SPARWOOD, B.C. — Jeff Adams' tormented mission drove him again and again to the mountain ridge that spewed deadly waves of snow last December.
The deep drifts took months to melt, each time revealing more reminders of the Dec. 28, 2008 avalanches that killed eight of his friends — part of a tight-knit group of snowmobilers known by many as "Valley Boys."
Each time he returned to the desolate basin in the southeastern British Columbia backcountry, Adams would dig up debris left behind from the frantic rescue effort: snowmobiles, helmets, pieces of winter gear.
"I kept going back up . . . finding stuff and bringing it home," says Adams.
One of only three men to survive the series of slides that day, he has since met countless times with the victims' families and even taken some to the mountainside where their loved ones were killed.
"I didn't want to do it. It was hell for me," says Adams, 30, in his Sparwood home. "It was like, respecting my friends, that their families deserved to know what went on."
Adams has returned often to the deadly alpine bowl on his own, too.
On one such lonesome quest last spring, he found a helmet belonging to Leonard Stier, 45.
Like he'd done with the other pieces of equipment he'd found, Adams returned the gear.
Handing the helmet to Suzanne Stier, who lost both her husband, Leonard, and 20-year-old son Michael in the slides, was just one more of the sorrowful chores Adams has taken on.
"You knock on the door of the family, you've got no words," he says.
"The tears come out and it just starts all over again."
Tears are always close to the surface in Sparwood today.
And as the first anniversary of the tragedies approaches, the grief here is palpable; the town, the families, the survivors still struggling.
"Right before it hit December, that's when it hit everybody again," says Kayla Talarico, who lost her husband, Thomas. The couple had two daughters together: 18-month-old Payton, and Madison, who turns three on Dec. 31.
"Everyone said the first year is the hardest, but to me, I just don't see how it's going to get any easier or any different," says the 29-year-old widow.
All 11 snowmobilers caught in the slides worked in the Elk Valley, some in Sparwood's five coal mines, others in companies connected to the industry. Most of them grew up in Sparwood. They were lifelong outdoorsmen who ventured into their backyard mountain playground to hunt, fish, quad and snowmobile.
The men who died — Danny Bjarnason, Kurt Kabel, Warren Rothel, Kane Rusnak, Leonard Stier and his son Michael, Thomas Talarico and Blayne Wilson — were best friends, husbands, boyfriends, brothers and sons.
The sheer number of deaths was difficult to absorb under any circumstance.
In the valley town of close to 4,000, the impact rippled into nearly every home.
"I doubt there's a person in this town that didn't know one of them boys or were friends with their families," says Garry Bjarnason, whose son, Danny, was the last victim recovered from the mountainside.
While the town's shared grief has forged new, closer bonds, the past 12 months have been difficult.
Some relationships have crumbled, friendships soured. Answering machines in some of the victims' homes still have messages with the names of those who've died.
The first few snowfalls of the season were an especially difficult reminder of last year's catastrophe.
As soon as the ground was covered in white, trucks loaded with snowmobiles headed for the mountain trails.
Many of the half-tons' rear windows sported a small plastic decal: a cross threaded through the number eight.
For anyone living in the Elk Valley, the symbolic magnet is a tangible reminder of the eight Valley Boys who died.
The tragedy has left behind less visible evidence, too.
Rothel's wife, Erin Sevinski, says at times she feels as though others are watching her, ever concerned she's on the verge of breaking down.
"You can just tell when you walk in . . . it's almost like 'Oh no, are they going to cry?' " she says.
The avalanches all but decimated a circle of childhood friends.
Sevinski, who has two children, Austin, 5, and Hailey, 2, often snowmobiled with the group, but no longer feels drawn to the sport. She sold her own sled this year.
"Really, the group is gone," she says,
Adams says he's been snowmobiling only twice this year. He describes the trips as "not very good."
For the most part, his $20,000 snowmobile remains idle in his garage as its owner grapples with a tumult of emotions the once-beloved sport dredges up.
On Dec. 28 last year, Adams and his two closest buddies, Danny Bjarnason and Kane Rusnak, were on the road by 4 a.m. in a caravan with four other riders: the Stiers, Rothel and Drake. The five coal mines that bolster Sparwood's economy were on Christmas break, and the men were itching to ride.
For several hours, the day was picture-perfect as the men cut through drifts of fresh powder.
It was just after lunch when the first wall of snow let go from the craggy cliff.
Michael Stier was buried first. Then Adams disappeared under the cascading snow.
Four other Sparwood snowmobilers — Talarico, Kabel, Jeremy Rusnak and Wilson — arrived at the scene to help dig out. Adams had just been freed when the second slide hurtled down the mountain with enough force to take out a wood frame house.
This time, no one was left standing.
