Seasonal reading—that’s my boring-but-apt term for enriching the mood and meaning of a certain time of year with the addition of a certain text. Each April, I reach for the “Spring” chapter in Walden. Every July, I take a lap in E.B. White’s “Once More to the Lake.” And in November, when the brown ground freezes and the weatherman predicts five months of blizzard, I cozy up on the couch with a mug of chamomile tea and “The Ascending Spiral,” a short, dense essay by the legendary snow scientist Ed LaChappelle.

Lynne Wolfe, editor of The Avalanche Review, which published “The Ascending Spiral” in 2005, calls the essay a seminal work. I got turned on to it a decade ago by my friend Jerry Roberts, a retired avalanche forecaster for the Colorado Department of Transportation and self-described “snow-viewer.” (Seventeenth-century haiku poet Matsuo Basho: “Come, let’s go / snow-viewing / till we’re buried.”) Roberts and LaChappelle were colleagues and pals. They worked together in the San Juan Mountains in the 1970s and shared a bottle of pisco a mere week before LaChapelle suffered a fatal heart attack at Monarch Pass—skiing, of course—in 2007. “Required reading,” I was told.

LaChappelle framesÌęhis essay as a contribution to the never-ending discussion among snow-viewers, both professionals and hobbyists, regarding how best to “evaluate avalanche hazards, consider human factors, and communicate (or execute) decisions.” There is much practical wisdom in these pages, actionable advice for telemarkers, splitboarders, snowmachiners, alpinists, and gonzo backcountry tobogganists. But the really special thing—the reason I’m drawn to “The Ascending Spiral” each November—is the brief and tantalizing treatment of rheology and the Deborah Number.

The what and the what?

My initial reaction, too.

Rheology is a branch of physics that deals with the deformation and fluidity of matter. For instance, gummy bears—pop a few in the microwave and behold the freaky carnage. Snow is another fine example, defined by LaChappelle as “a granular visco-elastic solid close to its melting point” that subtly, constantly, and complicatedly responds to its environment, fluctuations in temperature and pressure in particular. He asks us to envision a peak in winter. “From the external perspective of a passing observer, snow on a mountainside is just sitting there, apparently dormant. The snow cover, however, is neither static nor dormant, but a positively seething mass of activity.” Learning to see it as such—to see it as dynamic, as lively and perhaps even alive—is the challenge and the fun.

Enter the Deborah Number. Proposed in 1964 by the pioneering rheologist Markus Reiner, the concept (it does not refer to a specific, fixed number) takes its name from a Biblical prophetess who sang of the mountains “flowing before the Lord.” LaChappelle sums it up like this: “In the limited time frame of human perception, the mountains are static and eternal, but for the Lord, whose time frame is infinite, they flow.”

LaChappelle was a Professor of Geophysics and Atmospheric Sciences at the University of Washington and a co-inventor of the modern avalanche transceiver, whereas I flunked Algebra 2, confounded by the damn TI-82 graphing calculator. Nevertheless, this stuff greatly excites me. Per my layman’s understanding, the Deborah Number is an expression of the relationship between time spent observing natural phenomena and perception of flow—high D equals scant time and we »ćŽÇČÔ’t see the flow, low D equals tons of time and we do see the flow. A hastily dug snowpit on an unfamiliar slope (high D) yields “a static view of what actually is an active (‘flowing’) snow cover.” LaChappelle continues: “In other words, stability evaluation has to be anÌęongoing process, the longer the better.” Ideally, it starts on a given avalanche path with the first flakes of winter.

Meticulous and relentless monitoring of this sort is the hallmark of an avalancheÌęforecaster’s job. As Jerry Roberts told me in 2016, during an interview I conducted for the Buddhist magazine Tricycle about the Zen-like aspects of patrolling (meditating on?) the sketchy San Juans and their avalanche-prone high-mountain passes: “You’re afraid to go shopping at the supermarket an hour away because you might miss a wind event. You can’t be absent from your place. You have to be totally present.” I recall him chuckling, shaking his head, seemingly amazed by the stamina and focus of his younger self. “You »ćŽÇČÔ’t think about Christmas or your wife’s birthday. You »ćŽÇČÔ’t go on vacation. A series of storms in ’05 lasted ten days. I got very little sleep.” Chuckle, shake. “From November through May, paying attention is what you do. It’s who you are. There’s no difference between on and off.”

Indeed, for the snow-viewer whose entire existence is devoted to detecting and registering slow-motion transformations occurring at both micro and macro scales, whose sacred daily mantra is lower the D, lower the D, lower the D, lower the D, the on-versus-off question is moot. Case in point: After a career in the field researching glaciers, LaChappelle retired to a remote cabin in McCarthy, Alaska and busied himself tracking—surprise, surprise—the nuanced behavior of his local glaciers.

I’m sporadic and undisciplined when it comes to studying the ever-shifting details and ever-morphing character of Colorado’s Elk Mountains, my home range. Hence my need to sit with “The Ascending Spiral” each November as the thermometer’s mercury plunges and the touring gear beckons from my mudroom’s cobwebby corner. I skin up and float down a couple mildly dangerous peaks most winters—beacon, shovel,Ìęprobe, goofy buddies, and lots of laughs—so in part I read to humble myself: Pay attention, boy, or else! According to the Colorado Avalanche Information Center, one hundred and forty-nine people got caught in slides last ski season and, sadly, two didn’t survive. The or else is exceedingly real.

Ultimately, my enthusiasm for rheology and the Deborah Number is less utilitarian—a means to the end of protecting my vulnerable ass while poorly carving powder 8s—than it is aesthetic and spiritual. I like to poke around the valley floor and gaze at the intricacies of the snowscape. I like to sculpt a drift into a chair, crack a beer, and stare. I like to approach perception as a kind of basic yet mysterious adventure. I like to notice, and notice that I’m noticing, and keep on noticing, and keep on keeping on. So in part I read to be humbled, yes, and in part—in large part—I read to be inspired, encouraged, nudged toward a cool way of inhabiting my place: Pay attention, boy, because lowering your D is a worthy end in itself! An awesome pastime! A beautiful and demanding practice! A raison d’ĂȘtre!

Do I aspire to godliness, an omniscient and infinite vantage? Nah, too grand for my earthly tastes. But looking through those eyes now and then, on occasion, is a huge thrill. Stealing a glimpse of the perpetually changing, fleeting, flowing planet. Feeling that glimpse, at my luckiest moments, as an electric tingle racing the length of my spine.

I felt the tingle recently, following my annual twenty-minute check-in with dear old Professor LaChappelle on the couch. Five or six inches of snow had fallen in the high country the evening prior and I suspected that, unlike the flurries of early autumn, which disappeared quickly from the summits, this coating of white would stick. Or maybe I hoped it would stick, eager for the schuss, the glide, the burn, and the turn.

The essay finished, at least until next year, I drained the dregs of my tea, stepped into the yard at sunset, lifted my binoculars, and scanned the wilderness of ridges and faces and bowls that rises abruptly to the west of town. Conditioned by my quasi-ritualistic re-reading of “The Ascending Spiral,” what I saw had the quality of epiphany. It was “a granular visco-elastic solid close to its melting point.” It was gummy bears in the microwave, a quintillion protean crystals. It was the foundational layer of a new winter’s breathing, pulsing, growling, tail-whipping snowpack—a snowpack guaranteed to spawn the avalanches that Jerry Roberts and other animistic snow-viewers call “dragons.” It was simple and complex, common and strange, mundane and magical.

I pocketed the binos, zoomed out.

What I saw was a paradox, tingle-inducing for sure—the whole world perfectly still, not a bird, not a cloud, not a hint of a breeze, not a single trembling blade of grass, and there on the horizon, washed pink with alpenglow, something deep inside the stillness beginning, secretly, to move.

The post Every Winter, I Read the Same Brilliant Essay About Snow appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

When snow flurries fall on Seeley Lake, Montana, snowmobilers zip into the backcountry for another day of powdery bliss. The town, located 50 miles northeast of Missoula, boasts 400 miles of groomed trails through dense woods and over enchanting meadows, right to the foot of steep, snow-filled chutes.

“Five minutes from the trailhead and you’re on really technical stuff,” Karl Zurmuehlen, 50, a local backcountry guide, told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “That’s what brings a lot of riders to Seeley Lake.”

But this winter, Seeley Lake’s picturesque trails and snow-covered slopes have become ground zero for a crisis gripping America’s small-but-dedicated community of avalanche forecasters.

In December, the made the tough decision to no longer send avalanche experts to Seeley Lake to test the snowpack. The Missoula-based center, which oversees a huge swath of backcountry in the state’s center, also announced that its avalanche forecasts for Seeley Lake would be published only sporadically this winter. The decision comes just four years after a in the area.

“I guess avalanche safety is going to become a word-of-mouth thing at Seeley Lake now,” said Zurmuehlen, who’s business, Kra-Z’s, also rents snowmobiles to visitors.

