[Tri-Ungulate]

First (and hopefully last) descent of Not Yet Couloir.

Realize that this was written amidst a backdrop of ruminations and reflections on mortality and responsibility, so please pardon the melodramatics. This was extremely difficult to write, and I decided not to include it as part of the main Tobacco Flats thread, as it carries a much more somber tone. In my head, I've been over and over the events countless times through the days, and am still trying to make sense of it all; please bear with me.

I seriously struggled with the decision to even post this narrative. I decided to do so for cathartic reasons, as well as hope that somebody other than myself may take away something of value from it, per Bruce Jamieson's "reporting culture".

Sunday, May 22nd 2005.

Julian and I camped at Upper Horse Pasture below Mount Gibbs. As the Tioga Road was still closed, our plan was for an ascent of Mount Dana via a slightly less conventional approach, approaching due east from Gibbs Canyon up the saddle between Mt. Gibbs and Mt. Dana. We originally planned a descent of one of Dana's couloirs (Dana or Solstice) with a hike back up the north-facing ridgeline of the southern part of the cirque, then dropping back down to Kidney Lake above Gibbs canyon, then back out. Audaciously, I had even expected to drive back to Salt Lake directly afterwards, in order to try to get a little lab work done that night.


Map of the route we took to the summit. (Detail at www.topozone.com).

We awakened around 3AM Monday for an early start, and headed out shortly after 4 in the darkness between moonset and sunrise.


Obligatory start-in-the-dark shot of Julian. Another taken shortly before dawn prior to switching over to skis.

As with the previous two nights, there did not appear to have been a hard freeze, and we were dressed lightly, hiking up the first part in regular shoes. The snow around 8500’ was generally supportable, but occasionally we would break through to faceted snow beneath; conditions improved very slightly as we ascended. Although we seemed to be making good time, it took us longer than we expected to arrive at Gibbs Lake. We switched over to skis a little prior to this just before the sun came up. We were treated to our first view of the cirque between Dana and Gibbs a little before six.


Pano of the Cirque. Peak 12,565 is on the left with Mt. Gibbs behind, and Point 12,466 is on the right with Mt. Dana behind (out of sight) (click on image for larger view )

We made our way to Gibbs Lake, oriented our way around it and up to the next hanging valley, the Kidney Lake catchment. Snow here was more windswept, and indicator south/east facing slopes dropping from the ridgeline we planned to return down showed some evidence of wet sloughing, not dissimilar to what I’d seen on Mt. Morrison above Tobacco Flat two days prior, though not as marked. The few visible sloughs appeared to have run over the last couple of days, and run shallow, with minimal distance or velocity.


Making our way around Kidney Lake. Our planned descent line was the large couloir to the right above Julian (below the saddle seen in the picture). The pyramidal rock formation at the top center of the horizon is high point 12,466 on the topo. My eventual descent line is directly above Julian, above the slough fan.

Taking awhile to make our way down to and around Kidney Lake, we switched to crampons for the hike up the snowfield/headwall to the saddle of the cirque. Although the first couple of steps Julian took (near rocks) were pretty rotten, the snow firmed up considerably for the remainder of the climb, and the crampons certainly were necessary (especially for me in my duckbills). I could only drive the base of my ice axe in about 6" before encountering a solid layer beneath.


Julian making his way up the snowfield/headwall.

It was between 8-9 at the start of this ascent, and we topped out at the saddle a bit after 9.


Pano looking east towards Mono Lake from the saddle. (click on image for larger view.)

After a break for food and water, we then ascended the shoulder of Dana to the summit on skis and skins, topping out a bit past 11. I should mention that Dana has a special place in my heart as the first peak I had ever summited as a kid. I’d been up several times since, every time from the Tuolumne Meadows side in the summertime. I hadn’t been up for over 20 years, though, and never on snow, so it was an exciting homecoming of sorts for me.




Panos from the top of Dana. (click on images for larger views.)

Although the weather was as magnificent as the views, we stayed only long enough for a few pictures before battening down and starting the descent around 11:40. The snow down to the saddle was absolutely perfect corn, making for ideal spring Sierra turns.

Much as we would have liked, due to time constraints, we decided against our original plan of dropping the Dana Couloir and climbing back out the northern aspect of the cirque. Instead we opted to head directly towards the wide south-facing chute we hoped to use to descend back to Kidney Lake. We'd seen residual tracks in that couloir, and despite its south facing aspect and the lateness of the day, with the snow we were experiencing it seemed a good a bet as any. However, traversing along the cirque in fairly good snow, we realized that it would be impossible to get around point 12,466 without some exposed 4th or 5th classing. We were left with a couple of choices at this point. We could go back to the point where we had ascended and drop the headwall; this had a very slightly more easterly aspect, and we knew the snow was fairly solid. The alternative was to consider some of the narrower, steeper (high- to mid-40 degrees sustained) chutes between the headwall and our original line choice. Returning to the headwall would entail a bit of slogging back on ripening snow for uncertain benefit. Dropping the chute directly below us presented uncertainties in regards to whether it would go all the way through and whether the slightly more southern aspect would significantly impact snow stability. As some cursory evaluation at the top seemed to indicate that (away from warming rocks) the snow where we were was reasonable, we decided, fatefully, to take our chances with what we had. We were still feeling a bit cocky from the excellent turns we'd had off the top of Dana, and felt that if we got stuck above a point we couldn't safely ski or downclimb, we still had our crampons & axes to climb back out.


Map of our descent. Red x shows approximate point where the avalanche occurred. (Detail at www.topozone.com).


Looking down the maw of the chute towards Kidney Lake below.

