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I Was Rescued From A Snow Coffin

PRIDE AND A POTENTIAL TERRIBLE OUTCOME

Everything in me hated the thought of signaling for rescue. But was pride worth spending 14 hours chest-deep in snow, battling frostbite while the temperature sank to 12 degrees? Or should I just pull out the sat communicator and swallow my pride?

And, oh, the questions that flooded my brain! How much would this rescue cost? Thousands? Tens of thousands? How long before the local Valdez paper ran the story? "Ohio Knucklehead Dumbly Gets Trapped on Valdez Glacier!" I could already see the high-definition photo they'd run with—me, cold, disheveled, and, worst of all, helpless, with the caption, "Amateur Hour on the Ice!"

HOW IT HAPPENED

I won't tell the whole story here because most of it—until I got trapped—is pretty uneventful. The videos and pictures? Spectacular. But here's how it happened: I had two days to kill before meeting a professional local ice climber, August Franzen, to tackle some vertical ice routes—frozen waterfalls along the Richardson Highway (Route 4). So, I decided to make the most of it by exploring and bivouacking on the Valdez Glacier. Nothing too extreme—just a casual 36 hours on a giant, moving river of ice.

I packed everything I'd need to stay safe and warm: a minus 40-degree expedition sleeping bag, layers of Merino wool, Gore-Tex, and down insulation. Wind, cold, blowing ice pellets? Bring it on. I had water, enough calories to feed a sled dog team (cheese, chocolate, jerky), an ice axe, crampons, a headlamp, and, most importantly, a satellite communicator. If something went wrong, I was ready!

Exploring the glacier by day and sleeping under the aurora at night—bucket list material, no question. Check out the video at the bottom of this story. But as perfect as that day and night were, the real story began when it was time to leave.

CUT TO THE END OF THE STORY

Here's the shortest version: The Valdez Glacier sits between two mountain ranges. Getting lost should be impossible—or so I thought. On my hike back across the glacier and frozen lake, I veered about 700 yards off course to the north. (I know that now, but I sure didn't that night.) I was absolutely convinced I was headed the right way. I mean, how do you mess up hiking down a giant mountain hallway straight to your truck?

Well, somehow, I did—and I made it look easy.

The end result? Five hours of battling snow so deep I had to use my arms and armpits just to keep my head above the surface, awkwardly dragging myself forward inches at a time. By 5:00 PM, with the temperature at 17 degrees, I was completely out of energy. Sunset would be at 6:25, and I knew I'd be staring down nearly 14 hours of Alaskan darkness. Exhausted and stuck in what felt like a snow coffin, I had the food and gear to survive the night—but I also had a satellite communicator.

I started reasoning with myself:

It doesn't feel like an emergency right now.

But what about at 3:00 AM, when it's 12 degrees?

Would I rather spend the night in this hole and dig my way out tomorrow?

Would staying stuck here all night make a better story?

Or do I call for rescue now?

I called for rescue. And it turned out to be surprisingly uneventful. Within 30 minutes, a local firefighter on a snowmobile showed up, guided by GPS, pulled me out, and dropped me off at my truck. That was it. No cost. No headlines. He didn't even ask my name. But as he climbed back onto his snow machine, he casually said, "Sir, this happens all the time."

WHAT DID I LEARN?

The whole experience left me with one glaring takeaway: preparation is key, but humility saves lives. I had all the gear I needed to survive a night in the snow. But none of that mattered if my pride kept me from admitting I was stuck. Sometimes, the difference between a good story and a cautionary tale is as simple as swallowing your pride and asking for help.

Preparation gets you far, but it has its limits. It doesn't account for the blind spots we all have—the ones where we convince ourselves that we've got it handled. I mean, I was absolutely certain I was hiking the right way. That certainty, paired with a refusal to admit I was in over my head, could've turned a tough day into something far worse. The truth? Humility is just as much a survival tool as an ice axe or Merino wool.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn't toughing it out—it's recognizing your limits and calling for help. And here's the kicker: once you make that call, you often find out it's not as big a deal as ego makes it out to be. In my case, it was 30 minutes, a snowmachine ride, and one firefighter who shrugged it off with a casual, "This happens all the time." That was it. No drama, no headlines, and no cost to me—just the lesson that sometimes, the wisest move is admitting you can't do it alone.

©2025 Greg McNichols, All rights reserved.
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NOTE: I do not have any videos or pics of being trapped or rescued because I was so exhausted I never considered getting out my phone.