‘Avalanche!’: Survivors recount tragedy in Sierra

By Dave Philipps, Bora Erden, Marco Hernandez and Amy Graff

TRUCKEE, Calif. — The blizzard blew so fierce that the skier at the head of the line kept disappearing into a whiteout. The winds were gusting over 50 mph. Almost 4 feet of fresh powder had piled up and more was falling every minute.

At the back of the line was Anton Auzans, trudging behind 12 other backcountry skiers climbing through a clearing high in California’s Sierra Nevada. He had his hood pulled low against the pelting wind.

Then came a single word yelled by a ski guide somewhere ahead: “Avalanche!”

Auzans dove behind a dead tree for protection, but the snow was surging down the mountain like a raging river. It poured around the trunk, dragged him away and swallowed him in darkness.

Back in the woods, Jim Hamilton was struggling with a sticky ski binding that had refused to lock onto his boot and caused him to fall behind. He was cursing his bad luck.

He was hustling to catch the group, following their ski track through the woods. With him was a ski guide. Hamilton expected to catch sight of the others at the next clearing. Instead, their track abruptly ended at a rough berm of snow debris.

Hamilton had been too far behind to hear the warning or the rush of snow. For a second he was mystified. Where was everybody?

Then he heard Auzans yell. “Major avalanche! Major avalanche! We have people buried!” Auzans’ head had just poked out of the snow.

Anton Auzans and Jim Hamilton are two survivors of the deadliest avalanche in modern California history. This account is based on a number of interviews with the two men conducted over several hours, in which they offered the first eyewitness telling of what happened.

The Feb. 17 avalanche killed nine skiers who were among 15 people on a guided trip high in the mountains near Lake Tahoe. (Three of the skiers who died were Marin County residents: Danielle Keatley, 44, of Larkspur; Kate Morse, 45, of Tiburon; and Kate Vitt, 43, of Greenbrae.)

Auzans and Hamilton, both lifelong skiers who had never met before the trip, said that as the storm beat down, conditions steadily grew worse, but their guides largely stuck to an itinerary laid out long before the storm, and led the group beneath steep terrain where a massive slide buried nearly everyone. The few skiers who were free dug desperately to save the others, but were overwhelmed by the number of people trapped, and by the unrelenting blizzard that threatened to cause another deadly slide.

In the days since, many have raised questions about why four experienced guides left a protected backcountry hut during a historic storm and led their group across avalanche terrain, while not spreading skiers out so that one avalanche would not take out the whole group.

Those questions remain largely unanswered. The Nevada County Sheriff’s Office and California’s workplace safety agency, Cal-OSHA, are investigating whether there were safety violations or criminal negligence by the company that led the trip, Blackbird Mountain Guides. No findings have been announced.

There were four other survivors: One ski guide, two women in the group and a third man who had signed up for the trip. The surviving women declined to comment through a spokesperson, as did the other ski client. The guide, a man, could not be reached for comment.

In a statement after the accident, Blackbird Mountain Guides asked people not to speculate, saying “investigations are underway.”

Snow forecast

Auzans and Hamilton arrived at Donner Pass, where Interstate 80 cuts through a gap in the mountains, on the morning of Sunday, Feb. 15. The weather was mild and snowy peaks were shining under a clear sky.

The plan was to ski 3 miles over a ridge east of the highest summit in the area, Castle Peak, to a subalpine basin called Frog Lake. There, at 7,600 feet, sat cozy backcountry huts that would provide the skiers with a launching point for climbs up remote mountains to ski untracked slopes.

A monster winter storm was set to move in that night and drop up to 8 feet of snow over four days. The local avalanche forecasting office warned of possible “widespread avalanche activity.” But the skiers viewed the weather as a stroke of good luck.

For six weeks the region had gone without a significant storm, leaving the snow thin and crusty and not much fun to ski. The storm promised to bring what the skiers had hoped for, what they had each paid almost $1,500 for: bottomless fresh powder.

At the pass, the two clients were greeted by their guides from Blackbird Mountain Guides — Andrew Alissandratos, 34, and the guide who survived — and by the third man.

A second group had also hired Blackbird to head to the huts that day: Eight friends, all women in their 40s or early 50s, who had been taking backcountry trips together for years. Both groups were led by Blackbird, and had signed up for the same hut trip, but each group had their own pair of guides.

The four guides from Blackbird all had extensive experience and formal training. They checked that everyone had the required safety gear — an avalanche beacon for locating people who are buried; a long, folding probe to pinpoint them under the snow; and a shovel for digging them out. Auzans and Hamilton had both taken basic avalanche safety classes, but neither had experienced an avalanche before.

