THENEWYORKER,MARCH23, 2020 19
We think of snow as a solid mass. In reality, it’s a layer cake.
ANNALSOFNATURE
COLD WAR
Snow science against the avalanche.
BY JAMES SOMERS
ILLUSTRATION BY THOMAS DANTHONY
O
ne night earlier this winter, the
only road out of Alta, Utah, was
closed down. At ski lodges, signs warned
guests to stay inside or face fines. Al-
ready that season, twenty-two feet of
snow had fallen, and, the day before, a
storm had dropped thirty-three inches;
another foot was predicted by morning.
The most dangerous time for avalanches
is after a rapid snowfall, and three-quar-
ters of the buildings in Alta are threat-
ened by a known avalanche path. A
standard measure for danger on roads,
the Avalanche Hazard Index, computes
risk according to the size and frequency
of avalanches and the number of vehi-
cles that are exposed to them. An A.H.I.
of 10 is considered moderate; at 40, the
road requires the attention of a full-time
avalanche forecaster. State Highway 210,
which runs down the mountain to Salt
Lake City, if left unprotected, would
have an A.H.I. of 1,045.
Just before 5 a.m., a small group of
ski patrollers gathered at a base by the
resort’s main lift. Dave Richards, the
head of Alta’s avalanche program, sat in
the control room. Maps and marked-up
aerial photographs hung on the wall
next to what looked like a large EKG—
that season’s snowfall, wind speeds, and
temperature data plotted by hand. Clip-
boards on hooks were filled with ac-
counts of past avalanches.
Forty and bearded, with tattoos on
his arms, Richards has the bearing of a
Special Forces soldier. He wore a vest
with a radio strapped to it and held a
tin of dipping tobacco, spitting occa-
sionally into the garbage can beneath
his desk. He objects when people say
that he works in avalanche control; he
prefers the term “mitigation.” Sitting
nearby was Jude, his English cream
golden retriever, named for the patron
saint of lost causes.
Jonathan Morgan, the lead avalanche
forecaster for the day, described the snow.
He wore a flat-brimmed cap and a
hoodie. “Propagation propensity’s a ques-
tion mark,” he said. “Not a lot of body
in the slab.... Dry facets, two to three
mils,” he continued. “It’s running the
whole gamut of crystal types—wasn’t
ice, by any means. Rimy, small grains.”
At ski resorts like Alta, large ava-
lanches are avoided by setting off smaller
ones with bombs. On the walls above
the maps were dummy mortar rounds.
Above Richards’s desk were binders
marked “Old Explosives Inventory.”
The idea, Morgan explained, was to
“shoot the terrain we can’t get to.”
Richards started considering their
targeting plan. The ski resort is cleared
from the top down: first by artillery
shells, then with hand charges. Before
any shots are fired, paths leading to the
mountains are closed. Because not all
skiers keep to groomed trails—back-
country adventurers seek out remote
areas—the Utah Department of Trans-
portation also checks the roadside for
tracks. Sometimes it scours the moun-
tainside with infrared cameras before
giving the all-clear.
“So we’ll go fourteen for Baldy?”
Richards said. “Doesn’t include a shot
seventeen.” Baldy was one of the resort’s
mountain faces, at which they planned
to fire fourteen shells; seventeen was a
spot on its ridgeline.
“Seventeen wouldn’t be the worst
idea,” Morgan concurred. “You got a
seven in there?”
“When was Baldy shot last?” Rich-
ards asked. “Forty inches ago?”
“Yeah, Friday morning.”
Richards and Morgan repaired to the
mess hall—dark carpet, pool table, a
deer head on the wall—for breakfast.
At five-thirty, the ski lift opened. As
Richards walked out the door, Liz Rocco,