The avalanche center’s decision to pull back from Seeley Lake is a result of the recent budget and staffing predicament within the National Forest Service. In September, the Forest Service publicly announced for the remainder of 2024 and into 2025. The agency, which manages 193 million acres of American grasslands and forests, also operates or helps fund 14 regional avalanche centers, including the West Central Montana center.

Abandoning one popular backcountry area may seem like a local issue. But forecasters who work within the Forest Service’s avalanche program told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that a larger problem may be looming on the horizon. With the Forest Service’s future left to the whims of national politics, they worry that the agency’s avalanche program may suffer deeper cuts in 2026 and beyond. If that happens, the Forest Service’s avalanche centers will have to abandon more recreation areas like Seeley Lake.

This plight comes as more Americans than ever are venturing into avalanche terrain for outdoor recreation. Participation in backcountry skiing and snowboarding soared during the pandemic. The , a trade group for the skiing industry, reported approximately 4.9 million skiers and snowboarders recreated in the backcountry during the 2023-24 winter. That’s up from just 2 million during the 2017-18 winter.

A sizable portion of these skiers and snowboarders rely on the published by Forest Service centers to assess danger. Within the tight-knit circle of avalanche forecasters, the Forest Service budget cut has sparked a debate over funding and managing avalanche safety in the United States.

“Right now is an inflection point,” said Patrick Black, the executive director of the West Central Montana Avalanche Center (WCMAC). “With so many uncertainties for this winter and winters to come, now is the time to revisit the current model for funding avalanche safety.”

How a Federal Shortfall Impacts Avalanche Forecasting

The bad news broke just a few weeks before the first snowfall blanketed the Rockies. In June, the U.S. House of Representatives from the $8.9 billion the agency requested for the 2024-25 fiscal year. On September 16, which was then released to the public, explaining how the massive agency, which , would address the shortfall.

For 2024 and 2025, the Forest Service would no longer hire part-time seasonal workers, except for wildland firefighting crews, he said. Losing these employees, called “1039” staff in Forest Service parlance, would require the agency to halt a wide range of seasonal duties, from trail maintenance to campsite cleanup.

“We are not going to do everything that is expected of us with fewer people,” Moore said during the conference.

The news sounded alarm bells within the Forest Service’s 14 avalanche centers, which are based in California, Utah, Wyoming, Alaska, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and New Hampshire. Seasonal employees perform critical work during the winter at some of these centers. They venture into backcountry areas early each morning to observe snowfall and dig pits into the snowpack, looking for signs of avalanche danger. They work alongside year-round forecasters to process this information and combine it with weather data. And some of them also write the daily avalanche reports that appear online.

“There was panic,” said Scott Schell, executive director of the Northwest Avalanche Center’s non-profit organization. The NWAC, which is one of the 14 Forest Service centers, forecasts for Washington State and northern Oregon. “Without our seasonal workers we aren’t much of an avalanche center,” Schell added.

Collectively, the NFS avalanche program employs approximately 70 workers; 55 are permanent positions or a designation called “seasonal permanent.” The remaining 15 are seasonal positions. Of the 11 employees at the Northwest Avalanche Center, eight are seasonal workers, Schell said. All eight positions were jeopardized by the hiring freeze.

“Avalanche forecasts aren’t produced by machines,” Schell said. “They’re done by people with high levels of expertise.”

The Forest Service also funds and operates the National Avalanche Center, a collection of snow science experts and avalanche forecasters who train staff and coordinate resources between the 14 regional centers. Simon Trautman, the director of the National Avalanche Center, told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that his office began working on solutions to the staffing crisis shortly after the call. “People do these jobs because they love what they do,” he said. “And because they believe the work ultimately saves lives.”

But in the days after the announcement, a solution seemed nearly impossible to attain. The Forest Service initially told avalanche centers they could not sidestep the staff cut by simply paying the seasonal salaries from their own coffers. The 14 NFS avalanche centers are funded in part by the agency; each center also raises a portion of its operational budget through non-profit donations, sponsorship sales, or from state agencies.

The ratio of private funding to NFS dollars differs for each center. Trautman said funding from sponsorship sales and non-profit organizations, called “friends groups,” account for slightly more than half of the total budget for the 14 centers. The Forest Service, he said, contributes $2.5 million annually to fund the centers.

“We’re essentially a rounding error,” Schell said. “When you consider the impact we have.”

But the Forest Service still manages the centers, which means they are subjected to all agency-wide mandates, including staff cuts. That decision did not sit well within the avalanche program.

“Injuries and fatalities will likely be the result of this cost-saving measure,” Dwayne Meadows, the executive director of the Bridger-Teton Avalanche Center, .

Meadows, Schell, and other avalanche center managers pushed back on the cut. Throughout September and into October, they contacted regional forest managers and asked, then begged, to be exempted from the hiring freeze.

“We are a crucial part of the economy,” Meadows told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “Outdoor recreation is part of what keeps our community going in the winter.”

Pressure mounted from outside the agency as well. In Wyoming, Senators John Barrasso and Cynthia Lummis, both Republicans, asked for the Bridger-Teton center to receive an exemption for its seasonal staff. On October 4, a letter signed by 42 different companies and nonprofits—from the American Mountain Guides Association, to Montana’s Bridger Bowl Ski Area, to Colorado Mountain Club—begged Moore to allow the avalanche centers to remain fully-staffed.

“Forest Service Avalanche Centers provide crucial tools for public safety and it is critical that these centers operate at full capacity this, and every, winter,” the letter said.

The pressure worked. As the first snowfalls hit the high country, regional managers granted exemptions for the avalanche centers, or allowed them to fund seasonal staff through non-profit funds. The Intermountain Region, which oversees Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming, granted exemptions to Bridger-Teton for its two seasonal positions; the Pacific Northwest region, which manages Oregon and Washington State, approved Schell’s request for all eight.

At Montana’s Flathead Avalanche Center, which oversees the area surrounding Glacier National Park, the Northern Region manager approved one 1039 employee and allowed two seasonal-permanent employees to have their contracts extended. Other centers received exemptions, and by November, all 15 seasonal employees were saved.

The success “significantly helped morale,” Trautman said. “Because of leadership support, we are still in the avalanche forecasting business,” he added.

Patrick Black, the executive director of the West Central Montana Avalanche Center, watched as other centers received exemptions throughout September and October. But as the snow began to fall on the mountains outside Missoula, Black learned that his center, which does not employ 1039 workers, would receive a debilitating cut.

“There was a brief moment when it seemed like all of us were going to be safeguarded,” Black told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “We weren’t included. It was painful to hear.”

How Budget Cuts Hurt Avalanche Centers and the Backcountry Users that Rely on Them

If any avalanche group was destined to fall through the cracks, it was the West Central Montana Avalanche Center. Of the 14 centers affiliated with the Forest Service, it is the only one that operates as a true non-profit.

None of the avalanche center’s three full-time staff work for the Forest Service—instead, they report to a board of directors and are paid by a non-profit called The West Central Montana Avalanche Foundation. The center raises $80,000 of its $120,000 annual budget through grants, donations, and sponsorships; the remaining $40,000 comes in via an annual Forest Service payment.

“I’m often envious of the other avalanche centers,” Black said. “Their friends groups and non-profits are on the hook for a much smaller percentage of their operating revenue.”

But the Forest Service support is still crucial: Each winter the agency gives the WCMAC three trucks to drive to and from forecasting areas, plus snowmobile use, and gas cards to cover fuel costs.

In late October, Black received the bad news from the regional forest supervisor. The Forest Service would not renew its $40,000 annual contract with the center, or provide vehicles or gas.

“It doesn’t sound like a ton of money, but to a small non-profit, losing that was devastating,” Black said. “To think we could squeeze any more out of our equation was unrealistic.”

He called a meeting with the center’s board members to come up with an operations plan amid the cuts. The center would need to rent vehicles for the six-month season, and cover the cost of fuel for hundreds of miles of weekly driving. Those added costs, plus the loss in $40,000, would require a reduction in head count, from three full-time forecasters to one full-time and one part-time.

The reduction in staff would also impact the center’s area of forecasting. Avalanche forecasters could no longer travel deep into the backcountry to dig pits or test the snowpack. Instead, they’d need to focus on the most popular trailheads near ski areas and towns.

“We’re prioritizing areas that are popular with the non-motorized community, like backcountry skiers and snowshoers,” Black said. “The areas where the motorized community goes are too far out.”

And finally, Black made the difficult decision to dramatically reduce the number of published avalanche forecasts in all areas. Prior to 2024, the West Central Avalanche Center published daily forecasts on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. For the 2024-25 season, employees will write reports for Saturdays and Sundays only.

“Folks will not know until Saturday morning what we’ve been seeing in the field,” Black said. “Honestly, I hate to even say this out loud.”

