A Bad Day, That Could Have Been Worse

February 16^th was the kind of bad day that could have been a lot worse.

The short of the day, was that Aaron and I were skiing the backside of Microdot in Hatcher. Climbing back up, we overtook another group of two on what appeared to be a low consequence slope, and triggered a short, wide, 3-foot deep slab above complicated terrain that took three of us for a ride and left one us buried neck deep.

For a few seconds, I was certain I was going into a hole and would be buried and maybe crushed. Luck is all that kept me on the surface in the end. Like all days, there were a lot of decisions made, most were small, and seemingly inconsequential. This is my attempt to look back at them, with the advantage of hindsight, and consider what went right, and what went wrong.

Pre-Slide

After weeks without snow, Hatcher Pass had been walloped early in the week, first by a windy and warm storm that dropped around 2 feet of snow. I initially expected the snow to be very reactive due to the old and wind hammered base.

Data on how the new snow what reacting on the old base was sparse. The road to the Pass was left unplowed. Skiers struggled to get up to Hatcher Monday or Tuesday. Mid-week, a second, colder system passed through dropping another foot of lighter snow with minimal wind, burying clues from slides that occurred during or after the first storm.

The road remained unplowed Wednesday and Thursday, and what little info was coming out of the Pass offered mixed signals. Considering the wind-hammered base the initial storm had fallen on, natural avalanches were sparse, when it seemed they should have been rampant. There was fairly ample evidence however, that the new snow was readily reacting to skiers.

The slides being reported were running out in typical storm slab configurations: generally narrow, slowly, and softer in composition. These are the types of slides one might expect as the storm abates and the snow begins to settle down. 

On Friday, with the road plowed, Aaron and I decided to go check things out

Decisions 

Decision 1: Self-assigned danger rating of considerable. Synopsis: Correct

Hatcher has a once a week av forecast issued on Saturdays, which was not yet out. Observation info was limited, and mixed. That being said, the base/bed surface the snow had fallen on warranted suspicion. Based on what I knew, I assigned a danger rating of considerable. The rating plays a role in my personal decision making. A professional, or personal assignment of “considerable” equals an automatic one “flag” for me. Three flags, and the day is over.

Decision 2: Flat light delay. Synopsis: correct.

Friday dawned with high clouds, but a forecast to clear. Given the self-assigned considerable rating, we delayed start until noon when it was apparent that skies were actually clearing. Hatcher is a difficult place to ski when you can’t see. When conditions are good, you can continue to ski therein low light, but the point of this ski was to get info. Not being able to see or having obscured vision, was both a risk, and negated much of the purpose of going at all.

Decision 3: Observing a fresh skier-triggered slide and not marking it as a flag. Synopsis: incorrect.

As we arrived, we passed Marmot’s west face, and observed a very fresh (less than 5 minutes old) skier-triggered storm slide. It appeared the skier had skied past a trigger point and was some ways down the slope before they realized the slope was sliding, and safely exited the relatively narrow slide path. The skier’s two partners skied next to the slide with no additional reaction. I asked the ranger if he had witnessed the slide but he said he had missed it. I suspected it was similar to the skier-triggered slides that had been reported earlier during the week: slow-starting, deep, able to run full path, but non-cohesive. This was concerning, but I did not consider it a flag at the time. The slide was clearly slow, and the snow seemed somewhat stubborn, and the slide had triggered where the skier passed by a classic trigger point: a rock and convex protrusion.

In hindsight, these were some of, if not the first skiers on this slope, and they had nearly instantly triggered a slide. Regardless of whether the slide indicated a “healing” interface this should have been flag 2 for the day.

 

Decision 4: Pit test – no clear decision rendered.

On the way up Microdot, we passed a pit dug by the avalanche center. I reused the back of the pit to isolate a new column. I would not call this a formal test, however, it was far more formal than any previous pole pits conducted to this point. We observed a moderate force trigger, easy leverage, and a clean shear. The pit, to me, indicated typical spatial variability, we exposed a potential, though not widely existent, smooth bed surface. We knew this reaction was spatially variable based on pole pits. This confirmed a suspicion that the slides were triggering in specific locations, and were generally sliding more due to the mass of available loose snow/inertia, but were failing to propagate on a wide scale due to a lack of a cohesive slab structure or the existence of a wide spread consistent bed surface and weak layer combo. Basically, hit the right spot, you would get something to slide, and in steep terrain it would carry enough snow to slide down the fall line, but it would do so fairly slowly. In general, it’s not likely I’d ever commit a flag to a single pit result in any situation, unless the pit revealed an unexpected condition, in which case, I’d be looking to dig more pits. Pits are good for getting a good look at layers, but are indicative of a small spatial area, especially in Hatcher. In hindsight, this was evidence that should have been accounted for, but not compelling.

Decision 5: Subtle collapsing on established skin track – no clear decision rendered.

We observed subtle collapsing on an established skin track on Micro’s rounded west side. Aaron seemed to notice this more than I did, but Aaron is a good bit taller than me, and heavier as a result. When he commented on this, I was able to get some very deep, muffled collapsing by jumping up and down. The aspect where this occurred is underlain by large (and now buried) boulders that are typically exposed; and is a wind-hammered ridge. Collapsing was not a surprise given the sub-surface, but what was surprising, was that the skin track was a day or more old and had been traversed by at least 8-12 skiers. Again, Similar to the pit results, this reaction, on this slope, did not (and likely still would not) warrant a “flag,” but it should have increased the level of suspicion, and been a clear indication thigs were not “alright.”

