Sprawled in the dark that day, buried under more than six feet of snow, Ian Steger accepted he was about to die.
He was disoriented, but he realized he was upside down. The weight of the snow pressing down on his chest was immense. He struggled to breathe.
Steger was 40 years old and an athlete, but it didn’t matter. He knew there was no way for him to escape. A good friend of his had died just three months ago when this exact situation occurred.
His mind raced, full of images and regrets, of words and feelings he wished he’d shared when he had the chance.
Too late now.
He had no idea what suffocating to death felt like. He hoped it would be peaceful.
***
Ian Steger and his fiance, Jordan Richardson.
Steger grew up in Bellingham, about an hour or so from where he was now trapped in Washington’s Mt. Baker Ski Area. When he was 2 and just learning to walk, his father had hauled him to the area and taught him to ski. He loved it, and he later took up snowboarding on the mountain.
His job as a real-estate agent gave him a flexible schedule, the chance to hit the slopes whenever he wanted. He typically went to the ski area more than 30 times a year, and he was always there when storms dumped fresh powder.
March 3, a Friday, was such a day.
The area is nicknamed “powder mountain.” Experienced skiers and snowboarders are drawn to virgin powder outside the routes maintained by the ski patrol. The backcountry boundaries are marked by ropes and signs to warn people they’re leaving the safe zone.
Those who venture beyond the ropes are expected to do so with a partner, have avalanche gear, a two-way radio and a backpack with a shovel and snow probes.
Steger and his three buddies had all the required gear when they slipped under the ropes for their second run of the morning. They found great powder and the thrill of navigating through the trees. Blazing down the hill, they were aware of “tree wells.” These occur when snow around trees creates a hidden hole that can suck a snowboarder in as if it were quicksand.
“We’ve all been there,” said Steger. “Either you’re digging someone out of a hole, or you’re digging yourself out. I’ve had to dig out a couple times. You reach down through the snow, find the board, unstrap it from your feet and pull yourself out of the hole.”
That’s how it usually works, anyway.
On that Friday run, Steger’s friends were in front of him when Steger, moving through the trees, made a turn to slow down when the snow behind him collapsed. He fell backwards into a hole. He ended up under more than six feet of snow, his hands pinned in front of his face.
He didn’t understand at first how bad his situation was.
“I figured I could wiggle free and reach my hand up to clear the snow at the surface,” he said. “Then I realized this was a totally different situation.
“Upside down. In the dark and in deeper snow that I’d ever been in my life.”
He could barely move.
During avalanche-survival training, instructors tell students the first thing they must do is create an air pocket around their mouth. Steger remembered that from the basic training he did years ago.
“I was able pull my jacket up over my face,” Steger said. “I had the space to breathe, but there was so much snow on my chest, the act of breathing was very difficult.”
Now he did the only other thing he could do.
“I waited for my friends to come dig me out,” he said. “What we always do. I waited and waited.”
His friends, of course, had no idea where he was. He tried not to think about that.
Then his two-way radio, attached to his backpack, crackled. He could hear a staticky voice.
“My friend said they didn’t see me come out of the trees,” said Steger. “They said they couldn’t see me anywhere.”
The next message was chilling: Just let us know you’re good.
Steger couldn’t reach the button on the radio to respond. He knew his friends were down the hill from where he was stuck. They’d surely assume he’d passed them. He knew there was no chance they’d take off their snowboards and make the long, difficult trudge back up the hill to look for him.
He remembered from training that a person has about 15 minutes of air while buried in the snow. Steger guessed he’d been there more than 5 minutes.
He summoned all his strength to try wriggle free.
That made it worse.
He sank deeper into the snow and felt the pressure tighten around his chest.
He sensed the air pocket was collapsing.
Then came the dark thoughts.
“I’d never see my fiancé again,” he said. “We got engaged in December.”
In some ways, he and his fiancé, Jordan Richardson, were opposites. Her idea of being in the outdoors was walking the dogs.
He thought of Bill Kamphausen, his snowboarding friend who died in late 2022 right here at Mt. Baker Ski Area when he suffocated after falling into a tree well. Someone finally spotted the tip of Bill’s snowboard sticking out of the snow, but it was too late to save him.
After Bill died, Jordan hounded him to get their wills in order.
He remembered seeing the documents that very morning on the kitchen table, not yet signed.
“Man, a whole lot of stuff goes through your head,” he said. “I thought about Bill and realized my friends were going to have go through the same thing with me. A memorial and mourning someone they lost on the mountain.”
Then came acceptance.
“There was no sense in freaking out,” he said. “I was not going to make it. I started breathing slow. I wanted it to be peaceful. I wondered how long it would take me to die.”
Then he felt his snowboard, still attached to his feet, move.
He felt it again.
Was he imagining it?
***
To reach Steger, Zuber had to take off his skis and walk through deep snow. This photo was taken last weekend when he and Steger returned to the slopes.
Francis Zuber, a 28-year-old skier who lives in Bellingham, had gone to Mt. Baker Ski Area that Friday to chase powder. Since moving to the city in August from New York, he’d been a regular on the slopes.
“I saw a buddy on the chair lift,” he said. “He gave me a shout. We met at the top and decided to pop out-of-bounds. That zone was unfamiliar to me. I picked a random line and took off down the hill.”
As he sped down the slope, Zuber, a carpenter, caught a glimpse of color in his peripheral vision.
“Something red,” he said. “I didn’t know what it was, but it was out of place and made me stop and turn around. That’s when I saw the upside-down snowboard in a tree well.”
He saw it move.
“I knew someone was attached to that board,” he said. “Buried. I had no idea how long, but I knew I had to act immediately.”
Adrenaline surged through his body.
“I stepped out of my skis – and started cursing,” he recalled.
He’d sunk into the powder and was having trouble moving.
Zuber said that was the scariest moment.
“I was afraid this person was going to die because I couldn’t get there in time,” he said.
He began digging with his hands, and then with an avalanche shovel, the GoPro camera attached to his helmet capturing the effort.
He found Ian Steger – and the snowboarder was alive.
Zuber paused to catch his breath. He used his hand to clear snow from Steger’s googles and nose.
He kept digging until he could haul Steger out of the tree well.
Before speaking, the two men gave each other a big hug.
“I’m so glad you’re OK,” said Zuber.
So was Steger. Not just glad. Amazed. “Thanks for stopping,” he managed to say. “You saved a life today.”
Steger radioed his friends to give them the good news.
He and Zuber hugged each other once more.
And then they went their separate ways.
***
Those 10 or so minutes on the mountain changed both men.
“It’s tough for me to sort the whole thing out,” Zuber admitted. “Coincidence, divine intervention. Whatever you want to call it, it’s wild. As far as the existential stuff goes, I’m still trying to parse it all out.”
He posted his GoPro video online to raise awareness of the dangers of tree wells, he said. He assumed it would be of interest only to the ski and snowboarding community.
Steger, for his part, believes he’s been given a second chance. He’s watched the video, which has racked up nearly 800,000 views on YouTube. It’s a reminder that life is precious.
“It allowed me to realize what’s actually important in life,” he said. “I have a new appreciation to make the most of every single day, because you have no idea if it’s going to be your last day.”
He signed the will.
Ian Steger and Francis Zuber have kept in touch.
Last weekend, they returned to Mount Baker Ski Area. The two men, now friends, decided to hit the slopes together.
One on skis.
The other on a snowboard.
“A good day,” said Steger. “A good day.”
— Tom Hallman Jr.
503-221-8224; thallman@oregonian.com; @thallmanjr
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