Excerpt

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They
rose before dawn and stepped out beneath a moonless sky aswarm with
stars. Their breath made clouds of the chill air and their boots
crunched on the congealed gravel of the motel parking lot. The old
station wagon was the only car there, its roof and hood veneered
with a dim refracting frost. The boy fixed their skis to the roof
while his father stowed their packs then walked around to remove
the newspaper pinned by the wipers to the windshield. It was stiff
with ice and crackled in his hands as he balled it. Before they
climbed into the car they lingered a moment, just stood there
listening to the silence and gazing west at the mountains
silhouetted by stars.

The little town had yet to wake and they drove quietly north along
Main Street, past the courthouse and the gas station and the old
movie theater, through pale pools of light cast by the street
lamps, the car's reflection gliding the darkened windows of the
stores. And the sole witness to their leaving was a grizzled dog
who stood watch at the edge of town, its head lowered, its eyes
ghost-green in the headlights.

It was the last day of March and a vestige of plowed snow lay gray
along the highway's edge. Heading west across the plains the
previous afternoon, there had been a first whisper of green among
the bleached grass. Before sunset they had strolled out from the
motel along a dirt road and heard a meadowlark whistling as if
winter had gone for good.But beyond the rolling ranch land, the
Rocky Mountain Front, a wall of ancient limestone a hundred miles
long, was still encrusted with white and the boy's father said they
would surely still find good spring snow.

A mile north of town they branched left from the highway on a road
that ran twenty more with barely a bend toward the Front. They saw
mule deer and coyote and just as the road turned to gravel a great
pale-winged owl swerved from the cottonwoods and glided low ahead
of them as if piloting the beam of their lights. And all the while
the mountain wall loomed larger, a shadowed, prescient blue, until
it seemed to open itself and they found themselves traveling a
twisting corridor where a creek of snowmelt tumbled through stands
of bare aspen and willow with cliffs of pine and rock the color of
bone rearing a thousand feet on either side.

The road was steeper now and when it became treacherous with
hardpacked snow the boy's father stopped so they could fit the
chains. The air when they got out of the car was icy and windless
and loud with the rush of the creek. They spread the chains on the
snow in front of the rear wheels and his father climbed back into
the driver's seat and inched the car forward until the boy called
for him to stop. While his father knelt to fasten the chains, the
boy stamped his feet and blew on his hands to warm them.

"Look," he said.

His father stood and did so, brushing the snow from his hands.
Framed in the V of the valley walls, though far beyond, the peak of
a vast snow-covered mountain had just been set ablaze by the first
reach of the sun. Even as they watched, the shadow of night began
to drain from its slopes below a deepening band of pink and gold
and white.

They parked the car at the trailhead and they could see from the
untracked snow that no one else had been there. They sat together
beneath the tailgate and put on their boots. The owner of the motel
had made sandwiches for them and they ate one apiece and drank
steaming sweet coffee and watched the shadows around them slowly
fill with light. The first few miles would be steep so they fitted
skins to their skis to give them grip. The boy's father checked the
bindings and that their avalanche transceivers were working and
when he was satisfied that all was in order they shouldered their
packs and stepped into their skis.

"You lead," his father said.

The journey they had planned for that day was a loop of some
fifteen miles. They had made the same trip two years before and
found some of the best skiing either had ever known. The first
three hours were the hardest, a long climb through the forest then
a perilous zigzag up the northeast side of a ridge. But it was
worth it. The ridge's south face was a perfect, treeless shoulder
that dropped in three consecutive slopes into the next drainage. If
all went well, by the time they reached the top, the sun would just
have angled onto it, softening the top half-inch of snow while the
base remained frozen and firm.

These backcountry ski trips had become their yearly ritual and the
boy now looked forward to them as much as he knew his father did.
His snowboarding friends back home in Great Falls thought he was
crazy. If you wanted to ski, they said, why not go someplace where
there's a ski lift? And in truth, on their first trip four years
ago in the Tetons, he feared they were right. To a twelve-year-old
it had seemed like a lot of effort for precious little fun; too
much up and not enough down. At times he had come close to tears.
But he kept a brave face and the following year went again.

