WESTERN MAINE
America’s most luxurious hut-to-hut ski route is not in the Rockies. Or the Sierra. It’s in … Maine. Yeah, you read that correctly. The nonprofit Maine Huts and Trails’ () new system of huts—three of 12 are finished—takes backcountry comfort to a new level. I skied the huts last winter, unsure what to expect—visions of lobster-themed decor came to mind. Then I glided on perfectly groomed cross-country trails between state-of-the-art, solar- and hydropowered full-service huts dropped 10 to 12 miles apart in the north woods. (The latest, the Grand Falls Hut, was completed in October.) The “huts” are more like lodges, housing 32 to 42 skiers in bunks and serving meals in a separate dining room. Hutkeepers (there are four at each lodge) shuttled my gear by snowmobile, so I could travel fast and light on cross-country skis, free of my heavy-duty boots and boards; dinner was pesto pasta and blueberry pie. Is this the future of backcountry skiing? Is it even backcountry skiing? Does it matter? I didn’t think so as I flew through the Bigelow Mountain Range and around the bright-white canvas of Flagstaff Lake, fortified by hot showers and pie. $65 per person per night, breakfast and dinner included; $80 for Saturday nights; multi-night packages start at $99.

Hoppy Trails

Santa Rosa, California

Russian River Brewing Co.

Russian River Brewing Co.

You go to Sonoma County just for wine, right? Nope. Santa Rosa, the county seat, has some of the best beer (five award-winning breweries within a 35-mile radius) and mountain biking (some 40 miles of spectacular single- and doubletrack) on the West Coast. Set up base camp at the Hotel La Rose (doubles from $119; ), a few minutes’ walk from downtown, and rent a ride at NorCal Bike Sport ($75 per day; ). Then set out on the 4.5-mile ride to the west side of Annadel State Park. Starting on the Canyon Trail, wind up and over the park on a 20-mile maze of singletrack trails and fire roads (maps are available from NorCal Bike Sport, but getting lost is fun, too). Back in Santa Rosa, quench your thirst with a Pliny the Elder Double IPA at the Russian River Brewing Co. (). For dinner, cruise to Zazu (), which serves veggies grown on the farm next door. January is warm and wet here—which means rich green hills, 50-degree temps, and the occasional downpour (pack Gore-Tex). The trails should be fine unless there’s a huge rainstorm. In that case, head to nearby Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve to hike amid the ferns under the cover of old-growth trees—or just wait out the rain at the Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn & Spa (deep-tissue massage, $179; ).

Cat Trick

Schweitzer Mountain Resort, Idaho

Ripping Schweitzer's South Bowl

Ripping Schweitzer's South Bowl

Propped at 6,400 feet, above Sandpoint and Lake Pend Oreille, this sleeper resort sits on the cusp of Idaho’s maritime weather systems and consistently produces some of the best snow in the country. And because there’s a heavy, stable snowpack, avalanche conditions rarely shut down the fun. This winter’s predicted La Niña cycle should only improve the effect: during the 2007–08 event, 325 inches fell, the most in a century. The best way to experience Schweitzer? Bring a crew: Selkirk Powder Company runs a ten-skier cat operation off the top of the Great Escape quad, offering access to an additional 3,000 acres of everything from novice slopes to old-growth spruce glades to the steep pillow lines that make the Selkirks famous ($350 per person per day or $2,000 total if you fill the cat; ). Off the slopes, grab a beer and garlic fries in Sandpoint, at locals’ favorite Eichardt’s (208-263-4005). Then crash back up the hill at one of the roomy Big Timber condos ($800 per night—that’s $80 a head).

