The wall of snow struck Loren Ennis on his heelside, punched his snowboard forward, and sent him sliding down the mountain on his back. The impact happened so suddenly that Ennis struggled to understand what was going on, even as his body began to sink into the churning debris.

　　“I thought that maybe somebody had run into me,” Ennis, 32, said. “The next thing I know I’m up to my neck and it’s like ‘Oh shit, this is an avalanche.’”

　　Ennis fought against the river of snow. He frantically tried to remember avalanche lessons he’d learned in a backcountry safety class he’d taken in 2018. Try to swim above it. Keep your lungs as full as possible. Make a passageway for air.

　　The thoughts pierced the joy that Ennis had felt just seconds before the violent impact. He and his longtime friend, Ben Erskin, had just dropped into G.S. Bowl, one of the experts-only zones at California’s Palisades Tahoe Resort. The steep bowl is often pockmarked with moguls, its 1,000-foot face bisected by a band of cliffs halfway down. They had been giddy to shred the six or so inches of untracked powder that had flitted down overnight and throughout the morning. Ski patrol had opened the KT-22 chairlift for the first time that season, and as the two rode it upward, they had seen skiers bobbing down the untracked slope. They were silent as they departed the lift and strapped into their boards. They knew that bottomless snow awaited.

　　Those first heavenly turns seemed like eons ago as Ennis felt the debris squeeze his chest and abdomen. A blanket of powder sloughed over his head, blotting out the sky. As Ennis sunk down deeper, a series of new thoughts came to his mind: I hope that dying this way doesn’t hurt. Will anyone find my body? Why didn’t I bring my gear?

　　“I remember being really disappointed with myself,” Ennis said. “I had an avalanche beacon and a shovel and a bag full of backcountry stuff in my truck in the parking lot. It never even occurred to me to bring it.”

　　The steep terrain in G.S. Bowl leveled out as the slide passed over a track for snowcats. Ennis felt his snowboard strike firmer ground, and the force propelled his body up through the snow column. His head broke through the surface, and for 30 more seconds slid down the bowl, a passenger in a river of white. And then the avalanche slowed down, grinding to a halt just above the cliffs. By Ennis’ approximation, the ordeal had lasted 45 agonizing seconds. Ennis turned to his left. There was Erskine, buried up to his waist, but alive.

　　“You OK dude?” Ennis called out.

　　Erskine, 35, was shaken but unhurt. He dug his legs out of the snow and yanked open his snowboard bindings. He looked downhill and saw the familiar rocky dropoff midway down the bowl, 250 feet closer to him than when the slide had started. Going over that would have killed us, he thought.

　　Like Ennis, Erskine had replayed his own avalanche training as the slide carried him downhill. Now that he was free, memories of the backcountry safety class he had taken in 2017 flooded his brain. One bit of wisdom echoed loudest: See if other people are buried. They may only have a few minutes to live.

　　Erskine heard a shout from further up the slope. He trudged through the debris field toward the voice and saw goggles and a black helmet protruding from a lump of snow. It was a man, and he was screaming. “He was begging for help,” Erskine said. “He was buried with his arms down at his side. He kept yelling ‘I can’t move! I need you to dig me out!”

　　Ennis hiked up to Erskine, and the two men clawed at the snow with their hands. Another skier stopped to help them, and then another. Others arrived nearby and began digging in the snow. At one point Erskine looked up and saw a skier moving slowly through the debris holding an avalanche beacon. The man yelled to anyone who would listen to switch their beacons to “search” mode to avoid confusion.

　　With every scoop of snow they could see more of the buried man’s blue two-tone jacket. After a few minutes of furious work, Erskine and Ennis pulled him free. “He looked petrified,” Erskine said. “The first thing he said was, ‘This is my first time skiing KT-22.’”

　　Much-Needed Snow Raises the Danger The avalanche that roared down G.S. Bowl beneath KT-22 on Wednesday, January 10 etched a new chapter into the history of winter sports in Lake Tahoe. It happened at approximately 9:30 A.M., half an hour after the ski patrol had dropped the rope on the slope and much of the surrounding terrain for the first time during the 2023-24 season.

