A couple weeks ago, as I was driving south on I-15, I could make out the distinct north face of Bells Cleaver. Not knowing what the face was called but being inspired by its prominence and potential for worthy ski objectives, I vowed to 1) learn more about it and 2) hopefully ride it soon. I didn’t think much about it again until Wednesday May 8, when I received a text from Ethan.

I met Ethan a couple months back through a mutual friend in Mineral Fork. He expressed that he was looking for partners that were willing and eager to venture into backcountry zones that were a little more removed from the hustle and bustle that the Central Wasatch can be. Since that interaction, we had made several attempts to ski together but our schedules did not align.

On Wednesday May 8, Ethan texted me, again inviting me to ski. He mentioned Bells Cleaver. At this point, I still hadn’t found out the name of the face that I had seen from the freeway a couple weeks back. I did some quick google searching and it hit me: this was it. Having toured a couple days earlier, I was excited about the prospect of getting to ride this line in really good conditions. I responded, “Word. Yeah, let’s do it.”

Despite very limited interactions with one another prior to this, Ethan and I jibed well. We quickly established a relationship of trust by sharing both personal and backcountry experiences. As we ascended, we discussed the changing snow conditions – wet, dense snow transitioning to cold, dry powder. In May. It was unbelievable. Upon entering the cirque, the stoke was high. At this point, our biggest concern was that of visibility. Clouds were moving in but would dissipate just as quickly as they appeared. We started the switchbacks up the apron. As we entered the lower portion of the chute, we encountered a crust layer on skiers right. We decided we would continue skinning, but on skiers left, where we could not feel this layer. As we worked our way up skiers left, we encountered some cracking when performing kick turns, and evidence of wind effected snow. We performed hand shear tests and determined, however, that the snow deposited from winds was 1) not cohesive and 2) not breaking on a consistent plane. We discussed what we were observing. I think at one point I said something to the effect of, “We need to keep our eye on this as we continue to climb.”

When the skinning got too steep, we transitioned to boot-packing. I attached my splitboard to my backpack, not performing a complete transition to downhill mode. Ethan mentioned we should probably segment out the final section, but there was no discussion regarding an acceptable distance that we should maintain from one another. Ethan transitioned quicklier than I did and immediately began ascending next to a rocky rib on skiers right. As Ethan approached the ridge, he had to traverse into the chute to get around a rocky outcropping. He navigated a granite slab, that he notified me of. I took a break, some 40 feet below him in the bootpack, to observe the clouds dispersing. Behind me, for the first time that day I could see Broads Fork Twin Peaks. I was reminded, as I have been many times, of the beauty that is the Wasatch. Seconds later, the snow collapsed, and Ethan was sent tumbling.

Watching Ethan tumble was incredibly scary. He fought hard. I yelled at him, “F$@!, come on man!” as if willing him to get himself right and to stay on top. Despite getting pummeled with large chunks of slab that broke at the crown, somehow, he managed to slow his fall and self-arrest. As he came to a stop, one of his skis was stripped from his pack and slid down the chutes apron. As I watched it, I was in awe at the amount of debris that was accumulating at the bottom of the run. At this point I didn’t want to think about what-ifs…I just wanted to get down to Ethan. I needed to hug him – just as much for him as it was for me.

My initial reaction was to descend by booting down. Upon closer examination, I realized that 10 feet below where I stood was stripped by the avalanche, leaving no trace of our ascent booter. Additionally, there was a fracture immediately below where I stood that did not release until I began booting down. I was standing on an island, that for whatever reason, did not slide with the rest of the avalanche. Downward progress was slow, and as a result I decided I should just transition and ride down to Ethan some 150 feet below.

I met up with Ethan. We hugged, and somewhat at a loss for words, decided that I should descend the remainder of the run to retrieve his ski. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the slide that I started to realize how lucky we had been. The slide went big. It tears me apart to know that another party had a different outcome, that they weren’t so lucky - man, that word feels so inappropriate. The similarities between the Big Willow Cirque accident and our experience just feel so f@$!&d up. Same aspect. Same elevation. Similar time. Just the drainage over. Despite an overwhelming sense of gratitude for mine and Ethan’s safety, my heart hurts deeply for those affected by the tragedy in Big Willow Cirque.

There’s a lot to unpack with this experience, but a few key takeaways for me are the following:

1. Complacency kills: It can happen to YOU.

2. Be prepared to initiate a rescue, ALWAYS: When I transitioned to bootpacking, I kept skins on my splitboard and did not perform a complete transition. Had Ethan been buried, having my splitboard in downhill mode could have meant the difference between life and death.

3. No communication is too much communication: Changes in snow conditions/consistency should always be noted out loud, to a partner, especially in consequential terrain. Additionally, clear segmenting protocols and safe zones should be identified.