His father was away from home on business much of the time and
there weren't many things they ever got to do together, just the
two of them. Sometimes the boy felt they barely knew each other.
Neither of them was much of a talker. But there was something about
traveling together through these wild and remote places that seemed
to bind them closer than words ever could. And little by little he
had come to understand why his father enjoyed the uphill as much as
the down. It was a curious formula of physical and mental energy,
as if the burning of one fueled the other. The endless rhythmic
repetition, sliding one ski past the other, could send you into a
kind of trance. And the thrill andsense of achievement when you
reached that faraway summit and saw a slope of virgin spring snow
reveal itself below could be close to overwhelming.

Perhaps he came to feel this way simply because each year he had
grown stronger. He was taller than his father now and certainly
fitter. And though not yet as wise in his mountaincraft, he had
probably become the better skier. Perhaps that was why today, for
the first time, his father was letting him lead.

For the first hour the trail was darkly walled with lodgepole pine
and Douglas fir as it rose ever higher along the southern side of
the winding canyon. Even though they were still in shadow, the
climb soon had them sweating and when they paused to gather breath
or to drink or to shed another layer of clothing, they could hear
the muted roar of the creek far below. Once they heard the crashing
of some large creature somewhere in the timber above them.

"What do you think that was?" the boy said.

"Deer. Moose, maybe."

"Would the bears be waking up yet?"

His father took a drink from his canteen then wiped his mouth with
the back of his glove. This was prime grizzly country and they both
knew it.

"Guess so. Days have been warm enough this past week."

An hour later they had stepped out of the trees and into the
sunlight and were picking their way across a gully filled with the
crazed debris of an avalanche, jagged lumps of frozen snow and rock
skewered with trees sundered from their roots.

They reached the ridge a little before ten and stood side by side
surveying in silence all that unfolded below and around them,
mountain and forest quilted with snow and the flaxen plains beyond.
The boy felt that if he squinted hard enough he might even defy
science and all the world's horizons and see the backs of their own
two selves, tiny figures on some distant snowy peak.

The shoulder below them looked as good as they had hoped. The sun
was just upon it and it glistened like white velvet strewn with
sequins. They took off their skis and unhitched the skins from
which they carefully brushed the snow before stowing them in their
packs. There was a cold breeze up here and they put on their
jackets then sat on a bench of rock and drank coffee and ate the
last of the sandwiches while a pair of ravens swirled and called
above them against the lazuline sky.

"So what do you think?" his father asked.

"Looks pretty good."

"I'd say this is about as close to heaven as a man can get."

As he spoke one of the ravens banked before them, its shadow
passing across his face. It landed a few yards from them along the
ridge and the boy tossed a crust of bread toward it which made the
bird flutter and lift again, but only for a moment. It resettled
and with a cocked head inspected the crust then the boy then the
crust again. It seemed almost to have summoned the courage to take
it when its mate swooped in and snatched it instead. The first bird
gave a raucous call and lifted off in pursuit and the boy and his
father laughed and watched them tumble and swerve and squawk their
way down into the valley.

As with the climb, the boy led the descent. The snow felt as good
beneath his skis as it had looked. The sun had melted the surface
just enough to give purchase and he quickly found his rhythm. He
spread his arms and opened his chest to the slope below as if he
would embrace it, savoring the blissful swish of each turn. His
father was right. It was as near to heaven as you could get.

At the foot of the first of the three slopes, where the gradient
leveled a little, the boy stopped and looked back to admire his
tracks. His father was already skiing down beside them, carefully
duplicating each curve, keeping close and precisely parallel, until
he arrived alongside and the two of them whooped and slapped each
other's upheld palms.

"Good tracks!"

"Yours are coming along too."

His father laughed and said he would ski the next slope first and
that when he got to the next level he would take some photographs
of the boy's descent. So the boy watched him ski down and waited
for the call and when it came he launched himself into the sunlit
air, giving all he had for the camera.

From where they stood next, at the foot of the second slope, they
could see all the way down into the drainage, where the sun had yet
to seep. They knew from the last time they had skied here that the
creek that ran along the bottom was a series of pools and steep
waterfalls. It had been warmer then and there had been a lot less
snow and, except for some crusted ice at the pool edges, the
running water had been exposed. Now, however, it lay buried beneath
all the heaped snow that had funneled into the creek and all they
could see were contours and ominous striations.

His father looked at his watch then shielded his eyes to peer at
the sun. The boy knew what he was thinking. Half the slope below
them was still in shadow. The air down there would be colder and
the snow not yet transformed. Maybe they should wait awhile.

"Looks a little icy," his father said.

"It'll be okay. But if you're feeling chicken let's wait."

His father looked at him over his sunglasses and smiled.

"Okay, hotshot. Better show me the way then."

