I aligned my vision down the narrow slot of snow between the jagged rocks below my skis. My partner Benj, who had just skied through, was waiting below in the top of the Trifide 1 couloir. The snow at the top was firm, yet grippy, and there was a small patch of freshly wind deposited snow about 10 feet below the straight-line in the top of the couloir where I intended to stop. This was a move I had made countless times before, and I liked the conditions below my feet on this day.

At the end of an exhale, I turned my skis down the fall line and quickly accelerated through the slot. After passing the rocks, I began to pressure my edges to shut down my speed into the couloir, but instead of the balanced arch I expected to find myself in, suddenly I was upside down. I didn’t have time to recognize why I was falling; I was at the mercy of gravity and immense speed.

In the corner of my eye I saw the darkness of the approaching rocks jutting out into my trajectory. I covered my head as best I could. I hadn’t worn a helmet skiing in years and I was helplessly accelerating towards the black gneiss of the jutting sidewalls in the couloir. Passing through them, I felt as though I flew over them, with no twinge of smashing pain. As my velocity increased, I forced my elbows into the hard snow.

Sparring with nature with every ounce of fight I had, I managed to slow myself down to a stop about 500 feet below where I fell. As quickly as it began, it was over. I had stopped the fall in a couloir that has taken many lives in La Grave. I nestled my head into the snow onto the steep slope in front of me, and double checked that my boots were securely placed in the hard snow. Benj came up beside me instantly, with one ski on.

Photo Credit: Sarah Grangeon

With only one functioning ski, and quickly elevating chest pains, a safe exit from high mountain terrain was no longer an option. He called for a rescue. As we waited for the helicopter, Benji described how he saw my downhill ski fly from my foot as I began my turn into the couloir. The toe piece of my tech binding broke mid-turn.

Gear failure is part of the risk we accept as skiers—and though it’s unlikely, the risk exists. Bindings are certified through ISO for DIN release, but there is no certification on production standards for the materials in your binding. Plastic breaks. Metal shears. This is even more likely if we heavily use and abuse our gear.

But my toe piece that broke was brand new, on its fourth outing, and on a new ski with a 108mm width. So what happened? We don’t know. I sent the pieces back into the manufacturer, and they were unable to determine what caused the failure. Failures of tech bindings exist across all brands. I’ve seen failures of toe and heel pieces, some with enormous forces and others gentle failures. We trust this gear with our lives though, so how do we know what’s safe?

Ultimately, this accident woke me up to two very important things: 1) Tech bindings are designed to go up hill very well, but I had been pushing their limits on the descent, and 2) I should wear a helmet.

My previous rational of not wearing a helmet was because I wanted to hear the subtleties of the mountain and my clients, and because I had previously seen someone choked by their helmet in an avalanche—but that’s another story. With helmet technology advancing and ear pieces that allow you to hear clearly, my excuses are no longer viable. Switching back to wearing a helmet was an easy choice after this accident, and I feel a bit silly for how long I skied without one.

Photo Credit: Ptor Spricenieks

Beyond that, the more shocking discovery was my overconfidence in tech bindings.

Since my accident, for skiing and guiding in La Grave, I use the Cast Touring binding, a plate system that allows you to downhill ski with a proper downhill binding combined with the ability to switch over to a tech toe piece for climbing uphill.

Like any piece of gear, it’s not perfect: it’s heavy; you have to carry the uphill toe pieces in your pack; it only works with the LOOK Pivot 18 which is overkill for most of us; and the transition is slightly slower than a traditional tech binding. However, these downsides did not outweigh the peace of mind I gained of having a real binding in extreme terrain. In my opinion, this is one of the best freeride bindings on the market.

While I continue to ski on tech bindings as well, I am much more thoughtful now about where and when I use them, as well as which ski I put the binding on.

My advice to you is to do a thorough inspection of all your bindings and boots, and take even better care of your lighter-weight equipment. Be thoughtful of when and where you ski certain set-ups.

• Consider the fragility of tech bindings and where and how often you ski them. If you are mainly downhill skiing, it’s most likely not an appropriate set-up for the abuse you are going to give it.
• Keep track of any major falls and inspect the equipment afterwards for any damage.
• Take care of your lightweight equipment. Don’t throw your touring skis into your roof box and let them bounce around during your drive home, for example.
• Check your boots, bindings, and DIN, and those of your friends and/or clients before you go out. Make sure the boots and bindings are compatible. After my accident, I started checking DINs on the first day with clients, and it was amazing how many were way too low, or even different on each ski.

I am very lucky that I did not lose my life the day I broke a tech binding, and that I only broke a rib and not my skull. No matter how in control you think you are in the mountains, there are many situations in which we have zero say. The mountains tend to win. But one thing we do have control over is our equipment. Make sure you trust what’s below your feet before heading into consequential terrain.

Erin Smart is a Seattle native and licensed IFMGA Mountain Guide based in La Grave, France. She has been mountain guiding since 2010, and is also a freelance writer for several outdoor magazines.