Around half past noon, Julian descended the first leg, and quickly realized that we were mistaken regarding snow quality. After the first few turns, every turn he made seemed to be in rotten punchy snow. He picked his way down to the first island of safety where he stopped. I followed and immediately noticed the deteriorating conditions as I descended towards his position. Although conditions were not as bad as they had seemed on Saturday on the south flank of Mt. Morrison, they were not by any means pleasant or confidence inspiring. We met up above a narrower section of the chute where I was to do the next lead. I made a few turns, then as the angle was about to steepen and the chute doglegged, decided to do a diagonal ski cut and swept right across the chute. A slab released with a two foot crown, cutting loose directly above my skis instead of breaking below me. Due to the narrowness of the chute, I had nowhere to run, and was immediately caught in the slide.

Unlike the slow moving sloughs I had seen earlier, the avalanche moved fast, likely due to being a slab instead of a slough, focussed down a narrow steep couloir. Once knocked over, I had no time to recover. Other avalanche accounts describe victims having time to remove poles, unbuckle their skis, place AvaLung tubes in mouths (my AvaLung lay useless, packed in my car), make swimming motions, etc. For me, everything happened blindingly fast, and in an instant I was completely engulfed in a snowy torrent that roared around me like a freight train, blocking out the sky and the surrounding mountain. Julian mentions that the slab stepped down another three feet to another deeper layer further downslope. He estimates I must've descended 1500 vf in less than 10 seconds. I only had enough time to realize that I could very well die. Suddenly I was weightless, airborne for what seemed like a long time. My last clear thought was of my wife as I said goodbye.

That is my last memory for a while. Julian mentions that the slide swept me off a 50+ foot cliff. The impact of landing caused a concussion, even though (thankfully, for what it's worth) I was wearing a helmet. Because of this, for me, everything surrounding the event remains jumbled, with only a few shards of memory available, such as my broken ski lying next to me. My first semi-clear memory is of Julian asking if I was OK. He arrived some two hours later, as he had encountered myriad difficulties in getting to my side. He'd been unable to determine a way to negotiate the cliff, and had climbed back up, around and down the cirque. I don't know whether I was initially buried or not, or if I'd somehow been able to free myself from a partial burial. Perhaps the cliff had been a blessing in disguise, and kept me from being entombed in Sierra cement. Perhaps the speed of the avalanche was another blessing in disguise, as it threw me past the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. The impact zone of the pour-over and the debris path was absolutely tremendous, and buried within was much of my gear. I must've had at least the presence of mind to put on warmer clothes by the time he reached me, but don't recall having done so. Had he not showed up, I would likely have just sat there dumbfounded, in a fugue, slowly becoming hypothermic.

Julian immediately checked me over to find I was remarkably intact. I needed to warm up a bit in his emergency bivy bag before I was able to attempt a descent. He was kind enough to give me his boots and skis, and to carry both of our packs on the way down. From a combination of shock, disorientation, dehydration, lack of food, sleep and energy, the trek back to the cars was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I would only be able to go a few dozen yards before collapsing from pain and fatigue, sometimes curling up on the snow for awhile as Julian patiently waited for me to recover, as he gently but worriedly encouraged me to continue down. There were a few slightly tense moments when we were uncertain if we were still in the correct drainage, especially as clouds and wind began to pick up, and the sun began to set. It took us over six hours to return to the cars, and we arrived at dusk, some seventeen hours after setting out. During that time, I realized that most of my faculties were intact, and how unbelievably fortunate I had been to escape with such few consequences.

Once we returned to the cars, Julian wanted to take me to the infirmary at Mammoth Lakes, but somehow I persuaded him not to. There’s a maxim regarding how those in the healthcare field make the worst patients, and I suppose that I am no exception. My reasoning was that if anything drastic could have developed, it very likely would have in the time it took us to descend. Aside from my exhaustion, I felt sore, but reasonably undamaged, and I believed that a clinic evaluation and imaging would not change my medical management. I fell into a fitful sleep in the back of my car, with Julian checking in on me periodically through the night to make sure I was holding up OK.

The next morning broke clear and beautiful – despite the cliché of it all, it really did feel like the first day of the rest of my life. In the beauty of the early light on the mountain meadow I definitely felt that I had gained a new lease on my pithy existence. I should add that I’ve had several close calls in the past, from a high speed motor vehicle accident (as a passenger) to a high speed tree impact (as a young, dumb skier) to watching the rope I was weighting almost fray through as it skittered across a ledge a thousand feet above the deck (while climbing Space Shot in Zion NP), yet none had scared me as much, nor affected me so profoundly as this experience.

In retrospect, with 20/20 hindsight, we made innumerable significant mistakes that in aggregate led us to our predicament. We chose perhaps too ambitious an endeavour, started too late, moved too slowly (my fault more than Julian’s), didn’t check conditions assiduously enough, chose the wrong aspect, pitch and route for our descent. Our decision-making had the classic hallmarks of the "commitment heuristic" trap described by Ian McCammon, in that we made a push for the summit despite the combination of the late hour, the warm weather and the worsening snow conditions and that we insisted on attempting to descend a less-than-safe route in defiance of the aforementioned factors.

I am painfully aware that I made the supreme miscalculation, the near-deadly assumption, that if skiing in the spring is generally safe, and skiing in the Sierra snowpack is generally safe, that Spring Sierra skiing would for the most part be pretty darn safe. The recent atypical cycle of unseasonally late warm storms that had hit the Sierra combined with rapid warming trends coupled with long sunlight hours over the previous days had changed the equation drastically, yet my cavalier approach was as if it were any other "normal" year, as evidenced by my decision to leave my AvaLung behind, something I rarely do. Up to the point of the avalanche, I was more concerned with surface sloughing and staying upright in steep rotten snow than anything else.

I'd also fallen into the "social proof heuristic" trap, in that after skiing with Julian over the weekend, I felt comfortable with his level-headed approach, high level of skiing ability and degree of Sierra BC experience; this may well have been a two-way street.

In summary, I’d let my guard down and casually ignored several warning signs, signs I would likely have heeded back home in the Wasatch. In fact, AltaPowderDaze, Trackhead and I had bailed at the top of the Lightning Bolt couloir only a couple weeks prior, faced with conditions we were leery of descending.

