Getting off of the Deville was way more of a challenge than any of us could have expected, and brought us closer to utter disaster than we had ever been. The guidebook describes it as being two pitches of rappelling to a snow gully that can be walked down. The first rappel is pretty easy, and the second is steeper and a bit tricky. It also says to bear right. We found the top easily enough, and beginning the rappel below west-facing slopes at noon seemed like an easy decision. The rappel would take two hours, maybe three tops, and the slopes above wouldn’t receive sun until late in the afternoon. That was when it all went to hell.
After six hours and multiple pitches of rappelling, waiting, trying to find anchors, and communicating across 60 meters of windy space, touching down at the bottom of the rappel brought intense feelings of relief and release from the stress of working through a situation that felt mildly out of control. I hit snow with 3 meters of rope left and ecstatically yelled, “It goes!” as I ran down to a shark’s-fin ridge sticking out of the 40-degree slope. Watching the rest of the crew rappel down and gather on the fin, I completely forgot about the slopes above the rappel, reveling in the release. The sun had traveled into the northwest sky, igniting the blue of the icefall next to us and turning the snow the same rosy gold color in which we had started the day.
With all of us off the rappel, we relaxed in the euphoria of having done it without injury, of being safe. We forgot, or ignored, the hazard that still hung above us. As I finished packing the rope into my pack, Jud traversed across the slope to look up the gully next door and see if that was where the rappel was supposed to end. The rumbling was far off when he arced his turn back, like thunder in the distance on a clear day, but when he screamed we knew instantly what was wrong. I looked up at a Niagara Falls of snow thundering over the lip of the cliff we had just rappelled down. It eclipsed the light of the sky, and we just fled. I ran, stumbled, and then crouched, curled up in a ball, and waited for it to hit.
It took a remarkably long time for the avalanche to touch down. I was pretty sure that it would stay on the far side of the fin, that most of us would be out of it’s path. The slope shook under the roar of the cascade thundering down, and then it was over. When I stood up and looked around, pockets packed with snow from the air blast, I was amazed to see four of us on the surface. We raced downslope with transceivers out, searching for Jud in the debris flow a few hundred feet below. After a couple of minutes that felt like much longer we heard him screaming from down slope, out of view, demanding if we were all okay--was everybody there?
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| Almost off of the rappel, feeling relieved. |
After six hours and multiple pitches of rappelling, waiting, trying to find anchors, and communicating across 60 meters of windy space, touching down at the bottom of the rappel brought intense feelings of relief and release from the stress of working through a situation that felt mildly out of control. I hit snow with 3 meters of rope left and ecstatically yelled, “It goes!” as I ran down to a shark’s-fin ridge sticking out of the 40-degree slope. Watching the rest of the crew rappel down and gather on the fin, I completely forgot about the slopes above the rappel, reveling in the release. The sun had traveled into the northwest sky, igniting the blue of the icefall next to us and turning the snow the same rosy gold color in which we had started the day.
With all of us off the rappel, we relaxed in the euphoria of having done it without injury, of being safe. We forgot, or ignored, the hazard that still hung above us. As I finished packing the rope into my pack, Jud traversed across the slope to look up the gully next door and see if that was where the rappel was supposed to end. The rumbling was far off when he arced his turn back, like thunder in the distance on a clear day, but when he screamed we knew instantly what was wrong. I looked up at a Niagara Falls of snow thundering over the lip of the cliff we had just rappelled down. It eclipsed the light of the sky, and we just fled. I ran, stumbled, and then crouched, curled up in a ball, and waited for it to hit.
__________
It took a remarkably long time for the avalanche to touch down. I was pretty sure that it would stay on the far side of the fin, that most of us would be out of it’s path. The slope shook under the roar of the cascade thundering down, and then it was over. When I stood up and looked around, pockets packed with snow from the air blast, I was amazed to see four of us on the surface. We raced downslope with transceivers out, searching for Jud in the debris flow a few hundred feet below. After a couple of minutes that felt like much longer we heard him screaming from down slope, out of view, demanding if we were all okay--was everybody there?
And that made five—we were all alive. Looking back up, the rest of the slope was empty; our gear had been carried or blown away, strewn far and wide. We were ultimately able to retrieve almost everything—most stuff was on the surface. I happened to step on Jud’s ski, buried 10cm down. No longer thrilled with the release of coming off the rappel, we silently gathered ourselves together and skied down to safety and the end of the scariest day we’d ever had.
