February 18, 2026 Truckee, CA: It’s going to be hard to weave a business lesson out of this post because in light of its subject matter business seems pretty trivial.

Shit, when isn’t it?

By now you may have heard the worst avalanche disaster in California’s history occurred in my town yesterday. It’s national news. But it started as local news—really local.

Good friends cautiously reached out in the last 24 hours hoping I wasn’t a subject of the story. Thank you Seattle, and San Diego, and Salt Lake City, and Raleigh.

Our friend works for the village of Truckee. She overheard calls from dispatch about an avalanche on Castle Peak and told my wife about it, who told me.

The aptly named granite crown erupts from Donner Summit, a craggy beacon of year-round recreation. The Pacific Crest Trail is carved into its base and deep-brown bike trails spiral through the subservient forest. In winter its east bowl and south face call in skiers and snowmobilers from across Northern California. We don’t go there often because the undulating exit is brutal on splitboarders. A snowmobiler died there in January.

The storm was hammering well before lunch. Highway 80 teetered between open and shut. The resorts limited ops. Teslas were piling up and long-haul truckers were blocking the side streets. I had a hard time understanding why anyone would be touring in such conditions.

I immediately texted my chief backcountry touring partner, who had been told about it by her boyfriend, a ski patroller and bomb tosser at Sugar Bowl. He said fellow patrollers were asked to assist but conditions wouldn’t allow it. We texted and speculated, presumed, and got anxious. Like me, she’s a recently retired backpacking guide and incident debriefs to us are like Bible studies to trad moms.

Facts evolved by the hour, the story became a body without a skeleton. There was enough to start worrying, but it lacked real structure. Who? Why were they out there? Where on Castle Peak?

These instances resonate because I still work in emergency communications, helping coordinate wilderness evacuations in national parks. Most cases are simple sprains and strains or a frightened guest eager for the security offered by five bars of coverage. As the facts hardened by afternoon it became clear this was going to turn bad.

We learned it was a local guiding company, Blackbird Mountain Guides, with a group of 16 leaving Frog Lake Huts, a commune of modernized wilderness shelters that anchor a classic stone and wood lodge on the root-entwined edge of its namesake lake—the very place my touring partner, her boyfriend, and I led five friends over the New Year’s Eve holiday—during a very similar Sierra storm.

Suddenly it felt as real as a cold plunge. Or snow down your back.

As of this writing the precise location and cause of the slide remain only speculative. We know six of the 15 (early reports of the group size were incorrect, as one guest bailed shortly before the trip) were rescued last night. But if the Sierra Avalanche Association’s observation holds up, our route out is now marked with eight avalanche probes, each indicating a frozen body that will need to be disinterred when it’s safe to return.

Nevada County Sheriff’s Office held a press conference this morning that I tried to half-watch while on a call updating my client’s enterprise AI install. What the presser didn’t reveal were names but like I said Truckee is a small town. One of the rescuers had to discover their spouse. And my wife’s school, a ski academy, is about to have a really, really hard time.

Human tragedy is common to ski towns. Familiarity shouldn’t breed indifference, though. “These deaths are preventable,” as Facebook warriors from Dallas, Albany, and I assume Iowa have been quick to remind our community:

“Someone’s should be sued!” (Really, America?)

“Did they have avalanche bags.” (Please stop talking.)

“Very unfortunate. Guides should of used more common sense.” (Super helpful.)

Our group had a meeting the night before we left to plan our exit over a well-stocked half-sheet of charcuterie, the last of our wine and a few whiffs of rye. We talked time, expected weather, and opened it up to anxieties, because big snowstorms are beautiful and frightening.

Our one advantage was that it was early in the season, only our second low pressure system of the winter. We had a shallow, wet snowpack that had bonded, allowing better support for the incoming storm slab. Still, new snow changes things, your inputs are different.

In terms of planning for hazardous wilderness travel, we did everything right. We took short breaks. Moved quickly from beneath cornices. Stayed in moderate slope angles. I’m certain the Blackbird guides did the same with their guests, even the three who at this moment remain buried alongside them in the snow on Donner Summit.

I sincerely hope the loved ones of those involved lean on whatever entity they can to find calm amidst this maelstrom. The survivors will feel this forever. Our winter has been dry and frustrating up until Monday. But this isn’t the reminder of its fury for which we so long hoped.

I suppose if there’s a silly business lesson to be extracted, it’s that sometimes you can do everything right and still fail. No one has the right to judge you for it.

Dig out, strap in, and embrace gravity. It’s all we have.