I was sitting on the chairlift in Courchevel, about 2,000 metres high. I was excited because it was my last ski run of the season. I was calling my friend Rashid and showing him the amazing views.
As the chairlift climbed higher, I started to notice some fog. At first, I joked with Rashid about how hard it would be to see in it. But as I kept going up, the fog grew thicker. The views I had been showing him disappeared. Then, eventually, I could not even see the phone in my hand. It was no longer funny.
All alone, I was unsure what to do. I arrived at the top and quickly knocked on the chairlift operator’s door, eager to find a solution that did not involve skiing down. With snow flying in my face and a language barrier between us, it was hard for us to understand each other. Eventually, I figured out that there was no option but to ski down.
On my first attempt, I went toward the slope but quickly turned back to the operator. I still could not see where I was going. The second time, however, the answer did not change.
Luckily, there was a restaurant at the top of the mountain. Through the fog, I saw four silhouettes leaving. I watched them for a moment. If they were going down, maybe I could follow them. I approached them, praying that they spoke English.
“Hello, are you guys skiing to Courchevel 1850?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes,” they answered.
Hearing them answer in English was a relief. Although the four men were nice enough to let me ski with them, my biggest challenge would be keeping up. As we went down the slopes, I followed them closely until I felt a buzz in my pocket.
Buzz. Buzz.
As I struggled to take out my phone, I fell further behind. When I finally looked at the screen, I saw my mother calling. Ahead of me, the four silhouettes were disappearing into the fog.
This was the hardest moment of the experience. I knew that if I did not answer, my mother would think I was dead. But if I did answer, I could fall behind completely. I needed to stay with the men. I also needed my mother to know I was safe.
I chose to answer to ease her worries. After hiding my fear and letting her know I was fine, I put the phone in my pocket and sped toward the voices. I could no longer rely on seeing the men; I had to follow the sound of them through the fog.
With no visibility, I was terrified. However, I made it back. A few minutes later, we arrived. I felt relieved as I took off my skis. My last run of that season would be one I wouldn’t forget.