Heli-Skiing Risks: Chugach Avalanche Tragedy
The Chugach Mountains rise from the Gulf of Alaska like a fortress wall, catching Pacific storms and holding them. The snow they receive—often measured in hundreds of inches per season—builds layer upon layer, a geologic compression happening not over millennia but over days. On March 4, 2025, at approximately 2 p.m., three skiers stood atop one such layer. Below them: four thousand vertical feet of untouched powder. Above them: blue sky and a helicopter retreating toward the horizon, its blade-wash momentarily disturbing the alpine stillness.
These were not novices. Each had left the boundaries of ski resorts years ago, trading the certainty of groomed runs for the complexity of backcountry terrain. Each understood, at least in theory, that the snowpack beneath them contained its own memory—a season’s worth of weather events recorded in strata as legible as tree rings to those who know how to read them.
What they could not have known was that they were standing on a geologic hinge—a place where disparate layers of snow had failed to bond properly. A place where the weight of three humans would be just enough to exceed the tensile strength of that bond.
The avalanche that released beneath them was categorized as size 4 on a 5-point scale: massive enough to destroy small buildings, uproot mature trees, and bury a group of people beyond recovery. By the time search-and-rescue personnel arrived, there was nothing to do but retrieve bodies. They became the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth avalanche fatalities in the United States this winter.
The Arithmetic of Risk
The American avalanche story unfolds with a grim numerical predictability. Twenty-seven people die, on average, in U.S. avalanches each year. Some seasons claim twenty, others thirty-seven. The winter of 2020-2021 saw thirty-seven souls lost, the highest toll since 1910.
Avalanche experts often note that these fatalities are not accidents but consequences. The evidence is stark: ninety percent of avalanche victims either trigger their own slides or are members of parties that do. The mountains do not hunt humans; humans position themselves in the path of danger.
This winter’s eighteen fatalities have followed topographic and human patterns consistent with historical trends. Most occurred in the Western states—Colorado, Utah, Montana, Washington—and now, Alaska. The variables remain predictable: steep terrain beyond the boundaries of managed ski areas, persistent weak layers in the snowpack, and human decision-making that fails to properly account for either.
A more disturbing pattern exists within the data: many of the deceased had formal avalanche training. Many carried the standard safety equipment—transceivers to locate buried companions, probes to pinpoint them beneath the snow, shovels to dig them out. Some wore backpacks with integrated airbags designed to keep them at the snow’s surface during a slide. In a size 4 avalanche, however, these technologies become largely ceremonial. The forces involved—thousands of tons of snow moving at speeds approaching sixty miles per hour—render human intervention almost meaningless.
The Confluence
If avalanche fatalities are consequences rather than accidents, what are they consequences of? Three converging forces seem to explain the current situation.
First, there has been a demographic shift in winter recreation. The number of people venturing beyond ski area boundaries has increased dramatically since 2020. Equipment manufacturers report record sales of touring gear—the specialized skis, boots, and bindings that allow users to travel uphill under their own power. Avalanche safety courses fill their rosters months in advance. The backcountry, once the domain of a small cohort of enthusiasts, has become democratized. More people in avalanche terrain means more human-triggered avalanches.
Second, the snowpack itself has become less predictable. Climate scientists point to increasing variability in winter weather patterns—drought periods followed by intense storms, rain events at elevations that historically received only snow, temperature fluctuations that create weak layers within the snowpack. In Colorado this season, October snow created a foundation layer that never properly stabilized. When heavier storms arrived weeks later, they overloaded this weak base. In Alaska, where the recent tragedy occurred, wind-transported snow created slabs atop fragile layers, a perfect recipe for catastrophic failure.
Third, human decision-making often fails to adapt to these conditions. Avalanche professionals speak of “heuristic traps”—cognitive shortcuts that lead backcountry travelers into danger. Familiarity with terrain breeds complacency. The presence of other tracks on a slope suggests safety where none exists. The financial and emotional investment in a helicopter trip creates pressure to ski despite warning signs. Even extensive experience can be neutralized by these psychological factors.
A Shifting Landscape
Beyond these immediate concerns lies another: the institutional infrastructure supporting avalanche safety appears to be eroding. The National Avalanche Center and regional forecasting centers, which provide crucial information to backcountry travelers, depend heavily on federal funding. Recent budget constraints have reduced staffing at the U.S. Forest Service and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, both of which contribute resources to avalanche forecasting and research.
The implications are substantial. Fewer forecasters mean less granular information about snowpack conditions. Reduced research budgets mean slower progress in understanding avalanche dynamics. For backcountry users, these forecasts aren’t merely convenient—they’re essential risk management tools. A missing or incomplete forecast can lead to uninformed decisions with fatal consequences.
The Accounting
When an avalanche claims lives, questions of responsibility inevitably follow. Commercial guiding operations, like the heli-skiing company involved in the Alaska incident, operate with established protocols. They analyze forecasts, assess terrain, and make calculated judgments about which slopes to ski. Yet no protocol can eliminate the fundamental risk of traveling in avalanche terrain. The decision to set tracks on a steep, snow-covered slope always carries some probability of catastrophe.
There is also the matter of personal choice. Those who venture into the backcountry make a conscious decision to accept certain risks. Some do so with full awareness of the potential consequences. Others place their trust in guides or more experienced companions. But in the final accounting, the mountains render the verdict.
The Calculus of Survival
For those who continue to seek the singular experience of moving through winter mountains under their own power, there are ways to improve the odds. Formal education is essential—courses that teach snowpack assessment, terrain selection, and rescue techniques provide a foundation. Checking avalanche forecasts before each outing and actually heeding their warnings is crucial. Carrying appropriate safety equipment and knowing how to use it can make the difference between life and death in certain scenarios.
But perhaps the most important skill is knowing when to retreat—recognizing that the mountain will be there another day, while the opportunity to walk away exists only in the present moment.
Aftermath
The skiers who died in the Chugach likely understood all of this. They had probably sat through avalanche courses, practiced with their safety equipment, checked the forecast that morning. Their guides had likely conducted snow tests, discussed terrain options, weighed the various factors that contribute to avalanche risk.
Yet they still stepped from the helicopter onto that slope. The snow still fractured beneath them. And in that moment, as in countless similar moments across the winter mountains of North America, theoretical knowledge confronted physical reality. The snow fell. The burden shifted. And the mountains kept their ancient silence.
