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Roger's
Pass: 2/1/03 Rich
Marshall
February
1, 2003—Mount Cheops, Roger’s Pass
area of Glacier National Park, BC about 65 kilometres
east of Revelstoke—17 Skiers caught in
avalanche, 17 buried, 7 killed. The monstrous
slide, estimated at more than 850 yards wide
with a magnitude of 3.5 (out of 5), hit with
enough force to flatten 10 acres of forest. Backcountry
skiers have flocked to Roger’s Pass since
the late 1800s. Today, more and more skiers come
for the legendary dumps, massive glacier runs
and rugged terrain. As the winter backcountry
becomes a popular playground, the chance of encountering
a critical situation grows. There is no substitution
for your own personal training and mountain education.
Every one of us who steps into the backcountry
has a responsibility to ourselves, our partners
and other users. With the high standard of technical
equipment and with mountain and safety education
so readily available today, we need not compromise. —Rich
Marshall
My
head snaps skyward at the unmistakable roar of
a massive avalanche. We watch as hundreds of meters
above us, the snow cloud launches off a cliff band
and charges towards the valley bottom. My eyes
follow the path, and right in its way is a large
group skiing up the valley below. “Avalanche!” I
scream.
I
see one of the group acknowledge me just as he
is engulfed by the wall of snow. In anticipation,
Abby and I cover our faces with our jackets and
in a matter of seconds are dusted by the windblast
while branches fly through the air around us.
I
want to turn away from what I’ve just seen
and let somebody else deal with it. But the two
of us are the only ones here. Heel lifts up, skins
on, we stumble our way over to the debris. It’s
already set up like concrete. Where is everybody?
I hear transceiver signals, strikingly crisp and
loud, each one telling me someone is running out
of air.
I
survey the snow around me. I see a hand sticking
out, slowly moving. A few meters away a ski is
visible. Close by is a young woman with only her
face exposed. I go to the hand, as Abby goes to
the face. Years and years of some of the best avalanche
rescue training and preparation in the world will
hopefully get me through this.
The
first few skiers we dig out are the easy ones,
the rewarding ones: they survive. The third person
I locate is blue. Shit! I sweep his mouth with
my finger to clear the airway. Nothing. I can’t
spend much time here. One shovelful away from the
chest area and he takes a huge, labored gasp of
air. I stare in dumbfounded amazement, one of the
most amazing experiences of my life, as he comes
to after a moment, eyes glazed. I hand him his
shovel and tell him to dig himself out. Gotta go.
For
the next hour or so we become unemotional search-and–recover
machines. We work separately and methodically,
communicating sparingly with each other as we go.
My eyes often glance to the start zones above,
still loaded and looming. My shovel breaks. The
snow is very dense after falling so far, so fast.
Those who can, dig themselves out the rest of the
way. I hear Abby encouraging a stunned survivor
to dig. One signal gives us trouble. I can’t
pick it up on the low setting. I can’t get
a probe strike; too deep, keep moving. My shorter
probe prevents me from wasting time with a three-meter
burial. Ruthless, but essential when time is critical
and there are others to find.
The
debris has banked up the opposite side of the valley
and flowed downstream 900 meters. As we work down
it, we are getting deeper and deeper signals. The
shallower burials are at the top or off to the
side of the path. We begin to realize that we have
found all the survivors. But we cannot give up
hope. We push our exhausted bodies through the
motions of finding, probing, digging. Somehow we
find the strength. With the assistance of the Warden
Service, local guides and the Snow Research Team,
the last two burials are located, the bodies are
dug out and survivors evacuated. We are released.
Rich
Marshall
Rich
Marshall lives, guides, climbs, bikes and skis in
Golden, British Columbia. Rich began climbing under
the tutelage of his father, who dragged him onto
rock and ice as a child… and quickly discovered
that he was a natural. Giving the term “all-arounder” a
new meaning, this guy excels at just about everything
he tries. First- and second-place wins at international
ice comps are found on his resume, as are ascents
of some of Canada’s most difficult ice routes.
Is there anything he can’t do? “Well,
I failed English and writing in grade school, even
though my dad is a journalist.”
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First
Time Out Susie
Sutphin
Your
first day in the backcountry leaves an impression,
much like the day you got your driver’s license
or the day you got your first job. I graduated
in August 1992 and immediately headed west for
Colorado. I moved in with a core group of local
folks who tele-skied, talked about the backcountry
and bragged about their state-of-the-art plastic
boots. It was all French to me but they were cool
and, like a little sister, I wanted to be just
like them. Politely they invited me on an early-season
backcountry adventure not thinking I would want
to go, but the green kid from Ohio was eager to
see what it was all about.
The
date is ingrained in my memory—November 4,
1992—and Summit County had just received
its first dump. As five of us piled into my roommate’s
1983 Land Cruiser, I had no idea what I was getting
myself into or that I was about to experience for
the first time what would become an integral part
of my life, the backcountry. We were being a little
presumptuous thinking we would get good snow but
that was as not as much the point as just getting
out there. We, or I should say they, agreed that
Quandary Peak at 14,265 feet, would be our best
bet.
