Blower No. 2
Whumpf! I couldn't see my companions--blocked by the stunted pines hedging the gully, I'd fecklessly descended. Survival turns, with weight squarely centered on my tails for fear of buried rocks, were frustratingly necessary. And I had escaped. Escaped the minefield of rocks, rotten snow, and sloughs-to-ground onto a perfectly concave, untracked rollover. It beckoned with promises of a few beautiful powder turns in this glorious preseason backcountry. It terrified me.
I inched out onto the soft roundness and started jumping. Lightly at first, then throwing my full weight and kick into the snow. Whumpf! A skin slab, barely a quarter-inch thick, peeled away--a broken eggshell that disappeared in seconds. But the slope seemed solid.
I muttered a quick prayer or said, "F--k it"--I'm not sure which--and sank into the fresh. My skis submerged, then with speed planed out on top, arcing three perfect, big turns. Instincts on fire, I felt a demon raging at my back: Would the slope break free, washing me into the nasty little terrain trap below? No one would know if it happened, making my beacon less than useful. In less time than I really had to think about it, however, I hit the traverse back to friends and safety.
Later that night, nursing my complaining muscles with a heavy dose of couch, TV, and vitamin-I (aka ibuprofen), I ventured across one of the coolest shows I've seen: an episode of PBS's "Nature," titled "Condition Black." The program detailed the events of January 28, 1998, off of Oahu's North Shore. Big-wave tow-in surfers careened down 40-foot monster faces, searching for a path down the biggest waves ever ridden, at least to that point in time. As some men fell or were caught in the monstrous explosions of whitewater, death seemed certain. The film editors revealed slow-motion tongues of froth lashing out at the tiny surfers, relentlessly gaining on them until they were flicked from their boards like a sapling before an avalanche.
I sensed their fear and adrenaline, and the grim certainty that comes with knowing you're just not going to make it this time. I relived the helplessness of my feet being taken out by a snow-slough in the past, of being washed down a mountain in a roiling chaos of choking white. As in any human experience, fear arose from the unknown--was the slide 20 feet wide or 200? Will it stop on the flats before the 100-foot cliff, or will it carry me over the falls? The only thing I knew was that my skiing companion stood high above me in an island of safety, watching my every move. When I washed out of the small slide, he laughed and helped me collect my gear, strewn across 200 yards of debris.
On-screen, a head bobbed out of the cauldron of foam and, almost instantly, a personal watercraft was towing the exhausted surfer to safety, out of the crush of relentless walls of whitewater. Unlike surfers, who battle an avalanche of water on every ride, skiers, for the most part, enjoy a favorable relationship with the mountain. Usually, we are the ones acting upon the snow, not vice-versa. When things go perfectly wrong, however, we deal with consequences far greater than a surging, 40-foot wave. And in that moment, we need the people we're with more than anything else.
I was an idiot that day--ignoring good sense and the protection of my peers for the lure of better snow over a ridgeline. Sure, I played it safe and did all I could to test the slope's stability, but had something gone wrong, I could have paid a dear price.
Do yourself a favor. Someday soon, go to the ocean. Wait for a storm-swept day, when the swell rises above a three- to four-foot face. Suck the view in and, if you dare, try to surf or swim. Feel the power of a breaking wave holding you under, tossing you like so much Kleenex in the washing machine. Fight against it, and know that compared to its power, you are nothing. Understand that an avie or a slough is essentially the same thing, just on a steeper face, with more speed, and a great deal more power. Most importantly, make sure you've got a friend--versed in the backcountry or the water--watching your every move.
Josh Rhea is the online editor for POWDERMAG.com. He resides in Salt Lake City, Utah, where he serves as a tour guide for This Is the Place Heritage Park.