Sun Sports

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Ojo Caliente

Ojo Caliente

When I leave Santa Fe this winter after eight and a half years, I won’t miss the phony feel-good spirituality, the Texans and their passion for driving slow in front of me, or being the only person in town who doesn’t telemark. Here’s what I will miss about the winters here: The clean, crisp air. The open spaces, where you can strap on snowshoes or cross-country skis and wander through aspen glades to above tree line. (Take the two-mile hike from Taos Ski Valley, 90 minutes north of Santa Fe, to your own private yurt, Bull of the Woods; a group of four to six can sleep comfortably for $125 total; .) I’ll miss the views. (The 660-foot-high Rio Grande Gorge Bridge spreads across a plunging canyon on the rim road just north of Taos.) The stress-obliterating feeling of soaking in naturally superheated water as the steam rises around you. (The water at Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs Resort & Spa has a combination of minerals found nowhere else in the world; private pools, $40; ). The spicy, gooey chiles rellenos (Tune-Up Café; ). And the ability to cap off a weekend with world-class comfort. (I’m not a splurger, but I’ll do it again at the two-year-old Encantado Resort & Spa, an Auberge property with an organic restaurant and an amazing spa; casitas from $280; .) For all those things, plus the smell of piñon smoke wafting through town, I’ll be back.

Bone Deep

Andros Island, Bahamas

Andros is the largest of the Bahamian islands—at 2,300 square miles, it’s nearly four times the size of Oahu—but with just 7,600 locals, it’s also the wildest. Off the eastern shore sits the third-largest barrier reef on earth; on the west, world-class bonefishing flats. But here’s the thing: Andros is one of the most accessible islands in the Caribbean. After a three-hour flight from New York (or an hour from Miami) and a 15-minute puddle-jumper from Nassau on Flamingo Air (), your feet will be dangling in blue water. Set up shop at Swain’s Cay Bonefish Resort, a new Bahamian-owned joint on the east coast. It has local fishing guides and kayaks and snorkel gear aplenty (packages from $300 per night for two; ). Book Mangrove Villa 1—you can practically cast for bones from the patio. Then paddle among mangroves, snorkel with bottlenose dolphins on the Andros Barrier Reef, or take a fishing trip on the island’s west side with fourth-generation guide Ralph Moxey. No matter which adventure you choose, dinner is Swain’s Cay’s lobster-grouper-and-conch platter.

Lonesome Valley

Yosemite National Park, California

There are two seasons in Yosemite. One is people season—82 percent of the park’s 3.7 million visitors arrive between April and October, bearing maps and cameras. In November, that changes. Roads through the high country close. Waterfalls slow to a trickle. Low clouds shroud the walls of El Capitan and Half Dome. Traffic is slim on the groomed nordic and snowshoe trails through the famous Mariposa Grove and on the marked ski-touring routes fingering off the 10.5-mile groomed road to Glacier Point (snowshoe, nordic, and telemark rentals available at Badger Pass Ski Area; from $23; ). Reserving one of the 25 beds in the two-story, stone-and-timber Ostrander Ski Hut, set at the foot of a glacial cirque ten cross-country miles from the Badger Pass Ski Area, is never an issue on weekdays (from $32; ). If you’re going on a Friday, when Ostrander fills up, book at the Victorian-style Wawona Hotel, a short drive from the prime Glacier Point Road trailheads (doubles, $218; ), or at the simple Yosemite Lodge at the Falls (doubles from $179; ). From there it’s a 3.5-mile hike (bring good boots or snowshoes) to the top of spectacular Upper Yosemite Falls, where you probably won’t see any people, or a five-minute drive to the classic Ahwahnee Hotel, where the bartender makes a mean “Firefall”—hot chocolate crème with chile powder and tequila.

Outback Oasis

Summer Lake Hot Springs, Oregon

Once you drive east of Bend, you’re in what we Oregonians call the Outback: an immense desert that’s home to a half-dozen mountain ranges, surreal hot springs, towns named after salt flats, and little else. Set up shop at the Ranch House at the Summer Lake Hot Springs, two hours southeast of Bend (doubles, $150; ). By day, explore the surrounding landscape—Fort Rock, a 4,430-foot volcanic formation 70 miles north of the springs, makes for a great day trip. (Bring down: it probably won’t snow, but temps hover near freezing.) Then head for the Cowboy Dinner Tree, a woodstove-heated joint 30 minutes south of the Rock. Your meal options consist of a whole roast chicken or a 30-ounce steak ($24, prix fixe; reservations required; 541-576-2426). By night it’s all about the hot springs—mineral-fed artesian waters that the lodge has captured in a barn-covered pool and private rock tubs. Bring some Oregon pinot. And your favorite travel partner.