Is it Time to Abandon the Forest Service Model?

In May, Forest Service chief Randy Moore on natural resources and energy to discuss his $8.9 billion budget request for the 2024-25 fiscal year. One by one, Republican and Democratic senators admonished Moore for the agency’s shortcomings in everything from wildfire prevention to timber sales.

“There’s broad agreement on this committee that the Forest Service is not meeting the challenge it confronts,” Barrasso of said. “The Forest Service must change course.”

Statements like this continue to cause consternation amongst Forest Service avalanche employees. Amid the change in presidential administration and a shift in power in Congress, there’s considerable doubt that the agency will receive the future funding it requires to function at its current size and scope. Meanwhile, the Forest Service’s annual spend on wildfire prevention and mitigation, , is likely to continue to rise.

Avalanche professionals worry that the agency’s solution to the 2024 staff cuts are temporary, and that additional cuts are likely to occur in the coming years.

“If I’m being honest, I’m not confident that the Forest Service is going to figure this one out,” Black said. “If we’re going to chart a course for seasons to come, it makes sense to invite new groups to the table to fund these programs.”

Even Trautman, who worked long hours in September and October to save the seasonal employees, worries that the current solution may not last forever. “There are significant unknowns around how we accomplish mission-critical summer work, or if we can hire seasonal and turnover positions for next fall,” he said.

Different funding models do exist within America’s avalanche centers. In addition to the 14 Forest Service avalanche centers, eight regional centers are operated by separate non-profits. The Colorado Avalanche Information Center, the country’s largest avalanche program, receives most of its funding from the state’s Department of Natural Resources, with additional funds coming from private donations, local governments, and the federal government.

The other avalanche center managers who spoke to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű for this story said that the current crisis has made them consider—and even study—funding models that do not involve the Forest Service.

“There’s so much more the avalanche program could do if our current structure pointed us toward stability,” Schell said. “The amount of hours we spend worrying about funding alone could be put toward creating better forecasts.”

As Black and his board directors sought solutions to the West Central Montana Avalanche Center’s budget crisis, he crunched the numbers to see how it could exist without Forest Service funding or involvement. Like other avalanche centers WCMAC sells memberships to backcountry users that grant them access to events and teachings.

If half of the center’s 2,500 newsletter subscribers became paying members, the revenue would offset the lost Forest Service funds, Black said. Ramping up the center’s sponsorship sales could also boost its budget.

Black said that, if given more time for fundraising, the WCMAC could survive on its own.

“It feels like we’re a year ahead of the other centers in having these discussions,” Black said.

Consequences of Forging a New Path

Everyone interviewed for the story admitted that divorcing the 14 avalanche centers from the Forest Service would have consequences. The agency provides liability insurance and legal support to the centers, which help protect them from lawsuits.

“If someone tries to sue the Forest Service they’re not going to get very far,” Meadows said. “If they sued our foundation with our non-profit insurance, they’d kill us.”

Jayne Nolan, the executive director of the non-profit American Avalanche Association, an industry group for avalanche professionals, said that the Forest Service model provides greater stability for staff, like health insurance and paid vacation time. Nolan believes that the Forest Service has an obligation to continue managing the centers.

“Nearly 95 percent of all avalanche fatalities occur on Forest Service land,” Nolan said. “It’s the job of the Forest Service to reduce these numbers, even as backcountry skiing, snowboarding, and snowmobiling skyrockets.”

Bruce Tremper, who oversaw the Utah Avalanche Center from 1986 until his retirement in 2015 and wrote the seminal avalanche safety textbook, Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain, says alignment with the Forest Service also gives avalanche centers clout with the general public. “If you’re part of the Forest Service then you have authority and legitimacy that people take seriously,” Tremper said. “It’s not just another non-profit springing up.” That authority makes backcountry users more inclined to pay attention to its warnings, he said.

Tremper said he endured multiple budget cuts, government shutdowns, and staffing shortages during his 29 years with the Utah Avalanche Center. Learning to exist amid the agency’s dysfunction is simply part of the job, he said.

“It took me a long time to figure out the rules and regulations of how to work in a government agency,” he said. “It’s like a big aircraft carrier and it’s hard to change direction when you’re in it.”

But Schell worries that this mindset has stifled innovation, and prevented avalanche centers from discovering better models for funding and management. The Northwest Avalanche Center will celebrate its 50th anniversary in 2025. And despite the center’s growth in fundraising and its advancements in snow science and avalanche prediction, the program is still vulnerable to shifts in the Forest Service’s budget and management structure.

“We’ve bootstrapped these centers for 40 or 50 years,” Schell said. “At what point can we have a durable and sustainable program?”

Schell told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that the NWAC would continue to “lean into” the Forest Service relationship for 2025 and beyond. Rather than pursue non-profit status or state-run structure, he said the center would instead ask the agency to consider a different operational model for the centers. At the moment, all 14 avalanche centers exist within the Forest Service’s arcane management structure of regional forests and ranger districts. A center’s budget and staff size are decided by regional, and not national, managers.

“We need to find the right people inside the Forest Service to make the whole avalanche program stand on its own,” he said.

Black echoed Schell’s sentiment. In mid-December, the WCMAC began talks with the Forest Service for a smaller contract, one that included access to vehicles. But the uncertainty, Black said, still gave him considerable anxiety about the future.

“The whole thing frightens me,” he said.

Whether or not the lack of avalanche reports affects Seeley Lake’s snowmobilers this winter is yet to be seen. After a few early season storms in November, the lake saw sunshine in December, and the trails at lower elevations were mostly bare in the weeks before Christmas. But Zermeuhlen was confident that business would soon be booming.

“We’ll be inundated,” he said. “Hundreds of people heading out every weekend.”

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Updated May 10: Andrew Cameron, 23, from Utah, and Austin Mallet, 32, from Montana, have been identified as the victims in the May 9 avalanche on Lone Peak in Utah’s Little Cottonwood Canyon. The third person, whose identity remains undisclosed, was rescued by search and rescue teams and a helicopter. He was taken to a nearby hospital and released on the same day.

_______________

May 9: Officials have confirmed two people died in the May 9 avalanche near Lone Peak in Utah’s Little Cottonwood Canyon. A third person was transported off the mountain and taken to a local hospital for assessment. Recovery efforts have been suspended for the day and will resume in the morning.

The north-facing region of Lone Peak, where the avalanche occurred, is known for its steep and unforgiving terrain, posing a higher risk of avalanche activity. More than two feet of new snow fell in the region this week, bringing the season total at nearby Snowbird to just over 600 inches. The National Weather Service predicted strong winds throughout Thursday, with gusts over 60 mph.

The Utah Avalanche Center stopped issuing regular advisories in mid-April, transitioning to intermittent reports of any activity. On May 1, the UAC issued its final product of the season for the Salt Lake Area mountains, reminding skiers of the three different avalanche problems typically encountered during spring: wet snow, new snow instability, and wind-drifted snow.

Ìę Ìę Ìę ÌęRelated reading:

Greg Gagne, an eight-year forecaster for the Utah Avalanche Center, highlighted the challenges of forecasting during spring, urging individuals to monitor changing conditions themselves. “This time of year, it’s really difficult to get an accurate report,” said Gagne. “What you say at 7 a.m. could be wrong at 7:30. In the spring, warm and cold air are mixing in the atmosphere. It’s so volatile.”

Gagne noted the recent weather fluctuations, which exemplify the unpredictable nature of spring conditions. “On Saturday, we had warm, sunny temps, and it began to snow on Sunday,” he said. “This past week was more like January than May.”

He emphasized the heightened avalanche danger in the high-alpine areas of the central Wasatch, particularly in steep, unforgiving terrain. Despite elevated danger earlier in the winter, the overall danger returned to typical levels in the last 6-8 weeks. While there were reported avalanche incidents throughout the season, including several requiring rescue, as of May 1, there had been no avalanche fatalities in Utah.

This story is ongoing and will be updated as new information becomes available.

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Everything was going according to plan for Trevor Carlson on the north side of Quandary Peak, Colorado, until a group of riders dropped in above Carlson and his group of friends on Sunday, April 21, kicking off an avalanche that buried a member of his party.

As more and more skiers enter the backcountry, the risks of them riding in the same terrain are increasing. In complex terrain in the high alpine, these risks compound and, if not properly mitigated, can lead to disaster.

Carlson hopes that his story will serve as a reminder of how to be aware and considerate of others in the backcountry. If you’re riding in big terrain and see a group below you here is the proper protocol: Stop and give the other party time to completely exit the line. Ride one at a time, keeping your partners in sight at all times. When pitching out a longer line, find islands of safety tucked out of the way of overhead hazard.

Rescue is many hours away in the high alpine—always ski within your ability and carry the equipment and knowledge to self-evacuate. If you start an avalanche that involves another party, always stop to help the rescue efforts.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű digital editor Jake Stern spoke to Carlson on April 27. Carlson’s partner who was buried requested not to be named.