It
was my first time even at a trailhead. I had none
of the necessary essentials and quickly realized
I was in over my head. I wasn’t sure you
could even call what I had "gear." Forget
about skins, I had no clue what those were. Fortunately
we were planning to boot pack. Only later did I
know to call it that. Heck, I couldn't even carry
my own skis, all I had was my college book backpack.
Two of my friends took my skis, making a tripod
with their own skis on their packs. About all I
could fit in my pack were my white Tecnica ski
boots, which stuck out the top. I was wearing my
favorite technical apparel, a turquoise and hot
pink Descente jacket with matching gloves and ear-flapped
hat. My ankle-high, duck boots left a three-inch
gap between my boot cuff and pant leg. Can't say
I knew any better. Ignorance is bliss! I was straight
out of the Midwest, home of J. Crew model
wannabes and barn jackets.
I
was frozen by the time I got to the top and my
socks drenched. Skiing down was a whole other story,
one tumble after tumble over sparsely covered rocks.
I quickly learned the term "rock skis." Every
bone in my body hurt by the time we got to the
bottom. As I recall, I think I had my first microbeer
that same evening to ease my pain.
I
don't think anyone ever expected me to venture
out-of-bounds again, but within a year I had traded
in my alpine boots for my own pair of plastic T2
telemark boots. I have them to this day and while
I don't ski them anymore, I don't think I could
ever give them away. I’ve skied Quandary
Peak many times since with much greater success
but always with memories of my first day in the
backcountry.
Susie
Sutphin
Susie
started skiing at the ripe age of eight,
after pleading with her non-skiing mom to enroll
her in lessons. Growing up in the not-so-heart of
ski country (Akron, Ohio), Susie hightailed it to
Colorado to discover tele skiing. Her alpine skis
were officially retired two years later. Presently,
you’ll find Susie living in Truckee where she
bikes and gardens in summer and fanatically watches
the Weather Channel through winter—wringing
her hands in anticipation of the next storm cycle.
Where’s Susie’s favorite place to ski? “Anywhere
it’s fresh. Sierra wind buff is the best though… it’s
oh-so creamy!”
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Bounty
Hunter Andrew
McLean
Lorne
Glick made a passable Captain Ahab. He’d
been thwarted, tormented and teased by The Great
White One, but had yet to give up. If anything,
having spent three weeks in the same hunting grounds
a year before, adrift in a sea of foul weather,
avalanches and despair, his resolve had only been
hardened. Mount Hunter must be skied. It wasn’t
a matter of if, but when. This elusive gem
of the Alaska Range must not be allowed to escape
again.
With
John Whedon in Queequeg’s place as lead harpooner,
and myself with Armond DuBuque manning the
oars, our expedition cast off for the Northern
latitudes. Provisioned to the gills, we drifted
across crevasses, tacked up rolling glaciers and
found safe basecamp anchorage below a tempestuous
ice fall. A scouting party was sent out to establish
a trade route through the towering terrors of ice
and succeeded in reaching the remote upper plateau
where our quest would begin in earnest.
As
if sensing our arrival, the mountain erupted in
protest. Snow streamed down from the heavens, clouds
obscured our vision and cold gnawed at our fingers
as we were driven back to the shelter of basecamp.
Thinking it had played itself out, we emerged days
later to assess the damage and try again. The mountain
responded with an impressive display of avalanche
artillery, unleashing volley after volley of crashing
debris. It waited for clear visibility to further
punctuate the point, then shook loose seracs, which
in turn triggered immense billowing slides that
tore down our proposed line of ascent, ripped across
our Advanced Camp plateau and shot up the other
side of the cirque. With the powder still hanging
in the air, the message was clear: The little
humans should go home.
But
obsession was on our side. We traded our harpoons
for crampons and started up again two days later
just as the sun was beginning to set. Perhaps thinking
that severe cold was enough to discourage us, Mt.
Hunter slept under a full moon as we climbed through
its defenses all night long and emerged on the
pointed snout 12.5 hours later. Standing on the
summit at daybreak, we realized the precarious
position we were in: somehow we’d managed
to spear the beast, now, how were we going to ski
it without getting pulled down into the depths?
Carefully.
Very carefully.
We
clipped into our skis and gingerly began scratching
turns over our faint crampon up-tracks. After
broaching the 13,000’ plateau, the vertical
began melting away as we arced down spangling fields
of powder on the West Ridge, being constantly alerted
to the dangers of getting lulled into a crevasse
or enticed off a bottomless roll-over. Surviving
that, the only thing separating us from our tent
was a 50-degree, 3,000’ couloir of ice. Patience
was a virtue and turns were at a minimum as we
focused on power side-slipping our way down to
the flats and at last, freedom.
Seemingly
still asleep, Mt. Hunter awoke to our victory howls
and sent a last gasp avalanche down the chute we
had just skied to try and reclaim us. But it was
too late. Hunter had become the hunted and life
was good.