Frosty Oddities

'Tis the season for spam carving, ice fishing, and worshipping frozen corpses. Presenting winter's wildest festivals.

Frozen Dead Guy Days
NEDERLAND, COLORADO, MARCH 4–6
In 1989, Norwegian Bredo Morstoel’s body was frozen at a cryonics lab in California, and his sarcophagus ended up propped in the shed of his grandson Trygve Bauge, in the mountain town of Nederland. The city caught wind, a legal battle ensued over the keeping of corpses within city limits, and Morstoel became the strangest of local icons. Now he’s the strangest of party inspirations. Since 2002, hordes of the absurdly costumed have raced coffins, thrown frozen fish, paraded around in hearses, and taken pilgrimages to see Bredo, who’s still on ice in that shed.

Brainerd Jaycees $150,000 Ice Fishing Extravaganza
BRAINERD, MINNESOTA, JANUARY 22
The cannon sounds at noon, and contest fishing officially begins. More than 10,000 people will be huddled around twice as many holes in the ice, trying to land a prize walleye or pike. The top 150 fishermen end up with prizes ranging from new tackle to a new car. Onlookers sample fried cheese nuggets and catch football games in some of the swankier icehouses.

Snowdown
DURANGO, COLORADO, FEBRUARY 2–6
Snowdown is essentially a five-day-long theme party. In the past, Durango has been overrun with pirates, clowns, and flappers. This year it’ll be monsters. Official events—of which there are more than 80—include Spam carving and stuffing as many humans as possible into an outhouse.

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ON FOOT

As the low, rumbling growl reverberated from the bushes, we froze in our tracks, every sense on red alert. The growl—so deep and powerful that it seemed to emanate from the earth itself—wasn't a threat, really, just a reminder. “I am the king of beasts, and I stand at the top of the food chain around here. For now, I choose not to kill you—as long as you don't do anything stupid.”
We'd been tracking the pair of lions on foot in Zimbabwe's Matusadona National Park for almost an hour. And although we caught only occasional obscured glimpses of them—the closest from perhaps 200 feet away—the thrill of the chase and the adrenaline rush of our discreet encounter were something no checklist-toting game-viewers could ever experience from the safety of their minivan.

Quite simply, everything changes when you are on foot, on the animals' turf, playing by their rules. (Of course, we held the ultimate trump card in this game: a .458 Mauser rifle in the hands of Steve Carey, our hunky blond Zimbabwean safari guide. “It'll stop an elephant, “he assured us. “And the one behind him.”) Shortly after the lion encounter, we dialed down the adrenaline meter and lolled silently under an acacia tree for an hour, waiting to see what might walk by. Nothing did, but Steve suddenly jumped up and said, “I heard something. Let's go.” Ten minutes later we came upon an antelope, skin still warm to the touch, its neck crushed by a leopard—another reminder that we were puny interlopers in a land where the beasts still rule.

Our safari was organized by Graeme Lemon Walking Safaris, whose trips can be booked in the U.S. through African Portfolio (800.700.3677; www.africanportfolio.com). Cost is $210-$240 per day, plus $50 for boat transfers to and from Kariba. Accommodations are roomy tents equipped with cots.

By Sailboat

As the 15-strong herd of elephants—bulls, mamas, and babies—stood haunch-deep in the shimmering blue waters of Zimbabwe's Lake Kariba, placidly grazing the lake bottom near the shoreline, our safari vehicle approached to within a few yards. Suddenly, a big bull turned to glare menacingly at us. Did we worry? Naah.

