When I was 23, I spent a summer working as a counselor at an overnight camp for eight-to-12-year-olds near the central mountain town of Genesee, Colorado. After a stern talking-to about what might happen if anyone went to bed with a snack in their sleeping bags鈥攂ears, people!鈥攚e鈥檇 zip the kids into their tents for the night, lock up the cabin containing our kitchen, and try to catch a few hours of sleep.

One morning around 5:30, after a particularly long night of comforting tearful, homesick tweens, I dragged myself into the kitchen for coffee. Two other counselors were already there, surveying the wreckage: a broken window, boxes of food strewn across the linoleum floor, burst bags of hot cocoa mix, and a maze of chocolaty paw prints. We鈥檇 assumed our supplies would be safe from intruders, but the flimsy windows were no match for a hungry bear.

That incident was a textbook case of food conditioning, according to wildlife biologist Wes Larson, who researches human-bear conflict. 鈥淎 bear that breaks into someone鈥檚 campsite now understands that they can get this really calorie-dense food,鈥� he explains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a huge payoff for relatively little effort, compared to spending hours picking berries.鈥� The bear that broke into our camp kitchen was constantly doing a risk analysis鈥攏o matter how much she didn鈥檛 want to interact with humans, she was too tempted by the reward to stay away.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 when they start doing un-beary things,鈥� Larson says. In other words: they start getting into trouble.

Nearly every bear at the (GWDC) in West Yellowstone, Montana, has a similar backstory. The center is a nonprofit educational facility that houses grizzly bears unable to survive in the wild for one reason or another. It is also home to three small packs of captive-born wolves, a handful of injured raptors, and five American river otters.

When a wildlife official from anywhere in the American West, Alaska, or Canada has a nuisance grizzly bear and wants to avoid euthanizing it, the GWDC is often near the top of their call list. (Unfortunately, due to the center鈥檚 limited capacity, the answer is frequently that it can鈥檛 take another bear. In that case, says Randy Gravatt, the GWDC鈥檚 container testing coordinator, bears typically have to be euthanized.)

Coram, a male grizzly whose weight fluctuates between 550 and 680 pounds depending on the season, wandered through Kalispell, Montana, checking porches for dog kibble. Montana Fish, Wildlife, and聽Parks officials trapped him three times before he ended up at the GWDC. Spirit, a female grizzly, couldn鈥檛 stay away from a golf course in Whitefish; she was relocated six times鈥攐nce as far as 100 miles away, but she kept finding her way back to that easy source of food鈥攂efore one of her cubs was hit by a car and she was taken to the West Yellowstone facility.

Coram, Spirit, and the six other bears that live at the GWDC aren鈥檛 just wasting away in captivity, though. They have an important job to do: they test containers to determine whether they鈥檙e bear-resistant.

Every spring, Gravatt begins filling coolers, bike panniers, backpacking canisters, and trash dumpsters sent in by big-name manufacturers like Yeti, Cabela鈥檚, Pelican, and Igloo with veggies, dry dog food, fish, honey, and鈥攖he bears鈥� favorites鈥攑eanut butter. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 really like mushrooms or onions,鈥� Gravatt says, adding that the bears will eat just about anything else in their quest to pack in around 15,000 calories per day during the summer (more when they鈥檙e getting ready to hibernate).

Once the containers are full of goodies, Gravatt gets them in front of the bears, which聽poke, prod, claw, bite, smash, and sometimes use what he calls 鈥渢he CPR method,鈥� wherein bears place their front paws atop a container and pump, almost as if they鈥檙e trying to revive the unfortunate object. If the container remains intact to a certain standard鈥攇aps, tears, and holes can鈥檛 be larger than an inch for trash containers; for food containers, it鈥檚 a mere quarter-inch鈥攊t gets the bears鈥� literal seal of approval: a sticker depicting a grizzly鈥檚 head and shoulders and the product鈥檚 certification number. The GWDC is the only testing facility in the world where products can earn a certificate from the (IGBC).

