mountain-climber-beats-death-as-avalanche-hits-as-he-hangs-from-ice-cap-on-colorados-the-ribbon
Mountain Climber Beats Death as Avalanche Hits While Hanging from Ice Cap on Colorado’s “The Ribbon”
Let me take you into one of the most terrifying yet life-affirming experiences of my life—a moment that flipped everything I knew about survival, fear, and mental grit. I was hanging off an ice cap on “The Ribbon,” a narrow, treacherous route in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, when I felt it: the deep, thunderous crack of snow giving way above me. An avalanche was coming—fast.
Now, if you’re not familiar with “The Ribbon,” imagine a vertical sheet of ice barely wide enough for one person, with sheer cliffs on either side. It’s iconic among climbers, but also infamous for its danger. That day, I had started early, harness clipped in, ice tools sharp, confidence high. The sky was bluebird clear—typical Colorado deception. I was about two-thirds up when everything changed.
The sound of the avalanche was unlike anything I’d ever heard—deep, roaring, like a freight train made of ice. My adrenaline spiked. Instinct took over. I jammed my pick into the ice with everything I had, locked my crampons into place, and held my breath. There was no time for hesitation. I knew if the snow hit me directly, I’d be gone—swept off the face and into the abyss.
As the avalanche surged, it missed me by what felt like inches—though it could’ve been meters. Snow and debris exploded all around me. My helmet was battered with ice shards. But somehow, miraculously, I stayed anchored. In that frozen, deafening moment, I felt both utterly powerless and hyper-aware. Every sense went into overdrive. I wasn’t thinking about social media, my next climb, or even tomorrow. Just survive.
When the chaos settled, everything went still. Eerily still. That kind of stillness you feel only after nature’s fury has spent itself. My hands were numb. My breathing, ragged. I was dangling by gear I had checked probably ten times before the climb—and I thanked every version of myself for that diligence.
I talk a lot about mindset in climbing. But this wasn’t just about grit. It was about trust—trusting my gear, my training, and my gut. Most of all, it was about respecting the mountain. It doesn’t care how many followers you have or what your PR is. Out there, you’re just another organism in the ecosystem.
I managed to descend slowly after stabilizing myself. Each step was a mental battle. But when I finally reached the base, snow crunching underfoot and tears freezing on my cheeks, I felt reborn. That avalanche didn’t just try to take my life—it gave me a deeper appreciation for it.
If you’re reading this and dreaming of climbing, here’s my advice: prepare like your life depends on it—because it does. Listen to your gut. And never, ever underestimate the wild.