When the topic of the impending storm came up, Hamilton said the guides told him not to worry, they knew how to pick safe terrain. They would have to stay on treed slopes and avoid the steep inclines that many skiers love, but he said one guide told him there would be so much powder that no one would care.

The groups put climbing skins on the bottom of their skis to grip the snow and climbed up to a ridge on the side of Castle Peak, about 1,700 feet above the freeway.

Hamilton, 65, had moved to California from Massachusetts a year before. He had only been backcountry skiing four times and would never have attempted a trip like this without expert guides.

On the ridge, the skiers took off their climbing skins for a long ski down an open bowl to a steep snow gully called Frog Lake Notch that cut beneath a granite summit called Perry’s Peak.

On a big powder day, Frog Lake Notch would be a natural avalanche path, but that Sunday, the old snow was firm and safe. By early afternoon, they had reached the huts at Frog Lake.

It was just the kind of experience Auzans, 37, was hoping for. He had grown up snowboarding at nearby resorts and in recent years had grown increasingly interested in the backcountry.

Rising danger

On Sunday night it started to snow hard. By the next morning, the huts were covered by nearly a foot of fresh powder and it was still dumping.

The four guides met to make a plan for the day.

Early Monday, the Sierra Avalanche Center, which forecasts backcountry snow conditions in the region, posted an update: “Avalanche danger is rising. Backcountry travelers could easily trigger large avalanches today.” The center added: “Consider avoiding avalanche terrain in areas where clues to unstable snow are present.”

The forecast now said that the hazard, on a scale of 1 to 5, had increased to Level 3, with “considerable” danger, up from Level 2, with “moderate” danger, on Sunday. But the center continued to warn that, by Monday night, the hazard could increase to Level 4, with “high” danger.

Whether the guides checked those forecasts or conferred with Blackbird headquarters is unclear, the two men said in interviews, because the guide meeting happened behind closed doors. Hamilton said the huts did have an internet connection. Blackbird Mountain Guides said in a statement, “Guides in the field are in communication with senior guides at our base, to discuss conditions and routing based upon conditions.”

Most avalanches occur on slopes between 30 and 45 degrees. The guides told the group they would climb about 800 feet through the trees on the east side of another nearby summit, called Frog Lake Peak, and ski a 25-degree slope that would be safe.

The ski from the Frog Lake huts Monday turned out to be fantastic. The guides chose enjoyable runs. The snow was deep and soft. There were no signs of avalanches.

“It was everything you thought it would be. Just epic. And I never once felt like we were in danger,” Hamilton said. “I remember watching the women fly by me and they are having a blast.”

Fleeing into storm

When the skiers woke Tuesday, the chance of natural avalanches had increased from possible to likely, according to the Sierra Avalanche Center forecast, and the chance of human-caused avalanches had risen from likely to very likely.

The guides told the skiers the groups had to cancel a planned ski lap and leave before conditions got worse.

“‘We have to get out of here now,’” Auzans recalled them firmly telling the groups.

Returning the way they came in, through Frog Lake Notch, was too dangerous.

The website for the Frog Lake Huts offered an alternative path down a tree-covered slope to the southeast. There was also a one-lane road to the huts that went east through safe terrain. Both routes were longer, and would have left the skiers far from their cars.

A third possibility was to stay in the huts, which had food and water and plenty of room. But the guides never mentioned that option, the men said. Instead, a fourth alternative was chosen by the guides. The groups would head for the cars, retracing much of their path in, but would avoid Frog Lake Notch by going around the back of Perry’s Peak.

Attempt to get out

Winds were gusting at more than 50 mph when they left. At times the skiers could not see more than a few feet.

The women’s and men’s groups combined into one party with four guides, and started zigzagging up a gentle slope to the ridge of Perry’s Peak, 500 feet above the huts.

The snow was hip deep without skis on. The guides took turns in the lead, packing a trail for the others to follow, but it was slow going. An hour later, they had covered less than 1 mile.

As they trudged uphill, skiers naturally bunched up behind the leader. At points on the climb the guides stopped the group and sent skiers one at a time across steeper slopes.

At around 10 a.m. they reached the ridge, stopped in the howling wind to pull off their climbing skins, and skied down the north side.

Hamilton watched the women, all veteran powder skiers, slip along effortlessly. He was not as graceful. He fell and struggled to get up. By the time they regrouped at the bottom, it was about 10:45 a.m.