I got a text on Saturday from a buddy in Denver asking about skiing the North Couloir on Quandary the next day. He drove up and another one of our ski crew who lives in Breckenridge met us at the trailhead at 7:00 A.M. I drove over from my home in Eagle and spent the night before in my truck.

Over the course of the night and into the morning, I began to see multiple parties roll in. I remember getting out of my truck in the morning and seeing a ton of people there. Our party of four left the trailhead early, knowing we had about 3,000 vertical feet to climb. Quandary is a pretty straightforward skin—you just climb the ridge. It’s very popular.

We had our route planned out on our phones. Earlier, we’d read beta that had suggested that the top of the North Couloir was really wind scoured, and we might not be able to actually ski it from the top. So we had a backup plan to descend the ridge and enter the line from the right.

We made really good time—I think we summited in like two-and-a-half hours. We were cooking. We knew it was crowded, and we wanted to get up there before anyone else did.

We were hanging out at the top, joking about how Pop Tarts have a bunch of nutrients in them, having a good time. The weather was great, but windy. We thought the wind was stripping snow from the couloir. Another group arrived at the summit after us and overheard us talking about skiing the North Couloir. They were like, “Oh, we’re going to do that, too.”

But we were there first, we passed multiple parties, and we definitely beat this crew up. We transitioned quickly and headed down. When we arrived at the top of the couloir, we saw a lot more snow deposited in it than we imagined. Our antennae went up—we thought the line might be a little loaded.

I was the first one to the mouth of it, and I really did not feel like approaching from the skiers right side of it because that entrance would require down-climbing on icy rocks. So I entered from the top, riding the first pitch of it, which was really icy.

Then I skied to an island of safety at the edge of the couloir and let the rest of my crew join me. We broke the line into sections and rode one at a time because we started to notice that the chute had gotten really wind-loaded, and it seemed like there was a real risk of a wind slab avalanche.

My buddy who was caught in the slide rode one more short ladder pitch of it and kind of ducked off to the skier’s right side, thinking he was out of exposure from above. At this point, I’m not exactly sure how far down the couloir we were, but we had done, I think, about a third. That’s when I saw one of the other groups start skiing down. As I continued to look up, I saw two more of them. I could easily see that there was more than enough room for them to stop and wait safely for us to finish the line. But then they started skiing down all at once.

That’s when the third rider triggered a wind slab maybe 50 feet above me. (Editor’s note: All of Carlson’s numbers here are approximate, recalled from memory during a stressful moment.) I remember it almost happened in slow motion. I watched as this wind slab, which had maybe a one-foot crown, rip by me. It propagated instantly, sweeping under the rocks beneath me like a wave. It split the snow down the couloir in two and knocked one of my partnersÌęoff his skis.

We were all carrying radios tuned to the same channel. I immediately hopped on the radio and shouted “Slide, slide, slide, slide!” I immediately looked for my two other ski partners who were tucked into a safe zone down the couloir from me, and they were fine.Ìę

Looking down to our partner who was caught, I remember seeing his feet fly up into the air and thinking, “It’s actually happening.” I’ve been skiing in the Colorado backcountry for four years now, and I take snowpack analysis very seriously. I’ve had mentors, I read, watch reports, took my classes, and have been able to mitigate risk through snowpack analysis for quite a while. Until this point, I’ve never had to pull my beacon out and put it in search mode.

My ski buddy and I who were still above the debris couldn’t see our friend anymore because the slide flushed him out of view. I didn’t see him riding on top of it while I watched it happen either. My internal alarms are really going off.

We sent one member of my group down immediately to see if he can spot our missing partner in the apron, meanwhile the other two of us begin a slower grid search from above. When we’re about halfway down from the trigger point to the apron we hear our friend pop up on the radio. “I’m alive. I’m alive,” he said.

I radioed back and asked if anyone from the group that triggered the avalanche was caught, too, but as I descended I saw them all very far away, at the exit of the line preparing to leave.

When we got to our friend, he did not have his skis on. He had lost a pole, sunglasses gone, snow everywhere—he was super frazzled. We ran through our first responder checks. I was like, “Hey, touch your fingers, you know, move, wiggle your toes. We need to make sure you don’t have any broken bones that you don’t realize. Can you take a couple deep breaths?”

Once we found his equipment, we checked his skis to make sure all of his gear was working. At the end of the day, he was fine. Sore and shaken, but uninjured.

On the skintrack out, we caught up to the party that triggered the avalanche. I asked the rider who broke the slab, “Do you guys have any idea what you did?

But they blew us off, and I felt that they didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation.

I thought, you gotta be kidding me. This could have been awful. Even a rescue situation way out here would have been terrible.

It was crazy. The fact that their entire team wasn’t right by my buddy’s side, actively trying to make sure he was okay—it just floors me. These guys were longtime backcountry skiers, and they wouldn’t admit how wrong it was to cause an avalanche that could have killed all of us.”

You can read Trevor Carlson’s field report at the .

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Back in December 2023, Colorado was mired with a miserable snowpack. The ski resorts were barely open and a thin layer of rotten snow blanketed the surface of the alpine. Our editors speculated that once the storm door began to openÌęand coverage improved, the pent-up demand in the country’s would lead to a high number of fatal slides.

We were wrong—well, kind of. The Colorado Avalanche Information Center recently released statistics for the 2023-24 season so far, and the numbers reflect a remarkably lucky winter for backcountry users. There have been a sizable number of human-triggered avalanches this year, and many of those slides did trap skiers and snowboarders. But as of April 12, the state has recorded just two avalanche fatalities—fewer than the annual average of six. And now, snow safety experts are trying to understand the gap between the two numbers.

“It’s a complicated knot to untie,” said Ethan Greene,ÌędirectorÌęof the Colorado Avalanche Information Center (CAIC) in a video call on April 12. “Even though we’ve had only two fatalities—which is both terrible and great—we’ve had a number of cases where the margin between survival and death was really slim.”

According to the CAIC, there were 5,555 recorded avalanches in Colorado this season. Of those, 938 were triggered by backcountry users. Data suggests that 117 people were caught in those slides during the season, with 44 being partially buried and six being fully buried. Last year, the 2022-2023 season saw 5,663 avalanches, 861 of which were human triggered. In those slides,Ìę122 people were caught, 34 were partially buried, 20 people were fully buried, and 11 were killed. The worst winter in recent memory for fatalities, however, was the 2020-2021 season, during which the CAIC recorded 4,755 total slides. That year 95 people were caught in 84 different avalanches. Of those, 20 people were partially buried, 13 were fully buried, and 12 were killed.

Greene explained that when it comes to getting caught in a dangerous avalanche, seemingly small factors—being a few feet from a cliff band or being buried under an extra foot or two of snow, for instance—can have enormous impacts on a person’sÌęsurvival.

We asked Greene what he thought made a difference this year for the 117 people who were caught in slides but survived. “It’s not a very clean narrative,” he explained. “Without having hard data to back it up, it does make sense that the amount of equipment use and education is increasing in the backcountry community. There are more people now who are proficient in partner rescue and we’ve seen some really good rescues this year. It’s encouraging.”

That was the case in a miraculous rescue in theÌęElk Mountains near Aspenon March 6, when a snowmobiler dug his partner out of debris from a very large and destructive avalanche. A group of six unintentionally remote-triggered a slope above them, and the slide carried one of the riders into a gully, burying him under between five and ten feet of snow. The rider’s partner reached his airway within nine minutes of digging and found the victim with no pulse or respiratory rate, but was able to revive him after ten minutes of CPR. Though the buried man did not regain consciousness over the hours-long rescue, the heÌęwalked out of the ICU under his own power two days later.

But rescue skills just aren’t sufficient to produce good outcomes in all situations.ÌęAn avalanche in the Anthracite Range near Crested Butte occurred on February 11 when Eric Freson, a reviewer for BlisterÌęMagazine and a pillar of the Gunnison Valley backcountry community, . The avalanche debris caused a second, larger avalanche in the snow surface below the cliff and carried Freson through the trees below. His partners reached him within eight minutes and cleared his airway, but unfortunately Freson did not survive his injuries.

Diagnosing exactly what went wrong in each avalanche incident is an extremely difficult task. Drilling in partner rescue skills will undoubtedly pad your safety margins. But »ćŽÇČÔ’t discount the fact that some folks are just plain lucky. “During the last few weeks we saw a number of involvements in very large avalanches. The fact that those victims survived the slides involved either very good choices or luck,” said Greene. “Many of these could have been fatalities, and luck was definitely a factor.”

