Mika Seifert

Avalanche

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2025: VOL. 40.

WINNER OF THE 2025 FOLIO FICTION PRIZE

When I turned thirty, I sold my place on the lake and moved to the mountains. To the Upper Engadine, that is, still the swiftest, surest way to Everness. 

My friends and acquaintances were incredulous, my parents crestfallen.

“Is it because of L?” my mother asked, and turning to my father: “I told you he was still hung up on her. Things ended badly.”

“I’m not hung up,” I said. “And things ended okay. This has nothing, absolutely nothing at all to do with L. Leave her out of it.”

Her mien told me she was unconvinced. My father said nothing, only mulled it over and I knew I’d be hearing his piece the next time we saw each other. And so it was, about a week later, that he aired his own misgivings. 

“You don’t like it here?” he asked, bitterly. “What, America isn’t good enough for you? We have mountains.”

“We do,” I said, “and I like it just fine. It’s just that the Swiss are better at it. More effective. In fact, it doesn’t even compare.”

“Nonsense,” my father said. “That’s nonsense. What are you talking about, the Swiss. They couldn’t carry our water.”

“Dad, they have a 94% rate of transmogrification. I’m telling you, those guys are aces. If you’re going to do it, Sils Maria is the way to go.”

“Sils Maria,” my father said, turning the words over. Sils Maria, the place that was going to take his son away from him, his only child. 

“What about Sugarloaf?” he asked. 

“Dad,” I said.

Sugarloaf wasn’t ten miles away from their place. Their rate was 14%. Another 22% went to Neverness, an unbelievable number. The rest were so frightened by the conditions, the bush-league setup, rackety seats, ill-trained personnel, that they fled before the snow ever reached them. Buckled off and just ran for it. 

“Sugarloaf is amateur hour,” I said. Which he knew, of course.

“But it’s right here,” he said. “You could stay with us. Spend a few days, some quality time. Your Mom could make meat loaf.”

“Last meal?” I asked.

“Don’t call it that. It could be nice.”

“It could,” I said. “But I can’t. It’s Sils Maria or nothing.”

“How about nothing then? Give it a few more years. What’s so bad? Where did we fail you?”

“Dad,” I said.

“Really, lay it on. Just lay it on. What did we do?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Must be something though.”

“No.”

“You feel you’re in a rut,” he said. “I get it. Don’t you think we’ve all been there? How’s letting the Swiss flatten you into a cheese gonna help?”

It was a non-starter, of course. I was more than willing to debate the particulars, the how and where and why, with anybody who knew his way around the issue. For my father, however, Everness meant nothing. 

“Rut has nothing to do with it,” I said, suddenly tired.

He tried several more times, of course. My mother did, too, and I knew where they were coming from. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it. It was okay, it was alright. Would I have acted differently, in their place, if it was my child? I don’t think so. And so I humored them, while plowing ahead with my plans for Sils Maria.

My friends tried a different tack, trying to tempt me into staying the course, showing me all the things a life in Soule Mill had to offer, as if I didn’t know. I was invited to many a showing of Boogie Nights. Pizza never tasted better than in those couple of months. My buddy Ramon ordered me a hooker, which he equated with the good life.

Unlike my parents, however, my friends knew a losing game when they saw one, and about a week before I was set to leave they came around, or at least pretended to. They were there when my plane left. My parents were not, hoping until the last moment to paint me a sinnerman, that a bad conscience might make me reconsider.

It didn’t.

Zurich was a city besieged by snow when I arrived. Exiting the terminal, I breathed deeply of the crystal-clear air – only a foretaste, I imagined, of what awaited me in the Engadine. I could have taken a connecting flight directly to Sils Maria which has a tiny airport catering mostly to the Evernessians. Instead, I opted for the train, wishing to have a closer look at the country that was able to perform such miracles, and though in the end I had to switch trains twice, at the Landquart and St. Moritz stations, it was well worth the hassle. I was traveling lightly, too, with nothing more than the tiniest of bags and a book – more a leaflet, really -  to weigh me down. 

“Grüezi Gott,” the concierge at the Hotel Waldhaus greeted me effervescently, and I responded in kind in my mangled Schwyzerdütsch.  

Surrounded by trees and mountains, overlooking the Silsersee, the Hotel Waldhaus looked like the palace of a snow king. Sils Maria itself was located between two great lakes, the Silsersee and the Silvaplanersee, and it was hard to miss the perfect symbolism of the arrangement. Two lakes, two opposing sides. Everness and Neverness, each fishing for souls. Two mountains, too, and as it happened, two platforms, one at the foot of each mountain, Piz Polaschin and Piz Corvatsch. I had chosen the latter, mostly on a whim. Rating-wise, both were in the same ballpark, neither with an obvious advantage, and so I had gone for the nicer sounding of the two. Polaschin, for me, had a distinctly Russian sound to it, producing an uneasy feeling in me that had nothing to do with any reservations in general about that country or its people, and everything to do with its crude platforms, beating even Sugarloaf in ineptitude – their best, near Perm in the Ural, regularly fell below a 10% average. 

