Tag: Avalanche Conditions

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Arctic Dreams

My well-worn copy of Artic Dreams by Barry Lopez, Cover Courtesy Alaska Stock Images, © Johnny Johnson, R. E. Johnson Photographers, Maps illustrated by David Lindroth, Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell
My well-worn copy of Artic Dreams by Barry Lopez
Cover Courtesy Alaska Stock Images, © Johnny Johnson, R. E. Johnson Photographers
Maps illustrated by David Lindroth
Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell
“This is an old business, walking slowly over the land with an appreciation of its immediacy to the senses and what lies hidden in it.” -Barry Lopez, Arctic Dreams

Snowflakes Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell
Snowflakes
Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

Logan Canyon Tree Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell Logan Canyon Tree
Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

Logan Canyon Forest Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell Logan Canyon Forest
Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

Logan Canyon Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell Logan Canyon
Photo Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell

The snow came late this year. If it is a measuring stick, Beaver Mountain ski area, in Logan Canyon, did not open before Christmas for the first time since 1977. The lifts started turning the last day of 2025.

Every tree, every elk and deer, every squirrel, every insect, every living thing in the Bear River Mountains prepared for winter weeks, even months, ago. The whole range seemed to sit in eerie limbo, waiting for the snow to fly.

This past week, I found myself pondering the immense weight of the world in the midst of the first real winter storm of the season—at least for me. I looked up from my feet at millions of snowflakes descending upon me, crisscrossing one another in a flurry. I’m talking about giant conglomerate snowflakes. The kind that transform the sky into a straight-up dreamland. I felt pure delight.

The other day, I pulled Barry Lopez’s 1986 New York Times best seller, Arctic Dreams, from my bookshelf and browsed the passages I had highlighted or underlined 25 years ago. Until his death in 2020, Lopez wrote his books on an IBM Selectric III typewriter.

Lopez asked the questions, “How do people imagine the landscapes they find themselves in?” and “How does the land shape the imaginations of the people who dwell in it?”

I imagined each snowflake as gift from the Pacific. Tiny droplets of frozen water meandering to the ground. Each is part of an endless cycle of water, dating back to the origins of the earth. I wondered how long ago these snowflakes last fell free through the sky. How long did they spend in the depths of the ocean? Where will they go on their journey from here? And how did I happen to be in this place, with these snowflakes, in this moment in time?

Everything is temporary—a snowflake, a lifetime, human history, even geologic time.

In another passage Lopez wrote: “Because [humans] can circumvent evolutionary law, it is incumbent upon [us], say evolutionary biologists, to develop another law to abide by if [we] wish to survive…. [We] must learn restraint. [We] must derive some other, wiser way of behaving toward the land.”

To that I would add, we must also derive some other, wiser way of behaving towards one another because the greatest threat to humanity is, frankly, humanity. The biggest threat to life on earth isn’t the sun’s eventual demise or a rouge asteroid. It is us. Can we learn to live sustainably, and can we learn to understand and respect those who are different from ourselves?

Later, Lopez continues the thought:

“The cold view to take of our future is that we are therefore headed for extinction in a universe of impersonal chemical, physical, and biological laws. A more productive, certainly more engaging view, is we have the intelligence to grasp what is happening, the composure not to be intimidated by its complexity, and the courage to take steps that may bare no fruit in our lifetimes.”

That requires collective action.

As Oscar Schindler identified in Schindler’s List, power is when we have every justification to take, or to control, or to act on impulse, and we don’t. We refrain.

Each snowflake individually seems insignificant, but together, relentless by the millions, snow crystals pile up. They cover the ground, flock the trees, and settle into the gaps of my jacket. Their strength is in their numbers and their ability to bond with each other.

I imagine snow accumulating on a steep mountain. As the storm rages, the sheer weight of snow increases, one single snowflake at the time, until finally, one seemingly insignificant snowflake settles on the surface, and it is suddenly too much for buried weak layers to withstand. Then, “Whoomph!” The result is a spontaneous avalanche. Inertia is both a property of matter and a property of culture.

In the big scheme of geologic time and human history, each of us are insignificant. Yet the power of our collective consciousness and action is significant. We have the capacity to lesson our footprint on the earth and deepen our impact on one another through small gestures that accumulate like falling snow: To consume less, to care more, to increase our capacity to love and understand, to be both frugal and generous, to be curious rather than judgmental, to smile or laugh with a stranger or a friend.

I catch several snowflakes on my tongue, as I walk through the blizzard, trying to pick out the biggest ones—the ones that are barely able to cling together. Several snowflakes crash-land on my face. I blink them off my eyelashes. One flake that I miss, spirals as it falls faster than the others. Each snowflake feels like a blessing from above that represents some kind of hope. Hope that the rivers will swell to fill their banks in April and May; hope that high mountain springs will gush throughout summer, hope for renewal that comes with each spring, and yes, hope for humanity.

