Part 1: The Fall That Changed Everything

A ten-meter drop, a broken spine, and the fight to rise again

I’m lying on the operating table. A mask is placed over my face - first, they let me breathe in oxygen, then some pre-anesthetic drugs that gradually pull me into unconsciousness. The surgeons are preparing to operate on my broken spine.

48 hours earlier.

It was our fourth day riding in Avoriaz. Overnight, fresh snow had fallen, and the morning was sunny, crisp, and windless. A quick breakfast - just a banana with yogurt, a sip of tea - and we were already rushing to the slopes. Nata (my wife), Ars and IG (our friends), and I were among the first riders on the lifts, carving up long, steep fields of untouched powder.

I hadn’t felt this kind of pure joy in a long time - the kind that comes when your board sends up wide, billowing sprays of snow, sometimes engulfing you completely before settling in a glittering cloud behind you. We left our own clean, untouched lines on the mountain, knowing they’d soon disappear beneath the tracks of new riders. But for a while, our lines were the first.

After more than ten long runs, we decided to record some of our rides.

Technically, we were off-piste, but not far from the groomed slopes. There was no need to hike anywhere - deep, untouched powder was right there. The visibility was good, and we knew the terrain well since this was our third time riding this particular section. We were also aware of the cliffs to our left, dropping 30 to 50 meters down. But we stayed in the middle, riding through the deep snow, weaving between untouched patches.

At some point, I spotted a small, pristine mound ahead - perfect for a little jump. I accelerated, passing the others, kicking up waves of powder as I charged toward it.

What happened next - I still don’t know. It’s as if my memory was erased for a split second.

The next thing I remember - I’m flying headfirst, flipping over something solid. A series of brutal impacts hammer my back and helmet like a sledgehammer. I have the sickening sensation of free-falling with no way to stop. Rocks and ice flash before my eyes, and for a moment, I think I’ve fallen into a crevasse, that I’m about to get wedged in some narrow, frozen abyss.

Finally - though my brain registers the fall as endless, in reality, it must have lasted only seconds - I slam into the snow. I land on my back, wedged between two cliffs.

I can’t breathe properly. It’s a mix between a groan and a scream - pain, fear, and the creeping realization that I might not make it out of this.

I know I shouldn’t move, but I check - can I feel my arms and legs? Yes. I can still move them. That’s something. I quickly loosen my helmet and unzip my jacket; I’m gasping for air.

My phone is still in my chest pocket. I pull it out and call Nata.

“I’m fucked,” I tell her.

End of Part 1.

“The Helmet That Saved My Life”

This is what my helmet looked like after the fall. The deep dents and cracks tell the story of the impact my head barely felt. Without this helmet, I wouldn’t be here to share my journey. Always wear protection. It might just save your life.

P.S. I decided to share this story here to document my recovery journey and to keep myself motivated for a fast return to a full and active life - where I’ll be running again, snowboarding, traveling with joy, and appreciating every moment with my family.

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