Looking back, the slide seemed enormous--maybe size D3.5. With the 500’ freefall it took over the cliff, being buried seemed like a mild consequence; had we been standing under it, we would have simply been crushed. As it was, Jud was carried maybe 400 vertical feet, losing both skis and poles, doing his best to stay on top of the debris after ditching his pack. When it stopped, he was buried face down, but just under the surface. With a mere push-up, he popped himself out of the snow and grabbed his shovel and probe, ready to search for the rest of us. It wasn’t until we had all regrouped that he realized he had bruised a rib, and would be moving gingerly for the rest of the trip. We had come closer to losing our lives than any of us ever had before, or want to again, and for the most part we were just fine.
We were lucky—that was immediately apparent, but also a superficial assessment of what had happened. It took weeks for me to realize the enormity of our luck. I pride myself on my competence and ability to use good judgment in the mountains. Our survival, however, had nothing to do with either competence or good judgment, beyond my choice to regroup on the fin. (The debris was funneled away from us by this minute feature on the slope.) We knew that slope above us would avalanche sometime between 6 and 6:30pm--west aspects had been going every evening. We knew.
But we lost the bigger perspective. Our survival was incidental. We had given up our control; this is what scares me most. To have my safety and that of my comrades dependent on fate, karma, luck, whatever, is to me unacceptable. That I allowed myself to become so exposed to a hazard that I could no longer manage is terrifying to me. That we all survived the avalanche with merely a bruised rib was LUCK, pure and simple, and I'm not proud of that.
I had to head back home pretty shortly after we got out of the mountains. We discussed the avalanche on and off during our last day’s travel, but didn’t say much about it once the trip ended. I haven’t spoken with any of the guys since I left, other than a couple of emails about sharing pictures. Thoughts of the avalanche consumed me in the weeks after it happened, but I didn’t have the energy or courage to discuss it with anybody besides my wife.
As months go by and it moves further into my past, the emotion is becoming separated from the event and I am able to focus on what I can learn from the experience. Stay focused and be attentive to what is happening to the snow around you. Maintain situational awareness. Be aware of human fallibility in managing avalanche hazard. More than concrete lessons, however, what I am taking away is an ability to recognize similar situations and respond appropriately. I know that I won’t avoid avalanche terrain in the future, but I also hope that I will never again allow myself to become so removed from control over my own safety.
Looking back, the slide seemed enormous--maybe size D3.5. With the 500’ freefall it took over the cliff, being buried seemed like a mild consequence; had we been standing under it, we would have simply been crushed. As it was, Jud was carried maybe 400 vertical feet, losing both skis and poles, doing his best to stay on top of the debris after ditching his pack. When it stopped, he was buried face down, but just under the surface. With a mere push-up, he popped himself out of the snow and grabbed his shovel and probe, ready to search for the rest of us. It wasn’t until we had all regrouped that he realized he had bruised a rib, and would be moving gingerly for the rest of the trip. We had come closer to losing our lives than any of us ever had before, or want to again, and for the most part we were just fine.
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| View from the Illeciliwat Nevé the following day. The avalanche came from the slope above and to the left of the rappels, debris is visible below. |
We were lucky—that was immediately apparent, but also a superficial assessment of what had happened. It took weeks for me to realize the enormity of our luck. I pride myself on my competence and ability to use good judgment in the mountains. Our survival, however, had nothing to do with either competence or good judgment, beyond my choice to regroup on the fin. (The debris was funneled away from us by this minute feature on the slope.) We knew that slope above us would avalanche sometime between 6 and 6:30pm--west aspects had been going every evening. We knew.
But we lost the bigger perspective. Our survival was incidental. We had given up our control; this is what scares me most. To have my safety and that of my comrades dependent on fate, karma, luck, whatever, is to me unacceptable. That I allowed myself to become so exposed to a hazard that I could no longer manage is terrifying to me. That we all survived the avalanche with merely a bruised rib was LUCK, pure and simple, and I'm not proud of that.
__________
As months go by and it moves further into my past, the emotion is becoming separated from the event and I am able to focus on what I can learn from the experience. Stay focused and be attentive to what is happening to the snow around you. Maintain situational awareness. Be aware of human fallibility in managing avalanche hazard. More than concrete lessons, however, what I am taking away is an ability to recognize similar situations and respond appropriately. I know that I won’t avoid avalanche terrain in the future, but I also hope that I will never again allow myself to become so removed from control over my own safety.
Amazing write-up my love. You're humility in taking ownership over the lapse in attentiveness is so admirable. Too often people write about avalanche incidents and it reads like they're decisions were somehow independent of the event. I remember when you called to tell me about it. I cried tears of fear, joy, even a little anger. But mostly I was just grateful and relieved that you were all OK. I am so proud of how you manage yourself in the mountains and I am thankful everyday to have you in my life. I truly am the luckiest girl.
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