Pardesi Pahadi: Avalanche on Apharwat
Safely enjoying powder turns. Photo: Marie-Claire LeBlanc.
‘The avalanche went to ground; in its path all snow had slipped off the mountain, leaving only rocks and ice. For a moment the world was suspended in fear and dread. Chaos followed.’ Zachary Conrad recalls a fateful snowboarding adventure in Gulmarg and the lessons learned at the mercy of snowy, Kashmiri peaks.
Author’s Note: The Himalaya are my favorite mountain range. I know that must sound obvious and banal, like being a Yankees fan, or being really into the Beatles. But they’re more than just the tallest mountains in the world. For the seven years that I lived in Landour, Mussoorie, these mountains were a constant presence, a beckoning horizon I could always look up to, and disappear to whenever I had the chance. These trips into the Himalayas were the best part of my life in India and how I connected with its people and its culture. These mountains are like nowhere on Earth, and I hope to share them with you.
On the morning before the avalanche ripped down the mountain, I was filled with nervous excitement. It was a bright and clear day, and, after days of snowfall, the top station of the Gulmarg Gondola opened for the first time.
Skiers and snowboarders from all around the world had come to Gulmarg for this. They shared my excitement as we queued for the lift, nervously cleaning goggle lenses and stamping our feet to ward off the cold. In the silent anticipation on that first ride up—interrupted only by the churn of the lift-tower fly wheels—I grew more anxious, more eager.
Brushing the snow from my bindings I strapped into my snowboard and ratcheted the straps down tight. I glided down the single track and crested over the edge, making two quick turns, before dropping the small cliff I had eyed from the gondola. The feeling of relief mixed with pure joy begotten from nailing an intimidating run is something I’ve given up on trying to describe. Other skiers and snowboarders will recognise it immediately. My eyes watered from the fast, cold air, and snow clung to my grinning face. I snaked down the gondola bowl through the deepest and softest snow I had ever ridden.
I was still grinning as I boarded the gondola again, eager for more.
Untracked. Photo: Zachary Conrad
When it snows in the Pir Panjal range, it tends to snow with a vengeance. Since making my trips to Gulmarg in Kashmir an annual habit, beginning in 2012, I’ve seen this region get as much snowfall as perhaps anywhere else in the world I’ve travelled to snowboard, from Utah to Canada to Hokkaido. It’s not uncommon for two meters or more to fall in a single storm, and then keep snowing for days and days!
The avalanche, during my first trip to Gulmarg, is still the biggest avalanche I’ve ever seen.
This was the most frightening experience I’ve ever had in the mountains. Since then, I have tried to learn more about avalanches and how to avoid them. It’s a complicated field of study, roughly organised into two categories: how snow behaves, and how people behave. Of these two, the snow is simpler.
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It broke in the wake of a multi-day storm that had me waiting for several days in the Delhi airport due to snow-clogged runways in Srinagar. Sharp cold bit at my nose and fingers, as I made my way to the taxi stand in Srinagar, so different from the damp chill of the Delhi winter. As we drove through the city, groups of men walked carefully along snowy streets, with one or both arms tucked into their woolen pheran, clutching their kangri or ‘winter-wife’—a wicker basket holding a small clay pot to carry hot coals. The crowds thinned as the taxi traveled west and south, out of the valley and into the mountains. We stopped at military check-posts, and at Tanmarg to put on tire chains for the final climb to Gulmarg. With each hairpin turn up the mountain, the snowbanks grew deeper. The road to Gulmarg was only cleared to the main market, and I walked the rest of the way to Raja’s Hut, relishing the feel of cold air on my cheeks and the crunch of my shoes on the snow.
My first few days in Gulmarg were spent exploring the lower half of the mountain, weaving tight turns through ancient deodars and airing off of small cliffs and pillows. Yes, there is indeed such a thing as too much snow; the terrain at the top was heavily overloaded and unstable. From the lower mountain, we could hear avalanches rip down the slopes above. The lower terrain is fun, especially jeep-shuttled tree runs to Baba Reshi, but I, like everybody else, was eager to get to the top of Apharwat.