　　The slide broke free just below the upper terminal of KT-22, leaving a crooked crown etched across the face of G.S. Bowl. As the snow cascaded down, it engulfed trees, rocks, and bewildered skiers and snowboarders who had come for a powder day after a dry early season. Debris and people tumbled down the slope, across a snowcat track, and through the rocky band of cliffs. When the slide finally stopped, at least four people were fully buried. One man, 66-year-old Kenneth Kidd of nearby Truckee, California, did not survive.

　　Why the avalanche broke loose is the subject of an ongoing investigation by Palisades Tahoe. The resort declined to make any ski patrol officials available for an interview.

　　What we do know about the avalanche comes from two concise statements, one issued by the Placer County Sheriff’s Department, and another by the Sierra Avalanche Center. The storm had dumped fresh powder on the region—three inches accumulated overnight, with more piling up that morning. The fresh powder covering older snow that had fallen weeks before. According to the Sierra Avalanche Center, the dynamic raised the danger from “low” to “considerable.” The avalanche itself measured 450 feet long by 150 feet wide, at a depth of 10 feet. More than 100 resort officials eventually participated in the rescue, alongside members of the local fire department and police. “Our thoughts and prayers are with the family members at this time,” the sheriff’s report said.

　　These statements, however, fail to capture the frenetic scenes that unfolded in the moments immediately after the slide. Before rescue personnel arrived onsite, several regular skiers and snowboarders were thrust into a harrowing situation. They had to try and locate and then save those who were entombed by the snow.

　　These resort patrons pulled survivors from the debris. They fashioned ad-hoc avalanche probes and organized probe lines, while others switched on their personal beacons to search for the buried. Others simply tore into snow piles with hands, skis, and whatever else, looking for signs of life.

　　“I was just digging and digging—I felt absolutely helpless,” said Naomi Denayer, a pharmaceutical specialist from Vacaville, California, who arrived on the scene shortly after the slide. “The mood was somber and we felt like we didnt have enough resources or people to do any good but we just kept going.”

　　Some, like Erskine and Ennis, had formal avalanche training. Others did not. As a whole, their efforts saved lives. And after resort personnel closed Palisades Tahoe for the day and sent everyone home, the patrons who had assisted with rescues were left to grapple with how to think about their own safety during a day at the slopes.

　　Resort Patrons Spring Into Action Denayer was riding KT-22 when she heard multiple voices scream “avalanche!” She swung around in the chair and saw waves of snow slough down G.S. Bowl. A longtime backcountry skier, Denayer completed a level 1 training course put on by the nonprofit American Institute for Avalanche Research and Education. From her chairlift, she tried to spot people. Remember where they fall, she told herself. You might be able to find them later. She saw Erskin, Ennis, and two others sliding down the mountain. “It looked like I was watching a movie,” she says. “I saw two guys trying to swim through it. Another guy was in the middle of it and I saw him get carried over the cliffs. It looked bad.”

　　The skiers in the chairlift ahead of Denayer ran from the terminal to a nearby patrol house to alert safety personnel. Denayer, who has been skiing at Palisades Tahoe for 30 years, pulled out her phone and called a friend who was working a lift-operating shift at the base area. “I said, ‘There’s been an avalanche,’ Denayer said. “‘You need to get people up here right now.’”

　　Other skiers and snowboarders hurriedly disembarked KT-22 and slid into G.S. Bowl to help. Some skied below the cliff band to where the avalanche debris field had created a deep pile. Others cut in above the cliffs to the area where Erskine, Ennis, and others were digging themselves out.

　　Darian Shirazi, 35, headed for the higher section of G.S. Bowl. A venture capitalist from San Francisco, Shirazi had taken avalanche training courses prior to heliskiing trips in Alaska and Canada. In 2012, while on a backcountry trip in Alaska, Shirazi was nearly trapped in an avalanche—after that experience he vowed to only ski in-bounds. But he never thought his backcountry safety training would be useful at a resort.

　　“I thought, ‘Nobody is going to know what to do,’” Shirazi said. “It was a full adrenaline rush. It just seemed obvious to go down there and try to help.”

　　Thick cloud cover and falling snow meant that visibility was poor. But Shirazi could see multiple groups of people digging into the slope. The sheer size of the debris field was overwhelming—it was far too big for the few people on-site to scour by hand, he thought. Time is running out for anyone who is buried, he thought. “There was an odd ‘what do we do?’ vibe,” Shirazi said.