He handed the boy the camera.

"Make sure you get some good ones."

"They'll only be as good as your skiing. Wait till I holler."

He put the camera in his jacket pocket and grinned at his father as
he moved off. The snow for the first few hundred feet was still
good. But as he came closer to the rim of the sunlight, he felt the
surface harden. When he turned there was almost no grip and no
swishing sound, only the rasp of ice against the steel edges of his
skis. He stopped where the sun met the shadow and looked up the
slope where his father stood against the sky.

"How is it?" his father called.

"Kind of skiddy. It's okay."

"Wait there. I'm coming."

The boy took off his gloves and pulled the camera from his pocket.
He managed to get a couple of shots with the zoom as his father
skied down toward him. The third picture he took would later show
the exact moment that things began to go wrong.

His father was starting a right turn and as he transferred his
weight the edge of his left ski failed to bite and slipped sharply
downhill. He tried to correct himself but in the process stepped
too hard on his uphill ski and it skidded from under him. His body
lurched, his arms and ski poles scything the air as he tried to
recapture his balance. He was sliding now and had twisted around so
that he was facing up the slope. For a moment he looked almost
comical, as if he were pretending to ski uphill. Then he jerked and
flipped backward and fell with a thump onto his back and at once
began to gather speed.

It briefly occurred to the boy that he might try to block his
father's slide, or at least check or slow it, by skiing into his
path, but even as he thought it, he realized that the impact would
surely knock him over and that he too would be carried down the
slope. In any case, it was already too late. His father was
accelerating so fast there would be no time to reach him. One ski
had already come off and was torpedoing away down the mountain and
now the other one came off and the boy moved quickly and reached
out with a pole, almost losing his balance. He managed to touch the
ski but it was traveling too fast and rocketed past him.

"Stand up!" he yelled. "Try and stand up!"

It was what his father had once called to him when he was falling.
He hadn't managed to stand and neither could his father now. As he
careered past, facedown now and spread-eagled on the ice, his
sunglasses scuttling alongside like an inquisitive crab, he shouted
something but the boy couldn't make it out. The father's ski poles,
one of them badly bent, were still looped to his wrists and trailed
above him, flailing and bouncing on the ice. And still he was
gaining speed.

The boy began to ski down after him. And though he was shaky with
shock and could feel his heart thumping as if it would break loose
from its roots, he knew how vital it was not to fall too. He kept
telling himself to stay calm and tried to summon all the technique
he had ever learned. Trust the downhill ski, even though it slips.
Angulate. Chest away from the mountain, not into it. Finish each
turn. Angulate, angulate! Look ahead, you idiot, not down at the
ice, not down at your skis.

There was no grip at all now, but after a few first tentative turns
he found he could control the slide of his skis and his confidence
began to return. Mesmerized, he watched the dark and diminishing
figure sliding away and down into the shadow of the valley. Just
before he disappeared from view, his father cried out one last
time. And the sound was high-pitched and chilling, like an animal
frightened for its life.

The boy slithered to a halt. He was breathing hard and his legs
were shaking. He knew it was important to remember the exact point
at which his father had vanished, though why he had vanished, he
couldn't yet figure out. Maybe there was some sudden drop you
couldn't see from above. He tried to picture the last time they had
skied the slope but couldn't recall whether the lower part of the
drainage grew steeper or leveled out. And he couldn't help thinking
about what might happen when his father hit the bottom. Would the
snow heaped in the creek bed cushion his fall or would it be frozen
like rock and break every bone in his body? In all his fretting,
the boy had already lost the mental note he had made of precisely
where his father had disappeared. In the shadow below everything
looked the same. Maybe there were some marks on the ice that might
lead him to the place. He took a deep breath and eased himself
forward.

On the very first turn his downhill ski skidded badly and he almost
fell. His knees were like jelly and the rest of him was locked with
tension and it took him some time to trust himself to move again.
Then, a few yards down the slope ahead of him, he saw a dark streak
maybe six inches long on the ice. In a barely controlled side-slip
he made his way toward it.

It was blood. And farther down the slope there was more. There were
scuff marks in the ice too, probably where his father had tried to
kick a grip with the toes of his boots.

Had the boy been able to ski this same slope in good snow, it would
have taken him no more than four or five minutes. But on sheet ice
with legs atremble, all he could manage was a side-slip so tense
and fearful that it took the best part of half an hour. So slow was
his descent that the sun overtook him and he watched the band of
shadow retreat below him and the trail of blood turn vivid on the
pristine snow.