Compared to ski-areas in the North American West or European Alps, Gulmarg does very little avalanche control work. Because of its proximity to the Line Of Control, dividing Kashmir into Indian and Pakistani sides, ski patrol only has permission to manage snowpack in the Gondola bowl directly above the Kangdoori mid-station. This is only about a tenth of the terrain easily accessed from the lift. The rest is backcountry, unpatrolled and unmaintained. Venturing into terrain like this requires specialised knowledge and equipment—and very good judgement. By my third trip to the top, the gondola bowl was getting pretty tracked—choppy and uneven from so many skiers and riders, and people were flocking further afield to find fresh snow.
Waiting for the snow to stabilise up high. Photo - Sam Moore
I was riding alone that day, and had resigned myself to staying in-bounds when I was spotted some familiar faces. I had gotten to know a couple of German snowboarders in the days spent waiting around the Delhi airport, but this was the first I’d seen them since heading out on separate flights. We caught up a bit, marveling at the snow and the incredible size of the mountain, under the impatient watch of a Kashmiri man—their guide—clad in dark sunglasses and carrying wide skis balanced over his shoulder. They had hired him to lead them to Drung, a village low in the valley.
This type of riding was exactly why I visited Kashmir. With over 2000 vertical meters of steep and deep this had the potential for a best-in-my-life kind of run. Shamelessly, I invited myself along.
“If it’s okay with the guide, it’s okay with us,” they told me.
After checking that I had a beacon, shovel, and probe, they guide did a quick beep test to ensure my beacon worked in both sending and receiving mode. “Let’s go,” said the guide. We strapped it and headed south along the main ridge of Apharwat, past the army camp to the end of the ridge. “Not too fast,” he told us. “Turn gently.”
We dropped in one at a time, traveling from one island of safety (a place on the mountain sheltered from avalanche danger) to another. About 10 minutes into our run, we noticed another, larger, group below. It’s bad form, and unsafe, to ride big mountain terrain with another party beneath you, so our guide took us from the ridge we had been following, diagonally across the gully, to the next ridge to the north. In avalanche terrain, ridgelines are considered the safer path, since gravity pulls slides down and away from them. The gullies between the ridges are more dangerous, because avalanches funnel snow into these areas, making it more likely to be trapped. I nervously dropped after the guide reached the our safe-zone, doing my best to glide fast and gentle to the other side. The Germans followed in turn.
We were regrouping when the avalanche let go. The mountain rumbled and our view of the valley below was obscured by a rising white cloud. I could barely hear the shouts, “Avalanche! Avalanche!” above the din of crashing snow. A skier from the other party had triggered the slide from the opposite ridge. The crack in the snow extended out across the bowls and over the ridges to the immediate north and south, its crown some 30 feet below where we stood. The avalanche went to ground; in its path all snow had slipped off the mountain, leaving only rocks and ice.
For a moment the world was suspended in fear and dread. Chaos followed, but only for a moment. The guides quickly responded and took charge of the situation. Most sped down the path of debris to begin a search for the three buried skiers, while others radioed ski patrol for help orchestrating the rescue or ensured the safety of everyone not swept away.
In the end, thanks to the expert response of the guides on scene, nobody died. The buried skiers all suffered from their violent ride down the mountain, before they were rescued in time and helicoptered to the hospital. The rest of evacuated by hiking a short way back up the mountain and traversing down to the Kangdoori mid-station. When I got back to Raja’s it was already dark.
Riding off the summit with a good team. Photo: Luke Jackson
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This was the most frightening experience I’ve ever had in the mountains. I could have just as easily triggered that avalanche, been battered down the mountain and buried. I feel very lucky I was unharmed, and very stupid for putting myself into that situation.
Given the angle of the terrain, the recent storm, and evidence of avalanche activity it’s plain that none of us should have been out there that day. The warning signs were screaming at us. So why were so many of us in the backcountry, and why was I one of them?
Since then, I have tried to learn more about avalanches and how to avoid them. It’s a complicated field of study, roughly organised into two categories: how snow behaves, and how people behave. Of these two, the snow is simpler.
