A lot to learn
Skiing and snow safety in the predictably unpredictable
Mid ski season is time to rev up muscle memory on the hill, learn new tricks and practice skills that could save lives, should the worst happen. My fellow Eaglecrest ski instructors and I get tips on fine tuning our turns from a national ski instructors association team member. I watch my Reach the Peak ski school students light up with “that feeling” as their skis float along the snow “without thinking.” And our ladies ski touring group learns about where to safely trek to avoid avalanches and works on beacon, probe and shovel rescue skills. In this neck of the rainforest, we don our teacher’s and learner’s caps and embrace the rain, snow, snain and whatever else we call it.
The emphasis is on coastal ski area when Ann from Jackson Hole is here for an annual visit with the latest skills to help us help our students have more fun on the mountain. Ann is slight and spry, with a keen eye and spot on advice. My kernel is to roll my knees into the turn just a bit earlier. Unlike the light and dry pow of Ann’s Tetons, our snow is wet and saturated. She accurately tags Eaglecrest conditions: “predictably unpredictable.”
Same deal for our introduction to backcountry skiing and avalanche awareness course. The sky takes a break from snow showers as we skin up single file towards Mt. Troy, across from Eaglecrest. Well-spaced spruce and hemlock trees drip with fast melting snow. On the horizon is a series of steep slopes and snow smoothed meadows. It looks and feels like a whole other ski area.
Our leader stops, squats and scoops the first foot of the snow pack with fingered gloves. He looks back at our line of ski touring ladies from under a well worn Seattle sombrero . “The first six inches, there’s that freezing drizzle crust, even lighter, softer snow underneath, and then the very firm rain crust below that. Feel free to poke in there as you go by.”
We learn such snow layers are indicative of an “upside down snowpack”, with heavy wet snow on top and drier layers underneath. Perfect for building a dense, more deadly slab, should an avalanche be triggered.
To our left are the steeper slopes of Showboat, where expert skiers make smooth turns when the avalanche danger is low. Not today. Our instructor points his pole to a deep gully falling off to the right. “Does anyone know why this could be considered a terrain trap?” he quizzes.
Linda points to where it narrows at the base.
“If an avalanche came down you’d end up right there, it would be very deep.”
“Yes,” affirms our instructor. “If you got caught in an avalanche here you’d get dragged down to the bottom of the gully, could potentially have a lot of snow on top of you and be buried very deeply, with a lot less chance of survival.”
Then he makes a key distinction between where we stand and the gully. “That’s avalanche terrain. This is not.”
We descend rolling mounds through the trees . The untouched snow looks like fun, but this stuff the consistency of a 7-11 slurpee requires an especially light turning touch. The date, February 5th, is the 10th anniversary of the passing of local singer songwriter Buddy Tabor, known for his glass half empty perspective. Buddy once said Juneau weather, “could crush and smash you to the ground.” In this case, it’s Southeast AK cement. I’m the first to go down. The more I struggle to stand up, the more the snow solidifies around me. I feel like a bug on its back.
Our instructor slides over and picks me up by the waist. No go. I’m like one of the four year olds I struggled to recover when pinch hitting for a recent wee ski class. They wriggle like wet noodles. This is a full circle moment. Our instructor is my son, Kanaan. He helps pop me out of my skis. I get myself back together and we find our way out, my friends taking their turns at plopping in the winter muck.
The next day my ski school students follow me on a just-steep-enough groomed pitch at Eaglecrest named for World Cup champ and Olympic medalist Hilary Lindh. What resonates with many students is to divide the turn into three parts, 1-2-3. We waltz down Hilary’s in slow motion, thanks to rained on sticky snow, predictably unpredictable.
