Ski Patrol Magazine Archives

Winter 1997 - "Avalanche Lessons Learned: Heed Those Warning Signs!" - by Mark Sedon

This article is reprinted from Ski Patrol Magazine. All copyrights apply. Please see our copyright and disclaimer notice page.

I am a professional ski patroller in New Zealand who also has worked at Snowbasin in Utah for the past two seasons. Certainly that alone is not enough to make you read on, but you might be interested in the rest of my story. I was recently caught in a serious avalanche while doing some winter ski mountaineering at Mt. Cook National Park in New Zealand's South Island, and, quite frankly, I should be dead. I am supposed to be an avalanche expert, but I don't know who's going to tell the avalanches that. I can only hope that I've learned from my mistake ..... well, actually four mistakes.

Kane (my climbing partner) and I had been living in the snow for six days, skiing slopes that few had ever skied before. We wanted to spend our last day skiing the formidably steep southwest face of a mountain called Mt. Green.

The wind had changed direction earlier and, after a couple of hours climbing I was worried about the slope above. It was loading with snow and presented a very real avalanche danger. We decided to turn back and instead ski the fantastic-looking 45-degree slope below us.

I am a professional avalanche forecaster, so two factors I've already mentioned should have told me not to ski this slope--the wind loading and the slope angle. My only excuse is that maybe I was feeling a false sense of security because we had been skiing all week and hadn't seen any avalanche activity.

Kane normally skied first since I was quicker with an avalanche transceiver, so off he went. He skied carefully, and the snow looked good until near the bottom where he set off a small slide, 45 feet across by 4 inches deep. It wasn't a big avalanche and he was able to ski off to the side, where he waited under the shelter of an ice cliff so he could watch me come down.

Avalanche activity is a sure sign of avalanche danger, and with this third "red flag" I should have turned back and gone another way. But it was only a small slide, and it stopped well before the small crevasse a little way out from the bottom of the slope. That's the fourth warning sign I missed--a terrain trap!

I dropped in and found the skiing very enjoyable in knee-deep snow. Halfway down the slope, I jumped a small berschrund (the crevasse that forms at the edge of glaciers). After that, things happened very fast. The snow was stiffer, and just as I noticed this the ground started moving under me. AVALANCHE! I looked behind me and saw the 3-foot crown way uphill from me. I looked right, then left, and realized I was in trouble. The slab was 200 to 250 feet across and I was caught in the middle.

I was sort of treading water, trying to stay on top of the snow and inch my way to the side, when the earth collapsed under me. All went dark as I felt myself falling. I hit something, but it collapsed and I kept falling. I hit something else and at the same instant the snow pounded down on top of me.

Instantly I started thrashing my head back and forth in an attempt to make an air space, but I was only able to move my head about an inch. I was choking on the snow jammed in my mouth, so I tried to chew it and spit some out. My left arm was stuck straight out but my right hand was next to my chin, so I was able to push some of the snow away from my face. I was just about to pass out when I cleared my mouth and took a breath.

I knew I was in serious trouble. It was dark and I couldn't move. I yelled to Kane but heard no reply. I thought I would probably pass out soon and drift off into a deep sleep, never to regain consciousness.

When I tried to move my legs, a surge of hope hit me. I could move my right leg, below my knee. I started to wiggle my torso and saw some light creep along my body. I frantically dug with my free hand until it was at my knee. Slowly I was able to dig a hole big enough to enable me to undo my pack straps, then wiggle my body up and out of my coffin of snow and ice.

I was out! Well, almost. I was in a cave of ice with an opening at one end, which I leaned through. That's when I heard Kane's reply to my yells. He was rappelling down the vertical walls of the crevasse, transceiver beeping and shovel in hand.

Amazingly I had been thrown across the crevasse and through a small hole in the back wall, landing on a snow bridge that spanned another part of the crevasse about 30 feet down from the top. Had I been 2 feet to the right I would have fallen another 40 to 70 feet and been buried under all the avalanche debris. It would have taken Kane hours to dig me out. As it was, I had been buried about 3 feet deep.

Using prusik hitches formed from my self-rescue gear, I climbed up the rope that Kane had secured while he looked for my gear. Once on the surface I collapsed on the ground and cried my heart out. I don't know why--I guess I was just overwhelmed by emotion.

Kane found my skis and poles, but my hat, glove, sunglasses, and goggles had been ripped from me during the slide. Fortunately I could ski, but we were a long way from any help, and my leg and elbow were twisted and my back ached.

We had to make it about 5 miles down the Tasman Glacier to the De la Beche Hut before dark. Four hours later, just as darkness descended, it started to rain as we stepped into the hut.

We rested the next day. I was stiff and sore and could hardly move. Lucky for me, two friendly Aussies staying in the hut gladly shared their supply of painkillers.

The next day we set off early for the 15-mile walk/climb/ski to Mt. Cook Village. Because I was unable to pick up my pack, Kane put it on my back for me. My leg sent up a sharp whip of pain with every step. For 10 hours, Kane broke trail and kicked steps for me until we finally made it to the village well after dark.

The next day we drove to a hospital to get my back and leg x-rayed. My leg was just bruised, but my back was broken--a stable hairline fracture of the first lumbar vertebra, which is in the middle of the back. Lucky, eh?

Looking back, I can't help but think that I should have known better, but hindsight is always 20/20. There were signs, but maybe I was getting too cocky. For seven years I've spent more than 250 days a year working in the mountains, but an avalanche doesn't know (or doesn't care) that I'm supposed to be an expert.

The warning signs were there--slope angle, recent wind-loading, avalanche activity and a terrain trap. I probably should have gone another way, but it would have meant separating from my climbing partner--and avalanche transceivers and shovels are no use when you're alone.

Even though I ignored the warnings I'd been trained to be wary of, I did manage to adhere to a few important rules that probably saved my life. We were skiing one at a time (in my mind, the first and most important rule), had beacons and shovels, and knew how to use them. I didn't have my pole straps on, and upon getting caught in the slide kicked off my skis and swam toward the side. (Remember, a couple of feet to the right, almost definitely, would have been fatal.)

Filing this under "Lessons Learned," I hope to eventually be able to teach others about avalanches, while continuing to study and learn from them. After all, we must always learn from our mistakes--for those that don't kill us will make us stronger.

Mark Sedon is a professional ski patroller at Turoa Ski Resort on Zealand's Mt. Ruapehu (yes, the one that erupted, but that's another story). He is extensively trained in avalanche management, avalanche forecasting, and backcountry guiding. He helps forecast avalanches at Turoa, which is in New Zealand's central North Island.