“Base to patrollers on the hill, we have a report of an incident…”
I pause at the top of Yodeler and bend my ear close to the portable radio in my chest pocket, straining to hear the dispatcher’s report. Knowing I am likely closest, I respond with my name and location before skating across the Morningstar ridge.
I’ve been a patroller for seven years now, though illness and education forced a three year hiatus just after completing my training. It’s my favorite thing in the world, and if I could spend every day skiing, and caring for the mountain, and caring for the people on the mountain, I would. I love the physical, mental, and emotional challenge of patrolling, and the way it keeps me humble and learning.
Pushing hard across the hilltop, my body is busy with the motions of skiing but my mind is focused on the questions my training has taught me to ask. I think about the location and the fastest way to get there. I wonder if I will need a snowmobile to transport the patient to our patrol room. I think about possible injuries. I think about where my backup is and how quickly I can expect a toboggan if I call for one. I think about PPE and the location of gloves in my pocket and pack. I think about my bleeding control kit. I remind myself to radio base when I’ve arrived on scene.
As I approach the scene there are more questions: How many patients do I have? Are they upright or still on the snow? Are they responsive? Is this scene safe? Can skiers and riders see us from above? Do I see any bleeding? What’s the mechanism of injury? Like a detective with only a few seconds at the crime scene, I take in as much as I can before saying “Hi I’m Ansley—can I help you?”
This call was for a simple clavicle fracture—certainly not fun but far from life threatening. A simple sling, swathe and transport were the only things required. But there are stories around our patrol that keep me from complacency. There are thank-you notes pinned to our bulletin board from patients who were badly hurt and are now on the mend partly because of our help. There are plaques with the names of merit star recipients, recognized for their life-saving efforts, each with their own story of courage and competence.
Our patrol has an exceptionally long average length of service at eighteen years, compared to a national average of less than five. In a personally poignant illustration of this longevity, while helping to clean out some old files, I recently discovered the sign-in sheet from the day I was born. It had the weather forecast written across the top (22 degrees, mostly cloudy) and the names of all the patrollers who were working. As I ran my finger down the list I recognized names of people I still patrol with and was moved by the realization that they were out here, doing this amazing thing while I was being born eighty miles away, just a little blob of potential.
When I feel discouraged by a mistake, I am reminded that the patrollers I most admire have, in many cases, been patrolling for longer than I have been alive. And while that brings some relief, it doesn’t cure the angst to catch them as quickly as possible. I am not content to let time do the work for me.
I suspect I am not alone in this feeling, which is why we train, hard. Each of us is striving in our own way to be worthy of this work, which begins in the Candidate year. Twelve weeks of classroom learning, a written and practical test, then another ten weeks of on-hill training followed by yet another practical exam. And that’s just the first aid—toboggan training runs all winter and ends with its own grueling evaluation. And it doesn’t end after that first year. Many in our ranks then pursue their Senior Patroller designation, which requires additional training in first aid, skiing, and toboggan handling.
But shouldn’t we? Shouldn’t we engage our whole selves in the pursuit of becoming as qualified as possible? Caring for someone who is vulnerable and injured is an incredible responsibility, and not one that should come without much effort and devotion. We are not professional rescuers, we are teachers, and engineers, and grocery store employees but if you get hurt on the hill, my friends and I will be there to help.
And before every shift, for just a few moments, I will sit in my car and pray:
“God, make me an able helper for those who need me.”
Because while the hours of training make able-ness possible, I am too aware of my shortcomings to not ask for the providence of God in this work. Even on the simple calls—the wrists and knees and clavicles, I’m praying for the right words of comfort, or the perfect splint that eases pain, or the right advice on where to seek additional care. Training to a high level makes those little acts of kindness easier because executing the basics with excellence is second nature. It seems to me that this is the only way of doing things: show up, train hard, pray humbly, execute diligently. And in all these things, strive to be an able helper for those who need you.
Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.
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I will probably never need your services, since I am not a skier, but as someone in the helping professions, I recognize a camaraderie and solidarity that warms my heart. Dedication to our craft is a hidden expression of love for others that only fellow caregivers, and those closest to us, will ever know. I am, however, eternally grateful that people like you exist. In an often self-centered world, you help me restore hope in and for humanity.