I recently read an avalanche account and it reminded me of this story which I wrote quite some time ago. I wrote it up in the same style/format that avalanche centers usually use. So, I thought I would post it again, maybe it will help somebody somewhere think about what they are doing while in avalanche terrain.

Decker Mountain, Blackcomb Backcountry
March, 2002
1 Backcountry skier caught, uninjured

Weather/Avalanche conditions/Group Summary
The first prolonged high pressure system had finally arrived in the coast mountains of BC by March of 2002. The snowpack was fairly deep, with over 450” of snow falling in the winter of ‘01/’02. The two weeks of dry weather had made an already stable snowpack even more stable, and the temps had remained steady throughout the period. On the way out from the top of Blackcomb, we checked the avalanche conditions and, as expected, conditions at all aspects and elevations were rated as LOW. Willy and I had about 15 or 20 years combined backcountry experience between the two of us at that time. We were both living in Whistler that season, and were experienced with the area and had been skiing a lot of backcountry prior to the accident.

Accident Summary
Willy and I headed up to the top of Decker Mountain and began discussing our options. Usually, we liked to ski the fingers of Decker, but after the prolonged dry spell, they were pretty tracked out. So, we made our way past Decker Main, and eventually found a slot that was a bit less tracked out. We skied this without incident, in a few inches of creamy powder that W/B regularly delivers. We didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary as far as avalanche conditions were concerned. At this point, we made a hard traverse to our left, bootpacked a short section, and gained a ridge to make a second lap. We climbed the ridge from there, back towards our last run.

Halfway up the ridge, I noticed a fun looking line. There were 3 horizontal rockbands, each of which were 3-8’ high, leading to the top of a large (60’+) cliffband. There was a slot to the left of the cliffband, however, that was about 5’ wide, between the corniced ridge and the rock making up the cliff. A quick straightline would bring me out into the wider couloir below. Willy pointed out that the only thing that could go wrong would be an avalanche, given the exposure. I agreed, and pointed out that in better conditions, you could skip the exit straightline and sail the whole cliff. Willy stayed on the ridge to spot me, and I climbed the ridge above the cornice so I could access the line.

I started down the line and quickly noticed that I was no longer skiing the creamy goodness of the previous run, but was on hard, wind-affected snow. I dropped the first little rock band and made a couple more turns, and then it happened. The fracture was about 10 feet above me, 12” deep at its deepest, and tapered out to nothing on the sides of the 30’ wide slab. It started off pretty slow, and I had a second or two to go over my options. My most vivid memory is looking over at Willy, my eyes asking his “What should I do?” His eyes came back at mine with “No freaking idea.” Because it was a hard slab, there was no possibility of digging in and letting the slide pass. To my right was nothing but rocks and cliffs. My left would eventually lead to my exit plan, but there was no way I would ever make it there. So, I would have to go straight down, over the little cliff bands and then the big one. The cliff was an ugly, non-vertical one, and I knew I had to clear it, and pick the right trajectory to have any chance at all. A little too far left or right and I was going to be landing on rocks.

I pointed it straight, picking up speed as a dropped over the little bands. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t see anything as the avalanche cloud grew. After straightlining for about 25 feet or so, I felt the weightlessness of the large cliff band, and I went into the fetal position, since I truly thought I was about to crater on rock. BAM! I landed, and then I was in the washing machine of the avalanche. Right, left, up or down, none of it seemed any different to me as I tumbled down. And then I stopped. And after a quick run-through of my body, I realized I was OK! I had lost my skis, my poles, my hat, and my goggles. I was able to find them all. I looked up at my bomb-hole, and I had cleared the rocks by just a couple of feet. But my aim had been perfect- a little (as in five feet) to the left or the right, and I would have been slamming rocks. Willy estimated the airtime at 80 feet, after the straightline. I would say a little less. Regardless, it remains my biggest air. The slide continued another 500’vert, but was only a surface event for the rest of the slide path. I would classify the slide as: HS-AS-R.5-D.5-O.

Comments
So what did I learn? In general, I wouldn’t have done anything different. I didn’t dig a pit, but I ran into a very isolated pocket of instability, and only would have discovered it once I was on it anyway. We couldn’t see so much as a point release for hundreds of square miles. We read the avalanche report; it only confirmed what we had been seeing for weeks- low danger.

I am more leery now of hard slabs- they seem so hard that you can’t even imagine them moving, but I know now more than ever that they sure do.

When it came down to it, though, I had something all along that I hadn’t paid that much attention to before but desperately needed when the moment arrived. I had a mental map of where I was at, and if I hadn’t, the outcome would have been much worse. I think that my years of racing and years of doing freeskiing comps had given me a really good sense of my place on that slope, and that gave me the ability to realize what needed to happen as soon as things started going wrong. As Willy said afterwards, “You did the only thing that you possibly could have done to get out of that.” These days, I constantly think of where I am on a slope, and where I need to be if a fracture rips out above me, or at my feet, or whatever. Where is a potential safe zone? Where is a potential terrain trap? This is the biggest lesson that that day taught me. That’s why I wrote this account up- it’s something that I think too few of us think about when traveling in avalanche terrain. Anyway, I hope somebody finds some value in this, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions or comments if anyone has them.