"Within a heartbeat, we were just gone," Adams recalls
"I closed my eyes and said goodbye to my kids, my fiance at the time and my family, and said, 'I've had a good life, this is it, this is where they'll find me.' I accepted it."
Adams was able to dig himself out, first his fingertips, then his arms, then his entire body was freed from the snow. With his bare hands, he dug out Jeremy Rusnak. Together, the two men were able to save James Drake, ripping his arm out of its socket with the force of their tugging as they tried to escape a third avalanche.
The three survivors looked across the landscape where an hour or so earlier, 11 men had snowmobiled.
Only a single sled remained above ground.
The three men decided they couldn't help their buried friends.
The survivors made it five kilometres from the scene when a helicopter picked them up. Before they were rescued, yet another slide crashed down.
Twelve months later, dark questions about the decision to leave the mountain keep Adams up at night.
"The pressure, the stress, the shoulda, coulda, wouldas — and whys — just simply take a toll on you," Adams says, his voice tired and husky.
The mine tireman has dropped 35 pounds. He broke up with his fiance, whom he was set to marry in June 2010, and rarely sees their two children. Adams rarely speaks with Drake and Rusnak.
Both men declined to speak with the Herald.
"Every family member has reassured us we did the right thing, there was nothing more we could do, They're glad that three of us came out to explain the story of what happened, if not there would be a million questions with no answers," says Adams.
"But you still have that feeling inside of you that's like, 'Why me? Why am I here?' . . . 'Why did I live through two and some of them couldn't live through one?'
"It just haunts me, it just eats at me every day."
As a community, Sparwood is trying to come to terms with its own new-found notoriety.
"It certainly wasn't the way we wanted to put Sparwood on the map on a global sense, but it did. A lot of people now know where Sparwood is, but they know it for a really sad and tragic event," says Sparwood mayor, David Wilks.
Like the night the news first broke, the mayor is once again planning a candlelight ceremony. This time, the event marks the first anniversary of the deaths.
Observing the occasion is an essential part of the town's continued healing, Wilks says.
"What I see is that the community has grown," says the mayor, a former RCMP officer who also owns Sparwood's bowling alley.
"They understand the enormity of the event, they understand that we hope it never ever happens again.
"But it did happen, and we were able to get through it."
Most community members are expected to attend the memorial planned outside the town's iconic 23-foot tall Terex Titan truck to pay their respects to the men — living and dead — caught in the slides.
This November, the coroner's office released its report on the avalanche deaths.
All eight deaths were classified "accidental." No recommendations were made.
The findings only cement what the victims' families say they knew all along: their loved ones recognized the risks of mountain sledding, but knew how to play by the rules.
"That makes it easier to accept there's no . . . negligence or silliness," says Garry Bjarnason. "They were being careful. They were all geared up."
As Wilks, the mayor, puts it, "They had every piece of equipment on them they could have on them.
"When Mother Nature rears her ugly head, sometimes it doesn't matter what you've done."
The possibility something so terrible could happen again seems unthinkable in Sparwood.
But already this December has eerie parallels to last. Soon, the mines will be on holiday shutdown. A wicked cold snap that settled over the mountains throughout the month has created a weak snow layer — just like last year. A rising mercury and fresh snowfall are the perfect ingredients for avalanche weather.
"All of us are concerned about what this winter might bring and hoping we don't have to go through it again. But if it happens, we'll be there," says Chris Thomas of Fernie's search and rescue team.
The region is better equipped to deal with catastrophes. New high-tech gear includes an avalanche transceiver that hangs under the helicopter, allowing rescuers to actually fly over the avalanche scene and pick up distress signals without need to land.
The community itself is taking its first halting steps forward.
In August, loved ones placed a marble memorial on the mountain slope where the 11 men were swept away in the snow.
Adams, too, says he wants to move on.
He says he's now in a place where he can think of his friends and the first thing that comes to mind isn't the avalanche, rather happier memories of backcountry adventures growing up together in the Elk Valley.
"The support from the community and the thoughts, the prayers, the meals showing up at the door from people you don't even know, just trying to help out, it's overwhelming how much of a tight-knit group this small town is," Adams says.
Sometimes, though, the support feels like an added pressure to the already heavy burden he bears.
"You start to live in your mind, and your mind plays tricks on you," says Adams.
"I kept telling the families, 'I'm fine, I'm fine.' In reality, I wasn't, I wasn't doing good at all."
On this recent night, Adams is getting ready to attend a meeting of the Elk Valley Mountaineers — the snowmobiling club to which he and most of the victims belonged.
But even when he tells himself it was the avalanches — not the machines — that killed his friends, it's hard not to suppose his love for snowmobiling has been laid to rest, too.
For now, just getting through each day can be a struggle.
"I just kind of wake up every morning and just see what's going to happen," says Adams.
"It's very hard just to let go of it and move on."
Source: Calgary Herald, Dec 20 2009.
