March 9, 2002, Mt. Baker Backcountry

Four of us spent the day wandering the backcountry near Artist Point, skiing south, east and north aspects in what began as a calm, sunny day and from that point devolved steadily into high wind, light snow and occasional ground blizzard. Although the recent snow was light and unconsolidated at the parking lot (ski pole passing through the top foot or so without effort, leaving only a hint of its track), there was heavy powder and soft slab almost everywhere we went, seemingly growing more cohesive throughout the day. Skiing was therefore great fun in the fall line, but somewhat irksome and effortful for those who like to finish their turns. I was made a bit distracted-not to say livid with rage-by the fact that whenever I found myself bounding gleefully down the fall line, powder flowing up and around me with every turn, I would mysteriously lose a ski. The first time interrupted an almost mystically good run with a slow-motion crash. The second time involved both cable binding and ski leash releasing, and the indignity of searching through thigh-deep snow for my buried ski while the others waited patiently below. I do not know quite what to make of this unprecedented string of binding failures, except that my new G3 plastic leashes are obviously not up to their appointed task and will soon be on their way back to British Columbia, from whence they came. My bindings, Rottefella Cobras, are now adjusted very tightly, and perhaps this will help. My TRP's, which are designed for such things, have declined to become involved.

Snow stability was the main focus of the day, of course, with the deep, thick snow demanding steep terrain and lots of forward speed, while the obvious presence of both soft slab and sliding layers urged restraint. The predicted (by me, among others) surface sluffing failed to materialize. Instead, soft slabs were releasing rather easily on all aspects, on an apparent windcrust 14-20 inches down, and on the melt-freeze or raincrust 6 inches below that. On our first run, an exploratory ski down the edge of a gully released a slab 15 feet from my ski cut on a west-northwest aspect, suggesting a retreat to friendlier terrain. We next backed off another descent on an east aspect where small slabs released here and there on steep rolls at ski cuts (these were sometimes deliberate and sometimes not), booting up in order to traverse awkwardly to more agreeable terrain. Then we then watched from below while a pair of skiers obviously following our tracks performed the same indelicate maneuver.

By this time, two of our party proclaimed themselves ready for afternoon siesta, so I and one other continued up to the ridge for one last run. The weather was deteriorating rapidly by this time, and our earlier tracks were largely filled with blown snow; trailbreaking was somewhat more arduous this second time around. While flailing our way back uphill we watched with some fascination while two more skiers followed our earlier tracks off the ridge, clearly over their heads in terms of skiing skill and understanding of the hazards involved. I watched with a critical eye while obvious cracks radiated from the tracks of each in turn, the existence of which they were apparently unaware.

The reader with finely-honed sense of narrative flow will have noted that certain classic elements are by this time present: unstable snowpack; deteriorating conditions; a certain end-of-the-day weariness; the determination to squeeze a last couple of turns out of a somewhat frustrating day; and, not least, persons undeniably male in gender, possessed of an abundance of knowledge, skills, gear and hubris but a paucity of common sense. The short version of the story is that I made an unambiguously, if somewhat perplexingly, stupid terrain choice-and paid for it with a partial, mercifully brief burial. The long version, with my own complete and somewhat obsessive debrief, I will be posting