The committee was formed in 1983, a decade after the Endangered Species Act made it clear that the grizzly bear, with its capital-e Endangered status, needed coordinated management. About 450 products鈥攔anging from lightweight plastic bear canisters for backpacking to the heavy-duty coolers you might bring on a multiday river trip to industrial-grade metal dumpsters鈥攈ave earned a place on the IGBC鈥檚 , says Scott Jackson, leader of the U.S. Forest Service鈥檚 National Carnivore Program and adviser to the IGBC.

The IGBC Executive Committee includes 13 representatives from major federal land agencies, including the National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, U.S. Forest Service, and the governments of the four U.S. states where grizzlies are found (Washington, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming), plus two Canadian partners. The committee meets twice a year to discuss local issues, educational programs, and other initiatives.

During the 1980s, urban sprawl and increased outdoor recreation meant that humans and bears were interacting more and more. The IGBC faced a growing challenge, Jackson explains, with grizzlies and garbage cans at local residences, campgrounds, and backpacking sites. So the IGBC came up with recommendations for keeping food and garbage away from them.

Later in the decade, the IGBC began issuing instructions on building homemade bear-resistant containers鈥攎ostly modified metal . They聽tested these products with mechanisms meant to simulate bears鈥� teeth and claws, attempting to exert similar force by dropping a weighted penetrometer mechanism鈥攚hat Gravatt describes as a 鈥減ointy metal object鈥濃�攐nto them to mimic bites.

At the same time, the grizzly started to rebound鈥攊n the 1970s, according to the , there were fewer than 140 grizzly bears in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem (GYE); today, there are more than 700. The U.S. Geological Survey 73 grizzly bear deaths in the GYE in 2018, and at least 50 of those were known to be human caused, often related to habituation. Eventually, as outdoor recreation gained popularity and the market expanded, manufacturers started getting serious about mass-producing their own bear-resistant containers. But they needed an improved way to test them beyond the Wile E. Coyote鈥搒tyle experiments. What better way than to use actual bears, preferably ones that knew their way around a cooler?

That鈥檚 where Gravatt came in. Fifteen years ago, the IGBC asked if he鈥檇 help them formalize the program by using the bears that got there in the first place by getting into garbage. At the time, he was working as the GWDC鈥檚 facilities manager; he鈥檇 been helping fill in with animal-keeping duties because the center was short-staffed.

These days, the bears test a few dozen products every season. Manufacturers pay a fee, which helps cover Gravatt鈥檚 time, the bears鈥� myriad living expenses, and conservation and education efforts at the GWDC. Then they ship their containers to West Yellowstone, where Gravatt fills them with treats and lets the bears get to work. (Not all of the bears participate; 1,000-pound Sam is too big for all but special assignments, and Nakina, an Alaskan grizzly, simply doesn鈥檛 have any interest.)

The goal is to have the container last 60 minutes鈥攂y this time, a typical bear in the wild will have given up. Occasionally, Gravatt has to run the test a couple times before a GWDC bear remains interested even that long. The pass rate varies, Gravatt says, and hovered around 50 percent last year. Occasionally, a product fails right away: a聽bear figures out the mechanism or manages to gouge a big hole.

After every test, Gravatt examines the container and fills out a report. He sends the analysis back to the manufacturers, which聽can also opt for a videotape of the bears鈥� rigorous testing process. If the product passes, Gravatt notifies the IGBC, which issues a certification number for manufacturers to display on their products.

The seal matters. Food storage regulations on many public lands in grizzly country require IGBC-approved containers. It鈥檚 not just for the bears鈥� sake, Gravatt says. 鈥淲hen bears become unafraid of humans, there鈥檚 potential harm to us, too.鈥�

Rules aside, wildlife biologist Larson says, front- and backcountry users have a responsibility to avoid conflict by storing food appropriately. 鈥淔or us, an encounter can be life-changing,鈥� he says. 鈥淔or a bear, it can be a death sentence.鈥�

In this way, the very bears that once broke into campsites and backyards鈥攁nd, in some cases, came very close to being euthanized鈥攃ontribute directly to reducing food conditioning in their wild counterparts. Coram and Spirit are at the GWDC for the rest of their natural lives, Gravatt says, but thanks to their testing, other bears may avoid the same fate.