Piz Corvatsch, on the other hand, sounded fresh to my ears, and Swiss. Saying it out loud made me feel good and conjured images of snow-capped peaks and new beginnings. I had always been drawn to words like that, even as a kid. It’s why I could easily appreciate the Swiss way of naming their platforms – not Plattform, mind you, which does exist in German, too, and means the same thing as it does for us. Instead, here, they call it Schanze, which they also use for ski jump. It has a kinetic feel to it. Compare it with our boorish transmogrification platform, so static, mechanical, bogged down. Plattform, in German, by the way, comes from the word platt, meaning flat. It’s really all you need to know. 

Endearing, too, that the Swiss call theirs – in full – an Everness Schanze. What an utterly optimistic choice, success built into the very fabric of the word. Failure, apparently, was not an option for the Swiss. 

The Silenzio, for me, fell on a Monday morning. That too: what a wonderful coinage. Back home, in the United States of A, the identical thing was called Dead Air. Why Dead Air? Is it possible to imagine a greater failure of imagination, of nomenclature, or lack of empathy? The rules were the same, of course, for both the Swiss and the Yankees: a moratorium on words, on speaking, for three days before entering the home stretch.

Since my rendezvous with Piz Corvatsch was set for Thursday morning, I was to keep my trap shut starting Monday. It was as easy as that. Until then, I was free to chat up a storm with the concierge and the other guests at the Hotel Waldhaus. Making free use of it, I had a couple of Tschliener beers every evening, engaging in wonderful chit-chat with both the local folk and those like me who were here on a mission. After a while, it became easy to spot the Evernessians, whatever their nationality – despite their doing their best, a certain trepidation still etched itself onto their features. Very likely I looked the part as well, though I’ve heard it said that this changes during Silenzio, that alarm retreats and skin unwrinkles. It’s this, among other things – this subtle change - that a Sherpa looks for in weeding out the Doubting Thomases, the ones who will still be on the fence when strapped into their seats, and would most likely be headed to Neverness if allowed to proceed. 

As for the Sils Marians, they ran the gamut from taciturn to well-nigh gossipy. 

“Tell me,” I asked of a retired couple clearly belonging to the latter category, “What do you really think of us?”

“Amerikaner?” they asked, amused.

“Evernestler,” I said, using the Swiss term for Evernessian.

“Wir sind einfach so stolz auf euch,” the woman said, squeezing my arm. We’re just so proud of you.

That seemed to be the prevailing sentiment in town, expressed in handshakes, shoulder squeezes and just general affability. If anyone did not agree, at least they didn’t let on about it and never tried to salt our game. A far cry from stateside, where the platforms were always beset by protest rallies and nutcases holding signs, making it so much harder for everyone. 

My Sherpa knocked on my door at eight o’clock sharp, Monday morning. He was in his mid-forties, with the look of an army instructor sans the cold-bloodedness. In fact, his eyes conveyed much warmth, and his gaze managed to combine both gravity and kindliness. 

From now until it was my turn at the Schanze, he would be like my shadow, I knew, tailing me wherever I went. Not because of any suspicion, mind you, but for my own benefit, making sure I was ready, really ready. These Sherpas had trained eyes. They knew what to look for, how to spot two or more minds occupying the same head and heart. 

I was forever wondering, given all their knowledge – what kept the Sherpas tethered to this world? Why weren’t they down there, getting strapped in, awaiting the snow?

We went to the Schanze that day, and the next, spending hours on site. It was a modest affair, not like our very own where it’s like an amphitheater. Even Sugarloaf seats ten thousand spectators, with throne-like recliners for the candidates. 

Here, in Sils Maria, at the foot of Piz Corvatsch, it was just a dozen or so wooden Schemels – chairs without a backrest; simple stools really – equipped with leather seat belts for the Evernessians. Those, like us, wishing to watch the goings-on had to make do with standing space for about thirty or forty, hugging the face of the mountain to either side of the Schanze. It was terribly cold that Monday, with biting gusts. And yet just being there – after years of work, readying myself – I simply felt wonderful, drawing in that crisp Sils Maria air and enjoying the ballooning feeling in my chest and the empty house my head was rapidly becoming. 

The first group of Evernessians came down the trail, numbering ten and walking single file. Not a word was said; it would have carried to our ears like trumpets. The whole thing had something archaic about it. The Sherpas walked to the right of the Evernessians, watching their charges seat themselves and observing every move, any unnecessary fidgeting an immediate red flag. After a subdued, whispered conversation, one man unbuckled himself and was led off the Schanze by his Sherpa who kept his arm around him the whole time. The other nine appeared to brace themselves, sitting rigidly, straight-backed. The Sherpas moved away, taking up position like a royal guard. And we waited, listening to the wind. I looked up the façade of the mountain, expecting to see the snow trembling, itching to come down. I saw nothing. Everything was peaceful. I fell into a swoon, jerking awake when the lead Sherpa called out sharply, “Laui!”, followed by the rest of the Sherpas: “Potz Everness!” And the mountain was on the move, the snow rumbling fearfully down the slope and making the earth reverberate like a freight train barreling down. As far as I could see, none of the candidates so much as twitched or moved a muscle. None fled. None covered their eyes. And less than ten seconds after being set off, the avalanche arrived. It was a big one - no surprise as they would have calculated it in advance, only triggering it when they were a hundred percent sure that it would do. 

