On August 29, 2001, I was working my last shift at Gem Mountain Sapphire Mine in Philipsburg, Montana. I was 19 years old and about to start my freshman year of college. That day, I was assigned to the "fee dig" site on the mountain—a location where customers could dig their own dirt, concentrate it down, and search for sapphires.

The setup consisted of a large trench, created by a backhoe, where customers dug into either side. Over time, the trench walls had become unstable, growing taller and forming an overhang. By that point, the wall stood about 10 feet high.

I was sitting just outside the trench on the dirt when I suddenly heard a crack. Instinctively, I thought, Get my hands to my face for an air pocket. I turned to my right, away from the wall—just as it collapsed on me.

About four tons of dirt came crashing down. I was completely buried. Everything went black.

I found myself outside my body, surrounded by the black universe. Here, time did not exist. My body did not exist. It was just me and the universe, having a conversation. It was a place that felt familiar to me. I knew I had a choice: I could die, or I could choose to live. I told the universe, I’m not done yet—there are things I need to do. I specifically said, "I haven’t been a judge yet."

The moment I said those words, I was back in my body. I could hear the customers calling my name, desperately trying to find me. Though it felt like I had been gone for a long time, in reality I had been buried for about 1.5 to 2 minutes.

I tried to spit dirt out of my mouth. A customer saw the dirt move and found my head. As they dug me out, I already knew everything that was wrong with me—every injury, every internal bleed—but I also knew, without a doubt, that I was going to survive. It's an interesting thing—to be breathing, yet not breathing, when your lungs have both burst.

It took 2.5 hours to reach the hospital. I was transported by a volunteer ambulance, then upgraded to an emergency life-support ambulance, and finally flown via Life Flight to Missoula, MT. About ten minutes before landing at the hospital, I asked the flight nurse how much longer. Holding on was becoming harder. When we finally landed, I felt the sun and the fresh air on my body.  As I was wheeled into the elevator, surrounded by white coats, I let myself pass out—knowing I had made it.

I never lost consciousness at the scene, even though both of my lungs had burst, my kidney and spleen had bled out, and I required four units of blood and emergency chest tubes. I had multiple fractures and injuries: C7 & T1 fractures at the spinous process, left clavicle fracture, third and fourth left ribs broken, multiple vertebrae fractures in my mid-back, four pelvic fractures, including a split left S.I. joint, extensive damage to my left thigh muscle, right knee trauma, and broken teeth.

Yet, somehow, despite everything, I never needed surgery. I was stabilized in Montana and the next day I was flown to Harbor View Medical Center in Seattle, WA. They told my parents I’d be there for 4-6 weeks. I spent 11 days at Harborview and flew back to Montana on September 10, 2001. I began healing so quickly that my team of rehab doctors said I would be out in about 2 weeks. So, I started taking one class and re-enrolled in my freshman year at the University of Montana. I had a neck brace, my left arm in a sling, my right leg in a full brace, and I was in a wheelchair. It was a great way to be a freshman! (haha)

I walked in six weeks. I skied four months later.

According to medical textbooks, I have a 23% impairment to my whole body—but you'd never know it. I've never had nightmares or flashbacks about the accident. Instead, the experience remains crystal clear, and I often revisit it to reconnect with the universe.

In that moment, when I chose to come back, I made a revised contract with the universe: If I return, I must have a body that allows me to do the things I love in nature. If I can’t, I won’t come back. And from the second I was back in my body, I knew I would be okay.