There are a lot of variables that go into whether or not a slope will avalanche. It’s hard to be really precise about it, but avalanche forecasters are experts at indicating the conditions where slides are likely. It’s a fascinating science: at its most basic, one is looking for indicators of instability—if the snow was sticking to the mountain before, has something changed that would make it slide off? The most important change here is more snow, either from a storm or high winds. A big swing in temperature can also stress the snowpack. Other warning signs are recent avalanche activity, especially at a similar aspect and altitude, or snow that cracks or “whoomps” when weighted.
Slab avalanches generally occur on slopes between 25 and 60 degrees. Shallower slopes are not really steep enough for the snow to slide downhill; steeper and the snow tends to slide down on its own. For skiers and snowboarders, the most hazardous slopes are between 30 and 45 degrees. On slopes like these, snow can just barely cling to the mountain, and the added weight of a skier or snowboarder can bring it all sliding down.
I learned that the avalanche triggered that day at Apharwat was born of a deep instability in the snowpack, a weak layer of snow close to the ground called depth-hoar. It is a frequent problem in Gulmarg. Most years, there is significant snowfall on the mountain at the end of November and into early December, followed by the coldest stretch of winter—chille kallan—when snowfall is rare. Constant exposure to the cold air turns the snow already on the mountain dry and sugary. Come mid-January when the new snow falls, it clings to this old, weak snow that isn’t well-attached to the mountain. On steeper slopes and with enough snow, natural avalanches will occur.
The slope we were on, around 30 degrees, had almost two meters of new snow sitting on this weak, sugary layer. When that skier weighted a sensitive area, the whole slope broke loose. Given the angle of the terrain, the recent storm, and evidence of avalanche activity it’s plain that none of us should have been out there that day. The warning signs were screaming at us. So why were so many of us in the backcountry, and why was I one of them?
Looking back at the avalanche path. Photo: Zachary Conrad
This gets into the second piece of managing avalanche terrain: the human factor. Recently, avalanche education and training has shifted its focus away from snow science and toward group dynamics and decision making because people, it turns out, are not very good at it. Even when people know better, they tend to make risky, foolish decisions. We often rely on decision making short-cuts or heuristics instead of taking an analytical approach. In many situations this is just fine, but in avalanche terrain deciding this way often falls short. Experts have identified six common heuristic traps (McCammon, Ian. “Heuristic Traps in Recreational Avalanche Accidents: Evidence and Implications.” Avalanche News, no. 68, 2004) people fall into when travelling in avalanche terrain. These are: familiarity (letting your guard down when traveling somewhere you’ve been a lot); consistency (sticking to your original decision even when there’s new information); acceptance (an unwillingness to speak-up or go against the will of the group); expert-halo (deferring unquestionable to the leader); social facilitation (assuming the risk is less because other people are doing it too); and scarcity (a fear of missing out). By recognising these traps, and acknowledging that all people are susceptible to them, skiers and snowboarders can be more deliberate about the decisions they make.
On the day of the avalanche, I fell for so many of these traps. First, scarcity, in my desire to experience the steep and deep alpine terrain Gulmarg is famous for; then, social facilitation, as I saw other groups heading for the backcountry. Expert-halo was the worst one, as I deferred immediately to a guide I didn’t know and had just met. Then, there was consistency and acceptance, as I buried my fears and doubts and committed to finishing the run, as to not let down the group. I know more now, but I knew better—even back then.
Many of the great Kashmiri people that I have snowboarded with over the years believe in a type of determinism, one that accedes everything to God’s will. Only God knows, they say, why I took that foolish run, and why I wasn’t buried. Years later, all I know is that I’m thankful: fortunate to be alive, to survive the wrath of nature, and to find my way on top of the peaks again.
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Zachary Conrad is a teacher, hiker and climber. Raised in the woods of Vermont, Zachary spent 8 years in the Himalayan foothills of Landour, Mussoorie and worked in Guiyang, China. You can follow him on Instagram: @zachonrad
