It had been snowing for over 24 hours, but the storm was set to clear out just in time for first light. My friend Jordi Tenas, who is a professional skier, and I had spent four days skiing and camping under the towering Cerro Torrecillas near Las Leñas Ski Resort in Argentina. It had been a dry winter in the Southern Hemisphere, and we were heading back to Spain in a few days. But our luck with the weather was about to change, so we extended our trip by an extra day to nail perfect snow conditions.
The plan was to wake up early, climb in the dark, and ski back down to camp at first light. From there, we’d break down the tent, head back to our apartment in town and pack up a season’s worth of gear before catching the last bus out of Las Leñas.
We forced ourselves into sleeping bags and set an alarm for 6 A.M. Little did we know, that alarm would never come.
We woke up to a jolting impact against the tent wall, and we were pushed by a relentless river of snow that tossed and churned us as we struggled to free our arms from our sleeping bags. The roof of the tent caved in and squeezed against our bodies as it dragged underneath a massive avalanche. When it all finally stopped and the basin went silent once again, we couldn’t move our bodies from the waist down. My arms were just loose enough to keep an air pocket open, and I could faintly hear Jordi beside me.
We had known our tent was in a basin and potentially at risk for avalanches, but, perched up on a hill of glacial deposit, we thought any slides would have a whole bowl to fill before they reached our doorstep. I had expressed my concern to Jordi, yet in famous Jordi fashion, he confidently defended our safety, and I got lulled into believing it. After all, it would take a an avalanche of historic size to get anywhere close to where we were sleeping.
We never anticipated that a cornice would fall above us, or that it would be big enough send the whole bowl of snow crashing down—persistent weak layer and all. I wouldn’t find out until later, but we were now buried under six feet of snow.
We whispered back and forth, and I could hear Jordi breathing. We both scolded each other for taking up too much air as things started to come in and out of focus. As my breathing got shallower, I realized it was still the middle of the night—that no one would even realize we were gone until morning. We were going to die, I thought. That was the last thought that crossed my mind before I lost consciousness.
The next thing I remember is the ambulance door closing. I wasn’t sure where I was, but I was bundled in blankets instead of my sleeping bag. I was hypoxic and hypothermic, but I was still there. I wouldn’t find out until later, but Jordi wasn’t so lucky.
Our Las Leñas roommate, a freeskier from Idaho, had noticed that we hadn’t arrive home that morning, and he had climbed up the nearest hill to get eyes on our ski zone. He saw a massive crown just peeking out over the ridge lines and rushed down to tell ski patrol. Equipped with two Pisten Bully snow cats and an avalanche dog, they took off to Cerro Torrecillas and started excavating the zone.
The season was done at the resort, so it’s a miracle rescuers from the ski area even came out that day. We were buried so deep, only the machines could dig us out. When they struck the tent, they were shocked to find me still breathing. I don’t remember getting loaded into the cat, and only barely remember pieces of the 125-mile drive to the hospital in San Rafael. Somehow I had been able to keep breathing in the same air pocket, yet Jordi had not. I survived being buried for 12 hours underneath and avalanche.
The interview with Txema Trull was conducted in Spanish and translated and edited for brevity and clarity by Kade Krichko—Ed.
The post Buried in an Avalanche, I Survived Over 12 Hours Underneath the Snow appeared first on Outside Online.