Decision 6: False positive observation of skiers in Rae Wallace. Synopsis: incorrect.

This was one biggest mistakes of the day in my view. While climbing, we observed two skiers drop into a steep and finned chute on the western side of Rae Wallace. The skiers were cutting hard, and passed over numerous potential trigger points, but failed to initiate anything more than sloughing. I gave this observation immense weight, more than any other observation to this point. Why? Because it showed what I wanted to see. I wanted conditions to be stable, and this appeared to show it. Instead of considering this a neutral observation (maybe they got lucky, may steep north-facing had already slid, etc.) I overshadowed the previous observations made.

Decision 7: Skiing the north side and deviating from plan. Synopsis: wrong, no safe exit strategy for conditions.

The plan had been to ski the sunny south side, however, it was well tracked. As we topped out, a group of two descended the unskied north side. I heard a loud collapse as the first skier dropped in, but observed no cracks or other reactivity. The second skier, a snowboarder, dropped in next, with no collapse. I felt good about the slope as it is concave in the center, and punctured with micro features that break the slope and can act as snowpack anchors. The skiers had initiated a collapse, but it was right off the ridge, not a surprise, and there were no visible cracks. Aaron also felt good after watching the two skiers drop in, so we followed a few minutes later. We did not get any reactions. Skiing this slope would not cause us any problems, but we did not have a good exit strategy, and that’s what would bite us.

Decision 8: Climbing north side of Microdot. Synopsis, incorrect.

The snow was incredible, we were leaning toward the idea that conditions were stable. We had the choice to either climb back up the north side, or exit the bowl. The latter option chews up a lot of time (less skiing), but the former would either put us on a steep slope we’d just skied when other skiers were likely to descend on us. We could also put in a more circuitous climb northeast of the main north side run. The two skiers in front of us were a few minutes ahead of us, and began to break a trail, climbing this circuitous north east route. We did not communicate with them about route selection prior, but later confirmed that they chose this route to avoid skinning directly up the main run, which they also assumed would have skiers dropping in.

At the time, this seemed like a prudent decision, I was familiar with the terrain, I had recently used this route, and felt good. In the face of no better evidence, this might have been an OK decision. In the face of the actual evidence observed, and having two flags already up, we likely should have just exited the bowl.

Decision 9: Catching and passing on a steep slope. Synopsis: too close, avalanche/incident.

This is where it all came to head. Trail breaking was slow and deep. Aaron and I were able to catch up with the two other skiers, who I will refer to as skiers 1a and 1b, in a sub bowl approximately 200 vertical feet above Murphy Lake.

Skiers 1a and 1b were approaching an approximately 100-foot northerly facing slope above the sub bowl that lead into the next, smaller bowl. This was the incident slope. Skiers 1a and 1b were approximately 25 yards apart; 1a was entering the incident slope, setting a skin track across the slope using a narrow natural bench that cross-cut the slope.

In a non-judgmental way, I did not like this route, and would have preferred to stay in the flats of the sub-bowl and use a short concave gully on the climber’s left of the incident slope. I’d used this small gully feature before, but, with deep snow, and a small and unintimidating incident slope, I opted to stay the course and follow the broken track to try to catch skier 1a and relieve them of the arduous trail breaking.

I caught up with 1a approximately mid-slope on the incident slope, and was about 10 feet behind 1a.

Everything I’d observed to this point, barring one false positive, should have had told me I had 2 flags raised, and the antennae should have been on high. Getting this close to another skier on a steep (greater than 35 degrees), albeit short slope, that I did not like to begin with, over terrain traps, was just stupid, and about to be a big mistake.

Slide

At this time, skiers 1b and Aaron were just entering the incident slope about 25 and 27 yards respectively behind me and 1a.

As 1a and I passed a mostly buried rock outcrop, (the area featured numerous micro features including buried boulders and micro channels), the snowpack settled 2-3 inches.

All 4 skiers felt the settlement.

The slope began to fracture and broke an apex crown about 30 feet above skier 1a and I, and fractured approximately 150 yards across, at a depth of 2.5-3 feet. Slope angle across the slope varied due to the micro terrain.

Aaron was the farthest back, and on the edge of the fracture. By turning around he was able to escape the slab.

Skier 1b deployed their airbag and was knocked down. They were carried an estimated 25 vertical feet or more, sliding through a channel. Skier 1b said they felt their airbag slow them down and keep them above the moving snow.

For myself, a memory kicked in as the snow slowly crumbled and I felt myself sink and lurch down. I turned downhill and was able to take a stride or two before being knocked backward by the acceleration. I was in a sitting position, upright, facing downhill, leaning back over the tails of my skis. I could tell immediately that I was being carried directly toward a number of potential terrain traps at the base of the slope, likely small tarns.

As the slide initiated, I in line with a low, snow-covered ridge of rock, this feature played a role in keeping me safe. By constantly moving my ski tips upward, while using my poles laid flat behind me (no wrist straps attached) I was able to provide some directional steering and float above the moving snow and ride on the higher micro terrain. I could occasionally feel the bed surface with my fists, likely buried snow-covered rocks.

As the rock ridge narrowed and ended, the snow pulled me to the right, toward a channel that lead into a terrain trap that I could see was going to fill.

At this moment, I realized I had to fight with everything I had to stay on the little ridge, or I would end up in the hole.

I plunged my left hand into the snow and planted the handle of my left pole as hard as I could into the bed surface. The snow pushed past me for a second and I was able to wheel leftward, redirecting myself at the last second, to instead stay straight and ride over a 3-4 foot snow covered ledge. The torque from the maneuver tore the pole from my hand, which was planted with enough force it was still pointing outward after the slide.

