Allison Entrekin

USA TODAY Go Escape magazine

I have a beacon strapped around my torso. It looks like a Nintendo handset from the ’90s. I’m wearing a backpack containing a shovel and a folding rubber stick.

I am in Silverton, a remote part of the southwest Colorado Mountains, 70 miles from Telluride. I’m about to try heli-skiing for the first time. It is friggin’ cold.

There has been a lot of snow here lately, I’m told. That means after a helicopter leaves me to ski inside 22,000 acres of wilderness, it’s possible the ground will begin to shake and an avalanche will roar down on top of me. If that happens, my beacon is supposed to send a signal to the four others in my heli-ski group (including my husband, Ward, and our guide, Marc), alerting them to where I’m buried.

Everyone else has folding sticks too, which they’ll use to prod the ground until they hit something soft — my body. Then, they’ll grab their shovels and try to dig me out before I, you know, die.

Let me back up and tell you that I am 35 years old with two young children. We live in Atlanta, where our only mountain is a granite monolith that rarely sees natural snow.

I’m an intermediate skier. I rent all my equipment, wear hand-me-down ski clothes and despise moguls. And yes, the folks here in Silverton assure me I can still heli-ski because they’ll take me to moderate terrain.

Avalanche fears aside, I want to try this. In the U.S., heli-skiing is pretty rare: Fewer than 10 companies offer it. Plus, in Silverton, it’s only $179 to add a heli-ski drop to your lift ticket. I’m going.

The helicopter is louder than I’d imagined. The rotor blades look like huge plastic knives spinning above my head as I crawl inside. After the door closes, the chopper begins to levitate.

I look out the window at the normal Silverton slopes with normal lifts carrying normal skiers. For a moment, I wish I were one of them.

But now we’re off, and there’s no turning back. Over the peaks we go, past snowy mountain faces that gleam in the morning sun. There are no people or roads or signs of intelligent life to be seen.

Our pilot and Marc talk into their headsets: They’re deciding where we should land. After a few minutes, they settle on a peak covered in fresh powder. It doesn’t have a single track on it.

The helicopter rests on the peak and Marc opens the door. I duck beneath the still-spinning blades and do as instructed: Get on my knees. Marc hands me my skis and poles, and I curl up on top of them so they aren’t blown away. I stay that way until the helicopter ascends back into the air and flies out of sight.

Suddenly, it’s very quiet. I hover there, eyes closed, until I hear the rest of the group stand and click into their skis. I rise and do the same. Marc says we’re going to take the slope in increments, skiing one at a time to a designated spot and waiting for the whole group to get there before moving on.

He points to a clearing 1,000 yards down and tells Ward to head there first. He doesn’t hesitate. Off he goes, snow up to his calves, literally plowing a trail and making it look easy. When he reaches the clearing, he lets out a little whoop that echoes up to our group. Show-off.

The next person in our group goes, with equal success. Then it’s my turn.

“I’m taking my time,” I inform Marc before I push off. And I do. I weave across the open expanse of snow in wide curves, uneasy with maneuvering in such deep powder. The tips of my skis are pointed way too far inward, a nasty habit of mine when I’m nervous. I start to slow down, and then I begin to sink. In seconds, I face plant.

Thankfully, my skis haven’t come off, and I’m able to slide down the mountain on my rear until I have enough momentum to stand and keep going. I’m matted with snow, but I’m relieved. I got my big fall out of the way. Now I can just enjoy the rest of my experience.

I make it to the clearing, where I dust myself off and look back up at the slope. I have to laugh at the humongous letter “S” I carved into the snow (plus the full-body imprint), interrupting Ward’s perfect number “11.”

We continue on with our journey, one by one, with me always taking it a bit slower and wider than the rest. Still, when it’s time for our helicopter to pick us up, I’m proud of myself. I saw mountains most never see and skied terrain few ever have. I didn’t let my lack of skiing expertise keep me from checking this off my bucket list.

And, best of all: I didn’t have to activate my beacon.