The Sherpas let the snow settle, then moved on it rapidly, digging fast, uncovering what lay beneath that blanket of white. We went, too, permitted now. Not just permitted, but requested. It was an important part of the Silenzio, maybe the most important. Seeing for ourselves. 

Ten minutes it took the Sherpas to expose the candidates. Though I had seen pictures, video footage, what have you, the sight stunned me into disbelief. All nine had reached Everness. Their clothes were gone, as well as all internal organs. We were looking at shells, nothing else. The faces were preserved, but the bodies were like silver Christmas baubles, their coating that thin. The Sherpas looked down on their work with something like piety, then each pressed a finger to their transformed charges and watched them pulverize and softly granulate into the snow, leaving behind only a fine powder, silver against the blinding white.

It was a sobering experience, but would it also spell the end of my adventure? I couldn’t be sure one way or another, could not predict how the sights and sounds of that morning would work on me as the day wore on. 

We attended two more avalanches that Monday, and another three on Tuesday. The whole thing never lost its power to daze and confound, and yes, there was fear, too. Of course, there was. Part of me was petrified to the core. Even more so after watching the first candidate go to Neverness on Tuesday afternoon, the sight of which shook me more than anything. I had met him at the Hotel Waldhaus not twenty-four hours earlier, and never would have predicted his fate. A strapping fellow, he exuded confidence, his eyes unwavering. In the end, even the Sherpa missed something, some little stone in the machine. When we were gathered round the avalanche and the Sherpas had finished digging, I looked down on the black, translucent bauble he had become, and a supernatural chill gripped my heart. When he pulverized, it looked like ash, which the Scherpas collected in a little pouch. 

Nothing, then, could have prepared me for the lightness of Tuesday morning, when I woke with an airy feeling as if already my body were someplace else and I was no more than a husk, skin stretched over nothing, like a sail billowing in wind, my head a balloon that contained thoughts and nothing else, nothing of substance. 

My Sherpa must have sensed the change in me, too, his expression one of boundless grace and optimism. His steps were strong, his gestures commanding. If he thought I wasn’t meant for Everness – or not yet – this would have been the time to say so. 

All morning, a curious thing took place, as my head appeared to empty of thoughts – not just worries, but all thoughts, good and bad. It wasn’t exactly light-headedness that I felt, but a strange otherworldly buoyancy, unfamiliar and yet not threatening in the least. In addition, I noticed a tingling sensation in the heart region. Again, not in the heart itself, more like all around it and even outside of my body, though not straying very far. That tingling intensified as the morning wore on, like I was a river and my banks were overflowing. Several times, I came close to laughing out loud, it was that exhilarating. Only once did I wonder if something might be wrong and seriously out of whack. But when I turned to my Sherpa, he just smiled at me and laid a hand on his own chest. It was the briefest of gestures, but I understood. I understood that everything was at it should be, and I grew very calm. 

When we walked out of the Hotel Waldhaus, a horse-drawn carriage caught my eye. It stood across the street, maybe thirty feet away. The horse was beautiful, just incredibly beautiful and strong, and the coachman – a hairy devil of a man – was beating on it with his bare hands. I couldn’t believe it. He was beating and beating on the animal, and from behind me a man came running out of the Hotel Waldhaus, taking giant strides. I didn’t know if he was one of the guests or perhaps a member of the staff. I’d never seen him before. A sprawling mustache took up half his face, sprouting like a weed. He ran straight for the horse and threw his arms around it. Crying, he sank to the ground and must have lost consciousness the same instant – moments later, they were carrying him back to the hotel. His eyes were closed. The coachman stared at us in bafflement. 

It was the last bit of strangeness this world had in store for me, and I couldn’t fathom the meaning of it. In truth, however, I didn’t dwell on it much. An avalanche was coming, and I was going to be there when it rumbled down the mountain for me.  

I saw it all preternaturally clear: the other candidates, their faces, the Sherpas, my seat on the Schanze and how my ass felt on it, the make-up of the sky down to the minutest of details. Before us the Piz Corvatsch and its peaks. What a mountain, I thought. What a place. Sils Maria. “Laui!” the lead Sherpa shouted, somewhere in another world. “Potz Everness!” the others joined him a moment later. The snow was white. It was unbearably white. I never thought to shield my eyes. The mountain rushed down. The air was rent. The center of me glowed, and moved outside. 

Mika Seifert is a writer, concert violinist and broker of rare violin bows. His short stories and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in the Antioch Review, the Cambridge Literary Review, Chicago Review, Image Journal, The London Magazine, The Massachusetts Review, The Missouri Review, The Southern Review, The Threepenny Review, World Literature Today, and elsewhere. He lives in Germany and can be found at www.mikaseifert.com.