As I spilled over the ledge, the slide lost momentum, and I could see I was on a small alluvial feature, and was going to be OK. I was carried an estimated 50 vertical feet according to a GPS track.

Skier 1a also turned down hill as the slide initiated, however, 1a was directly above several terrain traps located at the base of the slope. Skier 1a deployed their airbag. I heard the bag deploy, but never saw if it inflated. After the incident, 1a said they believed the bag deflated during the slide or never immediately inflated, and when I discovered 1a, there was no evidence the bag had been inflated at the time of burial.

Skier 1a was carried right, and traveled an estimated 75 vertical feet. I was able to see skier 1a get dragged right, but lost sight of them due to my own struggle and to a raised terrain feature.

The slide lasted an estimated 10-15 seconds, and had effectively slipped the entire incident slope.

It was unlike any of the skier triggered slides yet observed, and carried a classic slab pattern, including a few step downs.

Response

Aaron was off slope as the slide stopped; Skier 1b was on top of the snow but partially hidden from view of Aaron and I as they were in a small channeled terrain feature; I was upright at the base of the slope below the ledge, my left leg was buried shin deep, but the tail of that ski was at least 2 feet deep, my right ski was on the surface. Skier 1a was not visible to the rest of the group and was buried to their neck, facing down slope, slightly reclined, and surrounded above all but their right hand.

Of note, skiers 1a and 1b also had a dog with them. It is not clear to any of us where the dog was at the time of the slide’s initiation, nor where the dog was after the slide. It is possible the dog was buried or partially buried in the slide, and extricated itself, as we all distinctly remember it appearing after the slide during the extraction of skier 1a.

I immediately called out that I was up, and OK as the slide stopped, I could see Aaron. Aaron confirmed he was ok. About 5 seconds later, skier 1b called that they were OK and stood up.

The three of us were now visible to each other, but could not see skier 1a. We began to shout and call for skier 1a. No response was heard, and there were no visible indicators of their location.

I initiated the search, and called for all beacons to be switched to search mode.

I had the last visual of 1a, and was closest at the time of the slide. My beacon indicated an initial distance of about 25 meters to skier 1a; Aaron, who was farthest away, had an initial reading of 65 meters.

Based on the fact that I suspected skier 1a was fully buried in a terrain trap, and was relatively close, I chose to dig down and release my foot from my buried left ski and abandon it rather than excavating it first. I believed I could reach 1a as, or more quickly on foot.

I unclicked from my right ski and used it, and my remaining pole as aids to scramble through the debris while heading in the direction I had seen 1a carried, checking my beacon for reference.

Aaron still had both skis and skins on and was beginning his search, however, he was father away and had to traverse the base of the debris initially. Aaron remarked later that he was surprised how slow and challenging it was to travel through the still-soft debris, and that he felt like he was “going through mud.”

I called 5 meter increments, which also seemed to come slowly, and was lead on a trajectory over the small ridged terrain feature that divided where I had been sent and where 1a had been sent. I also initially felt that progress was slow, however, not having skis on made it easier to scramble a direct route across the debris and micro features since the distance was short.

Upon climbing the small ridge feature, my readings dropped instantly from 20 to 15 meters.

That’s when I first heard a muffled call for help.

Below me, 10 meters away or less, I spotted a glove protruding from the snow.

I yelled “I have a hand.”

Later, 1a would say this was the first thing they heard, despite the yelling the three of us had been shouting.

I was slightly uphill of the hand, which I still did not know was not just a glove on the surface. I began to yell to 1a that I heard them.

As I scrambled down, I was able to make sight contact with 1a, whose head was just barely above the surface, and yelled this to the group.

1a was buried upright, facing downhill, leaning slightly back, buried with compact snow to their neck, loose snow to their mouth, their right arm stuck up, their left arm buried. Though loose snow had collected around 1a’s mouth, they had an unobstructed airway. Snow was piled about 1.5 feet above 1a, only their hand was visible on the surface, their head was sunken into the depression.

As the slide had stopped, 1a knew it would be their last chance to create an air pocket, and shoved their arm upward and swung it across their face. The snow settled and instantly froze them in that position.

The time between the end of the slide and my contact with 1a was 3-4 minutes. This was verified by a GPS track.

I assessed that 1a was breathing, conscious, able to make eye contact, and had color in their face. At face level, I brushed loose snow away from 1a’s mouth, and asked 1a if they were hurt, or felt any pain or injury. 1a said they were struggling to breath; 1a’s breathing and speech was audibly labored, this being due to the weight of snow on their chest.

I chose to forgo any further potential injury assessment, and began to excavate snow away from 1a’s chest.

I carry my shovel with the handle in place so it can be deployed in a single motion. If you don’t do this, you’re wasting time. Adrenaline will be on high in these moments, stupid things like sliding a shovel shaft into the blade will be stupidly slow. Everything you do to make the search faster are an aid, whether it’s easy access to your beacon, or rescue equipment.

Despite the adrenaline, I was aware that I kept a high situational awareness, watching for near or far hang fire.

Even as the urge to want to start digging furiously set in, I made sure to tuck my beacon back into my jacket, closed the zipper, and situated my pack uphill and away from where I’d be excavating snow. These were all conscious decisions that happened. I was aware they were happening, but they all felt automatic. I can only attribute this to both practicing for this, and for rehearsing it mentally.

Approximately 1 minute after I arrived, Aaron arrived. Aaron deployed his shovel and began to assist removing accumulated snow, forming a shovel train.