I endlessly mulled over the myriad permutations of my errors, compounded by ignorance and hubris, on my long drive through the Nevada desert back to Salt Lake City. I marvel over how lucky I was to get away essentially scot-free, and am eternally grateful to Julian for taking care of me and watching over me; I don't consider it a huge stretch to think that he may have saved my life, or at the very least, despite facing his own set of significant personal risks, kept me from a worse fate.

I hope that I’ve learned valuable lessons from this close encounter, and that I’ve gained some wisdom, at least enough to keep from placing myself in a similar situation. I will ski again, and I hope that I will regain the nerve to ski steep backcountry lines again, but it will take some time and care.

Postscript:

After discussing some of my aches & pains, and shortness of breath with a friend and colleague who is an attending physician in our ER (and whose wife – also a friend – is a trauma surgeon) I went in to get checked over a couple of days later. Imaging revealed some broken ribs, and a lung contusion with a hemothorax (blood pocket) taking up the bottom quarter of my lung space. We didn’t bother with a head CT scan, as my concussion did not appear to have any neurological sequelae. I have some residual aches and pains in my left shoulder and hand and a strange numbness in my right foot from where I must’ve bashed my peroneal nerve. Everything is slowly healing on its own, and time will hopefully lead to full recovery. I continue to find it amazing that I got off so lightly.

Should any skiers be in the vicinity of Kidney Lake, or know friends or acquaintances who may be passing by there, I would be much obliged and extremely grateful if any gear found could somehow make its way back to me. Lost items include a prescription pair of Smith Moab sunglasses, a Black Diamond Raven ice axe (55cm), a pair of Black Diamond poles (one Traverse, one Whippet), a Black Diamond shovel handle, a pair of Charlet Moser Grade 8 crampons, presumably still inside their Charlet Petzl Fakir crampon bag, and last but not least a pair of K2 Summit Superlight 8611 skis (at least one of them broken) mounted with Voilé cable/pin bindings.

[cesare]

Fack man, I sure am glad you are relatively alright. That is horrifying. Many thanks to Julian for being a great partner. Glad we didn't lose you!

Thanks for sharing your story so soon. That takes courage. We should all learn from your experience.
_________________
Many things on my mind,
Words in the way.

-- Sly Stone --

[andy m]

Wow. Glad to hear everything turned out OK, relatively speaking.

[Julian]

Here's my own version of the day's events. Usually, I don't bother to write narrative trip reports, but I felt compelled to do so after this very close call. There is a lot of overlap with Tri-U's account, but like Tri-U, I hope that others may learn something from our experience.

Launce (Tri-Ungulate on telemarktips.com) and I set out from Upper Horse Meadow at about 4 AM on Monday, May 23rd 2005 with the goal of exploring the head of Gibbs Canyon and summiting Mt. Dana or Mt. Gibbs. We also discussed the possibility of skiing the Dana Couloir, ascending the Dana Plateau, and returning to our camp via a southeastern descent route from the Dana Plateau, although my recollection is that we both regarded this as probably beyond what our stamina and conditions would allow us to do safely. In any case, we hoped to find some fun downhill skiing along the way. I had scouted the road to Horse Meadows several days earlier and found it to be drivable until just past the eastern end of the upper meadow. When Launce and I returned on Sunday evening, the snow banks that had previously blocked the road had already receded to the western end of the meadow.

Over dinner on the evening prior to our trip, we studied the Tom Harrison map of the area and discussed our options. Later in the evening, I sketched out the route on my laptop computer and we examined the area on the more detailed 7.5’ map provided by Topo!. We would follow the pack trail to Gibbs Lake, and then the drainage to Kidney Lake at 10388 feet in the cirque at the head of the canyon. From there, it looked like we could ascend to the saddle between Gibbs and Dana. The map contours showed several possible routes and my earlier observations from afar appeared to confirm the presence of a snow ramp at the north end of the saddle. The recent warm temperatures were mentioned and we agreed that an early start would be our best hope for finding firm snow on our ascent and safe conditions on our descent.

We awoke shortly past 3 AM, brewed some tea, attached boots to skis and skis to packs and started hiking at 4:10 AM. We hiked for about a mile on the pack trail in our light approach shoes before finding consistent snow cover at about 8600 feet. The snow was firm and slightly suncupped, but allowed for easy walking so we continued on in our shoes for perhaps another mile or more. I got the impression that we were both a little bit surprised by how long it took us to reach Gibbs Lake, but the trail was covered by snow and mostly unmarked, and the canyon is forested so we probably hiked a little bit slower than our usual pace as a result. The stream that ran alongside the trail, also mostly covered by snow above the 9100-9200 foot mark, served as our guide.

We made steady, but not hurried progress up the drainage and through the moraines on our skis to Kidney Lake. Occasionally we noticed a single set of boot prints and, as we reached the lake, we saw a faint, single ski track in a steep chute off of Peak 12565. I recall Launce commenting on the spicy nature of this line and agreeing with him. I wondered how the skier who left those tracks could have been so confident in his route-finding as he picked his way down through the cliff bands from top to bottom and, upon closer observation, it appeared as if the skier had only climbed up a short distance (a few hundred feet) and skied from a steep constriction in the chute. Across the lake, we saw another faint, single ski track in the wide gully that descends from the southeastern tip of the Dana Plateau. This looked a lot more appealing to us and we looked it over as we skied around the north side of the lake.

Large cornices appeared on the ridgeline to our west and southwest. A moderate, steady wind was blowing down the canyon from the west. I recall observing small, not particularly recent-looking point releases near the rocks on the south-facing slope aspects above us. The surface of the snow, and the conditions of the ski track in the gully led me to believe that the gully had seen some recent wind action. Launce commented that he thought the snow in the gully looked well supported by the deep snowpack in the lower half of it and I concurred. We agreed that perhaps if we had time we would attempt to traverse the ridge and ski the gully on our descent. We didn’t set a cutoff time for doing so; we planned to evaluate the snow conditions on our descent. In general, the south and east-facing slopes here looked far better than anything that I had seen on similar aspects behind Mt. Morrison on Saturday, and around Rock Creek on Friday.

