Risks and Rewards: Powder, Slides, and the Human Mind

By Amy Seigel, 11-28-06

About this time every year, as I watch the little, fluffy flakes of the first “big storm” drifting by outside my window, I find myself grappling with a decision that has haunted me since my early days as a Colorado powder hound: to ride, or not to ride, in the back country. Is the glorious snow and untracked expanse of the back country worth the risk of avalanches? Is it ever right to risk my own life and the life of others—my ski buddies, my potential rescuers—for the chance at the ethereal experience of virgin powder in pristine bowls and along wild ridgelines?

As you might have guessed from my rather excessive language, I am a pure, bona fide, snow freak. I’m the one standing in line for two hours to get into the pre-season ski swap…even though I can’t really think of anything I desperately need, the one making my friends get up way too early on powder days to insure a shot at “first tracks,” the one in the group who insists on skipping lunch so as not to miss out on a single run, and, yes, the one who is always looking for the bigger, badder, steeper line. Ordinarily, I would never consider myself an adrenaline junkie—I gave up mountain biking this year because I always ended up carrying my bike up or down the scary stuff instead of riding it—but there is something about snow sports that toggles that little danger switch in my brain towards the “off” position. And knowing this about myself is the first thing that makes me question whether I should ever venture outside those resort boundary lines.

Yes, I’ve taken avalanche classes (I’m taking another one next weekend), and yes, I do transceiver practice and read up on all the latest snow science (I love it…I can’t get enough of it), but in the end, I’m not entirely convinced any of it appreciably reduces my risk of getting buried—the snow just doesn’t care how much you know. Of all the people every year that do end up getting caught in avalanches in the Rocky Mountains and elsewhere around the country, a fair number of them are experienced outdoorsmen and women with all the right skills and knowledge. Just knowing the right thing to do isn’t enough, you also have to be willing to actually do the right thing—swallow your pride, take your “power goggles” off, and know when to walk away.

Just look at the most recent incident here in Utah—the November 15th burial and eventual recovery of Steve Lloyd, 27, of Salt Lake City. As the Deseret News reports, the group of skiers had, in fact, performed the requisite tests—including ski cuts and stability tests—to determine the stability of the snow pack, and were “well-prepared” with beacons, shovels and probes. And although the group was able to get Lloyd out alive—something that would certainly not have been possible without the knowledge the group obviously possessed—their initial decision was still flawed. No one knows this better than Jason West, another member of the group who was able to avoid getting caught in the slide by grabbing onto a tree. “It's hard to say I was prepared because I shouldn't have been there in the first place,” said West. “We just chose to overlook some of the risk factors.”

In many ways, the biggest danger we face when deciding whether or not to head out into the back country is not avalanches or unstable snow pack, but our own hubris. And once again, I find myself listening to today’s avalanche warnings on TV and the radio and wondering whether my reluctance to take the plunge into the back country has more to do with a nagging dread of being caught in a slide, or the fear that I may make the wrong decision when faced with a chance at pursuing that glorious powder high.

For now, the best thing I can think to do is force myself to take it slow, to head for the resort when the snow pack is iffy, and only venture out when I feel pretty darn sure I’ll be safe. I know this will be hard—I know I’ll whine about the lame terrain and mediocre snow when I do allow myself to hit the back country, and I know I’ll still feel limited, as I have felt limited for so many years, by those resort boundary ropes. But for me, for the time being, these frustrations are necessary. When I’m no longer worried about my own ability to walk away, then, and only then, will chasing that power high be a risk worth taking. [End of article]