BY AMIE ENGERBRETSON
December 9 was one of those beautiful, bluebird Utah days that I dream about. The sun was shining, there was not a cloud in sight, and there were endless pockets of cold, light, dry Utah powder. I am a Lake Tahoe native and was visiting Alta Ski Area to ski some early season snow, host the red carpet at the Powder Video Awards, and get some still shooting in. Little did I know that I would soon be fighting for my life.
It was my last day in Utah and, after days of poor conditions, a great day to shoot. Utah-based photographer Adam Clark and another female skier we were with decided to hit up a zone at the base of Grizzly Gulch, calling it the money spot where multiple covers of Powder magazine had been shot.
We took a cat-track, eventually traversing out of the ski area boundary, and hiked for around 10 minutes. At the top, we talked very briefly about the snow conditions and safety. We didn’t see any visible signs of instability or recent activity, and it was mentioned that the slope had recently been skied. Then we realized that the other skier had her pack but not an airbag, had forgotten her beacon, and Clark didn’t have backcountry gear.
We decided that I was to go first. As I dropped in, I noticed two hikers across the ravine, and had the fleeting thought that should something happen, at least there were eyes on me from that direction. I finished a deep slash turn, and then everything changed. I saw cracks everywhere and felt the undeniable shift of snow beneath me. Snow moved all around me with immense force and was gaining speed. There was no doubt in my mind — I was in an avalanche, and a bad one at that. I swiftly pulled my airbag trigger and felt it inflate. I saw some small trees diagonally to my right and knew that was my only chance; I did not want to go into the ditch. I managed to stay upright, swimming with all I had, and made it to the trees. I grabbed on and felt the airbag catch on them, possibly helping me stay put as snow rushed around me. Then the snow developed new strength (due to a second avalanche caused by a weakness in the snow from the original slide) and I was ripped from the trees.
That’s when I knew this was a worst-case scenario. I was headed for a steep, deep terrain trap. The words of my Avy 1 instructor and Squaw Valley ski patroller, Lel Tone, took over my mind. I grabbed the side of my helmet, creating a protective “V” shape in front of my mouth. I was tossed and tumbled and came to rest with snow completely covering my face and head.
For a millisecond, panic started to creep in, but Lel’s voice came back. I had an inch or so air pocket in front of my mouth. I closed my eyes, tried not to move, and started to breathe slowly. Within 20 to 30 seconds, I felt and heard movement on top of me. Clark began clearing the snow as other rescuers arrived. I felt a probe strike my left arm. I heard digging and felt the pressure lessen. My right hand was uncovered, grabbed, and squeezed. I squeezed back. Then snow was swept away from my face. As I took a deep breath, I saw the relieved face of Clark, quite possibly the most welcoming vision I had ever seen in my life.
I stood up, trembling, amazed at what had happened and that I wasn’t hurt. I felt a rush of immense gratitude toward my rescuers who had put themselves in danger to save me, and then a rush of utter stupidity and disappointment with myself as I suddenly saw all the warning signs that had been around us all along. As we walked out of the ditch, we saw recent avalanche activity on the slope right next to where I had skied. Clark and I recalled the avy report that we had both read that morning, which said there was considerable danger for skier-triggered avalanches on northern aspects above 8,000 feet. That was exactly where I had skied, and there was a massive terrain trap right below me.
The entire slope above me had released and taken me down with it. According to the Utah Avalanche Center website, the width of the slide was 150 feet, the length over 100 vertical feet, the crown 2 feet deep, and I was burred about 1.5 feet under the snow. Without an airbag, I would have likely been buried even more. I knew that if the accident report had been about someone else, I would have thought, “Wow. Those guys were idiots.”
I had been a primary witness to the most dangerous aspect of backcountry travel — the human factor. We let the utter awesomeness of the day outshine any warning signs or information that could have helped us make better decisions. Most of all, we were overconfident because of Clark’s experience in the backcountry and the other skier’s familiarity with the terrain, and the small, close scale of the slope. I put too much blind faith in these factors. It was a classic example of a false sense of security.
I had always thought I was too smart to make that mistake, but I did. I am truly grateful that the situation was not worse. I am grateful that from the moment everything went wrong, everything went right. I am forever thankful to my rescuers, who were smarter and more prepared than us. Most importantly, I am grateful that this can be a wake-up call and a lesson in humility for me, and everyone like me, to never let the allure of deep powder get in the way of using our brains.
This story originally appeared on Amie Engerbretson’s blog, amieski.com.
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