From the mobile desk of E. R. Harris: Snowmaker—the most dangerous job in the world?

For me, without question, being a snowmaker was the most dangerous job I have ever done.

But it certainly didn’t have to be.

I’m not sure if I should be proud or embarassed that I was one of the six crewmembers that made it to the finish line (more than a dozen others were either fired, quit or injured). I don’t even remember signing any kind of waiver when I showed up the first night at 11:45 pm, brand new Carhartts strapped on my shoulders, brand new Sorels on my feet, only to be told to leave by the crew chief. He barely made eye contact with me, just yelled something like: “I don’t have time to train any newbies tonight, I’ve got too much shit going on! Come back tomorrow night!” He had to yell over the din of the steam room where the rest of the guys were gathered, some of them no doubt snickering at the California Surf Guy being turned away.

But I was determined. I came back the next night, and it was the other crew chief, and he was actually really nice and respectful and made me feel accepted. Even though my chief did care about the safety of his crew, he was a jaded local Silverton mountain man with plenty of demons—and he drank pretty much 24-7. So he tried to put in protocols and teach us to look out for each other out there on the mountain, but the safety issues were really above him.

Snowmaking (like Ski Patrol, Avalanche Control Bomb Squad and other outdoor jobs on the hill) can be relatively safe, but it depends on managment. It depends on who is writing the checks and overseeing the operations. My crew chief couldn’t purchase the crucial gear and tune the snowmobiles and train the crew in 14 hour shifts.

So, I was pretty much thrown to the wolves. The shifts, to my utter dismay, were 12 am to 12 pm 6 days in a row! Then two days off, and the crews switch from skeleton to day shift, and I would have to work from 12pm to 12 am 6 days in a row. Then repeat. For the rest of snowmaking season—which was an undetermined date, with Mother Nature having the final say.

Let me remind you this is VERY difficult work. Back breaking, heavy lifting, snowmobile bouncing, all night out on the mountain in 10,000 foot Colorado mountain peaks. You’re dealing with 480 volts of electricty in one plug, and 100 pounds of pressure of water in a hose, and they both needed to be calpyred into the Snow Making Machines—perfectly—then maintained. During blizzards, that often meant snowmobiling way up the dark mountain, from the warmth of the pump house and steam room, until getting to the machine. Then, working with a team mate, one goes to the power and water lines with a flash light. The others goes to the machine. Using flashlight signals, the one at the lines shuts them off, then lets the guy at the machine know its done. The guy at the machine uncalpyers the connectors, cleans off the frozen material on the electric plug cap, then drags the frozen hose back to the snowmobile and ties it on the rear. Takes off the new hose (that had been drying in the steam room) then reconnects it. Once both are reconnected perfectly—the ramifications are bad if done improperly, electruction is not impossible, and getting hit with a frozen or filled hose with 100 pounds of pressure can be bad (that prematurely ended one crew member’s season)—then the guy at the machine signals to the guy at the lines, who then turns them back on. Servicing these lines of machines and Rat Guns (which had 100 pounds air AND 100 pounds water, sans electricity) could take hours upon hours.

Now, why was my experience MORE dangerous than an ordinary snowmaker’s seasonal job? One word—quality control. A few of the machines were new—maybe a few years old—but the rest of the snowmaking lines were all machinery and equipment and hoses that were ANCIENT. How long had this same stuff been used for? I often wondered that while milling about the pumphouse trying to stay busy during the warmer temperatures, when there was less work to do.

Then came the snowmobiles. There are far too many stories to tell about the utterly decrepit state of the 6 or 7 snowmobiles the snowmaking team were forced to use. I would say maybe 2 of them worked some of the time. The rest of them worked only partially or rarely. When you have crews of 8-10 people and multiple snowmaking lines that will freeze up or need to be maintained, well, then you have deadlines that force young people that don’t know any better to start making bad decisions.

We had people triple riding. No headlights. Faulty steering. Poorly marked trails and snow roads. Imagine a snowmobile with three 20 years olds squeezing onto it, three frozen hoses dragging off the back, trying to fly through sections of terrain that are devoid of snow. I mean it was kind of ridiculous. Who was holding us accountable and who was maintaining the equipment properly so it wasn’t a hazard?

Going out solo on snowmobiles, or dropping someone off and coming back on your own dragging down hoses again, was a common practice. Well, the walkie talkies were so old they barely worked, and they didn’t charge well. Not to mention the chargers down in the pumphouse were all rickedy, decayed and didn’t work well. Now that I’m almost fifty years old I just think: “Seriously? A Ski Area’s snowmaking team doesn’t have properly working walkie talkies or snowmobiles?

So here’s near death #1: One of the snowmobiles had been rumored to have faulty breaks. They had gone out before once, had been supposedly fixed, and were “gingerly” working. Well, something happened, one of the gauges showed low pressure, we had to check a water line. The other snowmobiles were out on other tasks out on the mountain. No other crew around. Okay, up I go. Oh, the headlights don’t work well on this one. My flashlight—left it in pumphouse. Walkie talkie—battery low red light on.