Our safari vehicle, you see, was a 30-foot sailing catamaran. We hovered just off-shore, impervious to any pachydermatous attack save for a good hosing down, which we would have welcomed on that hot afternoon. Our three-boat flotilla of Wharram Tiki 30s—fast, stable, gaff-rigged cats that sleep six in slightly cramped quarters—spent four days cruising the remote 170-mile-long reservoir. Each night we'd pull into protected coves along a shoreline that just might shelter more large mammalslions, rhinos, zebras, buffalo, and hippos—and fewer people than any lake in the world. Although most clients sail the boats themselves, Sail Safaris owner Lance Reynolds commands the flotilla from a lead “mother ship.” Fluctuating water levels and the thickets of Daliesque dead trees make navigation tricky for newcomers, however polished their sailing skills.
Mine were definitely tarnished. Although a veteran windsurfer, I had never sailed a boat. Under Reynolds's tutelage, however, I quickly picked up the basics, and I don't doubt his claim that any weekend dinghy sailor can hand the Tiki 30 with a brief checkout. A staff captain can accompany nonsailors. But for all the fun of sailing, this trip was mainly about the animals. I've already forgotten how to furl the jib, but I'll always remember the look in that bull elephant's face.

Sailing safaris can be booked in the U.S. through African Portfolio at 800.700.3677 or www.africanportfolio.com. For a group of four, a four-day trip costs $1,825, a seven-day trip, $2,730, including meals, national park fees, and taxes.

By Mountain Bike

To become truly intimate with the animals of Africa, you must travel as they do: under your own steam. A mountain-bike safari is a great way to explore the bush, and southern Africa is the most bike-friendly of safari regions. At the Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary and the Mkhaya Game Reserve in Swaziland, a five-hour drive east of Johannesburg, I rented low-tech mountain bikes and rode with local Swazi guide on a network of good dirt trails that ranged from relaxed to technical. From my bike saddle I saw zebra, impala, giraffe, hippo, and the rare black rhino, and rode in the middle of a pack of bounding springboks. Mkhaya's accommodations are comfortable safari tents, while Mlilwane's digs are more rustic—thatched “beehive” huts and cabins.

For more creatures and comforts, head into South Africa. Faw-Mbili Game Lodge in the Thornybush Nature Reserve adjacent to renowned Kruger National Park, is a friendly, luxurious bush lodge that accommodates up to ten guests. You can take a guided walking safari in the morning, a mountain-biking tour midday, and a Land Rover safari after dinner. The terrain here consists of easy, sandy roads, and the wildlife is abundant—I rolled among the “Big Five”: lions, elephant, buffalo, leopards, and rhinos. Which means that the guides pack pistols along side their CamelBaks.
Guided mountain-bike safaris at Mlilwane cost $6.75 per hour (including bike rental), and park lodging is $5 per person per night for camping, $13 per person per night for beehive huts, and $28-$32 per person per night for cottages (including breakfast). Mkhaya accommodates groups of five or more in luxury safaris tents for $87 per person per night, including meals and safaris. Contact Big Game Parks at 011.268.404.4541; www.biggame.co.sz. Kwa-Mbili Lodges charge $113 per person per night, including all meals, bikes and guided safaris (walking, biking, and driving). Contact 011.27.15.793.2773; www.kwambaili.com.

By Canoe

Feather your paddles, sit tight, and slip past the elephants drinking at water's edge. Watch out for cruising crocodiles and the occasional loony hippo launching a high dive into the river from a steep bank while displaying a lethal set of choppers. All part of another leisurely day canoeing an idyllic stretch of the Lower Zambezi River, from Mana Pools National Park in Zimbabwe to Kanyemba on the Mozambique border.

Here in one of the richest wildlife areas of southern Africa, the Zambezi is flat and glassy and broad as a lake, bounded by waterside villages on the Zambian side and by riverine forest thick with mango trees, itala palms, and towering natal mahoganies on the Zimbabwean shore. Watch for kudus and warthogs by day, lions, leopards, and hyenas by night. Narrow, meandering side channels teem with bird life—harons, egrets, hornbills, and ibises.
Local outfitters Ruwesi Canoe Trails, Natureways, Shearwater, and Safari Par Excellence negotiate the hazards on three- to nine-day trips. You can choose your side of the river—Zambia or Zimbabwe—and your style of trip—a “fully serviced” safari (staff go ahead by truck to have tents, hot showers, and dinner ready), or a “participatory” safari (you tote the gear, help prepare meals, and help set up the tents).

