The worst thing

I am reminded of what I believe to be the worst thing about our house once or twice a year. When it snows and there are strong winds (like today) the orientations of our house, garage, driveway and neighbor's house somehow combine to create huge drifts right in the middle of our driveway. Parts of our driveway can be totally clear while other parts will have 3 feet of snow. This is annoying. While I like to shovel (as evidenced by having shoveled all 70+ inches of snow that have fallen here this winter, thus saving my wife from doing any... you're welcome, by the way) the thought of shoveling drifts that are 3 feet tall and growing as I type this is really not all that appealing. Winter, you can end anytime now.

Since it's been so snowy I picked up a book on avalanches at the neighborhood branch of the library the other day. Reading about them brings me back to January 2000 when I was in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state at a little place called Holden Village. To get to Holden you take a several hour boat ride up Lake Chelan, which reminds me somewhat of the pictures I've seen of Norwegian fjords. Upon exiting the boat you're picked up by an old school bus and driven up a series of switchbacks and then about 10 miles deep into the mountains. Upon exiting you may think you're in a little off-the-grid Lutheran retreat center, but you're really in the middle of nowhere. Civilization is far, far away.

After arriving in Holden that January the very first thing we were shown was a video on the danger of avalanches. To a bunch of college kids from the midwest it was an eye-opening experience. I think the intended purpose was to sufficiently scare the sh!t out of us so that we'd think twice about doing anything stupid in the mountains. The proximate reason for being at Holden that January was to take an environmental ethics class. The ultimate reason, for me at least, was to get outside and play in the mountains and snow that seemed to fall daily. If I was to do that, though, I'd have to get educated pretty quickly.

Fortunately, there were several people who were very experienced with snow and avalanches and I learned a great deal about how to test snowpack for stability, what to look for, how to be safe etc. I saw and heard avalanches on a regular basis that month. I saw the SUV-sized blocks of snow and ice that tumble thousands of feet out of the mountains down avalanche chutes, creating 100+ mph winds and leveling anything in their path. I spent just about every afternoon that month snowshoeing or skiing in the mountains and had a blast. I wish I could go back.

Reading this book (entitled Snowstruck) about the experiences of two Alaskan avalanche forecasters and rescuers brings me back to one night in particular. One of the guys I spent a great deal of time with that month, Dustin, a writer and journalist, and avid backcountry skier, and another woman whose name escapes me, were missing. They had gone out skiing that afternoon after lunch. As of about 8 pm they weren't back. It was dark. It was, of course, snowing. It was cold. The few of us who knew that they weren't back yet had been nervously talking since dinner about what to do and when to start a search mission into the adjacent Glacier Peak wilderness area. There were so many concerns, so many unknowns and so many possibilities, few of them good. It was the first time in my life I'd ever had that sickening knot in my stomach, wondering whether my friends were still alive or not and knowing that there was very little I could do at that point to help out. That was the worst thing.

The best thing? They showed up later that night, cold and hungry. No avalanches got them.