Cole Murphy Mammoth Avalanche Death Sparks Grief and Tribute Across Ski Community

Like so many others, he began that morning before the elevators turned, before tourist laughter reverberated from the pines, and before the majority of people had even touched their coffee. Already on the mountain was Cole Murphy. No matter how many times you’d done it, avalanche mitigation was never a routine aspect of the work.

The slope collapsed at 7:30 a.m., just as Lincoln Mountain was beginning to lighten. After days of nonstop snowfall—more than five feet in less than a week—a thick, wind-packed slab burst loose. They caught Cole and another patrolman. They were both sent urgently to Mammoth Hospital. Cole was unsuccessful.

The snow had started to settle by that evening. However, the shock hadn’t.

Cole was more than just a name in the headlines for many people in Mammoth. He was the person who could recall the name of your dog. The person who maintained composure when things went wrong. Even on days with the worst visibility, he arrived early and delivered dry jokes amid storms. He was a member of the patrol team’s family rather than a coworker.

His life had been so clearly rooted in service that his passing felt intimate. Cole wasn’t on patrol for the money or the prestige, according to his relatives. They described it as “a calling,” which is a powerful term when applied sincerely. On the mountain, where there was snow, quiet, and purpose, he felt most alive.

I kept thinking about the term “felt most alive.” It’s not something that most people can say about their work, which may be why his narrative has had such a profound effect.

Hayley was Cole’s partner and his pillar of support. Their calm evenings and common paths served as the foundation for their unassuming yet incredibly profound love. She was referred to by his family as his “steady place,” a statement that has greater significance when everything else is in motion. Cole was full of humor and adventure, two qualities his friends recall as shaping their relationship.

The days that followed were difficult, but they were also full of thank-you notes, many of them from complete strangers. On patrol sites, skiers from all over the nation acknowledged how frequently they fail to consider the risks involved on their behalf. Some talked about near-misses, when police had been present but invisible. Some only remarked, “Thank you, Cole.”

Another patroller was lost in Mammoth recently under almost the same circumstances. These tragedies represent the silent cost of a profession that is frequently idealized but hardly comprehended; they are not strange accidents. Controlling an avalanche is not the same as sweeping a sidewalk. It involves explosions, unpredictability, and an hourly shifting landscape. It requires a level of mental concentration that is difficult to maintain and much more difficult to describe.

In that setting, Cole’s attitude and technical proficiency both contributed to his exceptional effectiveness. He gave more than he took, led with kindness, and moved with intention, according to his colleagues. That kind of personality not only makes a group function better, but it also shapes its culture.

Cole continued to go outside even after the resort closed for safety during the storm. Not because he was forced to. Because that was important to him. He thought that by being on that slope, he would make the mountain a safer place. And he was spot on.

Cole also put his life in the hands of nature by putting his faith in that field of employment. He was never made aware of such danger. He took it, voluntarily and completely. And in doing so, he demonstrated a very dependable sort of courage—one that shows up every day, without complaint, and doesn’t look for recognition.

The message from his family embodied such mentality. They expressed thankfulness as well as grief. They gave his ski patrol family their gratitude. They said thanks to Hayley. They expressed gratitude to the mountain that molded him. Despite being written in the midst of sadness, their remarks exuded a wonderful feeling of peace—an awareness that Cole had lived intentionally and left a legacy that will last long after one tragic morning.

Subtle tributes are now seen throughout Mammoth. A patrol sled with a patched jacket on top. Before morning briefings, there is a moment of silence. His name was spoken reverently by a new generation of patrollers. Cole’s presence is particularly potent in those acts, which are performed quietly.

A person who discovers their mission and totally dedicates themselves to it has a certain beauty. Cole gave it his all, his life, his energy.

There won’t need to be a plaque to honor him when the snow comes back next season and the sky clears above Lincoln Ridge. People who knew him will never forget him. And because of what he provided, others who didn’t will ski a bit safer.

That’s how his legacy lives on—layered beneath the snow, unwavering as always, silently keeping the mountain together.