As the moon begins to make its nightly debut, a thick shower of snow begins to dump from the sky. He comes across an enormous tree resting on its side. He takes his snowboard and begins to desperately scrape out the heavy powder that stands between them. With his board propped above his head, his curly red locks peeking out from beneath his beanie, and packed snow on either side, he burrows up next to the fallen timber. His teeth chatter behind his purple lips, his body shakes uncontrollably, and he is now twice as cold as before. He has no other choice but to leave his stalky friend behind and continue on into the wet darkness.

It is a perfect, yet very cold day for riding at the Sierra-at-Tahoe resort in the winter of 2003. Ryan Stack and some of his buddies enjoy an extensive day of shredding in and out of the freshly made powder. It is around 3:30 p.m., and the boys hop on a lift to the West Bowl for their final run to wrap up the day. As the boys glide down the mountain they cut left, dodging trees within their path. Stack continues on straight, unable to cut back right, descending further away from the trail. He finds himself alone. Tired and out of it, he decides to make headway until he is forced to unstrap his board as he enters rocky terrain. He's determined to simply follow his tracks back up hill. Until of course, the heavens open up softly, covering his tracks with a shower of tiny, white flakes.

"I couldn't turn around because I didn't know where the fuck I was going. So I'm sweating, at the same time I'm freezing, at the same time I'm scared for my life," says Stack.

He's lost all concept of time, though it has been hours. Despite being bundled tight in layers, he treads in the snow knee deep and soaking wet, repeatedly telling himself to awaken from this nightmare. Carrying one hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight while staring out into the hazy blackness, he sees someone pop his head out from behind a tree. Stack yells out to the mysterious silhouette, though he hears no response. He is hallucinating. Then voices begin to taunt and tease the disoriented eighteen-year-old. He is convinced that nobody knows he's lost.

"At first we thought he did something stupid like hitched a ride home with some chick. And then it started to get dark, and we realized it was bad," says friend Dylan Jones.
Since the winter of 2003, Stack is one of approximately thirty-seven skiers and snowboarders reported lost in the Sierra Mountains called in by the Tahoe Nordic Search and Rescue Team. In most cases, the victims survived.

Hours have passed. Stack comes across an abundance of summer cabins, though he finds breaking in impossible. But in the distance a prayer is answered. Who'd have thought an outhouse could be such a blessing? For about twenty minutes he uses all of his strength and finally breaks into it. He sits curled up in a ball, unable to extend his legs, and with his hands wrapped around his body inside of his jacket. He rests inside of the tiny shack, zoning in and out of consciousness only to be reminded of this harsh reality over and over again.

The rescuers that found Stack, Steve Twomey and Jim Rienstra, were patrolling on skis, while five other members of the TNSR searched abroad the new team snowcat. Besides thinking it was only 7 p.m., and that the rescuers were his friend Josh, Stack was okay. Though it was a traumatic experience, fear of another mishap has not stopped this avid snowboarder from taking on the slopes whenever the opportunity arises.

It's 3:30 a.m.--twelve hours since his disappearance. As he sits slumped over awaiting his fate, he is suddenly startled by something in the distance. He quickly jumps up and kicks open the door. As he looks out into the agonizing twilight, he is reassured that what he has heard this time is in fact real--the delicate shrill of a whistle.