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On January 10, at Palisades Tahoe, an avalanche ripped down G.S. Bowl, a popular run right beneath the famed KT-22 chair, killing one person and trapping many others. As is almost always the case with inbounds avalanches, none of the skiers and snowboarders who were buried did anything wrong. And while investigations are ongoing, Palisades’ snow safety professionals—the patrollers that risk their lives in the predawn gloom tossing hand charges and ski cutting slopes to release avalanches before the public arrives—probably also did their jobs to the best of their abilities.

After a multiple-fatality slide at Silver Mountain, Idaho, in 2020, I gave some general advice about how to protect yourself inbounds. I also explained why inbounds avalanches happen in 2019 after a similar tragedy at Taos Ski Valley, in New Mexico. The unfortunate reality is that avalanche science is pretty good at assessing the likelihood of slides, but it cannot predict exactly where and when a slope will break loose. Nor will we ever know with total certainty that avalanche terrain—any ungroomed slope above 30 degrees, which includes pretty much everything above a blue square in the west—is 100 percent safe to ski. Mitigation doesn’t work that way. Resort snow safety teams live in a continuum where they can always be good, but they can never be perfect. In a 100 percent safe scenario, KT-22 would never spin.

The fatal slides at Palisades, Silver Mountain, and Taos highlight a disconnect in ski resort messaging that I’ve witnessed throughout my lifelong involvement with snow sports, including 25 years covering the subject as a journalist. Time and again, I see skiing marketed to the masses as , or as a luxury lifestyle choice for the wealthy. The truth, of course, is that skiing can be hazardous, and sometimes it can be deadly. But rarely have I ever seen resorts communicate the dangers of the sport to customers with the same vigor as they do plugging the fluffy accouterments. Ski resorts should start treating customers like adults, and stop pretending skiing and snowboarding are as safe as a fancy cruise—minus the hot tub norovirus.

There are reasons why approachability eclipses danger in resort messaging, of course. During my time covering the sport I’ve regularly seen executives promoted to the C-suite from marketing and guest services positions, but rarely have I seen ski patrollers rise to the same levels. Take a look at bios for executives at the two biggest resort companies in the world— and —if you want proof.

Yes skiing can be family-friendly and luxurious, but it is also risky to varying degrees. That’s true of that blue run you just dragged your rookie boyfriend up without a lesson, and it’s also true of the steep avalanche terrain that you’re standing on top of waiting for the rope to drop. After a few flurries of inbounds avalanche fatalities in the past two decades, I believe most seasoned skiers and snowboarders understand the avalanche risk. Everyone else should read the lengthy online waiver that greets you before you buy your pass.

Except nobody reads waivers. I’ve addressed the need for skiers to be a bit more self-reliant in previous columns. But I think that marketing departments for ski resorts also need to do a better job of acknowledging and even—egads—addressing the risks: collisions on overcrowded slopes; long falls on iced-over runs; tree well suffocation; and yes, inbounds avalanches. Scan headlines from local newspapers over the past few months you will see of at North American resorts. Communicating the dangers of skiing in an adequate way will require a cultural shift at many resorts. That’s because the business model is about attracting the highest volume of customers and resorts »ćŽÇČÔ’t want to scare anyone off.

Resort skiing has always been a volume play. Lift lines in the seventies were routinely an hour long. They used to sell hot dogs and beer as you waited, and you had time for a second beer. Today, the lines move faster, but the resort conglomerates carry on that volume-first tradition by selling cheap season passes. I’ve argued in the past that those products are good because they can help bring new users, and maybe someday, diverse users, into skiing and snowboarding, which otherwise would have gone into a steady decline. But high volume comes at the cost of the experience and the safety of the guests. Ask any patroller at a resort where you feel as though you’re dodging other humans like bamboo gates why most accidents happen, and off the record he or she will say, “It’s the crowding.”

Again, I’m not calling out any specific ski resort here, certainly not Palisades, which, besides a misguided notion to rebrand one of the steepest ski areas in North America as a family ski hill about a decade ago has a well-earned extreme vibe and, last I heard, one of the best snow safety teams in the business. (I was complicit in that softer marketing. I produced their marketing magazine, which was full of low angle skiing and snot-nosed kids and by edict from above none of the steep skiing the mountain is famous for.) What I’m calling out is this: Resorts can feel free to market the that they love so much in these days of massive income inequality, but they also need to message that skiing comes with challenges and struggle and self reliance and, yes, risk. Even mellow resort skiing requires as much dedication to skills training and fitness as mountain biking and surfing. Backcountry skiing comes with the gravitas of whitewater, big wave surfing, and alpinism. Skiing on avalanche terrain—no matter if it’s inbounds or out—should take years of skills development to get to that level. Skiing and snowboarding are epic because the sports beat you down. Mountains are iconic because they’re unforgiving.

Some resorts already get that. They tend to be the ones that market themselves as ski “areas” not ski “resorts.” Arapahoe Basin in Colorado, which was just purchased by Alterra, and cut skier volume a few years ago to preserve the experience, is one. I hope that management style will continue. Fernie, which is avalanche-challenged by slopes above the resort, is another. Alta, Utah, the birthplace of snow science and avalanche mitigation in the U.S., is a third. When the Alta sheriff tells you to move your car because it will get buried overnight, you tend to pay attention. In Europe, everyone knows that if you ski off-trail you are in the backcountry and you could die.

The corresponding spatial awareness, mountain sense, and self reliance you see at burlier ski areas can and should be encouraged everywhere. When Bridger Bowl, Montana, first opened the short and steep zones that runs above the lower ski area, they required skiers to carry avalanche beacons—the rest of the avy gear is advised. They carried on that tradition when they opened the steep Slushman’s zone in the 2000s. There’s a similar deal at Delirium Dive in Canada’s Sunshine Village. There’s only one way to access that legit extreme terrain, and you need gear and a partner to do it. Crystal Mountain, Washington, has a related, if grayer, policy for its Southback zone which they mitigate for avalanches but recommend skiing with avy gear and a partner at the access gates.

My favorite ski area in North America is Silverton Mountain in Colorado. The year Jenny and Aaron Brill opened Silverton, I skied and reported a story there for Powder magazine. The wider industry and avalanche community was predicting doom for the enterprise because every inch of Silverton Mountain is avalanche terrain in one of the most slide-prone parts of the world. The Brills sold Silverton recently, but the ski area they founded succeeded through endless mitigation, a guided-only policy in mid-winter, and a no-bullshit attitude that emphasized showing respect to the mountain. At Silverton, the guides will ridicule you rather than let you get cavalier. This is both hilarious and necessary. When it comes to unguided skiing and snowboarding, Silverton customers treat the terrain like backcountry. At Silverton, you feel a little nervous twinge before you ski. We shouldn’t turn that switch off at fancier resorts just because they have marble counters in the shitters.

It will likely never happen because of legal concerns and greed, but in my worldview, many North American ski areas should require avy gear and partners in certain zones. The requirement brings a lot of benefits. For one, it can reduce the stigma or perceived stigma of carrying safety gear inbounds. In Utah recently during a big storm cycle, I watched a few locals snicker at some vacationers skiing with packs inbounds. Yeah, one skier had a shovel strapped to a hydration pack and didn’t have high style points, but his mindset was correct. When gear is required for certain zones, more guests will be wearing beacons in transmit mode. That’s an easy win. And second, like the strenuous hike up Aspen Highlands’ eponymous bowl, gear helps to filter skiers. Meaning, the people that probably shouldn’t be skiing your gnarliest terrain might think better of it.

The timing is right for this cultural shift. Backcountry skiing and snowboarding are no longer niche pursuits. There are enough skiers with gear and training to change how avalanche terrain is managed. Hell, while requiring gear won’t bring your ski area more cash, it will bring more cachet. You can market adventure again instead of pots of molten cheese and those hot stones they put on your back at the spa.

But the bigger benefit in nudging this cultural shift forward is that in carrying gear and trusting in a partner, skiers also learn to trust themselves. If we as skiers and snowboarders do that, then maybe the insanity of an inbounds powder day can move subtly in the direction of smarter skiing, with customers having conversations about the hazards, buddying up, poking around cautiously at times, and looking out for one another. That last bit might be wishful thinking. But even if all ski areas do is require safety gear and partners in certain zones, at the least we’d be a lot faster on the rescues.

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Editor’s note: New details about the fatal incident have been added to this report as of Feb. 15.

Renowned telemark, big mountain, and expedition skier Katherine “Kasha” Rigby, aged 54, is confirmed dead in an avalanche in Kosovo during her #tourdepiste project. that a 54-year-old foreign citizen lost her life in an avalanche at the Ski Center in Brezovica. The Police spokesperson for the Ferizaj region, Kanun Veseli, reported the incident to Radio Free Europe.

The Kosovo Mountain Search and Rescue Service received a call for help in the “Eagle’s Nest” area, known for its avalanche risks. Despite initial reports of two missing skiers, only one casualty was confirmed. Rescue teams provided medical aid on-site but were unable to save her. The service urged caution when skiing off-piste due to adverse weather conditions.