I am Eric Newell, and I am wild about Utah snow and the power of small gestures.

Credits:
Images: Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Featured Audio: Courtesy & Copyright © J. Chase and K.W. Baldwin
Text: Eric Newell, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University
Additional Reading: Eric Newell

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah Pieces by Eric Newell

Links:
Caswell, Kurt, His Life Helped: In Memory of Barry Lopez, 1945-2020, Terrain.org, Terrain Publishing, January 11, 2021, https://www.terrain.org/2021/currents/his-life-helped/

Barry Lopez died on December 25th
The proselytiser for a different understanding of landscape and Nature was 75, The Economist Newspaper Limited, https://www.economist.com/obituary/2021/01/02/barry-lopez-died-on-december-25th

O’Connell, Nicholas, At One With The Natural World Barry Lopez’s adventure with the word & the wild, March 24, 2000, Commonweal Magazine, https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/one-natural-world-0

Beaver Mountain [Ski Resort], https://www.skithebeav.com/

Logan Avalanche Forecast Page, Utah Avalanche Center, https://utahavalanchecenter.org/forecast/logan

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Three of Logan’s Finest

The Folly Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
The Folly
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Kick. Step. Breathe. Kick. Step. Breathe.

Skier John Louviere Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer
Skier John Louviere
Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer

Skier Eric Newell Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere, Photographer Skier Eric Newell
Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere, Photographer

Miniature pellets of snow swirl past my face, land on the slope we are struggling against, then tumble hundreds of feet down the snow-encased mountain. My friend John Louviere and I have skied the Bear River Range backcountry together since we first met as Utah State University students in 1995.

Today the light is flat, causing both sky and mountain to blend into a single dimension, making it difficult to distinguish snow from clouds. The Dry Canyon slope we are ascending is prominent from nearly everywhere in Cache Valley. Each winter its absolute openness and gentle, seductive rolls tantalize backcountry skiers. For us, it is a blank canvas. We stare at it on our way to and from work, occasionally spotting other skier’s tracks, best highlighted when late evening sunlight turns the mountain hues of pink and orange.

But embedded in the stark beauty of this mountain is a dark past. Backcountry skiers call this slope “The Folly” for good reason: it measures exactly thirty-eight degrees in steepness—precisely the slope angle that produces the most deadly avalanches. Thirty-eight degree slopes are gentle enough to allow dangerous slabs of snow to build, where they can rest precariously without commitment to the mountain. A single skier, snowboarder, snowmobile, or even just one last snowflake can set it all in motion.

Because The Folly faces southwest, prevailing winds tend to transport freshly fallen snow off the slope, over the ridge, and deposit it in Spring Hollow. Afternoon sunshine also welds new layers of snow to old layers rather quickly. Both of these factors combine to stabilize the slope, despite its steepness, but it still shouldn’t be reckoned with unless you know and understand the composition and history of the snowpack. The spring-like conditions present today are exactly what John and I have waited for—everything is frozen firmly in place.
In January of 1997, Karl Mueggler and Max Lyon, who both grew up in Cache Valley, were visiting families for the holidays. The two decided to catch up on old times with Logan resident Keith Maas by ski-camping in Dry Canyon.

They pitched their tents in a stand of aspens interspersed with Englemann spruce at the base of The Folly. Trees generally serve as a good indicator of safety from avalanches since proven slide paths obliterate timber. Had they camped there any other night in a 20-year span, they would have awakened to another memorable ski day.
But while they slept, a foot of new snow fell and the west wind shifted, blowing violently from the northeast, heaping tons of snow from the Spring Hollow side onto The Folly. A week before, unseasonably warm temperatures caused rain to fall on the slope which later froze into a hard, smooth ice crust. All of these factors combined to create the perfect conditions for a spontaneous and catastrophic avalanche.

Despite their years of backcountry experience Karl, Max, and Keith were buried in their tent under five feet of concrete-hard snow. The community was devastated. Though I didn’t know Karl or Keith, I had spent a day skiing with Max only a few weeks before. He embodied the type of person anyone would aspire to become. Excitement for living radiated from his face. He laughed easily and spoke optimistically of the future. The same has been said of Karl and Keith. They were educators, outdoor activists, and advocates for community.
Over the years, I venture up here in the spring to pay tribute to their lives.

At the top of The Folly, still surrounded by thick clouds and meandering snowflakes, we start down, one at a time. Without warning, gracious sunlight bursts through the squall. We accelerate, gliding over the glowing snow, unsure if we are flying or skiing—a truly ethereal moment. The snow beneath our skis is firm and our metal edges cut tight turns with precision as we descend from the clouds, honoring three of Logan’s finest the best way we know how.

I’m Eric Newell, and I am wild about Utah.

