A recent series of badly needed snow storms has created an extreme risk of avalanche danger in virtually all of Utah’s mountain ranges. Unfortunately, that risk recently turned into reality. A 42-year-old South Weber man was killed in an avalanche outside Snowbasin Ski Resort near Ogden. Todd Bell and a friend were skiing at the resort when Bell went out of bounds into Hells Canyon, which has a history of avalanches. Given the pair’s plan to ski a particular run in-bounds at the resort, it is unclear if Bell intended to leave the resort boundary and enter Hells Canyon.
Also on Sunday, a ski patroller at Alta Ski Area was buried briefly by a slide as he did avalanche control work. A crew triggered a controlled slide that turned out to be bigger than expected. The patroller was buried but when he came to rest, one hand was sticking above the surface. Fellow patrollers were able to free him within a couple of minutes. Meanwhile, two other slides closed the Cottonwood Canyons to traffic Sunday morning and an avalanche further north, closed Highway 89 in Logan Canyon for several hours.
I’ve posted before about avalanche dangers but these recent events remind us that we have to be vigilant when it comes to winter sports safety. Here is an excerpt from my prior post that contains many avalanche facts and useful safety tips:
If you plan to head into slide prone areas, educate yourself about the dangers and always check current conditions. There is a wealth of education information out there but here is a snippet from the Utah Avalanche Center web site:
Frequently Asked Questions
Utah Avalanche Center Director, Bruce Tremper, knows firsthand and here is his story:
It happened to me for the first time, I believe, in November of 1978. I was a cocky ex-national circuit ski racer, 24 years old, fresh out of college, and because I needed the money I was building chairlifts at Bridger Bowl Ski Area in Montana. I already thought of myself as a bit of an avalanche expert since I had grown up in the mountains of western Montana, my father had taught me the basics of avalanches when I was 10 years old and I had spent many days skiing backcountry avalanche terrain without. In other words I was a typical avalanche victim.
I was skiing alone (first mistake) and not even wearing a beacon (second mistake). After all, I wasn’t skiing, I was working, tightening the bolts at the base of each chairlift tower with a torque wrench. Even in my ignorance, I could see that it was hardly a subtle situation. Over a foot of new snow had fallen the night before and it was blowing hard, loading up the steep slopes beneath the upper section of the chairlift with thick slabs of wind-drifted snow.
When I was finished with the tower at the top of the avalanche paths, I started to walk up the slope so I could gain the ridge and circle around to the tower on the other side of the avalanche paths. But since I didn’t bring my backcountry skis or climbing skins (third mistake), what was an easy ski down was an exhausting pig wallow back up and the cliffs were too scary to climb in my slippery plastic boots. So I couldn’t help but notice that there was only a 15-foot wide couloir that separated me from the safe slopes on the other side. And naturally enough, I thought that a good skier like myself should be able to get my speed up and zip across it before anything too bad happened (fourth mistake).
I did my ski cut according to the book. I build my speed up and I crossed the slope at about a 45 degree angle, so that in theory, my momentum would carry me off the moving slab in case it did break on me. Since I had never been caught in an avalanche before, I had no idea how quickly the slab can pick up speed after it shatters like a pane of glass. I heard a deep, muffled thunk as it fractured. Then it was like someone pulled the rug out from under me and I instantly flopped down onto the snow loosing all the speed I had built up.
So like a startled cow, I sat there on my butt and watched soft slab instantly shatter into little blocks and the blanket of snow rocketed down the slope as if sucked downward by extra heavy gravity.
I jumped to my feet and tried to build up my speed again so I could jet off to the side. But the blocks were moving all around me, like tumbling cardboard boxes blowing in the wind, and nothing seemed to work. It was only two or three seconds after it broke and the avalanche, with its unintended passenger, was already moving a good 20 miles per hour. Looking downhill, I saw a line of small trees coming toward me at a frightening speed, looking like a line of periscopes slicing through the water toward me, like an old war movie. I tried to maneuver to grab one of them. But the avalanche, as I discovered, pretty much has its way with you, and choice is one of those things you think you might have before you’re caught in an avalanche, but never afterward. Luckily it took me directly into the smallest tree and I slammed it hard and grabbed on with all my strength. The snow pounded me, like standing under a huge waterfall and it felt like my neck would snap as each block of wind slab smashed into my head. Luckily, grabbing that tree probably saved my life because it let most of the debris pass by me (debris that is below you can’t bury you) but unfortunately, the tree eventually snapped off, and I quickly rocketed down the slope again.
