Slide

We paused after our first run of the day, stuffing our faces with sandwiches and cookies packed late the night before, exhilarated by the powder and the sun and the delightful ski we had just finished. The seven of us had convened in the Columbia Valley early in the morning for a weekend of ski-touring. Somebody's sixth sense should have picked up the vibe that something was going to go amiss given that we had canceled our much anticipated Jumbo Pass trip the night before because of deteriorating avalanche conditions. Instead, we were all full of glee and the sweet promise of a weekend of excellent (and safer) skiing and company.

The uptrack. So much easier to take photos on the way up.



As soon as we had put our skins back on for the second run, the local cat pulled up causing us to scramble off the track with our gear to avoid being trampled. Instead, a woman popped out and bounded over to us, telling us there had been an accident in their terrain. Would we mind helping to dig out any burials? I don't think I even looked at the gang, just grabbed my skis and pack and threw them onto the cat. All I could think is that every second counts. The cat didn't know that, though, and it chugged along like a snail across ridges and slopes to the other side of the mountain.

En route, we heard that a group of snowmobilers had triggered a 3.0 avalanche while high-pointing. We still had no idea how many were buried or injured. Aric and I started planning for a mass casualty scenario and began digging through the ski operation's trauma kit, finding oxygen, some airway equipment, and lots of gauze. Truthfully, they had a fairly extensive kit, well suited to the expertise of the guides.

Climbing out of the cat revealed a backcountry village full of cat-skiing tourists whose afternoon had been abruptly cancelled, guides, snowmobiles and a very large avalanche crown grinning at us from above. We learned only one sledder had been buried and had been dug out by his friends, so they asked Aric and I to lend a hand managing his injuries.

It's an interesting experience to try to do your job in the middle of nowhere in the snow with limited equipment. I longed for the trauma bay at one point. Thankfully, the sledder's head was intact and he escaped with only a compound fracture of his tiba and fibula, albeit a particularly nasty one. We reduced it, splinted it, and let the guides figure out an evacuation plan. After sitting in the cat for an hour, a helicopter arrived and we flew him out to Fernie.

Loading up the patient on the sled.

The sled buried under 2 m of snow. The victim was buried to his waist.


Loading the chopper.

Not exactly STARS, but it worked.

A lee slope with an overhanging cornice. The maneuver that triggered the slide was hucking the sled off some cliffs just out of the photo to the right. No comment.


For the sacrifice of an afternoon of perfect tree skiing, we were offered a lift in the cat for one last run of the day. Met up with the surviving snowmobilers back at the cars late in the afternoon, and learned a bit about sledding and sledders over beer and M&Ms. Although we skiied just a couple of runs, it was an interesting day anthropologically speaking, and a helluva first cat-skiing experience.