How I Felt During My First Avalanche

I was in my first avalanche in March. I was caught and carried.

I haven't really told many people about it. 

I don't believe in shaming folks who have been in avalanches, I never have. I think we can learn a lot from each other if we approach it with care and empathy. However, I can't help but feel almost tainted, nearly disappointed in myself that this thing happened. 

I'm not going to talk about the human factors that led to the incident. I acknowledge the mistakes made, like where the skin track was set and communication.

This is the story of what it's like to be in an avalanche, and how it made me, an endurance athlete with thousands of hours in the backcountry, feel.

The Avalanche

I'll provide a bit of context on the decisions leading up to the moment I heard my name screamed, only to turn my head and see the snow propagating above me.

I was in a group of three, me and two other friends. We decided to keep skinning after skiing our first line. We knew the avalanche danger that day was surface level, meaning the top few inches of the snowpack was the problem. It also meant that it wasn't likely that an avalanche would break to the ground, though it's always possible. It meant that the avalanche problem was manageable.

After skiing the first line, we decided to keep going and headed back to another basin where we would approach via the back side of a couloir, pop over the top, ski down into another basin, exit and take the bus back to our car. That's skiing in the Gore. You hop from drainage to drainage and bus back to your car. I hadn't been to this basin before.

We were skinning up the backside of our line and I was in the back. We were safely distanced on the skin track. I was just skinning along when I heard my name yelled. "NORA!" 

I looked up and watched the snow propagate above me. I looked around and thought I can out ski this. Though I don't like to talk about my abilities, I'm a really competent skier. I grew up ski racing, I know my limits. I share that context because I'm not saying I could out ski this to brag. I'm saying I could out ski this because I felt with a decent amount of confidence that I could ski traverse hard and be out of it.

I then realized I was skinning, meaning my heels weren't locked in, my boots were in walk mode, and for like the first time all season, I had my heel risers up. I usually don't use risers but I was feeling tired and slow in the heat of the day.

It quickly became clear that I was not going to out ski this. 

I've grown to be cautious but very comfortable in the backcountry. When I first started backcountry skiing, I wouldn't be able to sleep the night before, I was so anxious. Now, stepping into the backcountry feels natural. I can move confidently through terrain and know which terrain traps to avoid. I can speak up in a group and share discomfort or how we should approach a line. I've seen avalanches, I've intentionally triggered avalanches. Which, if this makes you stop and think what! It's a mitigation tactic to trigger an avalanche before skiing a slope to reduce risk.

I've always approached backcountry skiing with a willingness to say no over yes. I'll go until it doesn't make sense to go anymore, and I'll say no if I, or anyone in my group, feels even a slight bit of discomfort or uncertainty. The mountains don't go anywhere. You can always come back.

They say the more you expose yourself in the backcountry, no matter how experienced or cautious you are, the more likely you are to be caught in an avalanche. That it's only a matter of time.

Just as quickly as I realized out skiing this thing wasn't an option, the snow under me was moving. My brain analyzed my options. My toes were locked in and my heels were free. It wouldn't take much for the avalanche to whack me around and with a free heel, my ski could do some serious damage. I allowed myself to sit. The snow took me with it. 

I remember what went through my head so vividly as I was trapped in my first avalanche with no idea how this was going to end. I thought, I better get my phone out and call Tom, my partner who was in Vietnam for a work trip, and let him know that everything is going to be okay. That it's all going to be okay.

Those were my exact thoughts. And I had, what felt like, a lot of time to think about that. It was so crisp, that thought of "I need to let him know that everything is going to be okay." 

Looking at the slope ahead of me, I started to think about how far this thing was going to run. I knew the problem was surface instability and it wasn't likely to step down. 

But then I saw a convexity in front of me, and that's when I started to dig for my airbag trigger. I knew if this thing was going to get worse, it would be as soon as it took me over the convexity and I wanted to be ready. I found the zipper, unzipped it, pulled out the trigger, and yanked it down thinking, "I hope this works."

My airbag inflated as I went over the convexity.

And then the snow stopped. 

As quickly as I could, I yelled "I'm okay!" as I scrambled to stand up so my partners knew I was unharmed. I knew communication would be key and I didn't want my friends putting themselves, or me, into any more danger. I had one pole and I quickly made my way out of the debris. The friend who triggered the slide carefully zigged and zagged - he was still in walk mode - down to me. He asked if I was okay, I said yes, but that I had lost my pole. I thought my pole was a goner, but he dug around and found it. He apologized.

The third ski partner yelled about descending and I quickly yelled back at her to ski the debris. It didn't look like there was any hang fire, but the bed surface would be the safest bet. I wanted to control the situation now. 

The Exit

We descended down to a safe spot in the basin and did a quick debrief. 

My adrenaline was high and my friend offered me some gummy bears. I had no appetite, yet I knew that I needed to keep my sugar levels up so I didn't crash. We still had a long exit down the drainage. I know this sounds like a plug, but truly, this is where something like Neve is great. It makes eating in these intense situations really easy. 

I pulled out my phone and texted Tom. I told him I was caught in a slide, but that I was okay and I'd call him when I was back at the car. I was confused mostly, but knew I needed to get back to the car before I let my emotions tear out of me. 

We began the long exit. 

At the car, my friends tried to cheer me up with peanut butter pretzels. We talked for a little and then said our goodbyes.

Going Home

I got in the car, closed the door, drove off, and was finally alone. It was quiet as I blankly stared ahead. I didn't know if I would cry, laugh, or scream. I did none of that. I just drove. 

I think it was at that point where I called my mom. I told her what had happened and she came right over to my house. She lives 45 minutes away. 

We met at the hot tub in my community and sat together.

When we got back to my house, she was going to leave and asked if I wanted her to stay. I wanted to say no so she could go home and have her evening, but I really wanted someone there. I said I would appreciate the company. I was scared to be alone.

I was scared to go to sleep. When I witnessed my first fatality in Mexico, I had flashbacks in the middle of the night. I was dreading going to bed because I was dreading the flashbacks. 

But I slept through the entire night. 

My friends invited me to ski at the resort the following day since they had extra tickets and it was a group of girls, one of which was with me during the incident. I said yes because I didn't want to be alone, and I didn't want to be scared to ski. 

I didn't know how I would react back on snow. 

But I was fine. 

And I wondered, what's wrong with me. Am I this immune to trauma? 

What's Next

I'm not sure what my relationship backcountry skiing will look like this season. I know I backed off quite a bit after the avalanche. We all have our own complicated relationship with adventure. Mine continues to get more complicated and I'm not sure where my story goes from here. I do love to ski and ride my bike. I love to turn my beacon off, knowing I never had to touch it because we made safe and smart decisions. I love traveling the world with my favorite ski partners. I do know I will continue to follow my curiosity safely, cautiously, and respectfully.

After the avalanche, my airbag pack sat in the garage, the bright orange balloon spilling out of it. The canister empty and useless.