The group now faced a mile-long climb up a gentle valley beneath Perry’s Peak. Beyond it was a long downhill glide to the cars. No part of the path crossed steep slopes. The group appeared to be home free.

The women put on their climbing skins ahead of the men and left with the lead guide to break trail. Auzans and the third client soon followed.

Hamilton could not get his boot into his binding. The guide at the rear of the group waited with Hamilton. Finally, they moved up the trail.

A scream, then silence

Around that moment, the wind-piled mass of snow on the north side of Perry’s Peak failed. Untold tons rushed down like a tsunami, picking up speed as it tumbled the equivalent of 40 stories.

Directly in the path of the avalanche, the other 13 skiers were climbing a gentle slope through a clearing.

The slope was only about 20 degrees — not steep enough for snow to slide. It remains unknown if the guides realized that a steep slope towered just above them to the left.

“Avalanche!” was all Auzans heard.

By the time he looked up, the rest of the group had already been swallowed. The snow pushed him over and dragged him down. As he was being buried, the survival stories he loved to read flashed in his mind and he put his hands over his face to try to make an air pocket.

Everything went black. He was packed too tightly to move. He knew from his training that he had to get out soon or he would likely die.

If people buried in an avalanche are rescued within 20 minutes, accident data show, 90% live. But in the next 15 minutes, carbon dioxide from their own breathing builds up in the snow, the heat of their breath can form an ice shield that blocks all air, and the survival rate drops to 30%. It then drops steadily as time goes on.

Trapped in the snow, Auzan said a rage built up inside him and gave him the strength to push his hands free. Suddenly, he was looking at daylight.

Moments later, Hamilton and the guide that was at the rear came through the trees.

“We have people buried!” Auzans shouted. He pointed to the last spot he had seen anyone.

Auzans dug to work himself free.

Hamilton spotted a ski pole sticking up from the debris. It started to wave. He skied over and saw an arm of the third male client. He had made an airway with one arm, and was able to talk through the hole.

Auzans dug himself out, grabbed his shovel and went to help the guide whose probe had found a skier about 4 feet under the snow.

They uncovered the face of a woman. As they brushed away the snow they kept asking if she was OK. She only moaned, but that meant she was breathing.

A few feet away the probe found a second skier. They dug steadily, hacking at the hard snow. As they dug, Hamilton went back to the other male client and began to dig him out, hoping he could help with the rescue.

About 4 feet down, the guide and Auzans found a second woman. Brushing the snow from her face, they saw her eyes blink. She moaned. Breathing.

Somewhere in the blur of digging, Auzans called 911. It was 11:30 a.m. He reported a slide with multiple people buried. Rescuers immediately went into action.

At least 30 minutes had passed since the slide, Auzans estimated. Time was running out.

While shoveling to the second woman, they had encountered someone’s leg and another person’s backpack. The group seemed to all be buried close together.

Within minutes they had uncovered the head of a third skier. It was one of the male guides. But when they tried to revive him, they got no response.

Without stopping, they dug down to a fourth skier. A woman. She, too, appeared lifeless.

Search ends

Now the men above the snow faced a bleak decision.

It was about noon. Roughly an hour had passed since the slide. There were seven people still unaccounted for, but the chances of finding them alive seemed slim.

The storm was still hitting with savage force. Another avalanche could hit at any moment. The two women who were alive were still mostly buried. They seemed to drift in and out of consciousness as snow blew in on their faces.

The men knew if they did not rescue the women and move to safety that they all might die. They made the decision to stop the search.

“We were all in danger. We did as much as we could. We pushed until we started finding people that were deceased. Making the decision to stop the search was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” Auzans said afterward. “What are our priorities? We had to save the people we knew were alive.”

Around 12:30 p.m., Auzans texted 911 that they were moving to safety. The guide dug a snow pit, then laid a tarp over the top to make a crude shelter and put the women inside in sleeping bags. They began a long wait.

Around 5:30 p.m., just as it was getting dark, about a dozen rescuers arrived on skis.

In the dark, using headlamps, the rescuers led the six survivors back over to the ridge on Perry’s Peak, and down to the huts, where snowcats and an army of other rescuers were waiting.

Left behind on the dark mountain were the six friends who traveled together: Carrie Atkin, Liz Clabaugh, Danielle Keatley, Kate Morse, Caroline Sekar and Kate Vitt. And the three veteran guides: Andrew Alissandratos, Nicole Choo and Michael Henry.

It would be days before the storm relented and rescuers could return to retrieve them.

The Independent Journal contributed to this report