Credits:
Images: Courtesy & Copyright Eric Newell, Photographer, Eric Newell image Courtesy & Copyright John Louviere
Featured Audio: Courtesy & © Kevin Colver https://wildstore.wildsanctuary.com/, Courtesy & © Friend Weller, https://www.upr.org/people/friend-weller, Courtesy & Copyright © Anderson, Howe, Wakeman
Thank you Eric Newell for recording the student audio clips
Text: Eric Newell, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University
Additional Reading: Eric Newell

Additional Reading

Wild About Utah Pieces by Eric Newell

A longer version of this story was printed in the Herald Journal Outdoors section May 5, 2006.

Opsahl, Kevin, Memories of fatal ’97 avalanche still fresh, The Herald Journal, Jan 14, 2017,
https://www.hjnews.com/accidents_disaster/memories-of-fatal-avalanche-still-fresh/article_03c457bd-ffa2-5e92-8527-38514ddb7016.html

“Outdoor Leadership Scholarship
The Lyon, Maas, Mueggler Outdoor Leadership Scholarship pays 50% of the tuition for the Desert Mountain Medicine Wilderness First Responder (WFR) certification course.”
Lyon, Maas, Mueggler, Outdoor Leadership Scholarship, Utah State University
https://www.usu.edu/campusrec/outdoor/

Cane, James, Snow Dynamics, Wild About Utah, February 2, 2012, https://wildaboututah.org/snow-pack-dynamics/

Utah Avalanche Center https://utahavalanchecenter.org/

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Snow Pack Dynamics

Click for more information on Snow Layers. Graphic Courtesy Forest Service Avalanche Center www.fsavalanche.org
Snow Layers
Courtesy:
Forest Service Avalanche Center
Jim Conway, Graphic Artist
Formerly fsavalanche.org
See: https://avalanche.org/avalanche-encyclopedia/#snow-layer

Click for more information on Depth Hoar. Graphic Courtesy Forest Service Avalanche Center www.fsavalanche.orgDepth Hoar
Click to watch archived animation
Courtesy:
Forest Service Avalanche Center
Jim Conway, Graphic Artist
Formerly fsavalanche.org
See: https://avalanche.org/avalanche-encyclopedia/#depth-hoar-basal-facets

See Archived Avalanche Encyclopedia https://web.archive.org/web/20100312232112/http://www.avalanche.org/~uac/encyclopedia/

Water is our planet’s magical molecule, changing states faster than a presidential candidate. Snowpacks vaporize, ice melts and re-freezes, lakes evaporate, and cooled water vapor condenses back as clouds, snowflakes and hoarfrost. The muffled silence of the winter snowpack belies its dramatic pace of transformation.

In his book entitled “Life in the Cold”, author Peter Marchand explains the dynamic nature of the snowpack. Within a few hours after a snow storm, destructive metamorphism sets to work on the newly fallen snow. The delicate crystalline structure of each snowflake is quickly degraded. The intricate flakes transform to amorphous icy grains. Wind, warmth and compression accelerate destructive metamorphism, leaving a firmer, denser snowpack. At the surface, not only does snow strongly reflect the weak warmth of winter sunlight, but on a clear night, it radiates energy, greatly cooling the surface.

Meanwhile, the soil beneath the snowpack is typically warmer than the overlying snow, which is why springs can run all winter long. Three feet underground, soil temperature is within a few degrees of that location’s average annual air temperature. Sandwiched between the warm soil and the cold air, the blanket of snow is a great thermal insulator; fresh snow is the equal of fiberglass insulation. As a result, soil warmth transforms snow deep under the snowpack into water vapor. This moisture spreads through air spaces in the snowpack, following the thermal gradient to the chilly snow surface. As the moisture vacates the lower layers, a brittle porous layer develops in the snowpack. Termed “depth hoar”, it is weak, icy and prone to collapse. When the heavy overlying snowpack shifts, the crumbly depth hoar can release an avalanche, a powerful reminder of snowpack transformations for any backcountry traveler.

Come spring, every particle of Utah’s snowpack undertakes its final transformation. Some sublimates to waft away on warm springtime winds. Most of it melts away to feed the groundwater, springs and streams that give us cool relief on a hot summer day and provide the precious water that every Utahn depends on.

This is Linda Kervin for Bridgerland Audubon Society.

Credits:

Graphics: Courtesy Forest Service Avalanche Center, https://www.fsavalanche.org/
Text: Jim Cane, Bridgerland Audubon Society

Additional Reading:

Life in the Cold by Peter Marchand:https://www.upne.com/9619460.html

Forest Service National Avalanche Center, Avalanche Awareness Website: https://www.fsavalanche.org/

Depth Hoar: https://www.fsavalanche.org/encyclopedia/depth_hoar.htm

Utah Avalanche Center: https://utahavalanchecenter.org/