SKI was notified on Feb. 15 by those close to Rigby that it was a small avalanche at 2:30 pm local time and challenging weather conditions that led to her death.

Rigby suffered extreme trauma to the chest during a skiing incident, where she was caught in a small avalanche. The avalanche, measuring approximately 25 meters by 10 meters, occurred on a 35-degree slope that led to a high-force collision with trees, resulting in massive internal bleeding and damage to her organs, particularly her lungs.

Despite the quick response of her skiing partner, fiancĂ© Magnus Wolfe, who reached her within 20 seconds and attempted CPR, Rigby’s injuries proved fatal, and she passed away within seconds.

The incident unfolded near the top of the run where Rigby dropped in, triggering the avalanche.

Tributes to Rigby continue to be posted on social media by those who knew her and were influenced by her ski career.

 

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In 1996, for challenging the conventional perception of the sport by embracing speed and aggression typically associated with alpine skiing. Despite facing skepticism and prejudice, Rigby aimed to redefine telemarking with her high-speed, hard-driving style. In the 1996 U.S. Extreme Skiing Championships, Rigby sought to showcase her skills and earn recognition for telemarking by outperforming traditional alpine skiers. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű also credited her as “the best female telemark skier in the known universe” when she appeared on the cover of Women șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű in the Fall of 1998.

Rigby achieved numerous feats in ski mountaineering and exploration, including the first telemark descent of Choy Oyu and the first ski descent of RFHP in India’s Himachal Pradesh region. Additionally, she accomplished the first ski descents of several peaks in Kamchatka and Lebanon, explored and descended peaks in Siberia, skied Ecuador’s Cotopaxi and Chimborazo volcanoes, completed multiple first descents in Baffin Island, conquered 21 peaks in 21 days in Bolivia, and appeared in Warren Miller’s 2001 film, “Cold Fusion.” She was also cast in “Ultimate Survival Alaska” Season 3 in 2015.

Rigby’s impactful career, marked by groundbreaking feats as a telemark skier, has left an indelible mark on the skiing community.

 

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The wall of snow struck Loren Ennis on his heelside, punched his snowboard forward, and sent him sliding down the mountain on his back. The impact happened so suddenly that Ennis struggled to understand what was going on, even as his body began to sink into the churning debris.

“I thought that maybe somebody had run into me,” Ennis, 32, said. “The next thing I know I’m up to my neck and it’s like ‘Oh shit, this is an avalanche.’â¶Ä

Ennis fought against the river of snow. He frantically tried to remember avalanche lessons he’d learned in a backcountry safety class he’d taken in 2018. Try to swim above it. Keep your lungs as full as possible. Make a passageway for air.

The thoughts pierced the joy that Ennis had felt just seconds before the violent impact. He and his longtime friend, Ben Erskin, had just dropped into G.S. Bowl, one of the experts-only zones at California’s Palisades Tahoe Resort. The steep bowl is often pockmarked with moguls, its 1,000-foot face bisected by a band of cliffs halfway down. They had been giddy to shred the six or so inches of untracked powder that had flitted down overnight and throughout the morning. Ski patrol had opened the KT-22 chairlift for the first time that season, and as the two rode it upward, they had seen skiers bobbing down the untracked slope. They were silent as they departed the lift and strapped into their boards. They knew that bottomless snow awaited.

Those first heavenly turns seemed like eons ago as Ennis felt the debris squeeze his chest and abdomen. A blanket of powder sloughed over his head, blotting out the sky. As Ennis sunk down deeper, a series of new thoughts came to his mind: I hope that dying this way doesn’t hurt. Will anyone find my body? Why didn’t I bring my gear?

“I remember being really disappointed with myself,” Ennis said. “I had an avalanche beacon and a shovel and a bag full of backcountry stuff in my truck in the parking lot. It never even occurred to me to bring it.”

The steep terrain in G.S. Bowl leveled out as the slide passed over a track for snowcats. Ennis felt his snowboard strike firmer ground, and the force propelled his body up through the snow column. His head broke through the surface, and for 30 more seconds slid down the bowl, a passenger in a river of white. And then the avalanche slowed down, grinding to a halt just above the cliffs. By Ennis’ approximation, the ordeal had lasted 45 agonizing seconds. Ennis turned to his left. There was Erskine, buried up to his waist, but alive.

“You OK dude?” Ennis called out.

Erskine, 35, was shaken but unhurt. He dug his legs out of the snow and yanked open his snowboard bindings. He looked downhill and saw the familiar rocky dropoff midway down the bowl, 250 feet closer to him than when the slide had started. Going over that would have killed us, he thought.

Like Ennis, Erskine had replayed his own avalanche training as the slide carried him downhill. Now that he was free, memories of the backcountry safety class he had taken in 2017 flooded his brain. One bit of wisdom echoed loudest: See if other people are buried. They may only have a few minutes to live.

Erskine heard a shout from further up the slope. He trudged through the debris field toward the voice and saw goggles and a black helmet protruding from a lump of snow. It was a man, and he was screaming. “He was begging for help,” Erskine said. “He was buried with his arms down at his side. He kept yelling ‘I can’t move! I need you to dig me out!”

Ennis hiked up to Erskine, and the two men clawed at the snow with their hands. Another skier stopped to help them, and then another. Others arrived nearby and began digging in the snow. At one point Erskine looked up and saw a skier moving slowly through the debris holding an avalanche beacon. The man yelled to anyone who would listen to switch their beacons to “search” mode to avoid confusion.

With every scoop of snow they could see more of the buried man’s blue two-tone jacket. After a few minutes of furious work, Erskine and Ennis pulled him free. “He looked petrified,” Erskine said. “The first thing he said was, ‘This is my first time skiing KT-22.’â¶Ä

Much-Needed Snow Raises the Danger

The avalanche that roared down G.S. Bowl beneath KT-22 on Wednesday, January 10 etched a new chapter into the history of winter sports in Lake Tahoe. It happened at approximately 9:30 A.M., half an hour after the ski patrol had dropped the rope on the slope and much of the surrounding terrain for the first time during the 2023-24 season.

The slide broke free just below the upper terminal of KT-22, leaving a crooked crown etched across the face of G.S. Bowl. As the snow cascaded down, it engulfed trees, rocks, and bewildered skiers and snowboarders who had come for a powder day after a dry early season. Debris and people tumbled down the slope, across a snowcat track, and through the rocky band of cliffs. When the slide finally stopped, at least four people were fully buried. One man, 66-year-old Kenneth Kidd of nearby Truckee, California, did not survive.

Why the avalanche broke loose is the subject of an ongoing investigation by Palisades Tahoe. The resort declined to make any ski patrol officials available for an interview.

What we do know about the avalanche comes from two concise statements, one issued by the Placer County Sheriff’s Department, and another by the Sierra Avalanche Center. The storm had dumped fresh powder on the region—three inches accumulated overnight, with more piling up that morning. The fresh powder covering older snow that had fallen weeks before. According to the Sierra Avalanche Center, the from “low” to “considerable.” The avalanche itself measured 450 feet long by 150 feet wide, at a depth of 10 feet. More than 100 resort officials eventually participated in the rescue, alongside members of the local fire department and police. “Our thoughts and prayers are with the family members at this time,” the sheriff’s report said.

These statements, however, fail to capture the frenetic scenes that unfolded in the moments immediately after the slide. Before rescue personnel arrived onsite, several regular skiers and snowboarders were thrust into a harrowing situation. They had to try and locate and then save those who were entombed by the snow.

These resort patrons pulled survivors from the debris. They fashioned ad-hoc avalanche probes and organized probe lines, while others switched on their personal beacons to search for the buried. Others simply tore into snow piles with hands, skis, and whatever else, looking for signs of life.

“I was just digging and digging—I felt absolutely helpless,” said Naomi Denayer, a pharmaceutical specialist from Vacaville, California, who arrived on the scene shortly after the slide. “The mood was somber and we felt like we didn’t have enough resources or people to do any good but we just kept going.”

Some, like Erskine and Ennis, had formal avalanche training. Others did not. As a whole, their efforts saved lives. And after resort personnel closed Palisades Tahoe for the day and sent everyone home, the patrons who had assisted with rescues were left to grapple with how to think about their own safety during a day at the slopes.

Resort Patrons Spring Into Action

Denayer was riding KT-22 when she heard multiple voices scream “avalanche!” She swung around in the chair and saw waves of snow slough down G.S. Bowl. A longtime backcountry skier, Denayer completed a level 1 training course put on by the nonprofit American Institute for Avalanche Research and Education. From her chairlift, she tried to spot people. Remember where they fall, she told herself. You might be able to find them later. She saw Erskin, Ennis, and two others sliding down the mountain. “It looked like I was watching a movie,” she says. “I saw two guys trying to swim through it. Another guy was in the middle of it and I saw him get carried over the cliffs. It looked bad.”