Andrew
McLean
Andrew
McLean lives, but seldom skis, in Park City, Utah.
By day he is a Product Designer at Black Diamond
Equipment, and has designed such products as the
HotWire, Camalot and Android Leash over the course
of thirteen years. On the weekends, he travels to
exotic locations including Tibet and Antarctica to
hone his backcountry skiing skills. His latest adventure
took place in Alaska where he and a swack of telemarkers
completed the first ski descent of Mt. Hunter from
the top, with feeling, on 15 May 2003.
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Caught Leslie
Ross
Driving
to the trailhead, I listened with Colorado trepidation
and impatience to the long-winded avalanche report.
Though I filed the info somewhere in my brain,
the others didn’t seem too concerned with
the 11 inches of new Utah powder. We were going
with “locals.”
As
we toured up the well-worn track to the ridge,
I noted recent signs of a wet slide. We changed
to a northwesterly aspect and skied two runs, watching
each other from safe zones, managing the sluffs
on our tails.
At
the start of the third run I stood uneasy, looking
down the slope at the midday sun’s clear
mark on our previous tracks. Filled with angst
over my line choice and standing alone on the ridge,
I gingerly entered the low-angle slope, following
my companions’ tracks. Torn over which direction
to veer, I was tempted to take the path not skied.
It was a decision that would give me a lesson about “choices” and
their consequences.
Lured
to the untracked alley between two trees, I threaded
the needle onto a steep rollover. Crossing the
threshold, both literally and figuratively, I not
only entered the hot zone but another state of
consciousness. The slope slid. Initially unaware
of my predicament, I naively assumed another manageable
sluff was in my shadow as I tried unsuccessfully
to ski out of the current. Frustrated by being
denied exit, I turned to look at the force pushing
from behind. I was shocked. Reality struck hard.
The dream ended in a rude awakening. How could
I, the conservative one who ‘knows better,
have gotten myself in such a situation?
It
was like hitting a deer on the highway. The possibility
is ever-present so you keep watchful eye; but the
moment you stop paying attention, it happens. This
time I was caught.
The
scene unfolded in textbook style. One moment I
was carving carefully through the trees, the next
I was being carried by a manky flying carpet rushing
through a confined path. The walls were too high
for escape. I pointed my skis down the fall line
and braced for the ride of a lifetime.
A
sense of urgency prevailed where panic was expected.
Time and my perspective took on different meanings.
As if swallowed by the surf, my body, pushed by
the wet snow’s momentum was trapped within
this moving force field. I struggled not to succumb
to its domination.
As
the snow crept to a halt, distress streamed through
my conscience. Had anyone seen me? I fought with
all my reserves until one arm eventually broke
through the muck and I could clear space from above
my head, quickly clearing my mouth of snow.
I
sighed with relief. Calmness. Light. Sky. Breath.
The lights were almost out. So quickly might my
time on this earth have come to an end.
My
body was immobile, firmly encased in debris. There
was a brief pause of post-accident silence and
clarity. “OK, I’m OK, oh yes, I’m
OK. It’s time to get myself out,” I
said to myself. I was embarrassed and ashamed I
had let things come to this. I gave a cry for help
as I spotted one of my crew skiing by.
A
part of me was looking from the outside in, a distance
removed. The calmness I felt in the situation seemed
odd. I thought people in this situation would act
frantic, hysterical, and distraught? None of these
emotions were present. There was only a deep appreciation
and gratitude for the kindness of the mountain
for letting me escape and for my partners who dug
me out.
Humbled
by the mountain, reminded of my mortality, I struggled
with the importance of sharing my experience for
the benefit of others as well as my own need to
process the event. For weeks following the incident
I yearned to tell without preaching, to share without
dramatizing or imposing. I wanted to say, “This
can happen to you if you stop paying attention
and get complacent, for even an instant.”
I
have become thankful for this experience, enriching
my base upon which to teach. My brush with death
has brought me a strange calmness in knowing that
I have some control over my destiny by the conscious
choices I make.
In
backcountry skiing, as in the rest of life, one
should live with the awareness of a warrior behind
enemy lines. An unguarded moment can expose the
careless to a surprise attack and in the mountains
there are often no second chances given to complacency.
Knowledge and awareness are moot without appropriate
and conscious decisions and action. It is so easy
to let adventure take one into avalanche terrain
lightly, but as soon as our eyes veer off the road,
out comes the deer. And we may pay the price.
Leslie
Ross
Born
in the Bronx during the snowstorm of ’69, Leslie
was destined for a life full of chilly temps and
snow. As co-founder of Babes in the Backcountry,
Ross is never one to shy away from a challenge. In
fact, her first tele experience involved two weeks
of winter camping in 30-below conditions. We asked
Leslie to tell us a bit about herself, “I am
a closet artist. I love welding, making collages,
and bookbinding. Everything is better in a burrito.
I paint my toenails before competitions. I shovel
shit for the Summit Hut’s Association’s
composting toilets. I love hot springs, full moons
and summer nights.”
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