Here’s where I made a mistake, albeit, a small one: Aaron, like I, was relieved to see skier 1a above the snow, conscious, etc. I never communicated to Aaron that 1a was struggling to breath though. To this point, communication had been good, but lacking that knowledge, Arron did not know there was still urgency to the situation. This came up after the incident, but it was worth noting.

Skier 1b arrived about 1 minute after Aaron. 1b was emotionally upset from the incident, and relieved to find their partner well.

After a few minutes of excavating 1a down to their waist, I slowed and asked 1a to re-assess for potential injuries. 1a said they felt good, other than a sore knee. 1a was now able to breath easily and to communicate fully. I continued to excavate behind 1a, as well as to dig to 1a’s feet so I could release 1a’s skis, which were both still attached. I did my best to avoid knocking more snow on 1a, and communicated clearly when I was moving blocks of snow away from and behind their head, knowing that the sensation of reburial can cause panic in these situations. 1a was calm and collected the entire time.

Once free of 1a’s skis, I used 1a’s backpack straps to pull 1a fully free.

Post-incident

The group spent some time after the response discussing the incident and assessing conditions that had lead up to the slide. Both groups agreed that while there was evidence of instability, there were also not as many typical flags, nor ample evidence of flags. Skiers 1a and 1b had reported they had been snow machine skiing in the area the day prior, and reported that they had spent the day easing onto progressively steeper slopes with no results or reactivity. Aaron and I had noted what we saw as inconsistent activity, indicative of spatial variability. None of the skiers in the groups had conducted their own formal stability tests. Experience levels in the group were high. All skiers involved in the incident had 10 or more years of backcountry skiing experience.

All skiers involved agreed that spacing and slope angle where a problem, particularly given that there were signs of instability.  

At the time of the incident, I had approached within 10 feet of skier 1a. Who knows whether better spacing could have prevented the incident, or whether it still may have caused a slide as 1a passed, or delayed the slide until myself, 1b, or Aaron passed.

Skiers 1a and 1b were not upset, they, like myself, did not suspect the slope to be a threat. To the point, not knowing whether the slide would have triggered because of spacing, they were thankful we had decided to follow them. No other skiers would ski the north side of Microdot that day.

Another factor that contributed to the slide, these bowls are in a sheltered, northerly facing terrain feature. With additional protection provided by the small micro features. They were likely points to harbor buried surface facets over the wind hammered base that had been proving to be a reactive layer over the buried bed surface elsewhere. Our previous travels had been on aspects that likely would have seen the facets wiped away.

On first glance, the relatively small size of the slope, and apparent “slope anchoring” provided by these micro terrain features, might have given the impression that while steep, the slope was not high risk. Over a flat run out, or with a smaller snow load, the slope would not have necessarily been problematic, but given the snow load, the two flags that were up, the evidence that conditions were still unsettled and variable, and existence of terrain traps, this slope deserved better travel protocol, or avoidance entirely. Interestingly, we had intentionally avoided the main north side slope expecting skiers to enter it, but no one ever did.

After the slide, we all skied back down our skin track to Murphy Lake, then across the lake, and back down to Independence Mine.

Root Causes

Personal: I want to see what I want to see. I want stable snow so I can go ski the lines that engage me. Lacking snapping red flags, I chose to focus on evidence that leant itself toward stability, and ignored or dismissed the evidence to the contrary.

Protocol: had I been willing to see the evidence for what it was, I would have been more concerned with both route selection and spacing. While my intentions were good to catch up, I should have waited before crossing the incident slope, and caught up with 1a on the flat above.

It sucks to know you messed up. The biggest take away for me, was the reminder that I need to ease up. I have a habit of seeing what I want. There’s a balance. This sport is inherently risky, it is uncontrolled, and thus risk management is subjective and personal.

 

View from below. T is the trigger point, black line was the skin track, 1a is where skier 1a was buried

View of the approach slope.

Burial location. Good example of how a relatively small slide can pile a lot of snow in the right features

Not great shots of two skier-triggered slides on Marmot. The slide to the right was triggered as we arrived, the slide to the left was triggered moments before we left.

 

Proper and the Library

Christmas 2015 promised one day of calm, cold weather and stable snow, and an endless line up of storming and warming thereafter.

