What Triggering a Small Avalanche on Mount Lassen Taught Me About Risk
What Triggering a Small Avalanche on Mount Lassen Taught Me About Risk
The Moment Everything Changed on the Climb
I had been climbing toward the summit of Mount Lassen since five that morning, wearing regular shoes for the approach with my ski boots strapped outside my pack, the way I planned it. It got hot fast, hot enough that I leaned hard on Dermatone sunscreen by mid morning. I took a food break about three quarters of the way up, then started a boot pack section where the snow was sinking waist deep with every step. I turned around just a few hundred feet from the summit. Then, on my very first ski turn heading back down, I triggered a small slough, a minor avalanche that released beneath me.
I want to be careful about how I describe this. It was small. It was not a life threatening slide, and I was able to ski hard away from it and continue down the other side of the mountain safely. But small does not mean unimportant. In the moment it happened, my entire focus narrowed down to survival, to making the right moves immediately, without room for a single wasted thought.
That kind of moment changes something in you, even when it ends safely. I have spent a lot of time since that day thinking about what led up to it, what I got right, what I got lucky on, and what I would do differently if I found myself in the same spot again.
What Led Up to the Slide
Looking back, the decision to turn around a few hundred feet from the summit was already a sign that conditions were telling me something. The boot pack section, with snow sinking waist deep, was a clear signal that the snowpack was not behaving the way I wanted it to. I made the call to turn around before reaching the top, which I still think was the right decision given what the mountain was showing me that day.
What I did not fully account for was how that same unstable snow would behave once I started skiing instead of hiking. The transition from boot packing to skiing changes the forces acting on the snowpack, and my first turn was enough to release a small slough beneath me. It is a reminder that turning around from a summit does not automatically mean you are out of danger. The descent carries its own risks, sometimes risks that only show up once you are already committed to moving through them.
I also think about the fact that I was alone for this entire experience. There was no partner to help me read the snow from a different angle, no second set of eyes checking my plan before I dropped into that first turn. Every read of the conditions, every decision, was mine alone, for better and for worse. That solitude is part of why I take this memory so seriously now, since there was nobody else in the moment to share the weight of what could have gone differently.
How I Reacted in the Moment
When the slough released, my training and instincts took over more than any conscious plan. I skied hard away from the moving snow, working to stay ahead of it and reach more stable terrain as quickly as possible. There was no time to think through options carefully. There was only time to react, using whatever muscle memory and mountain sense I had built over years of skiing and climbing.
Once I was clear and skiing down the other side of the mountain, the adrenaline did not disappear right away. I kept moving, aware and alert in a way that felt different from the rest of the descent, all the way back to the van by noon. It took time, honestly, for my mind to fully process what had just happened, even after my body was already safely off that section of the mountain.
I think this delayed processing is common after a scary moment in the mountains. You handle the immediate danger with instinct and training, and only afterward, once you are safe, does the weight of what almost happened actually catch up with you.
What This Taught Me About Decision Making
The biggest lesson from this experience was not really about avalanche terrain specifically. It was about how connected every decision on a mountain actually is. My choice about when to turn around, my read of the snow during the boot pack, and my first ski turn were not separate decisions. They were all part of one continuous chain, and a small misjudgment anywhere in that chain can show up later in a way you did not expect.
I also came away with a deeper respect for the gap between what feels risky and what is actually risky. The boot pack section felt hard and uncomfortable, which made it obvious that something was off. The first ski turn felt normal, routine even, right up until it was not. That gap between feeling and reality is exactly where accidents happen, and it is something I think about differently now on every trip since.
Being solo made every part of this more intense. There was nobody to talk through the decision with in real time, nobody to notice something I might have missed. I had to trust my own judgment completely, and this experience showed me both the strength and the limits of relying on that judgment alone. I have thought many times since about how differently the moment might have felt with a partner along, not necessarily safer, just less isolating in the seconds right after it happened.
How This Changed the Way I Approach Mountains Now
Since that day on Mount Lassen, I pay much closer attention to the transition points on a climb, the moments where you switch from one mode of travel to another, like going from boot packing to skiing. Those transitions are exactly where conditions can surprise you, even after you have already made a cautious decision like turning around before the summit.
I also carry a stronger reminder with me now that turning around is not the end of the risk equation. It is easy to feel like the hard decision making is over once you decide not to push for the top. This experience taught me that the descent deserves just as much careful attention as the climb up, maybe more, since fatigue and relief can both work against clear thinking on the way down.
More than anything, this moment on Lassen reinforced something I already believed but had not been tested on quite this directly. The mountains do not care about your plans, your deadlines, or your brand deliverables. They respond to conditions, and your job as a solo traveler is to read those conditions as honestly as you can, make the best decision available, and stay ready to react when even a good decision does not fully protect you from what the mountain decides to do next.
Dalton Johnson is a commercial photographer and director of photography based in South Lake Tahoe, California. Over the last decade he has worked with brands including Patagonia, GoPro, Arc'teryx, Four Seasons, Nike, Rivian, and Big Agnes across all seven continents. He documents adventure, travel, and the outdoors through photography, film, and writing. Follow along at dalton-johnson.com.