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Tickets to the 2017 (WCF) in Bishop, California, sold out in a minute. Literally鈥攐ne minute. Soon聽the waitlist to register for the weekend event, open to women-identified and non-binary people, had over 800 names. That鈥檚 how Shelma Jun knew she needed to add another event.

The following year, Jun, who founded the women鈥檚 climbing platform 聽(which runs the event) in 2014, organized a second weekend in Chattanooga, Tennessee. That one sold out, too.

The 2019 Flash Foxy Summerfest, to be held at the New River Gorge and in nearby Fayetteville, West Virginia, won鈥檛 replace the now classic WCF, which will still take place in March in Bishop and Chattanooga; Jun describes it as a complementary event.聽Its panels and sessions will be led by women, but there鈥檚 one difference: its 300 to 350 spots will be聽open to people of all genders, which Jun hopes will expand the conversation around women in climbing to be more inclusive.

鈥淲e鈥檙e using the term all genders聽to take away that binary focus,鈥� Jun explains. 鈥淢ale, female, non-binary folks鈥攅verybody is welcome, across the entire spectrum of what gender can mean.鈥澛�

This is the first event Jun has organized where cisgender men (that is, men whose gender identity matches the gender they were assigned at birth) will be welcome alongside women, but Jun and the Flash Foxy team have been working to reflect intersectional feminism since the beginning.

鈥淲CF welcomes all women (cis and trans) and enbies [short for non-binary] to join us at the Women鈥檚 Climbing Festival,鈥� the WCF registration reads. 鈥淥ur goal is to create and maintain a safe and diverse space where consent and respect are our first priorities.鈥� Jun says that while the event has always been open to all people who identify as female, she鈥檚 updated that language on the registration page in the past year to be more inclusive. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 an expectation of our events.鈥�

That鈥檚 not the only step WCF events have taken in the past few years to include more people in the climbing community. The organization works closely with land managers and local climbing groups in Bishop and Chattanooga to incorporate good stewardship practices. And last year at Bishop, Jun invited a local Paiute woman to kick off the event by providing some history of the area. (This practice, known as a land acknowledgement, recognizes the indigenous people who have looked after an area for generations.)

Summerfest, Jun says, is another push in a larger effort to 鈥渟hift the climbing culture to be a better reflection of all of us.鈥� Inviting male allies to be part of that conversation, she hopes, will broaden the movement toward intersectionality.

鈥淲e鈥檒l be celebrating women in climbing,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut we鈥檒l go a little deeper, too, and think about the challenges faced by women of color, queer women, adaptive women. We shouldn鈥檛 be talking about these things in silos.鈥�

Registration for will open on March 1 at 12 P.M. EST.

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On November 28, 2001, two experienced backcountry skiers left Eldora Mountain Resort, a small ski area outside Nederland, Colorado. Joe Despres, 29, and Peter Vaughn, 47, skinned up the Jenny Creek Trail to Yankee Doodle Lake, on the east side of Rollins Pass, to take advantage of the new snow after a dismal early season. This was their third outing in as many days; they knew the conditions and carried avalanche rescue equipment鈥攂eacons, probes, and shovels.

Despres and Vaughn dug a snow pit to assess conditions and decided to proceed with caution. They would ski one at a time, with one always keeping eyes on the other from a safe vantage point. Around 1 p.m., Vaughn watched as Despres made his third or fourth turn. Then the slope released beneath them.

The 400-foot-wide avalanche roared across the summer road and onto Yankee Doodle Lake. It plunged through the ice, creating a wave that reached 20 feet back up the bank.

