For those in the Northern Hemisphere, January is a month of a high anticipation. We have a rough idea of where winter will take us, hopeful for powder and productivity. Six months ago, my bags were packed and I was ready for my annual pilgrimage into the unknown of chasing storms and working on our film, FREE. Between Wyatt Stasinos, Cory Stasinos and myself, we had enough gear to last for several months of living the good life. Our itinerary was yet to be written, but expectations for another legendary winter were high.

While I was waiting for the brothers at our rendezvous point in Salt Lake City, my path began to stray into an unforeseen direction. I enjoyed a few glory days out in Wasatch, but I felt like something was off balance. I was way too exhausted after riding to the point of lethargy. One afternoon I hitch hiked from Foothill Drive to the gates of Grizzly Gulch to catch a few solo pow surf laps. I had only hiked up for 20 minutes and I collapsed. Light headed, out of breath and achy, I had to retreat back to the road to catch a ride down canyon. From there on out, I slowly became increasingly sick. With perseverance and certainty that my bug would pass, we carried on with our plans to head north and drove to Jackson Hole.

It began manifesting as severe flu-like symptoms, then I was soon misdiagnosed with pneumonia. I was down for the count. For about a week I was bed-ridden on the couch at Rob Kingwill’s house in Victor, WY while the guys would head out to ride in the Tetons. There was nothing to do but wait for the antibiotics to work their magic, but I began to realize the medicine was having no effect whatsoever. Minuscule tasks such as peeling a clementine and filling up my water bottle became a battle. I felt worthless.

In the passing days my conditions worsened and chest pain finally forced me to the hospital. A cat-scan revealed a grape fruit-sized abscess in my liver, pushing against my diaphragm, thus making it difficult to breathe. With a tone of seriousness and urgency, the doctor told me that they weren’t capable of treating an illness of this magnitude and I needed to get to a hospital with a prominent infectious disease unit. Within a few hours I was strapped down to a hospital bed in a medivac jet and flying to the University Hospital back in Salt Lake. The severity of the situation was made clear at this point.

Drains on the right side of my back forced me lay at an angle for a few weeks.

During my stay in SLC, there were several teams of doctors working around the clock to determine the cause and nature of my illness. For weeks on end nurses would come to take blood and check my vitals all throughout the day and at all hours of the night. Nearly a dozen scans and procedures were performed on my liver, brain, heart, teeth and lungs to figure out the origin of the what they believed to be a streptococcus infection. The registering nurses asked if I had a living will. A total of six drains were placed into my liver to relieve the 13cm abscess of the poison that was inside me. It was then when I truly learned what a 10 on the pain scale feels like.

The doctors found fluid in my lungs which required yet another drain. During the draining process it created a small pneumothorax (puncture) in the upper portion of my lung. I was under a conscious sedation when my oxygen levels dropped well below functioning levels. Imagine getting the wind knocked out of you, but you are on a surgeon’s table paralyzed by the equipment strapped to your back. I tried to yell over the beeping of the monitors, “I can’t breathe.” No one could hear me. I reached out for help again but my scream came out less than a whisper. “I’m going to die right now,” I thought to myself. It seemed like en eternity before the doctors rushed over with an oxygen mask, although in reality it was probably only a few seconds.

For the first two weeks I was so weak that I could hardly stand up. My white blood cell count was half of what it should be. When I could muster the energy to get up, going to the bathroom required a walker. Sponge baths were a regular occurrence. I lost twenty pounds and my skin was a jaundice color which caught me off guard each time I saw my reflection.

Without the support from my family and friends, I would not have pulled through this ordeal as well as I did. My parents stayed by my side the entire time in the hospital, sleeping on a small and surely uncomfortable pull out couch. Friends would come by for dinner with home cooked meals and gifts to pass the time. The whole Spedelli’s crew came through, giving me a much needed break from shitty daytime television. One day Jack Mitrani and Danny Davis took me outside in a wheelchair; it was my first time outside in weeks. There were even a few people who were treating me with reiki healing from halfway around the globe. I am so deeply grateful for the collective positive energy which no doubt helped me heal much faster than originally anticipated.

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Grateful for frendly visits.

After a long month in Salt Lake I was finally released and traveled back east to my folks house for rehab. Two drains remained in my liver and a PICC line for heavy duty antibiotics. I wasn’t expected to feel back to normal until mid-summer. It began as a slow healing process which gave me time for reflection and lessons in patience. Cardio workouts consisted of walking the stairs a couple times. You need to be able to hold straw before you can hold iron.

As quickly as the whole nightmare begun, I seemed to regain my strength equally as fast. I was on a gradual but solid regimen of eating organic, bikram yoga and the gym. It’s unbelievable what the human body can endure and overcome. I hold a tremendous amount of admiration for any and all fallen peers who have beat the odds and have made or are currently making a recovery: Jim Harris, Andy Johnson, Kevin Pearce, Dan Davis, Luke Mitrani, Wyatt Stasinos and everyone else who has had an encounter with illness or injury.

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Wasatch praise. Photo: Griffin Siebert

On April 15th, two months earlier than expected, I found myself in the Roaring Fork valley in Colorado to pick up my snowboard gear that was in the Wyatt’s garage. From there the Zephyr train took me westbound back to Salt Lake just in time to catch the tail-end of a 40-inch storm. Those days in the Wasatch were three of the simplest yet rewarding days I have ever experienced on my splitboard. No words can do it justice. Just to be riding again was a gift, the fact that it was powder was surreal.