We continued on up to the base of the snow slope on the north side of the saddle between Mt. Dana and Mt. Gibbs. The slope steepened considerably here and skinning was getting difficult on the firm surface so we stopped and switched to crampons. For the first 10-15 feet, my boots punched through the snow surface and I can remember groaning, annoyed that the snow was already softening. Just a few steps higher though, I found firm snow and conditions were good enough use mostly French (flat-footed) technique to quickly ascend the remaining 700 feet or so to the saddle. I got up to the saddle at about 9:15 AM and waited just a couple more minutes for Launce to join me. I said that I’d thought that we’d have gotten here about an hour earlier, but Launce said that he’d predicted our pace pretty accurately. At this point we had traveled about 4.7 miles and climbed 3700 feet. The wind was a slight bother on the saddle. I hunkered down behind a small rock to escape the chill while eating a sandwich.

The ridge to Mt. Gibbs was bare for long stretches, but the broad plateau that leads up to the Dana Couloir and on to the summit of Mt. Dana looked to be in mostly good condition. The snow was firm and almost completely devoid of the fins and giant suncups that you would ordinarily find here at this time of year. We ascended to the summit of Dana on our skis, arriving at about 11 AM, judging from the timestamp on the photos that I took. Oddly, I don’t recall looking at my watch while on the summit, which was in my pocket at the time. At the top, we enjoyed the view, identified nearby peaks and posed for pictures. We started down, skiing our ascent route at about 11:35 AM. Just below the summit, we found fantastic snow: a thin surface of buttery corn on top of a firm base that was easy to carve on. We skied one at a time, stopping to take pictures and record a bit of video. A few hundred feet above the entrance to the Dana Couloir, we decided that we’d pick up some speed on the descent and head up the ridge toward the Dana Plateau, in hopes of reaching the large gully that we had eyed on our ascent. We arrived at the lower end of the ridge at about noon, again judging from the photo timestamps. We were able to sidestep traverse and skate along the ridge for a short time, but eventually we had to remove our skis to scramble over some rocks on the jagged ridge crest.

We hiked a short distance, 50 yards perhaps, along the ridge and got a closer look at the rock that separated us from our objective. There was a small, but steep, gendarme that looked like it would probably require at least a couple of exposed moves to surmount. We quickly agreed that it didn’t look like something we wanted to deal with, but I headed out to it to get a closer look at the rock and also to see whether there might be any descent options from the small saddle adjacent to the gendarme. I climbed up to a small highpoint that bordered the saddle and reported that, at the ridge, the south slope was slightly overhung by both rock and small cornice, so there were no obvious ski entrances. I then turned my attention to the section of ridge that we’d just traversed and noticed several potentially skiable chutes. I remember remarking that we’d have to be absolutely certain that we saw a line that reached all the way to the bottom of the steep face below us if we were going to attempt to ski it. One line, in particular, caught my attention, as it required a short zigzag between some rocks to the left before it moved back to the right to get around a rock fin and into a slightly left-leaning chute that looked like it might go all the way. Launce hiked out and met me and I encouraged him to take a look at the line that I had seen from the highpoint on the ridge. We spent a few minutes trying to look at digital photos that we’d taken earlier in the morning to determine whether the chute reached to the bottom. However, it was difficult to see the details of the ridgeline on the camera’s small LCD screen, especially in the intensely bright mid-afternoon sun. Since this proved inconclusive, I hiked back to the west to see if I could get a better view of the lower chute. I took off my pack and scrambled perhaps 30 yards to another high spot and at the base of the chute, saw what appeared to be a sliver of rock blocking the exit. But rock features higher up obscured my view of what was to the left and right of the sliver. I yelled back to Launce that it looked like it PROBABLY went all the way, but that I could see a small slice of rock and no visible way around it. I hiked back out to Launce and retrieved my pack. I told him again that I wasn’t 100% certain, but perhaps we could zigzag around the rock at the bottom.

I asked Launce what he thought about it and he quickly replied, “I think we should ski it!” I replied something like “Right on!” and flashed thumbs up. Launce asked who’d go first and I volunteered. Launce got into position a bit further up the ridge to take some photos. I got into my skis and whacked and prodded the slope with my ski pole to get a sense of the snow. The slope was pretty steep, probably about mid-40s. I found firm snow with my pole and remarked to Launce that it felt similar to the good snow that we’d just skied. It continued to feel good for my first couple of turns onto the steep face. However, I quickly found myself sinking deeper into the snow as I continued down. The tail of my downhill ski was plunging uncomfortably far after every turn and I had to actively compensate for this in order to stay upright. I was also intently watching the reaction of the surface snow to the slough that I was releasing. I skied to the left, and stopped just above a small rock that offered a reasonably safe spot from snow dislodged above. The slough didn’t look particularly worrisome; it didn’t grow and it didn’t dislodge much snow below. With respect to avalanche hazard, I was focused on looking for warnings associated with point releases and loose slides. I also remember being concerned about the skiing challenges presented by the deep snow on the steep pitch. I was using jump turns to ensure that I was able to get my tails out of the deep snow with each turn and I thought it might be more difficult for Launce to deal with this on his telemark gear. It occurred to me that I should caution Launce about following me. Just as I started to call to him (I might have even shouted his name), I heard the sounds of skiing above me and I was relieved to see that he was making pretty good telemark turns, despite the deep, rotten snow. He also seemed focused on the surface slough while he was skiing and he stopped just above me. I then skied to the right of the rock fin and stopped just above a small ledge near the top of the chute that dropped out of view to the left. I was relieved to reach this point because the slope angle relaxed a bit here (high-30s perhaps) and the snow also seemed to improve. Launce skied down to me, and asked if I wanted to ski again or if he should continue. I told him to continue down and I mentioned that the snow seemed to be better here. He quickly resumed skiing and passed me, making several turns before the chute angled to the left.

