He hated resorts without trees. Couldn’t stand Europe. Apart from the fact that the Europeans were gloomy, bad-tempered bastards who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire, they skied big, white, naked hills that made Mike agoraphobic. He loved the trees, but he loved to ski in them. He didn’t much like walking through them. It was tough going in there, with branches whipping him on the legs and face as he plodded through their constantly changing corridors. He kept a line about twenty feet in, parallel to the trail, from where he would at least see a point of entry if the kid had crashed. He knew Betty and Lachlan would just poke a head into the trees on the other side of the trail looking for signs of disturbed snow and leave it at that. It was Mike’s instinct that told him he might find the boy here. The fall-line made it more likely he would have slid or tumbled this way. It was that instinct that made him walk rather than ski, as unnatural a choice of locomotion to a patroller as swimming might be to a buzzard.

It was that instinct that also made him hesitate when he saw the ski sticking up in the snow between a gap in the trees. Mike stopped and looked for a second. It had to be the kid. He saw the pink flash of the Rossignol ski he remembered from this morning. This year’s model. A hundred and ninety centimetres, if he knew his stuff. Too long for the kid. They always thought long skis made them look like experts. Sad. Only skiing like an expert makes you look like an expert. Skis that are ten centimetres too long only make you look like a jerk with long skis. Yes, he remembered that ski. It was going to be bad. If the kid had been lying here for that length of time he would most probably be dead or dying from the cold, whatever his injuries. But somehow, Mike Watts didn’t want to rush forward, pull out his first aid kit and get to it. His instinct told him something was even more wrong than a skier lying injured deep in the trees. He pressed ‘talk’ and spoke to anyone who would listen.

‘Mike here. I’m in the trees about half a mile down Beaver black diamond. Looks like I found him. Not quite there yet, but it looks bad. Over.’

A crackle of static, and Mike was still standing, not moving.

‘Read you Mike. Do what you can. Blood wagon’s on its way.’