Vaughn was聽caught in the slide. He came to a stop in the lake, nearly 200 feet from the shore, with his skis and backpack missing. His partner was gone. Vaughn managed to get himself ashore, but his nightmare was far from over. He still had to hike five miles back to the ski area with only the frozen clothes on his back.

By 4 p.m., Vaughn had made it back to Eldora to report Despres聽as missing. Rescuers headed to the site of the avalanche. Around midnight, aided by a full moon, searchers got a signal from Despres鈥� beacon, which had continued to transmit from beneath three feet of icy water.

The story of Vaughn鈥檚 ordeal and聽Despres鈥檚 tragic death聽is one of 208 narratives in the fifth installment of , a collaborative effort of the (A3) and the (CAIC). Each case study includes some of the same information: conditions leading to the accident, an account of the incident, investigators鈥� findings, comments and analysis. But the collection is more than the sum of its parts鈥攖he stories have a way of lingering in the mind, becoming their own sort of risk-deterrent in the process.

When someone dies in the backcountry鈥攚hether in a preventable climbing accident, as a result of unpredictable rockfall, or in an avalanche鈥攖he outdoor community scrambles to find meaning in the death. We investigate, look for clues, talk to friends and witnesses. We try to understand the why and the how. The Snowy Torrents聽series is one attempt to answer those questions.

The most recent volume, written by Knox Williams (CAIC cofounder and former director) and CAIC forecaster Spencer Logan, was published in May 2017 after a hiatus of more than two decades. I copyedited Volume 5, which meant reading each report a dozen times. As the book came together, I spent months parsing through the minutiae of the worst days of people鈥檚 lives. The details have stuck with me鈥攚hich is the whole idea.聽

鈥淲e have a long history of people looking at accidents in the mountains to learn from them,鈥� says CAIC Director Ethan Greene. 鈥淲ith more people going into the backcountry and the rise of human avalanche involvement, having these stories out there is important.鈥�

A3 Executive Director Jaime Musnicki agrees.聽鈥淲hen there鈥檚 a story to follow, it gives us a way to ground what鈥檚 otherwise theoretical.鈥�

The avalanche accidents covered in this installment range from ice climbing on Mount Washington in New Hampshire to snowmobiling in Alaska鈥檚 Turnagain Pass, from near misses to accidents with more than a dozen people caught and six killed.

Some of the victims were professional ski patrollers; some were out with their families. All are referred to by name. 鈥淲hen we use people鈥檚 real names, ages, something about their background, it helps readers relate and say, 鈥楾hat could have been me,鈥欌�� explains Williams.

鈥淭he power of this book,鈥� says Logan, who maintains the CAIC鈥檚 avalanche fatality , 鈥渋s having 200-odd accidents in the same format, so a casual recreator can pick out common patterns.鈥�

The authors identify common errors: lack of rescue gear or education, traveling alone or with multiple skiers on a slope, riding above terrain traps or in dangerous conditions. Sometimes鈥攁s with Vaughn and Despres, for whom there鈥檚 now an at Eldora鈥攖here was no error in judgment. 鈥淲e find no criticism of these two. They were prepared in every way for the risk they were taking,鈥� the authors explain. 鈥淲e have no problem with high risk tolerance, so long as the risk-takers understand the stakes.鈥�

Still, there鈥檚 something to be learned. I ski the east side of Rollins Pass a few times each winter. It鈥檚 impossible, now, not to look at Yankee Doodle Lake and think of Despres and Vaughn, to imagine what those moments were like. It doesn鈥檛 stop me from skiing there, but it does give me pause to think about the risks and whether I can鈥攁nd want to鈥攎anage them.

There are the basic components of risk management in the winter backcountry: carry a beacon, a probe, and a shovel; take an avalanche course; check the forecast. But The Snowy Torrents聽volumes add聽another layer. The tragedies revisited in Volume 5, both real and narrowly avoided, make it possible to imagine vividly the consequences and aftermath of an avalanche. The trick to staying safe, it seems to me, is to let those experiences live in the back of my mind, where they can help remind me that no set of turns is worth my life.

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