The skiers in the chairlift ahead of Denayer ran from the terminal to a nearby patrol house to alert safety personnel. Denayer, who has been skiing at Palisades Tahoe for 30 years, pulled out her phone and called a friend who was working a lift-operating shift at the base area. “I said, ‘There’s been an avalanche,’ Denayer said. “‘You need to get people up here right now.’â¶Ä

Other skiers and snowboarders hurriedly disembarked KT-22 and slid into G.S. Bowl to help. Some skied below the cliff band to where the avalanche debris field had created a deep pile. Others cut in above the cliffs to the area where Erskine, Ennis, and others were digging themselves out.

Darian Shirazi, 35, headed for the higher section of G.S. Bowl. A venture capitalist from San Francisco, Shirazi had taken avalanche training courses prior to heliskiing trips in Alaska and Canada. In 2012, while on a backcountry trip in Alaska, Shirazi was nearly trapped in an avalanche—after that experience he vowed to only ski in-bounds. But he never thought his backcountry safety training would be useful at a resort.

“I thought, ‘Nobody is going to know what to do,’” Shirazi said. “It was a full adrenaline rush. It just seemed obvious to go down there and try to help.”

Thick cloud cover and falling snow meant that visibility was poor. But Shirazi could see multiple groups of people digging into the slope. The sheer size of the debris field was overwhelming—it was far too big for the few people on-site to scour by hand, he thought. Time is running out for anyone who is buried, he thought. “There was an odd ‘what do we do?’ vibe,” Shirazi said.

Shirazi looked at the slope’s edge and saw several dozen bamboo boundary poles that were marking obstacles. Those could work as probes, he thought. He yanked pole after pole from the snow and began shouting at others. “I was like ‘everyone, grab a stick!’” Shirazi said. “‘We need to start a probe line!’ Everyone was like deer in the headlights.”

Others joined him in probing the slope for survivors. There weren’t enough volunteers to stretch the line across the entire slope, so instead Shirazi asked eyewitnesses to point out areas where skiers had last been seen. A patrol member arrived approximately five minutes after Shirazi had begun probing, and within 15 minutes more safety personnel were on site, with shovels and probes. Shirazi stood aside and snapped a photo of the scene.

The first ski patrollers to arrive were met with an impossible scenario. “The first one I saw was getting yelled at by so many people for help that he was having a hard time figuring out where to go,” Erskine said. “I have nothing but respect for the guy coming into something like that.”

In some areas, patrollers tried to organize the resort patrons into ad-hoc rescue groups. Andy Hayes, 43, a professional skier from nearby Olympic Valley, saw this dynamic play out in the debris fields above and below the band of cliffs. Like Shirazi, Hayes had skied into the top of the bowl after seeing the slide’s aftermath from KT-22. He flipped his avalanche beacon into “search” mode and skied into the debris field. He estimates he arrived on the scene ten or so minutes after the avalanche, and by then, ski patrol had organized approximately 50 skiers into a probe line.

“They did a good job of bringing a bunch of just disparate people out of the scene and getting them into an actual organized search,” said Hayes, who has also taken classes in backcountry avalanche safety. Hayes eventually skied down through the cliff band to help with rescue efforts further downhill. Below the cliffs, a dramatic scene was unfolding, as a group of skiers hurried to free three different people who had been pushed through the cliff band by the snow.

One was an Australian skier named Oliver Thompson, who had been skiing alongside his sister, Hannah Sugerman, and her partner, Callum Wishart. The slide had above the cliffs. But it had propelled Thompson over the rocks and down below, where he was buried. Ski patrol eventually freed him, but he suffered a badly broken leg.

When Hayes arrived, a group was digging Thompson out. “When I got down there was somebody who had been found,” Hayes said. “He was in a deep space but had the ability to yell, and the group was getting him out.”

Hayes was probing through the snow in the area when another skier struck a body with his probe. Ski patrol and volunteers began digging. They found a ski, then another. “It was the fatality,” he said.

A short distance away, another group of probing rescuers had also struck something. It was Jason Parker, 52, a snowboarder from Reno, who had been buried beneath four feet of debris. Parker was alive. He had been on his second lap of G.S. Bowl that morning when the wall of snow caught him just above the cliffs. Somehow, Parker slid through the cliff band face first without slamming into the rocks.

Parker told his story to after the ordeal. As the snow pushed him downward, he yelled to two skiers nearby him to follow his location. “Watch me! Watch me!” he screamed. He survived the cliffs, only to be buried by the debris at the bottom. He was entombed under four feet of snow, until a probe struck him in the back. On the surface, a group of skiers dug into the snow, eventually freeing him. Parker eventually credited his rescue to a snowboarder named Luke. “It was locals,” Parker told TV station . “People that know the area well and that saved me—I can’t thank them enough.”

A skier named Jason Glickman, who had dropped into G.S. Bowl moments after the avalanche, was standing alongside the dramatic rescue, and filmed the moment when ski patrol pulled Parker from the slide. He checked his watch when Parker emerged from the snow. It read 9:40 A.M.

Gear Choices In-Bounds

Seventeen people died from inbounds avalanches at U.S. ski resorts between 2003 and 2023, according to a titled Characteristics of Inbounds Avalanche Fatalities at United States Ski Areas. The document, published last October by avalanche experts Paul Baugher, Scott Savage, and Karl W. Birkeland, lists the commonalities between 14 fatal inbounds slides that occurred during that period. Atop the report’s list is the bullet point: “terrain opened for the first time of the season with only a few hours of ski traffic.” The Palisades Tahoe raised the total fatalities to 18.

The document was written as a set of guidelines for resorts, Baugher told me. But Baugher said he hopes the report educates skiers and snowboarders as well. “If you think danger has been engineered out of skiing at a resort, you’re wrong,” he said.

Deaths by inbounds avalanches are less than 3 percent of all resort fatalities over the last two decades, according to data from the National Ski Areas Association. But these fatalities cast a different shadow than ones occurring from collisions or crashes. They erode the aura of invincibility that comes from skiing down a slope that’s been mitigated for avalanche danger.

The sources who spoke to me for this story echoed this sentiment. In the days following the slide, Shirazi canceled a ski vacation to Whistler Blackcomb. When he finally did return to a ski resort three weeks later, he wore his backcountry airbag. Denayer vowed to bring her avalanche beacon with her, no matter the conditions, and has done so for every inbounds ski day since. Erskine said he now assesses resort terrain the way he would a backcountry slope. “I look back on it and realize there were so many red flags that day that I never thought about because we were at a resort,” Erskine says. “There is this veil of protection that’s gone.”

Ennis and Erskine skied Palisades Tahoe a few days after the avalanche. As he bombed down the runs below KT-22, Ennis thought about his own relationship to snow safety. He and Erskine regularly skin up backcountry slopes near their home in Reno. At the onset of each ski season, they practice beacon rescues to refresh their skills. Both men regularly read snow reports issued by regional avalanche safety centers before choosing which backcountry slope to skin up. But neither man ever brought beacons or other avy gear inbounds. In fact, Ennis said he and Erskine often poked fun at those who did.

“We used to laugh and say ‘I wonder if he’s gonna wear that beacon to the restaurant tonight,’” Ennis said. “Now I know it’s a pretty good idea to have it on.”

For years, skiers have discussed the merits of bringing backcountry safety gear—airbags, shovels, probes—with them to resorts. The discussion regularly pops up after a deadly inbounds slide. Stories in șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű and elsewhere have promoted the merits of bringing safety gear to resorts. Whether or not more skiers are doing so is tough to say. Anecdotal evidence would point to yes—if only because so few did so in the past.

Baugher, who operated ski patrol at Washington’s Crystal Mountain Resort from 1987 until 2016, likened the slow shift to the ski industry’s adoption of other trends.

“The hope is that the cool skiers will start doing it, and then others will follow,” Baugher said. “It didn’t used to be cool to wear a helmet—remember?”

Baugher said that high-profile inbounds slides like the one at Palisades show skiers that gear isn’t just for their own personal safety. Sure, skiers realize that a beacon or an airbag may help them get rescued. But after an avalanche, a collapsible probe or an inexpensive shovel can transform them into a lifesaver.

“A resort can do everything it can to keep an avalanche from happening,” Baugher said. “But when it happens, who is in the best position to make a recovery? It’s usually someone who happens to be skiing the same run.”

A Heart-Stopping Rescue

As Erskine tugged at the man’s blue jacket to pry him from the snow, Ennis scanned the rest of the slope. More skiers had arrived to help dig—Denayer was among them. She recorded a video of the scene between digs.

Ennis looked across the slope and saw a speck of black protruding from the white. It was a glove, and it was waving side to side. He ran across the 150-foot center of the debris field, passing huge chunks of snow. After reaching the glove, Ennis began to dig. The glove was on an outstretched hand that disappeared into the snow. Ennis estimated where a head might be and dug straight down to create a passageway for air. He heard a voice murmur from the hole. It was from a woman.

