It accelerated as the slope steepened and the weight of the slide pushed from behind. It moved in surges, like a roller coaster on a series of drops and high-banked turns. The slope of the terrain, shaped like a funnel, squeezed the growing swell of churning snow into a steep, twisting gorge. Somewhere inside, it also carried people. Others it captured and added to its violent load. The avalanche, in Washington’s Cascades in February, slid past some trees and rocks, like ocean swells around a ship’s prow. Moving about 7o miles per hour, it crashed through the sturdy old-growth trees, snapping their limbs and shredding bark from their trunks. Within seconds, the avalanche was the size of more than a thousand cars barreling down the mountain and weighed millions of pounds. Snow shattered and spilled down the slope. Somewhere above, a pristine meadow cracked in the shape of a lightning bolt, slicing a slab nearly 200 feet across and 3 feet deep. The very thing the 16 skiers and snowboarders had sought - fresh, soft snow - instantly became the enemy. The snow burst through the trees with no warning but a last-second whoosh of sound, a two-story wall of white and Chris Rudolph’s piercing cry: “Avalanche! Elyse!”
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