This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2005, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
The December sun beating on his face, Trace Workman fell to his knees on the avalanche-churned snow and prayed.
Beneath him, buried in 5 feet of snow, his friend, Ben DeJong was gasping for air.
"Not him - not this time," Workman pleaded, his frozen hands clasped together.
Then he began digging.
In his 19 years as a ski patrol and avalanche forecaster, Craig Gordon had never seen anything like it.
While it's not unusual for avalanches to snap trees like toothpicks, these were plucking large Engelmann spruce and Douglas fir like weeds - by the root. Hard slabs of snow were breaking into truck-size pieces and plowing down Utah slopes with the force of a freight train, Gordon said. It was the avalanche equivalent of a tsunami.
By March 31, eight people had perished in slides, the most since 1951, when the U.S. Forest Service Utah Avalanche Center began keeping record.
All eight were men, average age 35. Together, they comprise 30 percent of the 26 avalanche deaths in the United States this winter season.
Gordon said he is surprised there weren't more deaths in an avalanche season he calls "historic."
Between Oct. 24 and April 10, more than 300 slides broke in Utah. About 58 percent were triggered by people, mostly backcountry skiers.
Andrew Church, a National Weather Service forecaster in Salt Lake City, said this winter was punctuated with above-normal temperatures and atypical storm systems steeped in tropical moisture.
That meant unusually heavy snow, like the 42 inches that plastered Farmington Canyon in the second week of December. For three days, the wind howled and wet snow fell, layering like brickwork on top of loose, sugary powder.
In the early hours of Dec. 11, the storm waned and the Utah Avalanche Center's "high" warning, in effect for two days prior, was downgraded to "considerable to high."
By dawn, the sky was barely dotted with clouds.
At 7 a.m., Workman and DeJong headed up Farmington Canyon, their snowmobiles in tow behind a Ford F-250.
"It was the most beautiful day," said Workman, 28, who marveled at the fresh snow, unadulterated by tracks.
At Sunset Campground, at the base of Bountiful Peak, they parked and unloaded their sleds, then rode to their usual spot, where they cache firewood and gasoline in case they become stranded overnight.
Friends for six years, Workman and 27-year-old DeJong liked to sled as a team. They say they know the terrain, can anticipate each other's moves and control their machines with precision.
"We've just got the feel so good, a lot of time we don't want to take people because they put us in jeopardy," Workman said.
That morning they sped through pines. DeJong had just put a new engine in his Polaris 800 snowmobile and wanted to put it to the test. They came to a clearing, where an open, untouched flank of the mountain lured Workman to its peak.
DeJong grabbed his video camera and began zooming in on Workman, who had made the same ascent just five days earlier.
Workman gassed it as the mountain's pitch grew steeper. Near the top, a fissure began to snake across the snowpack. The slope shattered like a pane of glass. At the peak, he jumped off his sled and watched as a great slab of snow sloughed off and fell, churning up a cloud of powder. He lost sight of DeJong.
"All I see is big chunks of mountain," he said. "It was very humbling how powerful it was."
At the bottom, even over the roar of Workman's machine, DeJong could hear the lightning-bolt snap of the cracking snow. He frantically panned the mountain ridge, looking for any signs of his friend.
"My only thought is, where is Trace in this thing? I didn't think he had made it over the top."
DeJong zoomed out and realized the avalanche was barreling toward him.
"Oh, my God!" he yelled, throwing his camera to the ground. He pulled the cord on his snowmobile twice. It didn't start. DeJong jumped off and took five steps in the knee-deep snow.
He knew he could not outrun it.
DeJong turned around, trying to grab hold of the snowmobile - maybe rescuers would find him faster if they saw the sled poking through the snow, he thought - when the 4-foot-deep slide washed over him like water, "like a nice, decent size wave coming in just before it hits the beach."
The avalanche tossed the 600-pound snowmobile like a ball, hurling it toward DeJong. His body landed at a downward angle, with his head submerged in snow too deep for light to penetrate.
Workman, who had watched in horror the avalanche he triggered, raced down the mountain on his snowmobile toward where DeJong had been.
"He's dead," he thought. "There's no way I'm going to find him."
The snow had set like cold concrete, paralyzing DeJong's limbs. He was barely able to wiggle his fingertips.