With single digit temps at the road in Turnagain on Christmas Eve, Nathan and I headed for a Library mission.
We debated going in a-la Center Ridge, but decided to take the Tin Can uptrack and make a run down the south face. We had both already skied Proper south face earlier in the month on a glorious blue bird day with a deceptively shallow snow pack. That run was 1/3 thin rocky, 1/3 fat and deep, 1/3 rain crusty. We hoped for something more redeeming.
The early signs of the impending pattern shift were present almost from the outset, with high stratus clouds moving in not long after we set off.
The climb up Proper was far less spicey than 2 weeks ago and we weren’t the first to punch to the top as with last time, though our chosen run was untracked. Nathan went down to the first knoll a few hundred feet off the top. I came down next. I admit, the delightful snow had me running a little hot, and as I neared the post up, a sudden change to wind slab caught me by surprise and I unintentionally popped into the air. I came in a few feet above and behind Nathan, crawling in slowly enough. In my mind, I’d come to a stop, but video revealed otherwise. The knoll Nathan and I were on was covered by a 20x20x1.5 slab that popped as soon as I came along side. Nathan was directly over rock and tundra and came to a stop as soon as he sat down. I was in a little deeper and blocks over the tips and tails of my board dragged me maybe 5 feet as I punched into the soft bed layer looking for an anchor. For all of a second, it looked like a really bad situation was about to go down: the run narrows and thins through a gully below, followed by another 1,500 feet or so of mountain…
As it was, the slab was small, and the blocks hit the deep surface facets and skittered away.
It wasn’t so much luck that we didn’t get into something bigger – the next level slide would have been catastrophically deep and likely involved a whole face – but bad luck for finding and triggering this small surface patch where we thought we were safe to post up and assess the next gully section. The small south-easterly facing slab was likely formed by the 30+ mph north-northwest winds that had blown over the region in the last week. 30-50 mph outflow (north-west) winds are the scariest in my mind: they easily form slabs, but don’t hammer hard enough to either cement or pop the slabs, as is more common during storm events. They also tend to occur during dry spells when snow has lost moisture and bonding potential. It was a scary reminder nonetheless of just how fast these slabs, big or small, can pop.
We leap frogged the rest of the way down the face, kicking off some impressive sloughs along the way, but never again finding evidence of surface wind slabs.
It wasn’t the greatest, though far better than our previous run down this face.
Next up, we lined up to climb one of the many sub peaks that make up the Library.
Verts on, we plowed upward.
Booting was variable: we wallowed waist deep, and we walked easily in boot top on a supportable base; the angle oscillated from comfortable to numerous pitches of 50+. Just because, it seemed that the steepest sections always had the deepest snow. Our chosen rib got too steep at one point, and we were forced to make a lovely down climb, and move laterally onto a lesser spine that was backed off in pitch. The full effect of the face’s variability was made apparent as we went from waist deep to 6 inches over shredder rocks and back to waist deep in 30 feet of lateral. So ya, that’ll be fun later for crossing spines.
Spacing out was a challenge. Our experience with the wind slab had us on edge, but at the same time, the sloughs were moving deep and fast. Each step promised to kick off at least a small cascade, and some grew to 20 feet wide and a foot deep in seconds. Getting too far behind was risky for the low man with no place to hide.
As we neared the top, we were able to abate some of our slab/spacing concerns by seeking refuge behind rock outcrops. I was thankful for the cold temps and subdued sun as I stood on thin snow next to the black rocks.
From the top, optimism resumed. We had deep, light snow, descent lighting, and a few playful spines to choose from.
Given the heavy sloughing and lack of safety spots, we agreed it was best to ski the run in its entirety rather than try and leap frog. Of course, one of my radios had failing batteries.
Nathan dropped in first and I sat tight for two very long minutes.
He eventually appeared below.
In I went next.
It was obvious this wasn’t going to be glorious within a few turns.
The slough built up fast and I was immediately heading for a high spot to let it run.
A few more turns down and I saw that Nathan had un-intentionally broken the main spine. The ensuing slough out was huge: it had picked up so much speed it wiped out some of the lesser spines along the way and entrained quite a bit of snow. Even in the gully, the remnant slough acquired speed easily, and the trench offered no safety. I worked my way down slowly, making 3-5 turns at a time before having to clear slough, holding one broken spine as long as I could before it either rolled into ledges or broke and I had to jump to another. It was easily the heaviest slough management I’ve had to deal with. The consequences of getting dragged were ever present.
The variability of depth and need to stay high on the spines guaranteed we both spiked some mean gremlins along the way too.
I’ve navigated some technical lines in spring in northerly facing stuff in Hatchers that required maneuvering through or over ledges. It can be a lot of fun, and reminds me of rock climbing, but in reverse. It’s a puzzle to solve. In this case, the puzzle was a little too intense with the depth and speed of the slough, and nothing ever felt like it clicked.
I was glad to be at the bottom after several minutes.
We watched a group of three ski a line farther down the way. It seemed they had a similar experience. Their lead skier had a beautiful run, but in the process kicked off a large slough that billowed up an impressive two-story-high powder cloud. The following two skiers seemed like they were forced to pick their way down with a lot more care, probably a result of reduced snow quality.

Smiling is reserved for easy booting and moderate pitches

Looking over at Proper

Discolored area is a view of the slab that popped

 

The forecasted storm series rolled in and started dumping lots of heavy new snow in north Turngain, but hardly a flake fell elsewhere. In an attempt to avoid crowding at the popular locales, we went to Summit on Saturday and skied the variable wind effect in the sun on Glider. It was a nice little foray, but not worth more than one ridge to road run. We went back to the truck and back to Turnagain. The Sunburst lot wasn’t plowed, but we shoved the truck through the DOT snow berm anyway and did a lap down the gaper slope in a total white out. There were only two other skiers on the hill plus one lone guy wallowing on snow shoes with no skis. The lack of viz was inconsequential: the snow was ridiculously good and compensated for everything. Sunday we went to Tin Can with everyone else. Off and on snow showers and 3 feet of fresh were the conditions of the day. Visibility was never really great, but we found really nice consolidating powder from the top of Common to tree line, that transitioned into much deeper unconsolidated powder pallooza. Turning was stupid, but dropping cliffs and pillows was ridiculously fun and every landing was Charmin soft. A look at the altimeter back at the car at dusk revealed we’d logged 7,000 feet of great storm skiing!

 

Chilly Xmas day spin in town.

Summit Pass skyline from the skyline ridge of Summit Peak,

Blurry, but I still like it. Snow wasn't great though.

Great snow, bad light, making an exit from Sunburst. Viz never really got better on Sunday, so no pics, just smiles and snow.