The cost ranges from about $400 for a three-day drive-in, participatory trip to $1,200 for a four-day fly-in trip. Book through African Portfolio in the U.S. (800.700.3677; www.africanportfolio.com) or in Harare, Zimbabwe, (011.263.4.481117).

On Horseback

As your horse lopes across the high grassland of Malawi's Nyika Plateau, your approach is likely to flush out a clutch of roan antelope, reedbuck, zebra, or eland. Or head south toward the rocky peaks of Vitinteiza and Mwanda, where klipspringers bound like pogo sticks over stony ground. Much of the great treeless plateau in the country's far north is unlike any other landscape in Africa—bare as the Scottish moors or the rolling grasslands of Montana. It's the site of 3,000-square-kilometer Nyika National Park, Malawi's biggest, where the upland wildlife is staging a comeback after having lost numbers to local poachers and cooking pots.

There are few roads across the plateau and vehicle traffic is restricted in the park, so the best view of Nyika is from the back of one of David Foots' fine thoroughbred or Boerperde horses. Foot can tailor a trip to suit from two to six novices or experienced riders. You'll set out from the chalets of Chelinda Camp, then stop at remote safari camps (walk-in tents, bucket showers) along the North Rumphi and North Rukuru rivers. You'll cover a lot of the landscape on the seven- and ten-day trips, which cost approximately $200 per night per person, including accommodations, meals, horses, and equipment (airfare not included). Call Equitour at 800.545.0019; www.ridingtours.com.
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The backcountry boom has already had deadly consequences: Avalanche fatalities in the United States are rising steeply. From 1950 to 1975, about a half-dozen people died in avalanches each year. In the last five years, however, that average has jumped to 28 avalanche fatalities per year. Since 1985, Colorado has led the nation in avalanche deaths, followed by Alaska, Utah, and Montana. Last winter was among the deadliest avalanche seasons on record. By the end of the season, from November 1998 to June 1999, the avalanche death toll in the U.S. was 32, the highest in 75 years; in Europe, record snowfall created a series of devastating avalanches in the Alps that took the lives of 160 people, a high number even for the most densely populated mountain range in the world. The grim news is that the avalanche death spiral is likely to continue. But the face of its victims is beginning to change. For the last 30 years, backcountry skiers and climbers have dominated the list of avalanche victims, comprising about 80 percent of those killed. (Almost all the victims are males between the ages of 18 and 35.) But over the past three years, a new trend has emerged: 40 percent of avalanche victims have been snowmobilers. According to the International Snowmobile Manufacturers Association, sales of snowmobiles in the United States more than doubled between 1992 and 1997 (from 81,946 to 170,325). “The new snow machines are light, fast, powerful, and can go anywhere a skier can go,” says Bruce Tremper, director of the Utah Avalanche Forecast Center. “Snowmobiles are also a very efficient avalanche-triggering mechanism, so snowmobilers are getting slaughtered like flies.” Disturbingly, just as more people are venturing into the snowy wilds, both on skis and astride powerful engines, the federal government has beat a swift retreat from the front lines of avalanche safety in recent years. In response to budgetary cutbacks during the 1980s, the U.S. Forest Service—which has been the lead federal agency carrying out avalanche research and education efforts since the late 1930s—has withdrawn entirely from doing avalanche research. “The political climate under the Reagan administration was that the government should do as little as possible,” says Doug Abromeit, director and one of the two employees of the Forest Service’s National Avalanche Center in Sun Valley, Idaho. “Avalanche research was a casualty of that thinking.” Since then, avalanche work has been scattered among a hodgepodge of agencies; individual ski patrols assumed the responsibility for safety at ski areas, and state highway departments were forced to start forecasting and controlling avalanche hazards on the roads. The Forest Service shifted its focus to backcountry recreation, providing partial funding to a dozen regional backcountry avalanche forecasting centers; it also oversees the use of military ordnance in avalanche-control programs (like Alta’s) and supports a variety of avalanche education programs. But its commitment has been minimal: Last year the Forest Service spent only $461,000, primarily on the avalanche forecasting centers. Regional avalanche forecasting centers that once relied exclusively on federal funding must now conduct fundraising drives to survive. Sometimes, the money simply runs out. Last April, as thousands of backcountry skiers were flocking to the Rockies, visitors to the Web site for the Colorado Avalanche Information Center, a nonprofit avalanche forecasting and education resource, were greeted with the message, “Sorry to report we have closed for the 1998-99 season. We are broke!!” To make matters worse, snow science research, upon which avalanche forecasters base life-and-death decisions every day, has also been crippled by the federal funding cutbacks. In 1985, the Forest Service’s internationally renowned Snow Science Laboratory, in Fort Collins, Colorado, was permanently shut down. The pursuit of snow science has been picked up by a small number of scientists at various universities, and by one unlikely participant: the U.S. Army.