Launce made one particularly deep turn to the right, and I saw the telltale fracture of a snow slab appear directly behind him. I heard him shout as I watched his skis get dragged out from under him. He was in an upright sitting position and appeared to be paddling with his arms as the snow accelerated and pulled him out of sight. I yelled, “Paddle towards the rock! Swim!! Shit!” and a few other equally useless phrases down after him. About 2 seconds later, I heard a rumble that quickly grew in volume until it became a roar. I think I actually glanced up at the sky for second hoping to see a jetliner that might be the source of the sound. I had already pulled out my beacon. I switched it to search while the roar continued. I knew the remainder of the chute had ripped out and my heart just sank. I remember just saying “Oh no…no…no.” At this moment, I honestly believed that Launce was probably dead but I knew I had to go after him and I shouted “Hang on! I’m coming for you!” I tried for a moment to gauge the risk of another avalanche. All the loose snow that continued to pour down the bed surface made me nervous. I didn’t like it but I knew I had to find Launce fast so I skied carefully into the chute and stepped over the crown. The bed surface was an ice crust, and it was steep enough to make holding an edge, at least in my shocked state of mind, a high priority. I kept thinking, “You’re not moving fast enough! Move faster…you need to move faster…” while I sideslipped down the chute. I felt too frazzled to make a turn on this surface. This was taking too long! About 100-200 feet below, I found another crown. This one was bigger than the first, close to 3 feet tall. I carefully skied over this crown and continued my sideslip. From here, I could see that the chute ended several hundred feet below me at a gray rock ledge that reached all the way across the chute. I could hear loose snow sliding over the rock. As I proceeded further down, I saw the debris field unfold on the slope far below me. Near its terminus, on the right side, I could see a tiny black form amidst the debris.

“Launce! Signal if you can hear me!” Nothing. I continued down while also trying to watch Launce for any sign of movement. I got increasingly anxious as I approached the gray rock. It had become apparent that the snow visible beyond it lay far below me and I started to suspect that it was a cliff. I paused and continued to shout to down to Launce. I don’t recall how long I stopped here. I didn’t look at my watch until shortly after I reached Launce some time later. I do remember having a bad feeling about what lay beyond the rock at the base of the chute, and I was already trying to figure out whether I should turn around and climb back up. I kept moving slowly down towards the ledge while continuing to shout to Launce. I remember stopping briefly several times to try to quiet my breathing and listen for a response. Finally, I saw some movement. It looked like he’d only gotten his legs out of the snow, but I was still too far away to tell if he was sitting up. “Launce! Can I ski down?” I yelled several times. I didn’t get a response so I continued down toward the rock at the base of the chute. As I got close, it became obvious that it was a cliff. How big? I pulled off to the left, on a ledge about 15 feet above the cliff and removed my skis. I scrambled out on the rock at the edge of the chute so that I could check out the drop. I literally recoiled in horror when I saw it. The cliff looked about 50 feet high and, from my new vantage point, I could see and hear water cascading down the rocks. I tried again to get a response from Launce. I could see that he was moving, but I couldn’t tell what he was doing. Any sense of relief that I felt when I saw that Launce was moving evaporated when I saw the waterfall. I was convinced that he must be severely injured. This line had been my idea and I was the one who’d said it would probably go. Asshole! Intense guilt just flooded over me. Desperate to find a way down to him, I scrambled from one side of the rocks to the other, hoping to spot a third-class route to the base of the cliffs. Nothing looked even remotely good. I don’t recall feeling panic, just intense guilt, and at some point I had to consciously squelch my self-critical internal dialogue in order to focus on the immediate problem of getting down. I’m not sure how long I spent trying to find a way down, possibly as long as 20 minutes, but eventually I exhausted all possible descent options on the skier’s left side of the chute.

Finally, I just accepted the fact that I had to climb back out. I shouted, “I’m sorry! I have to climb back up,” and still got no response. I remember wondering if Launce would still be alive by the time I got to him. After seeing the cliff, I was scared about getting back into the chute, but the rock was terrible choss and I thought I could move faster on the bed surface. I put on my crampons. I momentarily considered leaving my skis behind so that I could climb faster, but quickly realized that I’d need them again to ski down to Launce and to get him out. I stepped out into the chute and immediately sank in up to my waist. The snow between the rock and the bed surface was horrible and hollow. I was torn between reaching the bed surface and continuing on up the chute on snow, but I was really scared by the steep snow that lurked above, and was still capable of sliding. I decided that taking any more risks at this point could very easily make a bad situation much worse and so I opted to get back on the rock. Progress up the rock was horribly slow. The adrenalin rush that had hit me the instant I first saw that fracture had worn off and now left me feeling drained. I could feel myself starting to bonk. I removed my hat from below my helmet and dug for a hard candy in my pocket, feeling just awful about wasting time with such trivial things, but I also knew that I had to cool down and get some sugar in order to climb as fast as I could. Even so, it didn’t help much. I climbed on rock when I could, but when things got steep I had to move back into the chute where the snow was still thigh to waist deep. I pulled off several basketball-sized rocks and had a few close calls with some wobbly suitcase-sized blocks. Climbing felt like one of those nightmares where you try to run, but your legs won’t work. “Keep moving” became my mantra.

