Sunday Afternoon
I am on my knees in the snow frantically digging. My shoulders are searing from the effort. The shoveler in front of me tosses a wash of snow into my face but I am too focused on chopping my own shovel into the snow to pay any attention to the wet trickles of snowmelt now racing down my neck. “Rotate!” Is the only word uttered as our team of five digs a V pattern towards the tip of the avalanche probe buried a meter into the snow. “Rotate!” Once the person at the front begins to slow. “Rotate!” Even if you haven’t been digging as long as the others. “Rotate!” This isn’t a practice in who can dig the longest, it’s practicing to save a life.
Even though I know this is a drill. That there is no person at the end of the probe, I don’t slow my digging. Because even in a drill scenario with our guide standing over my shoulder I am deeply aware of the fact that the skills I’m developing now could very well be the difference between life and death. And that if it is ever me at the end of that probe I hope my friends won’t slow their digging either.
24 Hours Earlier
I am sitting in a chilly classroom above the Canada West Mountain School’s Vancouver offices. Where I, along with 15 guys with beards, two guys without beards, and one woman, are taking our level 1 Avalanche Safety Training. We’ve spent the day analyzing pictures of avalanche crown lines, snow crystals, slide paths. Talking about safety, improbability, and learning from the mistakes of others.
From the safety of my desk I feel confident in what I have learned today. My Harmonie-ish nature is on full display, answering question after question while my taciturn classmates remain silent, arms folded while our instructors eyes rove over the group looking for engagement. I have a natural skill for classroom learning, good grades come easily for me. Add to this the excitement of procuring new skills which will allow me push further into the backcountry and I’m practically bouncing out of my seat with zeal for this new knowledge.
As the day winds down our instructors throw a final slide onto the projector. It’s one we’ve already seen. The title reads: The Harsh Facts. And below the title, in frank black text it says “Most people fully buried in avalanches die.” Statistically the odds are about 50%.
You’re buried and it’s a coin toss on your survival.
By the Numbers
In the event that you are fully buried in an avalanche there are few numbers to keep in mind. The first being that 50% of people who are buried will die. On average you have 15 to 30 minutes to find the buried person and clear their airway or else they will suffocate before they can be dug out. For others no amount of digging will help. Many people who are killed in avalanches die as a result of blunt force trauma instilled upon the body as it ragdolls down a slope. And no matter how fast you dig, you can’t keep your friend from striking that tree. Sometimes you fuck up and people die. Sometimes you have put yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time and all the practice and luck in the world won’t keep you alive.
That’s what day one taught me.
Day two taught me I know even less than I imagined.
Safety Card
Our class is standing a the bottom of a tree-strewn slope looking down at our Avulators–cards that serve as a checklist for determining avalanche safety. In the game of safe backcountry travel the goal is to get as low a score as possible. Fresh snow earns you a point. Slopes over 30 degrees earn you a point while slopes over 35 degrees earn you two. Sparse trees, one point. Persistent weak layers, one point. Terrain traps, one point. Then more points the more caution you need to exercise as you travel.
On this small, unassuming roll we wrack up four points which pushes us into the area of Extra Caution. Again and again throughout the day we tally our points and never once are we in that green band of simple Caution. With each analysis my understanding of what is a safe travel zone shrinks. And with each undulating hill we climb my body begins to wither with fatigue. If yesterday I was the smart and vivacious Hermione Granger, then today I am the blundering Neville Longbottom. The outdoor portion of AST-1 has taken me right to the edge of my comfort zone. Right to the point where my toes can skim the bottom of the pool while out in front of me stretches the vastly terrifying and enticing deep end.
The Thing Is
Out here on the edge of comfort I can just start to see an entire world opening up in front of me. And right now that world, the opportunity to explore it, is too big for me. It’s like getting the keys to a Porsche when you’re 16, barely know how to drive, and don’t have anywhere to park it. I would be better served by a riding lawnmower. My skiing skills have atrophied after two years of pushing the sport aside as I saved and prepped for the PCT. Meanwhile my knowledge of snow travel is in its nascent stages.
Standing knee deep in snow, arms trembling from the effort of digging I am like a young child being taken into the wild for the first time. I am all searching eyes and tentative smiles. Eager to explore but confident only in the knowledge that I don’t know anything. However, I would argue that understanding what you don’t know is far more valuable than boasting about what you do know. It’s too easy to find excitement in exploration and forget to appreciate the joy of learning. So for the time being I will be content to learn all the land has to teach me about its myriad secrets. About what I must understand before I can pass safely across it.
