The Skiers and the Whale
Around the time I moved back to Utah in mid-2020, the state entered one of its periodic droughts. August’s thunderheads failed to appear, replaced by smoke from California’s forest fires. In September, the Wasatch mountain leaves skipped their usual reds and yellows, instead turning a dull, dry brown. By the following summer, the Great Salt Lake’s level reached a 140 year low.
Drought is an ever-present concern among Utah residents, but for most, it’s a low-grade, simmering worry. Among devoted skiers, though, the distress is far more acute. The Wasatch Mountains near Salt Lake are known for exceptionally light, powdery snow. “Greatest Snow on Earth” adorns the state’s license plates, while the somewhat less official “Pray for snow” appears on the marquee signs of local businesses. Skiing fresh Utah powder is a transcendent experience—and one that was in short supply over two drought-ridden winters.
The most obsessive skiers check the weather forecast with a diligence surpassed only by farmers. There are practical reasons for this: knowing the quantity, quality, timing, and geography of new snow allows optimal ski day planning. But there’s also the sense (however vague and irrational) that learning the ins and outs of the forecast may somehow change its contents.
For those who are willing to pay for such information, the daily Open Snow forecast is a money well spent.1 Its author, Evan Thayer, a.k.a. Wasatch Snow Forecast, draws on a score of different weather models, synthesizing their output and overlaying his own expertise. The result is a skiing-specific forecast that might recommend skiing a particular resort rather than its neighbor, or the lower half of a ski resort rather than its upper reaches.2
In good times, his newsletter provides a data-driven, analytical approach to finding the best skiing. Circa February 2022, it provided a data-driven, quantitative perspective on just how little snow was falling.
Time after time, a storm appeared in the long-range forecast, only to be revealed a mirage as it drew closer. Storms that were forecast as 16 inches of snow instead delivered 2 inches. Skiers grew desperate. The phrase “worst ski season of my life” entered circulation, and Evan titled a forecast, “Will it ever snow again?”
And then, in April 2022, Salt Lake City inexplicably installed a 23 foot statue of a humpback whale. Local residents were baffled. Humpback whales have no particular importance to Utahns, perhaps due to the state’s distinct lack of maritime culture. And yet, there the statue was, painted with vibrant stripes of orange, yellow, and blue and ensconced in the middle of a roundabout.
The first blizzard arrived that night.
Evan quickly noted the connection:
And it kept snowing. April’s snow total exceeded January and February’s totals—combined. On Memorial Day, more than six weeks after Alta Ski Area closed, my wife and I hiked up its slopes to ski 16” of fresh snow.3 Perhaps there really is something to this whale, we said.
The first snow of the 2022-23 winter fell in October. Within hours, a line of skiers snaked up Alta—diehards climbing to earn the first turns of the season. The snow was cautiously welcomed. After all, the two previous seasons had started equally early but then sputtered.
This time, to the delight of skiers, the snow didn’t stop. Storm followed storm, and each produced phenomenal skiing. Ski resorts moved up their opening days, and I skied a couple dozen times before Christmas.4 “All hail the whale!” became a rallying cry.
By mid-January, more snow had fallen than in the entirety of the previous winter. My friends and I set 4am alarms in order to ski low-altitude lines that hadn’t been skiable in years. Trailhead parking lots had a festival-like feel, and strangers greeted each other with, “What a winter!”
As the snow piled up, the whale’s following grew. One fan created a dedicated Twitter account, while another founded The Church of the Sacred Whale (complete with merchandise.) Influencers posted photos with the whale. Utah’s governor referenced the whale in his State of the State speech, a nod to his non-LDS constituents. (Amazingly, I’m not making any of this up.)
The snow continued to fall, averaging more than 3 feet per week. Powder days began to feel commonplace. The winter provided everything skiers wanted.
Unexpectedly, I found myself looking forward to spring. Winter in Utah’s mountains can easily extend into May, but March typically brings a few days of sunny weather and the occasional afternoon of skiing in a t-shirt. The snowpack stabilizes, reducing avalanche danger and allowing ski mountaineers to safely venture into more extreme terrain.
This March provided no such respite. Instead, 15 feet of snow fell, making it the single snowiest month in decades. Near the end of the month, Utah's snowpack depth surged to an all time record. Vexingly, I cut a ski day short because there was simply too much snow.5
As the whale’s first anniversary approached, the snowpack became unmanageable. Yet another storm deposited 6 feet of snow, triggering dozens of avalanches. One slide buried the Little Cottonwood Canyon road 30 feet deep, closing it for an unprecedented four days. Snowbird briefly opened, only to abruptly close again after an avalanche swept down on top of the beginner lift.
In an earlier time, that storm may have been truly devastating. Alta’s history has some deep scars, including an 1874 avalanche that killed 60 people and destroyed the town itself. But in the present, the cost was much lower. Skiers were deprived of access to Little Cottonwood slopes. And while the multi-day road closure left people stranded with limited food, they resorted to eating ice cream rather than, say, each other.
Indeed, modern life is figuratively and literally insulated from weather, and all the more so for city-dwelling remote-working professionals. There are few reasons to obsessively follow the forecast, and planning ski days is perhaps the most luxurious of those. But doing so peels back insulation, attuning skiers to the vicissitudes of weather. It’s a glance of a less controlled world, shaped by powerful, inexplicable forces.
Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of the whale’s installation. Spring seems to have finally arrived, with temperatures in the high 70’s in Salt Lake. But I’m dwelling on a memory from two weeks ago. My wife and I left our house with no snow falling. Minutes later, as we drove by the whale, a snow squall arrived. The winds howled, and plumes of snowflakes brought visibility to zero. In moments, everything was coated with snow. What could I do but look on in awe?
I’m a subscriber.
A typical excerpt: “Snow showers generally continue into tonight in a NW flow, however, there may be just a bit too much westerly component for maximum LCC orographic lift. Still, good accumulations should continue into tonight. We've seen a general downward shift in liquid from late yesterday into this morning, but the HRRR is still dropping over an inch of liquid in Upper LCC today into tonight. As you can see that amounts to more than 15" of snow in this particular model. This seems generally in line with the NBM which also shows amounts of an inch or more of liquid possible.” And of course, there are many charts.
Many Utah skiers including me alternate between alpine skiing (i.e. at resorts) and ski touring. Touring involves using special equipment to hike up the mountain before skiing down.
Like many Salt Lake professionals, most of my skiing involves leaving the house at 5:30 to ski for an hour and a half and then return home well before my first meeting.
If you take out 88 waist skis on a powder day, you really only have yourself to blame