The worst way to go

Last night it actually snowed in Seattle. That's a big deal here because Seattle doesn't really do winter, it just does this sort of eternal, gray, bitter spring. Of course the snow reminded me of Colorado, state of the perfect seasons. But it also made me think about avalanches, not because I'm fearing one walking down the street, but because they've been on my mind a lot lately. So far, eight people have died this season from avalanches in Washington and it's only mid-January. Apparently, it's the worst avalanche season in the last three decades.
That's scary on many levels but especially because it's one of those things that you can do very little about. Sure, you can take avalanche training or get a beacon or one of those sticks to poke people after they've been engulfed by snow, but how successful is that really? Many of the deaths this season in Washington have been experienced people who know what they're doing.
Then there's me and I've just started snowshoeing in the last year. This is really only my second season out. And since I haven't skiied since I was 14 (but that will change this winter, oh, yes), this is my only exposure to the great outdoors in the winter. The avalanches are a turnoff, I'll tell you. Basically, half of the trails in the Snowshoe Routes - Washington book that I use have warnings about dangers along the way and advise you not to go out if the avalanche danger is high - which it now always is here in Washington. It's like a few years ago when the national terrorism alert was always red. Or orange, or whatever the worst color was.
Case-in-point, last Sunday. Steve, my friends and I (most of them of the "hardcore" type) snowshoed up Lower Gold Creek Basin up on Snoqualmie Pass because that's what the REI ranger said might be safe. Apparently, that's also what the REI ranger told everyone in Seattle who asked so the trail was like waiting in line for a ride at Disneyland and not very exciting to begin with. Very flat. After only two miles, we reached a somewhat daunting slope that we had to cross to continue on. We debated. We could see that already avalanches had tumbled down recently, but we could also see the trail just right over there through the woods. A few yards, and the trees would be blocking us.
I was tempted, I have to say. But then I thought about all those deaths, including the most recent one when a 13-year-old girl got killed off the Mountain Loop Highway, and I thought about what that would feel like to get hit with a landslide of powder. I always thought that drowning would be the worst way to die, but now I'm not so sure. See - this avalanche season has made me morbid.
We turned around of course. But as we sat and ate our lunch in a rare patch of sun, the train of hikers continued up the mountain and I noticed that not all of them turned around. I pointed this out and my friend Anne jumped on me, as she likes to do - figuratively not literally.
"Would you walk across if there was an 85 percent chance there would be a slide? What about a 95 percent chance? Or a 99.9 percent chance?"
At her last figure, I grudgingly nodded. I would probably hike across if there was only the slightest chance I would be hit.
"See? Everyone has their own comfort level" she said.
I saw her point, but I also wondered this: "How can you ever know for sure how big the risk is that you're taking?"