Now, in the glare, he could see that the trail disappeared over a
sudden rim and that there was something lying there. And drawing
closer, he saw his father's sunglasses, perched on the edge of a
last steep section of mountain, as if they had stopped to watch the
climax of the show. The boy stopped and picked them up. One of the
lenses was cracked and an arm was missing. He put them in his
pocket.

The slope below him fell sharply some two hundred feet into the
valley bottom which even as he watched was filling with sunlight.
He peered down, expecting to see the crumpled form of his father.
But there was no sign of him nor sound. Just a dazzling white
silence.

Even the trail of blood and scuffing had vanished. There was a
sudden rushing of air and the pair of ravens swooped low over his
head and down toward the creek, squawking as if they would show him
the way. And as the boy watched their shadows cross the creek he
saw one of his father's skis and a dark hole in the rumpled blanket
of snow.

Five minutes later he was down there. There was a crater, some ten
or twelve feet across, its edges jagged where the frozen snow had
cracked and given way. He wasn't yet close enough to see into
it.

"Dad?"

There was no answer. All he could hear was a faint trickle of water
somewhere below him. Cautiously, he maneuvered his skis sideways,
testing the snow with each small step, expecting that at any moment
it might collapse and swallow him. It seemed firm. Then he
remembered his avalanche transceiver. This was exactly what it was
for, to help you locate someone buried in the snow. He took off his
gloves and unzipped his jacket and pulled the transceiver out and
started fiddling with the knobs. But his hand was shaking and his
head so blurred with panic that he couldn't remember how the damn
thing worked.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"Here! I'm here!"

The boy's heart lurched.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Be careful."

"I saw blood."

"I cut my face. I'm okay. Don't come too near the edge."

But it was too late. There was a deep cracking sound and the boy
felt the snow tilt beneath his skis and in the next instant he was
falling. He caught a brief glimpse of his father's bloodied face
staring up at him as the lip of the crater crumbled and then he saw
nothing but the white of the snow cascading with him.

The next thing he knew, his father was hauling him out of the
wreckage, asking him if he was hurt. At first the boy didn't know
the answer but he said he didn't think so. His father
grinned.

"Good job, son. You just made us a way out."

He nodded and the boy turned and saw what he meant. The collapse
had created a kind of ramp for them to climb. They sat staring at
each other, his father still grinning and dabbing his cheek with a
bloody handkerchief. There was a long gash but it didn't look deep
and the bleeding had almost stopped. The boy shook his head.

"Didn't think I'd find you alive."

"Hope you got that picture."

"Wow, Dad. That was some fall."

The walls of the hole in which they sat were layered with shelves
of bluish-white ice, which their two falls had shattered. It was
like being in the cross section of some giant frosted wasp nest.
The floor felt firm and when the boy brushed away the snow he saw
they were on solid ice. His skis had come off when he fell and lay
partly buried in the snow. He stood and gathered them up. His
father slowly stood too, wincing a little as he did so. The sun was
just creeping in on them.

"I guess we ought to have a look for my skis," he said.

His pack was lying on the ice just next to where the boy had
brushed away the snow. A shaft of sun was angling onto it. The boy
stooped to pick up the pack and as he did so, something caught his
eye, a pale shape in the translucent blue of the ice. His father
saw him hesitate.

"What is it?"

"Look. Down here."

They both kneeled and peered into the ice.

"Jesus," his father said quietly.

It was a human hand. The fingers were splayed, the palm upturned.
The boy's father paused a moment then brushed away a little more
snow until they saw the underside of an arm. They looked at each
other. Then, without a word, they got to work, brushing and
scraping and pushing away the snow, creating a window of ice
through which, with every stroke of their gloves, they could see
more of what lay encased.

Tucked beneath the upper arm, half-concealed by a naked shoulder
and peering shyly up at them with one blank eye, they now could see
a face. From the swirl of hair, captured as if in a photograph, it
looked like a young woman. She lay at an angle, her legs askew and
slanting away into the darker ice below. She was wearing some kind
of crimson top or jacket that was rucked and twisted and seemed to
have torn away from her arm and shoulder. The fabric trailed from
her as if she had been frozen in the act of shedding it. Her flesh
was the color of parchment.

Excerpted from THE DIVIDE © Copyright 2005 by Nicholas
Evans. Reprinted with permission by Signet Book, an imprint of
Penguin Group (USA). All rights reserved.

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