Written by: Elizabeth Long (BMI Backcountry Skiing Participant April 2025)
Made for the Mountains
When I was about 11 years old, my family from the humid lakeshores of eastern Michigan to the dry, jagged peaks of southwest Colorado. The town was called Telluride, nestled in the heart of the San Juan Mountains. Surrounded by dramatic summits blended with the red rock cliffs from the lowlands, a chord was struck—one that told me, unmistakably: I am home.
Since then, I’ve snowboarded, skied, climbed, camped, and hiked thousands of days in the mountains. I proudly served on the San Miguel County Search and Rescue team, where I completed multiple avalanche safety and rope rescue courses. But there was a time when I couldn’t do any of it. A back injury I had ignored for too long caught up to me, developing into a debilitating spinal injury. For nearly a year, I could barely walk, let alone do anything I loved in the mountains.
After months of working tirelessly with different physical therapists, the mountains called me back. Once I was able to click into skis again—something I thought would be impossible—I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Every turn, no matter the pitch or snow condition, was a gift. Just being in the mountains was a gift.
Clear Vision
A few years after that injury, I noticed a change in my skiing. I wasn’t comfortable skiing fast, constantly misjudged terrain, and often had near-misses with other skiers at the resort. I felt sloppy and scared. Skiing ultimately became stressful and unenjoyable, and even on the biggest powder days, I found myself opting out. In January 2024, during a short afternoon at the resort, I narrowly missed colliding with a ski patroller I couldn’t see or hear. That was the breaking point. I shut it down.
In June 2024, I was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa as part of Usher Syndrome. In simple terms, my field of vision had narrowed to about 25 degrees and would continue to close in. Finally, it all made sense.
That clarity set my mind back to the snow. I stopped wondering if I could ski again and started asking how. That October, I contacted the Telluride Adaptive Ski Program. By late December, I was out again—this time with guides—ripping high alpine chutes, couloirs, and trees on the resort. It was a revelation: I can ski. I just can’t see.
Re-opening the Backcountry Gates
In January 2025, I came across a Facebook post in a group called Vision Loss Travel Community stating there was one more slot available on Braille Mountain Initiative’s annual backcountry ski trip. I was intrigued. Just days earlier, I had been wondering how I could get into the backcountry again. And here was an invitation right in front of me. I reached out to Braille Mountain Initiative, and the journey to the Selkirk Mountains began.
The trip sounded incredible, yet I hesitated. Between my spinal injury, hearing loss, and severe dietary restrictions, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep up or even participate. Was I blind enough? But I was also stoked for this opportunity, and the more I spoke with the team—particularly after a long chat with a past participant—I decided to commit. With no expectations, I was ready to put skins on and re-enter the backcountry as a visually impaired skier.
Setting the Tone
On the second day of the trip, we toured out to a run on Escargot Glacier. As we crested the slope, Tyson turned to me and said, “We’re skiing this one together, first.” Of course, I was in. But I was nervous. Looking downhill, all I could see was a glowing blur of white. Just before we dropped in, Tyson asked, “Can you see?” I answered, “Nope.” He responded with motivation, “Neither can I. Let’s go!”
Together we skied soft, glorious, untouched snow—no one ahead of us, fresh tracks the whole way down.
Until that moment, I thought I’d never ski fresh tracks again—I assumed the fate of intersecting my guide’s line as I followed them down. But here, on this slope, the tone was set: freedom in the hills. Skiing in the backcountry, without limits—that’s why I’m here.
Throughout the week, I learned how to use an avalanche transceiver without vision, how to rescue, read the snowpack and ski by feel, and communicate clearly with my team. I discovered that, even with limited sight and hearing, I was capable. I was an asset. A valid team member.
On the fifth day, as we skied down through epic terrain on Nordic Glacier—each of us with varying degrees of vision and all absolutely crushing it—it was then I felt like a skier again.
Endless Gratitude
Someone on the skin track said, “It took the right person to become blind to make this happen.”
Thank you, Tyson, for having the drive to continue living your passion to ski freely in the backcountry, and to dedicate your time to share that experience with other blind skiers.
I have endless thanks and gratitude: To the guides for your calm leadership, clear communication, and glorious skin tracks. To the group for your kindness, care, laughter, and camaraderie. To Sorcerer Lodge for hosting us all. And to the Selkirk Mountains for simply being there.
This trip was truly life-changing.
