Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

ascent—definitely a zigzag through the patch of forest on the north side of the cirque—they began the climb, with Mark breaking trail. The space between them grew, each person intent on the work, and slowly they snaked a path through the trees. The snow under the canopy was chunky and frozen in sections, and the north sides of the trees were blasted with a layer of wind-blown snow. After an hour and a half of climbing, they broke out of the trees near a bald, rocky outcrop that tapered into a broad ridge. Cassidy had skied the ridge several times in the three years she had lived in the Northwest. Today it was untracked, with eight glorious inches of new snow just begging to be carved. But with the forecast of “moderate” and the recent storm, she was pretty convinced that the open slope would be too risky. Which was fine—she could ski anything, even the chossy snow in the trees. But to make sure the ridge was safe, they would dig a snow pit, of course, and evaluate the layers for instability before making the final call.

“Looks like that last storm came in with quite a bit of wind,” Cassidy said to the others when they had all reached the rocky knoll. Pete was gulping water from an insulated bottle, his hot breath making tiny clouds in the mountain air.

“Yeah, I saw the trees,” Mark said.

“And the drifts,” Tara added, unzipping her coat to vent some heat after their climb.

The sun’s rays had eked over the ridge to warm the slopes and ridges, making them sparkle like a sea of white diamonds. Cassidy took a few pictures of the view down the valley, then one of the group, and tucked her phone back into her pack. Mark’s shutter snapped regularly.

Cassidy dug out her snow shovel and Pete and the others did the same; then the four of them traversed out to the top of the broad ridge and excavated a large snow pit. Cassidy’s shovel, the biggest backcountry one available—experience had taught her that every inch of blade counted—cut down into the layers. When evaluating skiing conditions, finding the weak layers mattered because that’s where the snowpack could fail. Add the pressure of a skier on a slope with a hidden fragile layer—caused by a dry spell, or a large temperature gradient—and it would collapse, sending the top layers loose in a steamrolling wall of snow.

Breathing hard, they dug down several meters and carved out each side from the slope, creating a three-sided block. Cassidy dusted the front to make the layers more clear and squatted to get a close look at the deposits. It always amazed her how different each snowfall looked up close. Some were pure white, with uniform texture—the best snow for skiing—old layers could be yellowed, and solid, and the wet layers were bluish and granular, like the ice in a snow cone.

The strata in their pit held few surprises. A few very thin weaker layers, probably from that winter’s stop-and-start beginning, and a few other interesting finds that might either be dangerous or completely stable.

“The top’s definitely wind-deposited,” Pete said.

“And that’s hoarfrost,” Tara added, pointing at a layer about a half-meter deep.

Cassidy took off a glove and scraped at the thin layer with her finger. Tiny needle-like crystals broke apart like glass and sifted down the wall. A tickle of apprehension fluttered in her gut.

“Let’s try the ski test,” Pete said.

Tara, the closest to their gear stash, retrieved her skis, put them on, and glided over to the slope above where they had carved out the block. Slowly, she side-slipped down so that her body weight pressed on the layers. Cassidy watched for any movement, or sounds from the snowpack beneath Tara’s skis.

“Jump,” Cassidy said.

Tara gave a little hop, but the layers held.

“She’s solid,” Mark said. “Let’s burn some turns!”

Cassidy gave the layers one last look, then swiveled to evaluate the descent. Despite the layer of hoar frost, the snowpack seemed solid, at least on this side of the ridge. She would like to dig a few more pits to be sure, but the others were already putting on their skis.

Cassidy crawled out of the pit and hurried to get packed up.

“So we stay to the north side of the ridge. Agreed?” Pete said, slinging his pack straps over his shoulders.

“Aye,” Mark agreed. “It seems a shame not to put our mark on that south face, though.”

“But the wind deposits will be much thicker there,” Tara said.

“I know,” Mark said with an impatient sigh. “I’m just sayin’.”

The four skied over to the top of the run. Mark asked to go first, so he could stop partway down to take photos. The rest of them would follow one at a time in the agreed-upon order: Tara, Cassidy, Pete.

Cassidy jiggled her knees in excitement.

Mark zipped his camera inside his jacket and pushed off. He connected a series of short turns, sending puffs of powder into the air. After he stopped in a patch of sun and hooted his delight, Tara slid onto the slope, her slender form moving like a snake through water. Mark trained his camera on her as she linked turns past him and continued down the slope. As per their plan, she stopped halfway down at the edge of the trees. The sun covered the top third of the descent now, and Cassidy savored its warmth on her cheeks.

“See you at the bottom,” she said to Pete.

“Leave me a line, will ya?” he replied with a grin.

“You want to go next?” Cassidy said. “I don’t mind,” she added.

“Naw,” Pete said.

He gave her a quick kiss, and then she pointed her tips downhill. The slope steepened, and she carved a long, deep turn, her skis slicing through the powder. The snowpack was dense at the top, so she found it easier to pick a straighter line to keep up her speed. She gave Mark a hoot as she passed him, his face hidden behind