The cutting edge of snow science can be found in the foothills of the White Mountains on the outskirts of Hanover, New Hampshire, in a large, boxy building with a slate and brick facade. Inside, researchers for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory (CRREL), established in 1961, study a wide range of scientific and engineering problems that occur in frigid climes. They have assessed the avalanche hazard for NATO troops in Bosnia and pioneered techniques to build ice tunnels at the South Pole. In the basement of CRREL headquarters, Sam Colbeck, senior research scientist, scurries through a catacomb of cold lab rooms. A slightly rumpled white-haired physicist dressed in an olive-drab military-issue parka, Colbeck, 59, is a former petroleum engineer who decided to devote himself to the study of frozen water molecules; he earned a Ph.D. in geophysics, with a focus on snow and ice, from the University of Washington in 1970, and has been with CRREL ever since. Nearly everyone in the avalanche business speaks Colbeck’s language: In 1990, he was instrumental in establishing the standard nomenclature now used to assess snow. As Don Bachman, executive director of the American Association of Avalanche Professionals, says, “We’re standing on Sam’s shoulders when we get into studies of snow.” But even Colbeck, an avid skier who occasionally teaches avalanche-awareness courses, says that it is “horrendously difficult” to make the leap from understanding an ice crystal to predicting what a snow slope will do when a person steps onto it. Part of the problem of linking science with praxis is that Colbeck himself recently found that one of the basic assumptions of snow science was wrong. He discovered that the shape of snow crystals, which forecasters rely on to make their hazard assessments, is not the best indicator of the strength of the snowpack. Instead, he says, it is the way that crystals bond to one another that matters. Surprisingly, until Colbeck decided to study bonds under his microscope, no one had ever accurately described the process. Colbeck filled a void: He found that snow crystals bond by way of a distinct “grain boundary groove” that forms an obtuse 145-degree angle, not a smooth surface, as scientists previously had thought. In general terms, Colbeck explains, big, round crystals bond strongly together and are less likely to avalanche, whereas sharp, angular crystals don’t bond well and are therefore more likely to create a weak layer of snow that will fail. While the shape of the crystal will still tell a forecaster something about how the snow is bonding, Colbeck is experimenting with ways for those in the field to look directly at the strength of the bond itself. He admits that his revelation is a small piece in the much larger puzzle of why a snow slope avalanches, but he believes that forecasters examining these bonds under a magnifying lens when they dig their snow pits will gain a more precise grasp of why and when avalanches occur. Dan Howlett, who heard Colbeck present his discovery at the biennial International Snow Science Workshop in Sunriver, Oregon, in 1998, was intrigued by the insights. “That work may help us to understand deep slab instability,” he says, but the pure science does not immediately translate into changes in his tried-and-true avalanche control techniques. Colbeck is changing the way experts think, but he hasn’t yet changed the way they work. The contradiction doesn’t bother Colbeck. “They’re damn good at what they do,” he says, admitting that guides and forecasters, though not always scientifically rigorous, have a good track record of predicting high avalanche hazard. “Do they have accidents? Yeah,” he says. “It’s an incredibly dangerous business. But we take risks. That’s part of the thrill of skiing and climbing. If you take away the element of danger, you’d take away some of the pleasure.” Lately, Colbeck has been worried about how avalanches are changing in response to the way human beings are transforming the environment through pollution and development. “As the high alpine environment changes, the nature of avalanches changes,” he says. He raises the specter that avalanches have become like drug-resistant viruses, mutating to overcome new obstacles that are put in their way. “Pollution,” Colbeck notes, “can destroy vegetation in high alpine environments. If you destroy trees in an alpine environment, you are removing natural avalanche defense mechanisms in potential avalanche starting zones. Then you are creating starting zones where they haven’t existed in modern history.” “We are doing what the Europeans did many years ago, expanding and developing into the mountains,” he says. “As we do more of that, we will have more avalanche deaths.”

