strength, resilience or redemption of spirit to do it any sooner.  It was a just little tiny trip into the hills, but a big milestone in what I hope will be a continual unfolding of possibilities. I’m posting this as a way of saying thanks to Ketchum and to all the people who helped me make the circle.

Recently visiting with one of two coworkers who’d skied several runs with me that morning on Baldy, we recalled the fun we were having right up until things went black. Shaking his head, with sadness in his voice, he repeated softly, "You didn't do anything wrong." I'd known that was true, but hearing it directly from the person who'd been right behind me was soothing nonetheless.

 Friends, family, colleagues, loved ones had rallied around me immediately.  This town is famous for that.  If such a tragedy were going to occur, I couldn't have been living and working in a better place.  A benefit was staged, which has since provided me the means not only to survive the wreckage, but to thrive in as many ways as my handlers and I have been able to conceive to chase recovery and improvement. That won't last forever, but it has been a lifeline that has produced immeasurable results by enabling me to pursue therapies and meet adversity in relative security—for now.

 All my life, I placed a high priority on self-reliance, hard work, physical strength, independence and the vigorous pursuit of playtime, on my terms and according to my whims. Assigning importance to these values served me well--right up until the time I no longer had them at my disposal...at least, not in any way to which I was accustomed.  I am almost completely dependent upon other people for every single thing I want to do from the time I open my eyes in the morning to the time I close them at night.  This is a horror beyond imagining for people of my ilk.  And yet, despite stupidly confounding obstacles and relentlessly tiresome, discouraging realities for which I was completely unprepared, here I am—also surrounded by grace, loyalty, enthusiasm and intersecting rings of goodwill. Disabilties are isolating, and I often feel forlorn and alone. But the moment I push myself out of the encroaching circle of despair, I find a ready band of angels (and, more winningly, devils) who will prop me up, open doors or give me a well-timed shove, standing by while I stumble and eventually work out some keys to living with (and moving beyond) my stunning impairments.

Ruth Williamson, a friend from Bend with Sun Valley ties, had skied into the Pioneer yurt with me a month and a half prior to my accident. She'd been waiting to return to the backcountry together ever since. Unbeknownst to us at that time, we shared another common thread: her younger brother Jack had been a college beau of mine. Ruth recruited Jack and another mutual friend, local acupuncturist Joan Scheingraber, to plan a winter yurt trip. Joan contacted Francie St. Onge of Sun Valley Trekking to reserve a couple nights at the Tornak hut. Francie and Joe enthusiastically supported our proposed venture, and generously donated the two nights. (Thus tracing another intersecting circle: Tornak was the first hut I skied into many winters ago--for an avy class instructed by Joe St. Onge.)  Everyone in town I spoke to about the impending trip voiced excitement, offering suggestions or assistance—another trait for which this place is famously beloved.

 After months of thought and deliberation, weeks of planning and days of packing, I rolled into town with my two hired guns--my primary caregivers Jeanie and Cassie--and proceeded to get psyched up. I worried about the emotional sledgehammer of coming face-to-face with Ketchum in full winter-nordic-alpine-tele swing--this was my first return to prime time. It wasn’t easy, but the demons weren't as potent as I'd feared. I attribute this to an adequate passage of time, the greatness of my friends, and plain old plodding hard work. Thank heaven for evolution (that’s a pun by the way). Many lessons have accrued from this ordeal, but no belief has been more deeply reinforced than the absolute adaptability of humans with a will to live and a little imagination.

 The trials and tribulations of this trip--the engineering, transportation, safety & comfort problems solved, the debrief of what worked and didn't, the wishlist for next time, the psychological roller coaster, the challenges met--these details are all compelling, given time and the proper context for truly appreciating them. But the nut of the story is love, met with determination, compassion and willingness. Love of magical places, bonds among mates, an unspoken allegiance to the power of these elements combined, and the willingness of individuals to put aside all other agendas but the success of a small, but profound, endeavour. As J.K.Rowling said in her address to Harvard’s graduating class of 2008, “We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.” Thank you to everyone who helped us pull it off, and everyone who’s been pulling for me since that other significant snowy day in March. I feel you!

Teresa Hukari is grateful. Sustaining life-threatening and life-altering injuries as a result of catching an edge and spinning into a tree, she emerged a C4 quadriplegic, paralyzed from her shoulders down. It’s hard to avoid clichés without using more words to get at the enormity of the thing. Life, with its aggravations and blessings, goes on. She’s working at imagining better.