"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."
- Mark Twain
The avalanche slams into me like I was standing still. No transition. No warning. One moment I'm riding knee-deep fluff — effortless, beautiful, sensual, profound — the next I'm tumbling down the mountain in a crashing wave of snow. Swimming for all I'm worth. Dog paddling, crawling, backstroking — whatever it takes to stay on top of this mess. I don't know where my skis have gone. I don't know where my poles are. All I know is that I'm headed directly for a thick stand of trees — and the steep drop below that.
I was only gone for a week. You know, just a quick surf trip to the tropics with my college-aged kids; a rare chance to reinvigorate our sun-depleted bodies while eating fresh mangoes and papayas on the beach. Sure, I knew it would snow on the Wet Coast while we were away. Probably snow a lot — irony has ruled my life of late. But I didn't expect the mountains to steal another friend...
Damn. It happened so fast. From light to dark in the bat of an eye. So weird. And on such a nice day. How surreal. But there's no time for recriminations now. Gotta keep swimming. Gotta stay on top. Otherwise I'll drown...
It happened just down the highway. At a place called Stevens Pass in Washington's Cascade Range — and it happened just a short hike from the top of the resort's own Seventh Heaven lift. It's serious country up there. And it demands serious commitment. Just like our own coastal peaks. It's clearly not a place for dummies. And yet that's the screaming irony of this tragedy. For the individuals who got caught in last week's deadly slide were as pro as they come.
And then: WHOOMP! I'm driven into a tree with sickening force. The breath is sucked from my lungs. A lightning bolt of pain surges through my body. But I've stopped. For a moment, I think it's all over. I'm okay. I didn't get carried over the cliff. And then the debris starts to settle — and I realize that I'm getting buried alive.
I know. I know. Avalanches don't discriminate between experts and beginners. Still, the Stevens Pass crew featured an outstanding collection of skiers. Knowledgeable. Local. Fully prepared. There were no yahoos in the group. No one was looking for glory. And no one was walking in blind; everyone in that posse understood exactly how far out on the edge they were venturing. Still, the opportunity to tiptoe beyond the pale for some tribal soul riding was just too alluring a proposition to resist. And it was despite the risks — not because of them ("death happens to others") — that they found themselves in such dangerous circumstances. Which should make this particular tragedy resonate even more with Whistler's powder-obsessed hordes. But I digress...
I want to fight. To struggle for all I'm worth. To free myself from this engulfing prison. But I can't move. I'm totally pinned against the tree. Like a rag doll, my legs and arms hang uselessly off my body. And I start to scream for help. But there's no air in my lungs. All I can muster is a scratchy croak.
This is how Seattle Times reporter Craig Welsh described the group: "They were an exceptional band of outdoor aficionados: pro skiers, ski-magazine writers, editors and photographers, a ski-marketing whiz [and] a former avalanche-control expert who judged international skiing competitions... By the time the massive avalanche swept through [the group]... the once-small world of skiers who chase snow in the backcountry near big resorts had become the biggest national phenomenon in skiing."
Slowly — inexorably — the snow begins to pack itself in around me. It's so steep here that the fast-hardening snow still wants to creep down the hill. And I'm in the way. Another horrible realization. I'm not just getting buried. I'm being crushed to death. Literally. I've already pissed my pants, and I can't get any air into my lungs. Three, four — five minutes at the outside — and I'm dead. No! This can't be happening to me. There's no way I'm gonna let this thing kill me. I'm stronger than this. I've faced worse crises before...
So what the heck happened down in Stevens Pass? How did it all go so wrong? Turns out it was the most experienced rider in the group — my longtime colleague and friend Jim Jack — who triggered the fatal slide. Which makes the whole thing even weirder. The afore-mentioned avalanche forecaster and freeskiing judge, a successful backcountry entrepreneur and passionate big-mountain adventurer, Jim Jack was also a Washington state native with decades of travel experience in the Cascadian high country. It just so happens that I shared a lot of mountain time with this guy during my own years of judging on the IFSA circuit. And I can say this for a fact: Jim was not a man known for risky moves or poorly thought-out decisions. Au contraire. The 46-year-old alpinist was as thoughtful as they come. Calm. Reasoned. Calculated even. He was the last guy I'd expect to jump onto a risky slope on a whim.