"It wasn't a half-inch move, it wasn't a slight hair of a move," DeJong said. "It was tight."
In the small space between the snow and his lips, he let out a futile scream for help - futile, he thought, because, surely, Workman was also buried, and no one else saw the avalanche.
DeJong's snowmobile buddies once mused about this moment: "What would you do if . . . ?" they asked themselves. Statistically, snowmobilers are twice as likely than any other kind of winter recreationist to die in an avalanche.
Being caught in an avalanche was worse than DeJong imagined. He was furious - he didn't want to go this way - and he was terrified. His lungs, squeezed in between layers of hard snow, were unable to draw in the air they needed.
He told God he believed in him. And then he waited.
"Please, let me pass out," he thought. "I do not want to go through this anymore."
He drifted off, picturing his wife and children crying at his funeral.
Snowpack can change by the minute. Always near its melting point, it exists in a delicate balance between stress and strength that may be upset by fluctuations in temperature, the direction of the wind or additional snowfall. The stability of snowpack in a shady area can differ from that only a few feet away in the hot sun.
That's why predicting avalanches is tricky, said Gordon, as he flung snow over his shoulder on a sunny day recently outside the boundaries of Brighton Ski Resort.
Much like a geologist who studies rock layers to peer into the past, avalanche forecasters burrow into snowpack to examine strata of snow and understand weather events over a course of time. Using only a shovel, a snow saw and his hands, Gordon can spot the weak layers that make steep snowpack potentially dangerous.
"We're looking for trends," he said. "Are we seeing weak snow throughout the range, or just on certain slopes at certain elevations?"
If snow is weak, it has a sugary consistency, and Gordon can drive his fist into it. If it's strong - tightly packed and heavy - he can barely poke it with a pencil. When strong layers stack on top of weak ones, like Cadillacs on top of potato chips, avalanches occur.
The danger peaks during storms and on the sunny days after, such as on Dec. 11 - "black weekend," as Gordon calls it - when avalanches buried DeJong and killed three other men in other parts of Utah.
With ski resorts closing their lifts, skiers and snowboarders may head into the backcountry to get their fix. Gordon advised them to be careful. Check the avalanche advisories, carry beacons and shovels and travel with a partner.
As long as there is snow, there are slides.
"The avalanche season won't be over till we drink the snow out of our faucets, our taps, at home."
At the toe of the 200-foot-wide slide, Workman peeled off his helmet, goggles, jacket and gloves. His beacon was getting a signal.
Workman, who didn't pack a shovel that day, began clawing at the hard-packed snow with his hands. Thirty seconds later, desperation sunk in.
"There's no possible way I'm going to shovel in time," he thought.
It was 9 a.m. The sun was climbing higher, illuminating a white landscape enveloped in silence.
Three snowmobilers, Corey Malan, Sheldon Mitchell and Brian Gnehm, arrived. The men passed the one shovel among them, digging to the point of exhaustion. When they found the tip of DeJong's boot, they began to realize how his body landed in the snow. They followed his leg to his torso, and then to his head.
"All I could see was blue skin," Workman said. He and the others grabbed the back of DeJong's coat and yanked him from the snow's tight grip.
Half of all buried avalanche victims die within the first 25 minutes. DeJong, whose body was limp, had been buried for more than 20. His injuries could range from brain damage to crushed bones.
With DeJong lying against his chest, Workman could detect a faint breath. He administered CPR, prompting his friend to draw in a long, deep breath.
"It was the sweetest air I've ever tasted," DeJong said.
As he came to, DeJong thought, "Oh no, I've slept in." Then he opened his eyes and saw the medical helicopter landing.
"I was slowly realizing what happened," he said. "That was probably much more surreal and traumatic - to realize I lived through it."
On June 18, DeJong expects to graduate from firefighting school.
"I'm meant to do something good," he said.
Life a second time is a gift.
"The air is a little sweeter, the kids' kisses are a little bit better . . . you're just so thankful."
Thankful not to be among those who lost their lives this winter in the snow on a Utah mountain.
Lethal numbers
8 Number of avalanche deaths in Utah this season
30 Percent of avalanche deaths nationwide that occurred in Utah
300 Slides in Utah from Oct. 24 to April 10
58 Percent of Utah avalanches triggered by people