An older running story for today.

Avalanche Story Spring of 2006 During my training for the Western States trail run I spent a lot of time running the trials on the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie River. On one particular day I planned a long run way up in the densely forested valley to the back side of a beautiful lake. Snow Lake, a small pristine alpine lake near Snoqualmie Pass, is a popular destination for hikers looking for the classic Cascade Mountain’s hike and for climbers staging a technical climb of nearby peaks with names like “The Tooth” and “Chair Peak”. I drove through the dark morning a few miles up the ever deteriorating service road and gained the hidden, twisty and moss carpeted trail. The narrow infrequently used trail takes a round and about route clinging to the south wall of the sharp river valley then hooking sharply to the right it climbs into a cirque, a crescent shaped geological bowl. I had been on the trail for an hour or so when I began the climb out of the valley to the steep walled cirque. The trail, a soft brown ribbon of decomposing evergreen needles, dirt and moss wove its ever steepening route slaloming around boulders and secondary growth timber. My footfalls were near silent on the cushioned path. Soft breezes of cool air slowly descended the mountains through the woods rustling branches and chilling my skin. I was happily traversing through a stand of thick Douglas fir and towering hemlock moving along at a comfortable pace clicking off the miles when I began to encounter snow. Small patches at first, hiding from the heat of the sun in the shadows and behind trees, then larger and larger fields of the hard packed ice. The snow always holds on longest on these protected north facing slopes where the sun rarely reaches the ground. As the snow cycles through spring and early summer days it slowly melts and refreezes consolidating into a solid sheet of ice; not the best surface for soft rubber soled trail shoes. I was a bit concerned because I wasn’t really prepared to be on snow today. I was dressed in a tech-t, shorts and an ultra-light wind jacket. My trail shoes were fine, but not really designed to be on hard packed snow and ice. I figured I’d continue until the snow was continuous, then turn around and call it a day, relinquishing my goal of reaching the lake. Below in the ever increasingly sharp river valley of the Snoqualmie’s Middle Fork I can hear the dull roaring river. The sound of the rushing water, filtered through hundreds of needle laden fir, hemlock and cedar boughs, fills the woods with a calm background din. This is where I feel most alive, alone in the woods conquering a trail awash in greens and browns of God’s creation. On hundreds of similar runs I have encountered various forms of wildlife from bears, to deer, to multiple birds and smaller creatures. Today is quiet, very quiet, as if I arrived before the morning wake up call. Still the lack of the normal random animal sounds seems odd. The trail straightens as it traverses continues to slowly climb the east cirque wall exposing itself for intervals allowing me to seen well ahead. I continue on the trail deep into the glacial bowl often times leaving the protection of the dense trees and slicing across an exposed swath created by an old snow slide or avalanche. These snowy treeless areas are evidence of the power behind tons of moving snow and I ice under the command of gravity. As I begin to traverse a third avalanche path about fifty meters wide, the amount of snow now really concerns me. The evergreen canopy has for the most part protected me throughout the run. Now as I stand exposed on the edge of this snowfield on a line between trees and destruction I am taken back by the contrast of the debris littered white ice and the darkness I am emerging from. The snowfield is not smooth and inviting like the images of many slopes inviting skiers to venture out, this snowfield composed of rough and jagged ice chunks and blocks churned up as they tumbled down to their current resting place. Mixed in among the blocks are many pieces of rock, smears of dirt, and the remains of tree debris testifying to the incredible forces created by the moving snow. It is hard to imagine the small beautiful and harmless crystalline flakes of ice becoming an explosively powerful and potentially deadly torrent of ice. Now I am thinking it may be time to go home and have a cup of cocoa. Yet I need to continue the run to complete the many miles I had set out run toady. I step out onto the uneven ground of this resting slide that has covered the trail with several feet of uneven ice, seeing the trail right where I guessed it would be reentering the woods on the other side. I carefully place each footstep on small patches of somewhat level ice falling only once, until I reach the comfort of the brown ribbon. Heading back into the trees I continue deeper into the cirque decide I’ll continue to the next snow field and call it a day, knowing I will have to retrace my steps on this long out and back run. The trail throws down a few unwelcomed switchbacks and climbs higher. Slowing to a walk and pondering my options of shortening the run or just heading back to the car and adding a few road miles I hear the low frequency sound of an airplane passing overhead, reminding me I can rarely escape progress. The sound of planes normally tapers off into silence but this time the sound seems to remain constant and, unimaginably grows. I stop; stewing on the oddness, a morbid part of my imagination dwells on the possibility of a jetliner in distress crashing into the mountains nearby. Quickly dismissing the thought I resume my slow running pace around another switchback and forward to a long straight section of relatively flat trail. The trail tunnels through the trees with barely a waver in its direction. This is the stuff photographer’s love. The contrast of brown and green with a few moss spotted rocks tossed in to break up the soft texture and add depth, the simple trail fading into the future. Way ahead I can see the bright white reflecting light of another snowfield. I pick up the pace guessing it is a few hundred meters ahead. I check my time and take a stab at my distance and think, maybe I give it a go and cross this one too. As I approach the ever brightening treeless snowfield I hear the rumble of the plane again. Maybe it is circling and heading back to the airport to land, maybe the sound is just bouncing off mountains and playing tricks with my mind. I get within a couple hundred feet of the edge of the woods and experience a touch of vertigo, an uneasy feeing in the head and stomach when what your brain sees doesn’t match up with what the rest of the body is feeling. I slow to a walk and look down at the trail to shake of the queasiness, the feeling is gone. I think I must just be a touch dehydrated, so I take swig from one of the water bottles wedged in my hip pack. The water is refreshing and cool, and in a way comforting. I stow the plastic sport bottle and resume my journey only to look up and have the same disturbing feeling rush over my body again. I get within twenty feet of the snow and experience a deep feeling of wrongness. I stop, do a sideways look, listen to the jet engine sound, and realize something is really wrong. The sound isn’t right; it’s to…..close. I straighten my head up look directly at the snow and realize the problem and the source of the very low end sound. The entire two to three hundred foot wide snowfield is slowly moving downhill. The sound is coming from the grinding of ice on rock as the frozen water churns up the soil underneath bulldozing a deep path. It is amazing. The slow yet steady and destructive motion of the snow was just perceivable enough from a distance to set off an alarm in my brain. Yet I was not paying enough attention to discern the motion. I approached the edge of the sliding mass, standing only a few short feet from the edge. I reminded me of video footage of ice chunks floating down a thawing river. The natural erosional forces in process before my eyes mesmerized me, holding me captive for a few minutes. I realized after what was probably an increasingly dangerous amount of time that I was not in a safe place. I could hear the slow motion crash of trees uphill as they were overwhelmed by the ice and debris. The banks of this river of ice were increasingly less secure, and yet I couldn’t pull myself way. I was held by the attraction of the destruction knowing full well it was time to get out of there. It took a few more minutes for common sense to overtake fascination. I regained some sense of reality and bid farewell to the still slowly moving slide. I turned back and retrace my steps to the parking area leaving the sounds of the slowly crashing airliner behind. It was a true blessing to be so close to such a powerful and amazing natural event. I have seem many other avalanches since but none have held my wonder as did this slow motion event. Tony