 

Pinnacle Merit Badge

To get the Pinnacle scouts badge one must ski all four corners of Hatcher’s Pinnacle Peak. There’s a separate badge for skiing from the center point of Pinnacle, also known as the summit.
Not being one for ropes and rock climbing, I’ll just have to settle on the four-corners badge…

The Talkeetnas are having a rough season on the stability front, and have been well worth avoiding so far due to some of the worst avalanche conditions in years, despite a nice cover.
Cody, Mike, Kellen and I went on a pit-digging mission on Saturday. Jed’s report was promising, but as they say in the industry: “Trust, but verify.”
We put in four pits on a knob above Renshaw’s cabin. Although we had a good spread on the compass, the pits were all within a few 100 vertical feet of each other and no more than 200-300 feet laterally separated. Pit depths were starkly different: the south and west-facing pits were shallow, a meter or less; the north and east facing were deep, in our case, close to two meters.
Results were surprisingly consistent between all pits and promising though. Numbers are averaged, but we found a thin rain crust we called the mid-storm layer about 1-foot down that collapsed at ECPT 25 with a Q3 sheer. The deep October rain crust that has been responsible for the bulk of the big slides that have raked Hatcher went around ECPT 35-40 with a Q2 sheer. The deep facet layer perched over the October rain crust showed signs of increasing stability and improving friendliness between layers. It’s still scary as hell, and when the facets were swept clean, the former Q1 sheer potential was easy to imagine. The good news was that, in the deeper pits, stability seemed much better, so, in theory, more time and loading will help future bonding, and the potential for a skier to trigger this layer, especially when buried deep, is pretty damn low.
This is certainly good news, and bodes well for the range and hopefully the season. My take away is that, similar to last year, I would stay away from Hatchers during or immediately after any large scale snow events (duh). While a skier is unlikely to set much off during low-hazard periods, the additional impact of a heavy slough (natural- or skier-triggered) while slopes are reactive could result in a step down and potential release of a fatal deep slab. There’s also a good chance that no matter how well this layer “heals,” it will rear its head on sunny slopes come spring, or during a mid-winter meltdown.
One other thought, how will the re-exposed October crust react to future loading? A lot of slopes ripped down to the crust layer in the previous weeks, leaving it essentially exposed or thinly covered with light snow, spindrift, and growing hoar crystals.
These legacy slides have left a patchwork of surfaces for new snow to fall on. The common logic would be: with a few more feet of snow, the potential to trigger a slide over a legacy pocket will exist, and the size and location of said pocket will be nearly impossible to identify. If buried deep enough – 2-3 feet – it will be nearly impossible to even recognize this hazard while traversing a slope.
That’s pure conjecture, as we don’t know how this re-exposed layer will react, and it’s loading will be extremely variable, but it should be a running background process to consider.

Buildings at Gold Cord disappearing.

Guess who got the deepest pit award. Photo C.G.

Photo C.G.

Block love. Photo C.G.

So anyway, skiing. The weather looked good for Sunday, and Cody, Nathan and I went for a Pinnacle mission. The plan was to climb Pinnacle’s northwest couloir, descend into the northeast couloir, climb back up, and drop the northwest.
With an early start, we made pretty short work of the approach thanks to in-place skinners leading into the Mushroom garden. Booting the line was pretty easy, partly thanks to all of us now using Verts, but unfortunately, also thanks to thin cover and patchy wind board in the lower 2/3. The best and the deepest snow was all concentrated in the top 1/3 of the line.
The bigger surprise came as we cautiously peered over into the northeast couloir.
It needs a lot more snow. The only entry involved either a.) A 20-foot mandatory drop with a landing directly on top of a cross-slope fracture; or b.) Down climbing a granite fin on the skier’s right and into the line. Coming back up would have been basically impossible. When Nathan moved over toward said fin, he fell to his thighs into an anti-shrund.
Message received.
It appears when Kyle, Nathaniel, and I were skiing the northeast couloir last spring LINK, there was about 10-feet more snow banked over the now protruding fin. The entry at that time was pretty intense, but this was just ridiculous.
Not helping motivation was that fact that despite a formerly promising weather forecast, high clouds were rolling in fast, and lighting was varying between poor and flat. The chasms would ski well, but we knew the exits would suck.
We skied back down the northwest couloir. While the top was delightful, the rest was survival skiing: lots of jump turns, loud powder, and punchy wind board.
I think it’s safe to say, we’ll all be looking for redemption at some future time here.

The Northwest Pinnacle Couloir hiding in the shade as seen in November 2013 with much better cover.

Transitioning to booter mode. Photo C.G.

Tea at sunrise...at 10:30.

Photo C.G.

Looking down the NW couloir from the top. Photo C.G.

One Hour Slower or 10 Minutes Faster

On my left, a long-running fracture extended as far down the ridge as I could see. Toyota Tacoma-sized chunks of cornice that had partially peeled away from the slope hung like seracs; and far below them, I could spot the toe of a wide pile of debris spilling over into treeline, indicating the entire CFR bowl had ripped.
On my right: football fields-worth of minutes-old avalanche debris covered the entire valley floor – the same floor that had dominated my view for the past hour and a half, and was uncovered for all of it.
Our tracks and transition zone from the previous run on the slope and flats to the right were wiped out and buried.
It appeared we were on the only 50-foot strip of snow for at least ¼-mile in either direction that had not slid or been buried.
I was convinced there was no way we’d get back to the car without getting tangled in some kind of slide; something terrible had happened, the magic hour had struck, and this mountain was shaking off a layer of 4-5 feet of snow like a dog shakes water from his soaked coat.