About halfway up the chute, I lost sight of Launce. Now it was possible to cross the chute to look over the rock on the skier’s right side to see if it was possible to find a path down that way. I had seen what looked like the exit of another gully on the right side while searching down below, but I wasn’t able to tell if I’d be able to climb into it from the chute that I was in. I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether to try. I decided against it when I realized that, even if it did provide a route down, it would be just as prone to sliding as the one that had already ripped. So I kept working my way up. Along the way, I thought I heard a yell. Actually, what I thought I heard was a “No!!” I assumed that Launce had spotted me climbing out and was pissed. I didn’t turn around because I was committed to this plan and I didn’t feel like I was capable of doing anything else at this point. A few hundred feet below the ridge I was again able to see Launce and he was standing. I was surprised, but I didn’t really feel much relief. Near the top, I had to abandon the safety of the rock to cross the upper slope. I was downright scared here. I knew that a lot of time had elapsed since we first dropped in and that the slope had seen considerable solar warming since then. I moved as gently as I could from rock to rock, keeping my fingers or the pick of my ice axe latched on any handholds within reach. Several times I had to change course when I encountered what felt like bottomless snow. Finally, I topped out on the ridge. No relief here either, just an acute awareness that a LOT of time had passed. I looked below as I scrambled along the ridge but could see no sign of Launce. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but I assumed that he was injured and moving toward the trailhead.

When I got to the plateau, I initially attempted to run down in my crampons. The snow that had been firm and appeared to be shallow when we skied down earlier was neither now. I immediately plunged through and face-planted hard. I got up and tried again with similar results. I remember just being super-pissed that I was going to have to waste time putting skis on here and then take them off again to cross a brief rocky stretch before reaching the broad saddle between Dana and Gibbs. In reality, skiing from here saved me a lot of time, but the snow was so soft that I had to just sit back on my heels and point my skis straight to avoid getting bogged down. This made the thought of skiing our ascent route pretty worrisome to me; it was definitely steep enough to slide too. I approached the saddle and our ascent slope from the north, continuing to straightline in order to pick up as much speed as I could. A very faint ridge (really just a bulge under the snow) dropped east from the center of the saddle and my plan was to ski cut the slope and hope that a fracture wouldn’t propagate past this ridge. I zipped across the top and felt only firm, stable snow. I barely paused and skied fast down a steep line that faced due east, finding only the same great snow that we’d skied from the summit. Except it didn’t feel so great now. I was just furious at myself. I still didn’t know what had happened to Launce but I felt like the mountain was just being insulting by showing me the sweet snow that we could have enjoyed on the safer route.

I soon arrived a bit upslope from the debris cone. It was evident that the large slide had triggered a couple of smaller slides on either side as well. I was again shocked by what I saw. Below the cliff, at the base of our chute, was a huge crater. I still couldn’t see Launce, but for the first time since the slide, I felt like I could afford to take a few seconds and get some photos. There didn’t appear to be any feasible way of climbing down from where I had been. As I skied below the debris, I spotted Launce’s yellow shell in the talus a short distance away, near the edge of Kidney Lake. We were both speechless as I skied up.

He was sitting on a rock, shaking, staring down at his feet. I felt awful. I remember saying “I’m so sorry. It took me so long to get down here.” And he faintly replied, “It’s not your fault. Am I alive? How can I be alive?” I asked him where he was hurt and he said that his shoulder was sore and that his hand hurt, but that he thought that he was OK and could ski out. I looked at his eyes and his head. His pupils looked OK and his eyes were focused. The only evidence of blood was a bit that had dried around his mouth, most likely from a cut lip and perhaps a trickle from his nose. He could feel his fingers and toes. I looked at his helmet and didn’t see any obvious impact damage. He was coherent, but kept asking why he couldn’t stop shaking. I told him that he was probably experiencing some shock. I added my shell over his, put my goggles and gloves on him, and helped him get into my bivy sack. Then I positioned our sit pads and his pack underneath him so that he could lie down on the rocks, although he still didn’t look very comfortable. He was continuing to shake but said that he felt better inside the bag. He asked what time it was. I looked and my watch read 2:55 PM. At this moment, I recalled seeing the time on my camera as I had snapped a photo on the ridge before we dropped in. I didn’t realize that I hadn’t adjusted my camera for daylight savings time so I thought that it had actually taken me three hours to get down here. In reality, it was probably closer to two hours. Not that this difference really matters. If he’d been buried, or critically injured, it might as well have taken me two weeks. Launce seemed confused when I told him this, and he told me later that he couldn’t remember anything that had happened between getting caught in the slide and me arriving at the base. Apparently, he thought that I had arrived almost immediately. In general though, Launce seemed coherent and unfathomably unscathed.

Launce’s skis were lost, as was everything else that was strapped to the outside of his pack. I took a quick inventory of all of our gear and then sat down and started to think about what to do next. Launce kept insisting that he’d be able to make it out under his own power. I was a little bit skeptical. I told him that we’d have to start moving by 4 o’clock if we were going to try to get out on our own.

I knew that postholing was going to be out of the question for him, so I readied my skis and skins. Luckily we have the same size feet, so we were able to just swap ski boots. I wasn’t very encouraged when Launce first stood up. He was obviously weak and wobbly and it took a few tries to get him latched into my Dynafits. But once he was on the skis he was able to cover flat ground pretty well. I had intended to support, or at least spot him while he skied, but I was postholing through snow that reached to my thighs so I ended up struggling to keep up with him. We had to cross a short patch of rocks on the east side of the lake. I shuttled the skis across and promptly fell into a moat on the opposite side. Again, I had intended to provide support for Launce and help him across the rocks, but he managed to get across on his own while I floundered and cursed, trying to get out of the rotten snow with two packs strapped to my back. I knew it was almost entirely downhill from this point and it was only a short distance to Gibbs Lake. I figured that we could reassess our situation at Gibbs Lake and that, if Launce ran into trouble, we’d be able to hunker down in a very visible location with easy access to water and firewood.