“I remember yelling ‘I got you! I got you!” Ennis says. “I got her face uncovered and could hear her asking for help.”

Ennis worried that the woman might still suffocate, so he told her to puff out her ribs. Talking or exhaling, he thought, may cause the weight of the snow to squeeze the air out of her lungs.

Ennis dug at her neck and chest, eventually clearing enough snow off of her back to pry her out. The woman, Janet He, had been skiing with her husband, Joseph Lu, when the slide had hit. Lu was able to stay upright, but the debris had buried He and pushed her 200 feet down the mountain.

He’s phone rang as Ennis pulled her free. It was Lu, and he was ecstatic to learn that she was OK. She thanked Ennis and hugged him. Then she lifted her phone, framed the two of them, and snapped the perfect selfie.

A woman who was buried under an avalanche at Palisades Tahoe on Wednesday was saved by a stranger and escaped with no injuries.

— CBS News (@CBSNews)

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű digital editor Jake Stern contributed reporting.Ìę

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A terrifying in-bounds avalanche swept down expert terrain at California’s Palisades Tahoe on Wednesday morning, killing one person and leaving another with injuries. The slide forced the resort to shutter shortly after it opened.

The fatality was confirmed by the Placer County Sheriff’s office around midday, and on Wednesday evening authorities identified the victim as 66-year-old Kenneth Kidd, who lived in both Point Reyes and Truckee.

Three other victims were taken to the hospital but were released after inspection with minor injuries. All four people involved in the avalanche were from outside the Tahoe region.

The slide occurred at approximately 9:30 A.M. in the GS Gully area, which is below the KT-22 chairlift. The KT-22 area was opened for the first time of the 2023-24 season on Wednesday morning after extensive avalanche control work and assessment, and , the first skiers down triggered the avalanche in a bowl directly under the lift. Witnesses say that the slide spanned the entire width of the bowl.

According to the sheriff’s office, the slide left a debris field 150 feet wide by 450 long and 10 feet deep.

A major rescue operation commenced, with more than 100 officials from Cal Fire, Tahoe Nordic Search and Rescue, the local sheriff’s office and the resort searching for skiers who may have been buried by the slide. Sergeant David Smith of the Placer County Sheriff’s office that, by midday Wednesday, all skiers had been accounted for.

Prayers

— Tahoe Daily Snow (@TahoeWeather)

Neighboring Alpine Meadows is also closed. You can on X.

 

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The slide occurred after the Tahoe area was battered by a major snowstorm. At 6:39 A.M. on Wednesday morning the warning of “high-intensity snowfall and gale-force winds.”

“Avalanche danger will quickly increase today with avalanches occurring in a variety of areas by this afternoon,” the agency wrote.

While rare, in-bounds avalanches happen more than we’d like. At Alpine Meadows, which is connected to Palisades Tahoe by the Base to Base Gondola, anÌęin-bounds slideÌęoff of the Scott Chair killed experienced skier Cole Comstock and injured his ski companion in January of 2020. The resortÌęÌęthat was brought by Comstock’s wife in 2021.ÌęAlso in 2020, an avalanche on Silver Mountain, Idaho’s open and patrolled expert terrain was triggered by skiers crossing a traverse. Three people were killed and several more injured.ÌęAnd in 2019, anÌęin-bounds slide on Taos Ski Valley’s Kachina PeakÌękilled two skiers. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű delved into the dangers and how in-bounds avalanches can—and sometimes do—happenÌęhere.

After a slow start, the Tahoe region has finally begun to get some snowstorms, with almost two feet falling over the last week and more on the way. While we associate avalanche risk with heavy snow and variable temperatures, this is a good reminder that low-snow conditions can also lead to dangerous situations. Palisades Tahoe is currently reporting a 50-inch base amid continuing snowstorm and gusty winds.

This is a developing story and will be updated as more information comes in.

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It was a big year for outdoor gear. From e-bike technology that promises to revolutionize kayaking to the invention of a new super steel that makes knives more indestructible, there was a lot for gearheads to get excited about in 2023. These are the six innovations in outdoor gear that topped the list.

BOA Fit System for Ski Boots

For decades skiers have been clamoring for something (anything) that would make ski boots more comfortable and less complicated. This year, four prominent boot brands—Atomic, K2, Salomon, and Fischer—finally heard those cries and delivered a solution to address fit and function: a BOA Fit System to replace the lower buckles on select ski boots. BOA lacing itself isn’t new; it’s been commonplace on snowboard boots and cycling shoes for years. But it hasn’t been adopted by ski boot manufacturers until now because of durability and performance concerns. However, the new BOA H+i1 dial, specifically designed to withstand the type of wear and tear ski boots are accustomed to, alleviates those concerns and won over major boot brands. What does this mean for skiers? Dialing in your ski boot fit just got a little easier. .

Safeback SBX Technology for Avalanche Safety

An avalanche airbag can decrease your risk of being buried in an avalanche, but if you do (heaven forbid) get caught up in sliding snow and find yourself under it, an airbag won’t do you much good. In that event, your best hope of survival is being found and rescued before you run out of oxygen. Asphyxiation is the leading cause of death in avalanche victims, a statistic Norwegian brand Safeback hopes to change with its innovative SBX Technology. This fan system, which is integrated into the DB Snowpro Vest 8L and the Y MountainLine Daypack 40L, provides clean oxygen to an avalanche victim’s air pocket, decreasing the risk of asphyxiation before rescue. .

Kayaks with Electric Pedal Assist

Pedal kayaks aren’t new—they’ve been around since the nineties. But in 2023, the first electric pedal kayak came to market. The Old Town Bigwater ePDL+ 132, the first kayak ever fitted with electric pedal assist, gives users the choice between manual pedal power, power-assisted pedal, or fully-motorized propulsion at the push of a button. Casual kayakers out for a cruise are sure to appreciate the assist when they run out of muscle power. But our tester, Wes Siler, thinks anglers stand to benefit the most from this new technology. “Old Town’s electric pedal assist technology is so effective, that many anglers will likely be able to use it to replace gasoline-powered skiffs, utility boats, and fishing rigs in many, if not most applications,” noted Siler. “And in so doing they won’t just be eliminating emissions, they’ll be gaining ease of transport, simplicity of use, lower maintenance, and a smaller, less invasive footprint on the water, all at a lower cost.” Read Siler’s deep-dive review here.

Supershoe Foam Harnessed for the Trail

For the past several years, shoe brands have been trying to translate the technology found in road racing super shoes (first introduced in the 2016 Nike Vaporfly) to work on the uneven, unstable surface of trails. The challenge requires enabling the shoe to adapt to the terrain and not roll or bounce off in random directions while retaining the trampoline-like rebound that makes super shoes super. While several models have been released since 2021, none, quite frankly, have mastered the feat. In the summer of 2022, Nike released a prototype trail model to its athletes that used the same ultra-soft and bouncy foam as found in its signature racing models. While it was more energetic than other trail models to date, athletes found it too unstable, particularly in the high-stacked heel. In creating their 2023 production Ultrafly, rather than opting for a less-bouncy foam or making it denser, Nike creatively wrapped the foam in a thin, durable mesh fabric, which controlled the squish and wobbliness without dampening the rebound. Plus, it served as a skin for the soft foam, protecting against punctures and tears from trail hazards. The innovative solution worked so well the shoe won our Editor’s Choice award for all running shoes in 2023.

Knives Featuring MagnaCut Super Steel

When you shell out big bucks for a quality knife, it’s fair to expect that knife to be tough, durable, and have a superior edge. But the reality is, common steel doesn’t usually excel in all three of those properties. Enter MagnaCut, a new stainless steel that resists rusting, holds an edge well between sharpening, and is resistant to edge rolling and chipping. How is that possible? Metal magic, or metallurgy. MagnaCut is produced by Crucible Industries, a New York-based steel manufacturer whose specialty is a powder metallurgy process—known as Crucible Particle Metallurgy—which allows for fine control of a steel’s molecular properties. Learn more about MagnaCut steel and our favorite MagnaCut knives here.

Lightweight Tents and Tarps Made From UltraTNT

Big news in the ultralight backpacking world: Dyneema finally has a stronger, more affordable rival. This year Challenge Sailcloth, the fabric-maker that produces Ultraweave (the superstrong material found on many new ultralight backpacks), released UltraTNT, an even lighter-weight fabric designed for shelters. It’s 100 percent waterproof and supposedly becomes more resistant to tears and punctures as the fabric breaks in. Will this new fabric replace Dyneema or silnylon, the two most popular fabrics in the ultralight gear world? Not likely. Instead, our ultralight backpacking expert Nathan Pipenberg expects it to become a popular choice for four season shelters. .

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