The Austrian village of Galtür, population 701, lies at the foot of a long ridge of 10,000-foot peaks. Last winter, abundant snowfall promised the best skiing in years, but it also created a death trap. Shortly after 4 p.m. on February 23, 1999, the quiet of the Alpine valley was interrupted by a loud rumbling. Suddenly, a huge wall of snow burst through the windows of the town’s homes and lodges. Two avalanches had converged to form a 656-foot-high powder blast that hit Galtür at 186 miles per hour. When it was over, the debris pile the avalanche deposited in the center of town was more than 15 feet high. Thirty-one people were killed. Unfortunately, Galtür was not an isolated case. Before the season ended, thousands of avalanches ravaged Europe, bringing the death toll to 160, almost twice the number of fatalities from the year before. The European avalanches of 1999 didn’t just kill people; they inflicted staggering economic losses. The Swiss Federal Institute for Snow and Avalanche Research in Davos, widely recognized as the world’s premier avalanche research center, estimates that avalanches caused $258 million in property damage in Switzerland alone, despite the fact that the country has spent $630 million during the last 50 years to construct 340 miles of avalanche fencing above villages, towns, and roads. Another $438 million went to build avalanche sheds to protect roads and deflection dams to divert snow from villages. In the past five years, the Swiss have erected 80 remote sensing stations high on mountains in avalanche starting zones. These stations continuously transmit weather data that enable avalanche forecasters to predict when and where an avalanche might run. In spite of these preparations, avalanche fatalities in Switzerland and elsewhere in Europe are not decreasing. It’s a numbers game: In addition to the resident population, 120 million visitors per year come through the Alps. “What we can assume is that the increasing settlement pressure is increasing the danger,” notes Karl Kleemayr, a member of Austria’s Institute of Torrent and Avalanche Control. “The more people there are, the higher the risk that something will happen.” In response to the Galtür disaster, a deflection dam has been built above the town, and avalanche fences have been placed higher up on the mountain. The French and the Swiss also reacted to last year’s tragedies. The French repaired and built new avalanche barriers and accelerated previously planned avalanche prevention programs. In Switzerland, 15 new early avalanche warning stations were installed, the height of deflection dams was increased, and the nation’s avalanche warning Internet site was revamped. North America suffered its own avalanche catastrophe during the 1998-99 season. On December 31, 1998, in the remote Inuit village of Kangiqsualujjuaq in northern Quebec, 500 townspeople had gathered in the local school gymnasium for a traditional nightlong New Year’s Eve celebration. The school, located just over a hundred feet from the base of a steep 650-foot hill, was the community’s main gathering place. The weather leading up to New Year’s Eve had been warm, and then there was a heavy snowfall. That night, the wind was blowing at up to 70 mph. At 1:40 a.m. on January 1, a powerful avalanche roared down the side of the hill and collapsed a wall of the gymnasium, burying scores of people. Those who weren’t in the gym rushed to the site and frantically tried to dig out their neighbors and loved ones. “There we all were, in the lit-up gym, but in a couple of meters of snow,” principal Jean Leduc later told the regional Nunatsiaq News. Nine people were killed, and 25 were injured. It was later revealed that building inspectors had expressed concern in a 1995 report to the school board about the area’s vulnerability to avalanches. The report recommended several safety measures. But none of those recommendations was carried out prior to the accident.