　　Shirazi looked at the slope’s edge and saw several dozen bamboo boundary poles that were marking obstacles. Those could work as probes, he thought. He yanked pole after pole from the snow and began shouting at others. “I was like ‘everyone, grab a stick!’” Shirazi said. “‘We need to start a probe line!’ Everyone was like deer in the headlights.”

　　Others joined him in probing the slope for survivors. There weren’t enough volunteers to stretch the line across the entire slope, so instead Shirazi asked eyewitnesses to point out areas where skiers had last been seen. A patrol member arrived approximately five minutes after Shirazi had begun probing, and within 15 minutes more safety personnel were on site, with shovels and probes. Shirazi stood aside and snapped a photo of the scene.

　　The first ski patrollers to arrive were met with an impossible scenario. “The first one I saw was getting yelled at by so many people for help that he was having a hard time figuring out where to go,” Erskine said. “I have nothing but respect for the guy coming into something like that.”

　　In some areas, patrollers tried to organize the resort patrons into ad-hoc rescue groups. Andy Hayes, 43, a professional skier from nearby Olympic Valley, saw this dynamic play out in the debris fields above and below the band of cliffs. Like Shirazi, Hayes had skied into the top of the bowl after seeing the slide’s aftermath from KT-22. He flipped his avalanche beacon into “search” mode and skied into the debris field. He estimates he arrived on the scene ten or so minutes after the avalanche, and by then, ski patrol had organized approximately 50 skiers into a probe line.

　　“They did a good job of bringing a bunch of just disparate people out of the scene and getting them into an actual organized search,” said Hayes, who has also taken classes in backcountry avalanche safety. Hayes eventually skied down through the cliff band to help with rescue efforts further downhill. Below the cliffs, a dramatic scene was unfolding, as a group of skiers hurried to free three different people who had been pushed through the cliff band by the snow.

　　One was an Australian skier named Oliver Thompson, who had been skiing alongside his sister, Hannah Sugerman, and her partner, Callum Wishart. The slide had partially buried Sugerman and Wishart above the cliffs. But it had propelled Thompson over the rocks and down below, where he was buried. Ski patrol eventually freed him, but he suffered a badly broken leg.

　　When Hayes arrived, a group was digging Thompson out. “When I got down there was somebody who had been found,” Hayes said. “He was in a deep space but had the ability to yell, and the group was getting him out.”

　　Hayes was probing through the snow in the area when another skier struck a body with his probe. Ski patrol and volunteers began digging. They found a ski, then another. “It was the fatality,” he said.

　　A short distance away, another group of probing rescuers had also struck something. It was Jason Parker, 52, a snowboarder from Reno, who had been buried beneath four feet of debris. Parker was alive. He had been on his second lap of G.S. Bowl that morning when the wall of snow caught him just above the cliffs. Somehow, Parker slid through the cliff band face first without slamming into the rocks.

　　Video loading... Parker told his story to multiple national and local outlets after the ordeal. As the snow pushed him downward, he yelled to two skiers nearby him to follow his location. “Watch me! Watch me!” he screamed. He survived the cliffs, only to be buried by the debris at the bottom. He was entombed under four feet of snow, until a probe struck him in the back. On the surface, a group of skiers dug into the snow, eventually freeing him. Parker eventually credited his rescue to a snowboarder named Luke. “It was locals,” Parker told TV station KCRA. “People that know the area well and that saved me—I can’t thank them enough.”

　　A skier named Jason Glickman, who had dropped into G.S. Bowl moments after the avalanche, was standing alongside the dramatic rescue, and filmed the moment when ski patrol pulled Parker from the slide. He checked his watch when Parker emerged from the snow. It read 9:40 A.M.

　　Gear Choices In-Bounds Seventeen people died from inbounds avalanches at U.S. ski resorts between 2003 and 2023, according to a recent report titled Characteristics of Inbounds Avalanche Fatalities at United States Ski Areas. The document, published last October by avalanche experts Paul Baugher, Scott Savage, and Karl W. Birkeland, lists the commonalities between 14 fatal inbounds slides that occurred during that period. Atop the reports list is the bullet point: “terrain opened for the first time of the season with only a few hours of ski traffic.” The Palisades Tahoe raised the total fatalities to 18.

　　The document was written as a set of guidelines for resorts, Baugher told me. But Baugher said he hopes the report educates skiers and snowboarders as well. “If you think danger has been engineered out of skiing at a resort, you’re wrong, he said.

