“In a split second, everything can change” 

A Jasperite who was buried in an avalanche while snowmobiling in British Columbia is reminding other backcountry users how quickly things can go from good to bad in avalanche terrain.

Alison Mason has been snowmobiling—sledding, in Valemount parlance—for four winters. She and her partner have taken avalanche skills training courses, always carry the requisite safety gear and are diligent in their preparation before heading out for a day of riding. 

“We are all very aware of avalanche conditions,” Mason said. “It plays on all of our minds.”

When she, her partner, and two friends drove from Jasper en route to Blue Creek, B.C.—a snowmobilers’ mecca approximately two hours west—they had checked Avalanche Canada and noted the hazard was rated as high (4 out of 5 on the danger scale) at treeline and in the alpine. They were also aware that a recent storm had deposited heavy, wet snow on a snowpack which was compromised by buried weak layers.  

“We knew it was a high risk day, so we chose terrain accordingly,” Mason said.

For them, that meant riding in valleys, on low-angle slopes and in open meadows, and staying far away from cornices and terrain traps. While many sledders love to “high-mark”—racing as high as possible up a steep, often avalanche-prone slope—Mason and her group know the inherent risk of that activity.

“We don’t do any high marking, we all want to come home,” she said.

On February 25, the group was sticking to their game plan—travelling in pairs, staying in low-angled trees—when Mason and her partner went to explore an area she hadn’t ridden before, but one which he had played on many times. He rode up a moderate slope, then button-hooked to find refuge back in the trees when he realized he didn’t like the looks of the terrain. Mason followed, but couldn’t turn her sled as tightly to make her retreat, pushing her machine a few metres further into the slope. As she rode back towards her partner, the weight of her snowmobile caused a fracture in the snow, which propagated to the steeper part of the slope.

“As I was in the turn I thought I fell over,” she said. “I realized I was moving.”

It wasn’t just her. Her snowmobile had remote-triggered an avalanche approximately 25 metres above her. It fractured 50 metres across and overtook her as she descended.

“It hit my sled and carried me with it,” she said.

Things were happening fast. Having been knocked off her machine, Mason tried to swim, attempting to stay on top of the roiling snow, as avalanche literature suggests. But Mason’s efforts were of little use against the mass of debris as it enveloped her and the snowmobile, pushing her into the churning maw. 

In the chaos, she neglected to deploy her air-bag. As everything came to a stop, only her foot, hand and the top of her backpack was visible above the piles of snow. 

“When I stopped my right hand was above my head and my left was behind me, in mid-stroke,” she recalled. 

And her head was completely buried; the snow had set in place like concrete.

“I fully went into panic mode and for an instant thought ‘I’m going to die right here,’” she said.

But then another voice in her head told her to calm down, that she was going to be ok. In less than a minute she could feel her partner touching her hand and digging a path towards her head. Her full-face helmet protected her against the compressing snow and gave her a bit of breathing room, she said.

“There was snow everywhere, I couldn’t see anything.”

After some energetic digging, Mason’s partner was able to free her from the brick-hard snow. They made a fire, collected themselves and eventually tried to salvage the rest of the snow-blessed day. The rest of the afternoon and much of the next week were spent debriefing.

“It definitely shook me up,” she said. “We talked about what we could have done different.”

In hindsight, they agreed they should have stopped much shorter of the slope that triggered, and her partner, instead of shouting his ineffective warning, should have used his radio to let her know what he was seeing when the snow gave way.

“He should have radioed me, I should have pulled my air bag,” Mason said.

The biggest takeaway for the group, Mason said, is that even in seemingly-benign terrain, while adventuring in the backcountry, things can happen quickly.

“You realize it can happen in a split second,” Mason said. “You let your guard down for 30 seconds and it can happen.”

Since the incident—which was rated a Class 2 avalanche—Mason hasn’t stopped sledding, but she has become even more vigilant about doing it safely. She doesn’t want to live her life scared of what-ifs, but she has a new appreciation for putting even more time and energy into the process of being prepared.

“It’s about getting outside, having fun and most importantly, coming home,” she said. “Because it can happen to anyone.

“In a split second, everything can change.” 

Bob Covey // bob@thejasperlocal.com