Why would anyone choose to build directly in the path of a potential avalanche? “A problem for the developer,” explains Dale Atkins, a forecaster with the Colorado Avalanche Information Center in Boulder, “is that the runout zone of an avalanche path is a very attractive building site. The zone is at or near a valley bottom, there’s easy access, water is often readily available, and it comes with terrific views, since much of the vegetation has been wiped out.” The 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, with 40 skiing events planned at Deer Valley, Park City, Snowbasin, and the Soldier Hollow Ski Area in Wasatch State Park, may be the most audacious initiative yet to tempt fate in avalanche country. Security personnel will have to monitor large areas around each event site. That has Bruce Tremper, director of the Utah Avalanche Forecast Center and avalanche safety coordinator for the Utah 2002 Winter Olympic Games, feeling decidedly nervous. Some of these areas, he says, “are in high avalanche terrain, and very dangerous. It’s extremely difficult to control them.” He says that “security people not only will have to be good as a SWAT team, but they will also have to be good mountaineers.” Avalanche forecasting and control efforts around Salt Lake City are already stretched thin. The Utah Avalanche Forecast Center, among others, is underfunded, Tremper says. The problem with the upcoming 2002 Games, he points out, is that “the Olympics will double the population of Salt Lake City—we will have an extra 1.5 million people here.” And with thousands of security and media people swarming the mountains, he says, “I worry that there will be a notable avalanche accident during the Olympics. The last thing we want is for an avalanche to be the main Olympic news.” That’s just the sort of tragedy it may take to wake up recreationists and developers to the need for greater vigilance—and restraint—in avalanche country. As the avalanche death toll rises, the federal government, for one, is beginning to take more interest in the problem. Last December, the Forest Service allocated $185,000 in new funds to the National Avalanche Center for the year 2000 (in addition to agreeing to maintain the $461,000 to partially fund the regional avalanche centers this winter). Doug Abromeit hopes the additional money will help the National Avalanche Center’s efforts to pursue larger funding partnerships and expand its forecasting technology. The amount won’t cover all of the center’s needs, but “it’s definitely a start,” he says. While acknowledging that government funding is significantly lower than it was in the early 1980s, Denny Bschor, the director of Recreation, Heritage, and Wilderness Resources for the U.S. Forest Service who also oversees avalanche programs, says, “I wouldn’t say that safety is compromised. People still have to make their own decisions and take responsibility for their own actions, whether they have avalanche forecast centers or not. Avalanche centers are a tool to help them make better decisions.” He believes that the snowmobile, ski, snowboard, and outdoor equipment industries should contribute more support to avalanche safety programs. “We need a lot more help from the partners who have a stake in helping the American public be safer in avalanche country,” he says. Meanwhile, avalanche professionals and scientists know that they are in a race against time as they continue to unravel the mysteries of the ice crystal and increase awareness among backcountry enthusiasts. “People have to get educated,” Dan Howlett says. “That’s the only way to stop the fatalities in the future. But they also have to recognize the difference between education and experience.” Sam Colbeck is philosophical about the challenge. “Can we get people to stop building houses where they shouldn’t, get people to stop going into mountains when the avalanche danger is high? I don’t think so. As we develop as a society, people are going to take these risks. We are going to find that we have more and more of a problem. And usually society doesn’t do anything until after a problem is well established.”ÌýÌý David Goodman is the author of Fault Lines: Journeys into the New South Africa, and two guidebooks to backcountry skiing in New England.

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