But it's no use. And for the first time I really begin to panic. This could be seriously terminal. Damn. I can feel the life force slowly slipping from my body. One heartbeat at a time. And the madness of the situation hits me all over again. I'm going to die. There's no way out of this mess. I'm going to die.
Alas, nothing was going to save Jim and his friends from their snowy fate that day. Not his local knowledge, not all his years of snowsliding experience. Not even the group's careful approach. "They had all followed backcountry protocol," recounts the Seattle Times' reporter. "They partnered up, skied one at a time, huddling together only in treed areas they deemed safe. They also went knowing that avalanche danger was considerable, but put faith in their skills and in the knowledge of their leaders, local skiers who had traversed this particular slope hundreds of times."
The pain is unimaginable. Deep and nasty and pulsatingly intense. The end is coming fast too. I know. I can feel death's claws confidently gripping into my flesh. But still I won't let go. I'm just so damned angry. Not afraid. Not resigned. Just deeply and profoundly angry.
Hubris? Luck? Destiny? Who knows? For whatever reason, Jim Jack was caught out while leading his group and he and three other skiers — Chris Rudolph, John Brenan and Elyse Saugstad — were hurled down the mountain in the massive avalanche triggered by his passage. Only Saugstad — a world champion freeskier in her own right — would survive the 2,000-foot death-ride. The others would pay the ultimate price for their afternoon powder quest. Ouch. In one savage slap, the mountain gods succeeded in extinguishing the life-flame of three of their most accomplished acolytes. Snap. Lights out. Crackle. You're gone. Pop. Cut from the game. Just like that — without meaning or rhyme. Without passion or emotion. And yet. And yet...
What's really strange is that my perception has abruptly split in two. There's the "me," fighting desperately for survival. Raging and cursing and scrabbling for breath. And then there's the "I," removed from the panic, calmly watching and assessing the situation, actually making comments on my plight. 'Wow,' the "I" says from somewhere up above the "me." 'So this is what it feels like to die. How uncool. Somehow I thought you'd be more Zen about our impending demise.'
So how do you put something like this in perspective? How do you make sense of what is, ultimately, a senseless act? I mean, there wasn't a nasty bone in Jim Jack's body. He was one of the good guys, for sure — a big-hearted man who was ready to pitch in and help, no matter what was required. So why him? And why now? In many ways, his snowy death brings to mind that of local pro patroller Duncan Mackenzie two months ago. Also that of big-mountain ace Jack Hannan a few seasons back. Meaning? Guys like Duncan and Jack and Jim (and Chris and John and...) aren't supposed to die in avalanches. They know too much. They care too much. They still have too much to offer to their community. So tell me this: why do we keep losing the good ones?
Seconds tick by. Minutes pass. Feels like hours. Feels like forever. Not much time left now though. I can feel death's claws sinking ever deeper into my flesh. The pain is excruciating. My brain is fuzzy. I'm slipping in and out of consciousness now. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. I just didn't think it would end this way. So helpless. So vulnerable...
Just so happens that another sad anniversary was being marked in Whistler last week. As some of you probably know, it was 16 years ago Sunday that local skiing icon Trevor Petersen was killed in a freak slide in Chamonix. News of his death shook the tightly knit mountain community of the time to its roots. For he too was a much-loved figure — and much respected. And if Trevor could be an avalanche victim, well, then no one was safe... Which only goes to show how arbitrary the mountain gods really are. So be careful out there, my friends. And always keep this in mind when you're travelling in high places: if it doesn't feel right, chances are it's not right. Better to retreat and live than charge and die. Enjoy the snow.