　　Deaths by inbounds avalanches are less than 3 percent of all resort fatalities over the last two decades, according to data from the National Ski Areas Association. But these fatalities cast a different shadow than ones occurring from collisions or crashes. They erode the aura of invincibility that comes from skiing down a slope that’s been mitigated for avalanche danger.

　　The sources who spoke to me for this story echoed this sentiment. In the days following the slide, Shirazi canceled a ski vacation to Whistler Blackcomb. When he finally did return to a ski resort three weeks later, he wore his backcountry airbag. Denayer vowed to bring her avalanche beacon with her, no matter the conditions, and has done so for every inbounds ski day since. Erskine said he now assesses resort terrain the way he would a backcountry slope. “I look back on it and realize there were so many red flags that day that I never thought about because we were at a resort,” Erskine says. “There is this veil of protection that’s gone.”

　　Ennis and Erskine skied Palisades Tahoe a few days after the avalanche. As he bombed down the runs below KT-22, Ennis thought about his own relationship to snow safety. He and Erskine regularly skin up backcountry slopes near their home in Reno. At the onset of each ski season, they practice beacon rescues to refresh their skills. Both men regularly read snow reports issued by regional avalanche safety centers before choosing which backcountry slope to skin up. But neither man ever brought beacons or other avy gear inbounds. In fact, Ennis said he and Erskine often poked fun at those who did.

　　“We used to laugh and say ‘I wonder if he’s gonna wear that beacon to the restaurant tonight,’” Ennis said. “Now I know it’s a pretty good idea to have it on.”

　　For years, skiers have discussed the merits of bringing backcountry safety gear—airbags, shovels, probes—with them to resorts. The discussion regularly pops up after a deadly inbounds slide. Stories in Outside and elsewhere have promoted the merits of bringing safety gear to resorts. Whether or not more skiers are doing so is tough to say. Anecdotal evidence would point to yes—if only because so few did so in the past.

　　Baugher, who operated ski patrol at Washington’s Crystal Mountain Resort from 1987 until 2016, likened the slow shift to the ski industry’s adoption of other trends.

　　“The hope is that the cool skiers will start doing it, and then others will follow,” Baugher said. “It didn’t used to be cool to wear a helmet—remember?”

　　Baugher said that high-profile inbounds slides like the one at Palisades show skiers that gear isn’t just for their own personal safety. Sure, skiers realize that a beacon or an airbag may help them get rescued. But after an avalanche, a collapsible probe or an inexpensive shovel can transform them into a lifesaver.

　　“A resort can do everything it can to keep an avalanche from happening,” Baugher said. “But when it happens, who is in the best position to make a recovery? It’s usually someone who happens to be skiing the same run.”

　　A Heart-Stopping Rescue As Erskine tugged at the man’s blue jacket to pry him from the snow, Ennis scanned the rest of the slope. More skiers had arrived to help dig—Denayer was among them. She recorded a video of the scene between digs.

　　Ennis looked across the slope and saw a speck of black protruding from the white. It was a glove, and it was waving side to side. He ran across the 150-foot center of the debris field, passing huge chunks of snow. After reaching the glove, Ennis began to dig. The glove was on an outstretched hand that disappeared into the snow. Ennis estimated where a head might be and dug straight down to create a passageway for air. He heard a voice murmur from the hole. It was from a woman.

　　“I remember yelling ‘I got you! I got you!” Ennis says. “I got her face uncovered and could hear her asking for help.”

　　Ennis worried that the woman might still suffocate, so he told her to puff out her ribs. Talking or exhaling, he thought, may cause the weight of the snow to squeeze the air out of her lungs.

　　Ennis dug at her neck and chest, eventually clearing enough snow off of her back to pry her out. The woman, Janet He, had been skiing with her husband, Joseph Lu, when the slide had hit. Lu was able to stay upright, but the debris had buried He and pushed her 200 feet down the mountain.

　　He’s phone rang as Ennis pulled her free. It was Lu, and he was ecstatic to learn that she was OK. She thanked Ennis and hugged him. Then she lifted her phone, framed the two of them, and snapped the perfect selfie.

　　A woman who was buried under an avalanche at Palisades Tahoe on Wednesday was saved by a stranger and escaped with no injuries. https://t.co/2opj4XGpcH

　　CBS News (@CBSNews) January 11, 2024

　　Outside digital editor Jake Stern contributed reporting.