Then the tumbling started, over and over like being stuck in a giant washing machine filled with snow. My hat and mittens were quickly ripped off along with both my skis. Snow went everywhere, down my neck, up my sleeves, down my underwear, even under my eyelids, something I would have never imagined. Every time I opened my mouth to breathe, the avalanche kind of injection-molded my mouth and throat full of snow. I spat out the plug of ice and with the next breath just rammed my throat full of snow again. Just when I needed to breathe the most, I couldn’t. Drowning to death, high in the mountains, in the middle of winter and miles from the nearest water.
But after a long while, after I was about to pass out from lack of air, the avalanche began to slow down and the tumbling finally stopped. I was on the surface and I could breathe again. But as I bobbed along on the soft, moving blanket of snow, which had slowed from about 50 miles per hour to around 30, I discovered that my body was quite a bit denser than avalanche debris and it tended to sink if it wasn’t swimming hard.
I swam hard to stay on the surface, but something was pulling one of my legs down. This was in the days before ski brakes and I had safety straps attaching my skis to my boots. One had already torn free somehow but the other one felt like a boat anchor tied to my leg. The ski was beneath me in the slower moving debris and as the surface debris moved faster, it tipped me forward, shoving my face in the snow again and I struggled hard to pull that ski up through the debris with my furious swimming. Eventually, the swimming worked, and when the avalanche finally came to a stop I found myself buried only to my waist, breathing hard, very wet and very cold.
I remembered from the avalanche books that debris instantly sets up like concrete as soon as it comes to a stop but its one of those facts that you don’t entirely believe. But sure enough, everything below the snow surface was like a body cast. Barehanded, (the first thing an avalanche does is rip off your hat and mittens) I chipped away at the rock-hard snow with my shovel for a good 5 minutes before I could finally work my legs free. On one foot, the heelpiece of the binding hung from the safety strap with a six-inch section of the top-skin of the ski still attached to the screws. It had pulled completely off the ski. On my other foot, the ski was still intact but both the tip and the tail were broken. It has always been a mystery to me how it could have broken both skis, yet none of my bones.
I decided that day that, no, I wasn’t an avalanche expert, not even close, and that was the real beginning of my avalanche education. Within a month I luckily landed a job on the ski patrol doing avalanche control, and I’ve been studying controlling, and forecasting avalanches ever since. One of these days, I may even become an expert. I don’t think it’s possible to watch all the snow on a mountainside shatter like a pane of glass and roar to the bottom at 60 mph, ripping out trees, without it changing your life, especially if you triggered the avalanche, and more especially if you rode it down and survived. Avalanches bit me in the butt and they haven’t let me go.
If you’re descending on skis or snowboard, try heading straight down hill to build up some speed, then angle off to the side off the moving slab. If you’re close enough to the crown, you can try running uphill to get off the slab, or running off to the side. If you’re ascending when the avalanche breaks, there’s really not much you can do.
If you’re on a snowmobile you have the advantage of power. Grab some throttle and use your power and momentum to your advantage. If you’re headed uphill, continue uphill. If you’re headed across the slope, continue to the side to safe snow. If you’re headed downhill, you’re only hope is to try and outrun the avalanche. Remember that large avalanches travel 60-80 mph and they are difficult to outrun. Also remember that a disproportionate number of avalanche fatalities occur when one snowmobiler gets stuck on a slope and another person rides up to help them. Never go up to help a stuck buddy unless there are several other people in a safe place who can dig you out. This, of course, requires that everyone is wearing beacons and shovels and has practiced regularly with them.
You can take any number of classes to bring you up-to-date on avalanche safety issues but for consistent up-to-date information on conditions and risk, consult the Utah Avalanche Center.
