Marmolada Avalanche

It is a difficult decision to share what I have to share. But, I truly believe it is important, critical even, that this sort of story is told. It is something that every backcountry skier hopes never happens.

The great war photographer, James Nachtwey once said that the reason he makes the very difficult photos that he makes is because he hopes it will make a difference for someone, someday, perhaps to prevent some tragedy. This is also my desire.

The day started perfectly, May 1 and nearly a meter of winter powder. We arrived to the Marmolada (the Dolomites highest peak) and found literally a hundred or more skiers already skinning up to the east summit. Our goal was the true highpoint, the Punta Penia, but at first look it was glaringly obvious that it was too dangerous. We opted for the lower angle, rolling slopes below the east summit.

We skinned to the top under blue skies, had a snack on top, chatted with a mountain guide friend about the conditions, and then skied down in ideal snow.

Everyone had noticed that several groups were attempting to climb the Punta Penia, and it was widely agreed upon that this didn’t seem to be the best idea based on what we were seeing. Small, slabs breaking free even on some of the lower angled terrain.

Skiers had skinned to beneath some steep rocks and from there began to climb steep snow to a ridge above. Where this was occurring was in the back of a canyon next to where our descent ended.

After skiing down we regrouped and decided another lap was in order, at least to the best section of snow. Once we were skinning again we stayed well to the side of the exit of the massive canyon in which the Punta Penia climbers were in. I don’t know if we did this consciously or just because we were going back to the slopes we had come down which were well off to the side of the Punta Penia climb.

I remember Andreas making some sort of surprised sound, before we all looked up. The avalanche seemed to release at the climber’s ski depot. What started as just some movement to our eyes, grew to an enormous, astounding, wave of snow, slabs and exploding debris. It came towards us like a wall of water released by a broken dam.

My memory is of trying to follow all of the many falling bodies I could see in the top sections, avy course training tells you to watch them, but then Andreas yelled out, “Let’s get out of here!”. We all quickly spun around, pointed our tips downward, and traversed off and out of the way. The avalanche, at full bore, passed about 100 meters from us.

As quickly as it started, it was over. Reality set in, there were countless people in this thing and we saw no one. We were the closest skiers to it and needed to act.

But how? Where to start? This thing was not just some small slab cutting loose, it didn’t have one or two people in it, it had maybe a dozen or more and covered an area perhaps 2 kilometers long and several hundred meters wide. What lay before us was overwhelming.

Call for the helicopters! What if something else goes above us? Fuck, we see no one. Oh Fuck, no.

Andreas called the emergency phone number. I headed into the debris field while lower, Janine, Dave and the others traversed in as well. Andreas followed behind me and soon we were faced with a lone figure, a young guy, clearly in shock, just standing in the debris. We approached him.

In Italian, “Are we safe here? are we safe here? I want to go away, I want to go away, please come with me, please take me away”. It took a moment to realize it, but this guy had ridden the thing out and was okay. Completely in shock, we took him out of the debris. Now, many other skiers were arriving to help. Chaos was taking over. The area to search was massive, where to start, what to do. Some still had their beacons on transmit throwing off the searches, yelling, screaming, frustration, fear.

The surface of the snow was a sea of clean white balls, frighteningly dense to ski or walk on, it was setting up like concrete. With some groups organizing to methodically search, while others roamed, time was going by. I remember seeing a guy standing alone, kind of brushing himself off, we spoke, he had been carried the length of the avalanche and was also uninjured, a miracle really. But this guy was 100% focused to get to work searching. I can’t imagine how he did it after what he went through.

Finally the helicopters arrived and with them the search parties with dogs. Word was out that two snowshoers had been seen in the path and no one had seen them since. Janine vividly remembered seeing them above us and moving into the canyon. Besides them, no one knew how many people were missing. No one was finding anything with beacon searches. But the dogs were at work.

While amongst it all I was with a woman dog handler and her dog. The dog began digging frantically, I had a probe in hand, the woman gestured for it, made one stab and screamed she had a find. She reached down, pulled away some snow, and right at our feet not 30cm below the surface of the snow, a frozen, clawed hand. We began to dig, the hand became an arm, the arm a torso and thankfully, at this point there were numerous other pros on hand. I stepped away and watched. Janine was there now, the face was freed, expressionless, peaceful. 35 minutes had passed. On his feet were snowshoes.

He was out, they worked on him while other searches continued. 50 more minutes passed, nothing, hope was giving away to hopelessness. Then another dog reacted, and ironically right in front of us and not 2 meters from the first find. Again the probe and the screams of a discovery. Minutes later the second snowshoer was out, 90 minutes with no oxygen. Like his friend, he was not wearing a beacon.

By now a half dozen helicopters were on the scene, each with new dogs and new personnel. A lone skier came through the scene, we all saw him, he had on one ski, carried two sets of ski poles, and was sobbing.

Our group gathered, we could do nothing more to help. The searchers wanted everyone to leave the area so the dogs could work. The rescue effort was turning to recovery.

The thoughts that go through one’s head after an experience like this are difficult to come to terms with. We sit here tonight, numb. For me writing about it helps and understanding that everyone did what they could. But to see it and wonder what is happening now to these people while we are safe at home – this is something else we have to process. Even still we do not know the outcome.

How can a place and an experience be so wonderful one moment, and a living hell the next? How can this playground we love become deadly? We’ve never lost sight of the fact that it is a dangerous game, but to see the reality is something else. A frozen hand seen grasping for the surface will remain with me forever when I ski.

Fellow backcountry skiers will understand about all of this. We continually hear stories, see videos, etc.. But at this same time last night, it had not happened to either myself or Janine. We will not stop skiing in the mountains but we will have this difficult learning experience that we hope will help us make the best decisions. I hope that the same can be true for others.

This is a real recovery scene