Launce skied quite well with skins on my skis and we made pretty quick progress down to the lake, though it was becoming clear that Launce was getting increasingly fatigued. We started to take more frequent and longer breaks. Still, I was amazed by his perseverance. He was still coherent; I was watching for signs of delirium and any new evidence of internal trauma, but simple physical exhaustion seemed to be our biggest obstacle. We made the decision to keep going and we slowly picked our way down the canyon. It was difficult to find the trail or our ascent tracks, but the stream again served as our guide. It was also hard to gauge our rate of travel while in the trees. I overestimated how fast we were traveling and was very concerned about following the stream too far and ending up in Lower Lee Vining Canyon. As evening approached, I found myself starting to feel, for the first time, a bit panicky. I didn’t like the idea of spending the night in an unknown spot that would be hard to see from the air. I realized that Launce had an altimeter watch and he told me that it read 9100 feet. I was surprised that we were still that high, and suspected that the watch had been knocked out of whack by the avalanche. I hiked a short distance up the side of the canyon and above the trees. I could then tell by what I could and couldn’t see of the well-known rock features on the northeast side of the Dana Plateau that the watch wasn’t that far off. Once I knew that we weren’t in any immediate danger of missing our turn to the east, I relaxed and we continued down until we found the trail. I could tell this stretch was enormously difficult for Launce. Any slight uphill travel, or even traversing, was getting to be very tough on him. I’d let him rest for a couple minutes and then point out a tree or clearing a few yards ahead that would be our next goal. He simply kept at it, never said that he couldn’t make it and never even snapped in response to my repeated nagging. I was pretty sure that, once we reached dry ground, I would be able to piggyback Launce the rest of the way. Once on the trail though, Launce seemed to regain some strength. We slogged out still wearing one another’s ski boots, and reached our vehicles as the sun was setting.


ANALYSIS

This story really shouldn’t have a happy ending. Launce was extraordinarily lucky to have survived the avalanche and his plunge off the cliff, and I was lucky not to have been caught myself. Within seconds of the accident it was easy to identify some of the obvious mistakes that we had made. Of more interest to me is figuring out how we got lulled into making those mistakes and enthusiastically accepting some risks that I would have personally deemed unacceptable just a few hours earlier.

Two days earlier I’d watched with considerable concern as a large group of “Telestock ‘05” participants all climbed, one above another, up a steep, east-facing gully on Mt. Morrison that showed clear signs of unstable snow above and, in my opinion, had already been in the sun for too long. I judged it to be WAY too risky, for me, at least. It’s not my intention to criticize anyone else; I mention this only to help others who were there that day to get a sense of my own CONSCIOUS level of risk tolerance. A day before that, I’d skied solo from Rock Creek to the Petite Griffon, at the notch between Mt. Abbot and Mt. Mills. Along the way, I’d noticed the sloppy conditions and saw ample evidence of massive wet slides on just about every aspect except due north. I made a personal pledge not to ski anything steep enough to slide that didn’t face within just a few degrees of north and stuck to it. When I reached the chute at the notch, I dug several quick pits and verified my assumptions about the snow before continuing. The rotten snow conditions were very much on my mind and were factored into my decisions while skiing on Saturday.

I do a fair amount of solo ski touring, both for the enjoyment of it and also due to the difficulty of finding fit and experienced partners who aren’t locked in to weekend trips that have to be scheduled three weeks in advance. I think my solo outings have actually helped me become a much safer backcountry skier. When I first started skiing in the backcountry by myself, I noticed that I was spending a lot more time consciously evaluating avalanche potential, digging pits, and choosing the safest route because, obviously, there won’t be anyone else to dig me out if I get caught. I had read David Spring’s excellent “What’s Wrong with Traditional Avalanche Courses” paper last year and it really cemented what had been slowly dawning on me as I saw more natural slide activity in person and read the numerous reports of avalanche fatalities in North America over the past couple of years: basically, avoidance is paramount; relying on your partners to successfully dig you out in time is a very poor substitute. With this in mind, I made it a goal at the beginning of the season not to expose myself to more avalanche risk while skiing with partners than I would when skiing on my own. Until Monday, I’d been feeling mostly successful in meeting that goal.

So what changed on Monday? I’m in general agreement with Launce with respect to his summary of our mistakes. Perhaps my opinion differs a bit regarding our decision to continue to the summit of Dana. At the time, after observing the wind and snow on our ascent, I felt confident that we’d have enough time to reach the summit without exposing ourselves to undue risk if we returned the same way. In similar circumstances, I’d likely make the same decision again. However, a predetermined, rule-based decision-making framework (e.g. “stay off of any southern aspects steeper than 30 degrees after 9AM”, “turnaround time is 10AM”, etc.) would likely have prevented our subsequent ass whooping. With respect to the southeastern slope aspects, I was unduly swayed by my visual observations of the surface snow conditions on the way up. As Launce mentions, the point releases that we saw on those slopes weren’t very large and appeared to have run quite shallow. In fact, I don’t recall much of a difference in quantity or character when compared to the natural point releases that were visible on the northern aspects on the opposite side of the cirque. I allowed this visual inspection to override what I knew about the recent weather history (primarily the lack of the usual springtime melt/freeze cycle) and the rotten snowpack at similar nearby elevations and aspects.

However, I think we made our first big mistake when we first decided to traverse the ridge that lead toward the Dana Plateau. I just wasn’t as aware of the clock as I should have been. I’d been enjoying the view and Launce’s company during our skin up to the summit and just assumed that it had probably taken us about an hour, because that was my estimate from the saddle. I don’t recall ever looking at my watch and consciously considering the implications of the time. The biggest influence on my behavior though was simply the fun that we were having. I was happy to reach the summit and the good turns on the way down put me in a state of mild euphoria. This euphoria definitely stoked my desire to head out on the ridge in hopes of reaching the gully that we’d observed on the way up. Given the late hour (between 11:30AM and noon), we really should have just continued down the safest route.

