The Wrath of the Olympic Gods

It sounded like a muffled shot, or as if someone had kicked an elephant-sized plastic bottle somewhere in the dense fog above us. Desperately we turned our touring skis to the nearest ridge. “Run, run, run!” shouted Lazaros, my Greek guide desperately, but it was too late. The avalanche hit us like a collapsing wall and carried us at horrible speed downhill, over rocks and boulders. I tried to do what I have learned many times, to swim on top, to hold a hand in front of my face. No time for fear, just the desperate longing to survive. When the wrathful helterskelter came to a halt, time stopped and there was terrible silence…Continue Reading