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Kyle and I were skiing the north side of Tin Can. We’d just done a rather conservative run, skiing down part of CFR ridge, and then dropping north lower down on the ridge where it begins to broaden.

Snow conditions below 2500’ were 2-3-feet of heavy and wet toothpaste-like snow with a breakable wet crust on top. Above that, the snow was deeper, dryer, but still dense, with a slight wind or heat crust on the top.
Conditions weren’t great, but they were consistent.
With a hazard rating of moderate for treeline and up, 19 inches of new snow mid-week, and no observed avalanche activity since the prior weekend, if you had asked me what my main avalanche concern for the day was prior to 2:00, I would have said: “wet slide point releases on sunny faces that could run 2-3 feet deep, probably slow and molasses like, but heavy enough to hurt or bury you in the wrong spot.”
That wasn’t a big concern, as our target aspect was northerly/westerly out of any direct sun.
We weren’t thrilled with the snow, but it was nice enough to stay out.
For run 2, after deciding the crowded and sun-baked south side skinner slope looked…crowded and sun baked, and not seeing a compelling reason to not at least try, we decided to poke into one of the north-facing chutes.
Kyle and I were skiing down into one of the western-most chutes, an uncomplicated affair that rolls over like a basketball at the top. We planned to post-up on the exposed ridge that looks down into it – there is no way to have eyes on someone after the chute rolls – but that would be a good enough spot, with the plan that I would head down into the valley below, and radio back up to Kyle as to how it skied. If it was better than what we just did, he would follow, if not, he could head down the ridge, and we would re-group below in the flats near our previous transition spot, and probably just go home.

A photo showing much of the extent of the 4/17 Tin Can slide, the crown still visible 4 days later following a 2-3 day storm that dropped over 3 feet of snow and delivered triple digit wind gusts. Photo: CNFAIC

Heading to the exposed rocks overlooking the chute, I couldn’t believe my eyes: It looked like all of Todds had ripped, burying the entire valley floor. For a half second, I thought the debris was still moving, but realized it was static. I could see where it arced out of the chute I was skiing into, as well as maybe those above (east) of it.
Delayed for that second or two, I cut hard back to the ridge line, and started waving in that direction for Kyle to follow.
Four riders had just headed down the ridge as we topped out, and I was convinced there was a burial, maybe multiple, below.
A good full account was compiled by the Chugach National Forest Avalanche Info Center here as to what happened next. (Kyle and I were the party of two that followed the group of 4 that triggered the slide) http://www.cnfaic.org/site/observations/tincan-avalanches-off-the-north-and-south-side-of-cfr-ridge-3/

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It’s been a bit of a challenge to make sense of this event.

Perhaps one of the most troubling aspects, aside from the narrow margin of time that separated Kyle and/or I from being wiped off the map by this slide, is that it’s been difficult to point to anything in particular that should have warned us of the scope of the danger that day. As a result, it’s not clear that I can say that given the chance to repeat the day, I would have made any decisions differently.
Here are the take aways I’ve landed on so far:

1. Deep wet slab on persistent bed surface in late season
2. Unpredictability
3. Late season snow: too much too late
4. Solar heating
5. Consistent, but not great skiing

Most these issues are somewhat inter-related, and the differentiation, and their individual significance can thus seem hazy.
Here’s what I can say about 1 and 2.
We’ve been dealing with a persistent though stubborn melt-freeze layer since early April that has proved to be a poor bonding surface. A number of large slides have reacted on this layer since the beginning of the month, and given the progression of the season, it’s shown no signs of healing.
It’s pervasive, and exists literally across much of the Kenai range. As a result, its ability to allow slides to propagate on an enormous scale, connecting disconnected terrain features and letting slides go “wall-to-wall” across entire mountain sides, is shocking, and scary. It’s now buried deep under the accumulated snow of early April (12 feet?) (number 3).
When I first began to grasp the scale of the north-side slide, my mind, landed on the Twin Peaks slide that went naturally in 2011 and took out much of the face of that mountain (http://www.cnfaic.org/site/observations/silvertip-creek-twin-tip/). Later, Kyle noted the well-known skier-triggered slide on Sunburst in 2008 (http://www.cnfaic.org/accidents/avy022308.htm), and I think that was a better comparison.
On a smaller scale, in late March 2013, a similar bed surface formed in the Summit Pass region. Snow did not accumulate heavily in the region in the month that followed, however, there was enough accumulation to result in a number of very unpredictable natural and skier-triggered slides through out that zone, though fortunately, because of the overall lack of accumulation, and perhaps the colder temps of that spring, slides were smaller in scale, both in depth and width. Regardless, in light of this season, the lesson learned, was that the persistent weak layer never healed.
The way 1, 2, and 3 blend together, is that we had a nice, heavy, wet layer on top that, in theory, would heal and stick. The lack of avalanche activity the preceding days certainly would have indicated this was occurring. Perhaps, earlier in the season, this is a concept that can be relied on more, but late season, with more daily solar heating, the layers were getting diurnally stressed.
Big dumps to the scale of what we saw this April aren’t uncommon here, but are more typical from late October through late January. Then we have cold days and repeated poundings by violent coastal gales that help glue the snow on to the mountain sides or knock it loose during the heights of the storm cycles, we get good stability.
Ideally, in March through April, good skiing comes from smaller snowfalls (less than 3 feet), and less violent distribution events. Indeed, looking back, the best late season years I’ve known have been characterized by cool springs and a consistent line-up of weak storms.
Looking back on this April, I would describe avalanche conditions as hard to evaluate, and lethal if misjudged.
I think this wording will help stick in my mind. We ski some lines with a lot of risk. I’d like to think we user all the available data to determine if that risk is worth taking. In this case, basically, the data was far too variable.
On number 4, Kyle and I thought we were mitigating the effects of solar heating by skiing a slope out of direct sun. What perhaps we failed to account for in this situation, was the presence of a layer of high, thin clouds, and a nearby storm cell over Portage, that were likely helping to push heat onto all aspects, as opposed to just those in the sun’s cross hairs.
Then there is number 5. I would not have described conditions as extremely variable, so I wouldn’t call this a “system overload situation” (http://atrailcalledlife.blogspot.com/2015/02/avalanche-awareness-false-alarms-and.html), in fact, conditions were rather consistent, just, not good.
What I’m gathering from this, is that my experience levels in the backcountry tend to fall under a rather specific condition set: cold powder. This isn’t surprising, these are the best riding conditions for the most part, and in general, I will seek out and confine myself to the aspects and elevation bands that best support this type of riding condition. As this last comment gets to the point of “duh,” my remark is, in choosing to ski snow conditions that are different (a wet slab, as it was on this day) I should really back up and re-think how I’m making decisions and what criteria I’m using to evaluate stability, and realize that what I may take for granted at other times, may not hold up. More and more, I tend to ask, why even ski in these conditions? That’s harder to answer though after you’ve driven down, skinned up, the sun is out, and the season is drawing to a close.