I get up to the problem area, a set of “water sticks”. They’re an antiquated techique used in—what the Swiss Alps in the 1930’s? Basically, 40 foot thin, metallic towers with misty nozzles at the very top. You push in water and air, the sticks spray it up into the night sky, and it’s supposed to turn into snow on the run below it. Yeah, right. It was way too warm. The run now had a frozen sleet section over the top of it. I had to call my chief and tell him. Walkie talkie wouldn’t work. I turned off the water and then hopped on the snowmobile thinking I better go report what happened so my chief can figure out what to do.

As soon as I hit the throttle I knew I was in trouble. I had spaced out for a second. Can you blame me? It was the 6th night in a row of 12pm-12am shifts, getting close to quitting time, and I still had a 45 minute drive home down the mountain in a Ford Fiesta with pink writing on it (don’t ask—it’s another sad story). I was tired, exhausted mentally and physically, probably malnourished and dehydrated, and pissed off that I was going to have to go back all the way down to the pumphouse just to deliver a message I could have sent over radio.

I hit the frozen sleet section by accident, I meant to stay on the snow churned trail along the edge of the run, but I veered a bit, and immediately started speeding up. Instinctively I hit the brakes full squeeze and heard a—snap! Pumping the brakes again and again, I realized they were gone. I was plummeting down the ice toward a section of trees!

I’m not exactly sure why, but I started to SLALOM. I am a California surfer who never lived for one minute in the snow in my life until moving to Colorado that year, and had not gotten on a snowmobile until day one of my snowmaking experience. By stepping all my weight from one running board to the other, while turning the handlebars hard left then right, I managed to slow it down enough to get back over to the trail. Even though I was off the icy section and moving slower, I still had to ride the trail all the way down the mountain—WITH NO BRAKES! What else was I going to do? Walk back down two miles in the dark and snow? I had no guarantee anyone would come looking for me, my chief was probably sipping whiskey in his coffee.

Near death (or at least severe injury) #2: That cursed snowmobile wasn’t the only one that had it out for me, evidently, as a few shifts later, during a warm 50 degree, relatively boring day, another one of the death machines aimed my way. So one of the crew was told several times NOT to start THAT snowmobile, because the throttle was stuck and it needed to get towed back to the garage to get “fixed”—no offense, but either those mechanics sucked, or more likely, they probably asked to get new tools and parts, but were told no by the owners of the Ski Area. Well, what do you think the guy did? Yep, started the snowmobile with the stuck throttle.

Now, it was pointing straight toward the parking lot, which was probably 100 meters away. There was a massive embankment of snow, probably a 6-8 foot ledge drop-off from the flats where the pumphouse was built down to the lot. Well, right in that zone, because it was heavily trafficked, the snow was getting worn down to the dirt, and my chief thought he would set up a rat gun right there to kind of build a little buffer of new snow over the brown patch. Seems like a good idea? So it was too warm, and the thing wasn’t making snow, so the chief and I were down next to it getting ready to shut it down and move it off to the side. Well, those guns are firing LOUDLY. We couldn’t hear each other talk and we were a few feet away. So we didn’t hear the warning yells: “Look out! Look out!”

Luckily, my chief was facing slightly uphill, whereas I was facing the parking lot—with my back to the snowmobile that had just been started twenty meters away. If he hadn’t seen it jetting toward us and shoved me out of the way hard, I would have been plowed straight over! From my knees I watched with wide eyes as the snowmobile, gunning full throttle, continued on and then launched off the embankment, crashing down on a parked car, until coming to settle in a smoking pile. Worst case scenario—the snowmobile hits me in the midsection, knocking me into the rat gun, which disconnect the pressure hoses, which conk me in the head. Luckily, thanks to my crew chief, I was totally unscathed. That guy got fired on the spot, needless to say. But damn… that was close.

These stories are meant to convey how dangerous jobs don’t really have to be dangerous. If the employer is held accountable for satisfactory working conditions, including working equipment and clearly defined safety protocols and rules, they wouldn’t take advantage of it. I made it through the experience totally healthy, earned quite a bit of overtime pay, and… the REAL reason why I did it? Yep, by making it all the way through to the end of snowmaking season I earned a free season pass. Free snowboarding was evidently worth what I put myself through.

I don’t want it to seem like it was all doom and gloom, death and destruction—believe me, there were also some unforgetable moments of bliss working in the winter elements of the Rocky Mountains. Northern lights. Pow wows at the top hut near 10,000 feet to check out the stars. Snowmobile races—did I just admit that? Some good friendships. Lots of animal sightings. I proved my mettle, made it through unscathed, but if I had a son/daughter, I would want to talk to the employer about ensuring their safety before signing them up for a job that doesn’t HAVE to be so dangerous.