My sense of euphoria lingered while scouting the ridge. I was seduced by the view of my proposed descent line and I let my desire to ski that line override my rational decision-making process. All our attempts to verify that the chute reached to the bottom of the face failed, or were inconclusive at best, yet we decided to go for it anyway. I made two contradictory statements, just minutes apart: “we have to be absolutely sure this goes all the way” and “it looks like it probably goes.” I think the seductive view of the line influenced Launce too. It may not be a coincidence that his enthusiasm to ski it occurred immediately following his own visit to the viewpoint that got me excited about it in the first place. We both like to ski steep, aesthetic lines and I think that overpowered our more rational thought processes. We overlooked the obvious: we’re backcountry skiers; if there had been a feasible chute on the face, we would have spotted it from below and probably fantasized about skiing it. If we couldn’t remember what we’d seen from below, then there was probably nothing to be skied (by us, anyway). Duh.

We decided to go for it without updating our avy hazard assessment to reflect our new descent path (much steeper, more rocks, more southern exposure, etc.) We were aware that it was getting late and allowed that fact alone to push us into proceeding quickly without more analysis. Although we agreed that we might have to climb back up if our chute cliffed out, I don’t think either of us really considered the implications of having to do so, especially after already having climbed 5000 feet at high altitude that morning. We certainly didn’t discuss the implications of a cliff if the slope avalanched. Once I started skiing, I fell victim to tunnel vision. I was focused on skiing, slough management and concerned only about wet slides. In general though, I was fixated on proceeding down. In hindsight, as soon as I encountered the rotten snow I should have bailed and thought about climbing UP.

I’ve been thinking about all of this with the hope of identifying some warning signals that will raise a red flag when my decision-making process itself is going awry. One sign that I’ll be watching for in my internal, mental dialogue is the inconsistency of my own assertions. If I’ve previously decided (and, in this instance, stated out loud) that I’m not going to ski a steep chute unless I’m 100% sure that it goes, then why am I violating this rule. Have I learned something new? Or am I just psyched to ski something steep? Similarly, if I’ve previously said that I’m staying off anything facing south, why am I changing my mind? Is it because the line looks more aesthetic, or do I have a better reason for violating my predetermined rule?

If I’m traveling with others, I can see a lot of value in agreeing beforehand on a short set of preconditions and invariant rules that will be used to guide decisions. I agree with Launce in that we fell victim to the “social proof” heuristic. I don’t know him well, but it was pretty obvious to me based on our conversations that he was an experienced backcountry skier and climber. Plus, he lives and skis in Utah, and he’s still alive so that’s got to count for something . I think we both became unconsciously complacent as a result of having a partner that we trusted. Unfortunately, we made the same errors in judgment at virtually the same critical times.

However, the value of having a smart, experienced, and physically fit partner was driven home to me during the brief ordeal that followed the avalanche. Launce was really, really lucky, but I suspect that just being as physically fit as he is likely saved him from suffering much more serious injuries in the avalanche. My view of his immediate reaction once that slab started to move was that he was already paddling and getting his body into an ideal position for the impending ride. Once I finally reached him, he was able to perform an accurate self-diagnosis, stay calm, and then dig deep for the mental and physical energy required by the 4-mile trek back to the trailhead. I really appreciate his amazing effort because it saved me from, at best, an uncomfortable overnight bivy and an embarrassing rescue, and, at worst…well, much, much worse. Thanks, Launce!

[Denis]

That is a hair raising story. I'm glad you're OK. Best wishes with the rehab, both psychological and physical.

[steeleman]

Wow triU, amazing story. I was waiting for this one to be published. You are one lucky dog and thank you so much for sharing. I wish you a speedy recovery and return to the mountains. I know we can all learn from this unfortunate experience of yours.

Now, to lighten things up after that intense story, I just have to say...

[Sierra Fred]

Wow, my heart is in my stomach.

Glad you're OK.

You've done a tremendous job of reliving the experience and sharing it with all of us.
_________________
Heh, I know this place. You know you are on a telemark site when peep's concerns about new gear center on the "downside" that the new gear might make skiing somehow easier or different.
-Cowdog, Sept 8, 2009

[tele mark]

WOW! Thankfully your still here to tell us about it, I think we can all learn from your experience. Sucks to lose all that gear but 'tis much better than not being able to walk away from the incident. If the summit 8611s don't turn up I can help you out w/ another light weight ski.

Good luck and best wishes for a speedy recovery!

[trackhead]

Tri,

First off, I'm glad you're relatively ok. I'm sure the ribs are sore, and the hemo is scary, but you will recover.

Thank you for the incredible right up and the effort you put into the details. It helps all of us be safer tomorrow.

When you heal up, let's get out for some slogging and climbing.

[Woolbury]

So glad you're safe and home telling this story. You're a lucky man.

What we do can be dangerous and risky. We minimize that risk with the experience we gain, and the experience you've gained and communicated with us will help keep all of us a bit safer to some degree in the future. Thanks for the effort you put into sharing the details and emotions in your report.

[telenater]

...................
copulate, that's a wakeup call.

I'm reevaluating things in light of this.

[telemike]

thanks for sharing guys - lots to learn from there - glad you are both ok
_________________
Ad astra per alia porci

[JPL]

Glad you made it through, Tri-U, and thanks for telling your story for all of us to learn from. Best wishes for a full recovery.

[Julian]

Here are some more photos, including some of aftermath of the slide.

Sunrise in Gibbs Canyon:


Enjoying the view as we approach Kidney Lake (our fateful descent line is marked in orange):


Tri-U touring not too far from where he'd eventually wind up:


A few of Tri-U climbing towards the summit:






Obligatory summit shot:


Tri-U skiing just below the summit (obligatory dropped knee photo):


Hiking out along the ridge:


Photos of the slide path, cliff, debris, etc. Unfortunately they don't include any reference objects and they were taken with different telephoto settings so it's a bit difficult to discern scale accurately.

[Big Tim]

Whoa............. sobering. I'm glad your alright.
_________________
I've got my Vans on but they look like sneakers....