-

Thanks to all those that have let me chew on their ears (or screens) to talk this slide out. That pretty well includes everyone I know it seems. I hardly landed on these takeaways on my own, and it was quite distressing feeling like there weren't any solid lessons learned. While its still bothersome that there weren't any big red flags that were missed, I think it can be said there were some situational circumstances that can hopefully be used in the future.

Avalanche Awareness: False Alarms and System Overload

I’ve been picking up on a safety trend the last two seasons that I’ve somewhat struggled to handle. Basically, the gist is, we get an event (or a winter), that creates widespread variable conditions that overwhelms, or numbs the avi radar, and results in a system malfunction for recognizing what might otherwise be obvious, potentially dangerous situations.
We know to recognize the big, red, warning flags flapping in the wind: big crowns from natural or skier-triggered slides; whoomps and shooting cracks; steep faces with nowhere to hide; and creaky, hollow, wind slabs that pole-punch to nothing.
The alarm goes off, we re-evaluate, and make decisions. The world is comparatively black and white.
The days I fear most now are the days when every step I take yields a different condition: bullet proof bed surface one step, airy/recycled/spin-drift pow the next step, unsupportable crust the third step, supportable crust, tundra, whoompf; mix, match, and repeat.
It’s so variable, and so inconsistent, it’s hard to pin-point and isolate the danger from the nuisance, and is easy to slough off the warnings as simply false alarms.

• Ya, that was a whoompf, but the slabs are tiny, shallow, and unconnected.
• Ya, this bed surface blows, but there’s nothing on top of it but little wind drifts and loose snow.
• Ya, tundra, this winter sucks.

It’s like sitting in a big control room and having every alarm go off, but being 99% that every one of them is just an alarm malfunction rather than a crisis.
This goes on for hours. Soon, I find myself just shutting off the alarms and just going numb, when I should be thinking:

• The slabs might be small here, but at some point they might be big enough, and tilted enough, to break loose.
• The icy bed surface is the icy bed surface. It’s going to be pervasive, and probably exist under a massive swath of terrain. It may only present a nuisance here, where exposed to thinly covered, but beneath the right patch of snow, it could let the above-mentioned slab run, and run a long way.
• Tundra…rocks, whatever, they’re sucking up the heat of the sun and pumping it into the surrounding snowpack. As the day wears on, and later in the season, small slabs will become more reactive than they were in the morning, something that’s easy to forget in mid-winter.

A lot of these issues are basic principles any backcountry user should know and understand before hitting the slopes, but the problem that I find I have, is that when the alarms are going off every other step for issues that really aren’t actually hazardous, and I keep hitting the override button, when the alarm finally goes off for the last time, I long-ago stopped listening, and am caught by surprise.
As we enter the equinox season, and the daylight presents the opportunity to go deeper and farther afield, we can cover greater distances, thus exposing ourselves to even more variability.
Conditions, and what might have been false alarms encountered early-, or even mid-day, could, and probably should, carry more weight, or warrant re-evaluation, if encountered later…be it due to increased solar radiation, or because the alarms are occurring in an area with different wind patterns and snow load then what was traversed 4 hours ago.
If the same damn alarms have been going off the whole way though, do they still register when they finally matter?

In extremely variable conditions, conventional testing may be of limited value.

I found that more often than not, for me, the answer was no.
Where I landed, was that when I go out in extremely variable conditions and find the alarm panel is lighting up non-stop with what I feel to be false alarms, and I keep hitting the override button, it’s time to raise a different flag, and realize that the conventional warning system is shot.
Sure, maybe the target slope/line of the day is likely going to be OK, but without said radar working, how will I know?
It’s kind of a weird concept, but basically, I realized I need to treat this particular situation like I would if I’d just spotted a big crown or a natural, or some other major red flag.

The three best resolutions for this situation that I’ve found:

• Bag it. Go home. Extremely variable conditions usually results in mediocre skiing/boarding, at best. Sometimes, it's not good "just to be out."
• Be a tourist: stay in the flats and off the slopes, take pictures for future days.
• Isolate the terrain and reduce the variables: stay local, pick a slope or aspect that is low consequence given the alarms and conditions, and lap it; avoid temptation to push higher or steeper.