White Death

Will we ever escape from this train?

That’s what 8-year-old Raymond Starrett must have been wondering on the night of February 28, 1910. For six days, Raymond, his mother, Ida, and dozens of others had been trapped on a train in the middle of Washington’s Cascade Mountains.

They’d been more than halfway through a 300-mile journey across the state of Washington when their train, the Seattle Express, was hit by a violent blizzard. Snow tumbled from the sky and blocked the tracks. Howling winds shook the train. 

“We’ll be moving shortly!” the train conductor had promised. 

But the blizzard raged on . . . and on and on. Hours turned to days. 

As Raymond and the other passengers went to bed for their sixth frosty night, they were fighting panic. Food was running low. There was nothing to drink but melted snow. The car stank of clogged toilets and sweaty bodies. 

When would this nightmare end? 

In fact, the real nightmare was about to begin.  

Just a few hours later, as Raymond and others slept, massive hunks of snow broke loose from the steep mountainside that loomed above the train. In the blink of an eye, the blanket of snow turned into a killer wave—a monstrous avalanche filled with snow, ice, rocks, and broken trees. It sped down the mountainside, destroying everything in its path. 

And now this killer wave was heading straight for the train. 

Will we ever escape from this train?

That’s what 8-year-old Raymond Starrett must have been wondering. It was the night of February 28, 1910. For six days, Raymond, his mother, Ida, and many others had been trapped on a train. They were in the middle of Washington’s Cascade Mountains.

Their trip across the state of Washington was almost done when their train, the Seattle Express, was hit by a strong blizzard. Snow fell from the sky and blocked the tracks. Roaring winds shook the train.

“We’ll be moving shortly!” the train driver had promised.

But the blizzard went on . . . and on and on. Hours turned to days. 

As Raymond and the other passengers went to bed, they were fighting panic. Food was running low. There was nothing to drink but melted snow. The car stank of clogged toilets and sweaty bodies.

When would this nightmare end?

In fact, the real nightmare was about to begin. 

Just a few hours later, huge pieces of snow broke loose from the steep mountainside. Suddenly, the blanket of snow turned into a killer wave. It was a giant avalanche filled with snow, ice, rocks, and broken trees. It sped down the mountainside, destroying everything in its path.

And now this killer wave was heading straight for the train.

The week before, when the Seattle Express began its journey in the city of Spokane, Washington, few imagined that such a disaster could happen. 

Not in 1910! Not in the United States, the most modern country on the planet!  

Raymond was born at a time when new inventions and ideas were transforming American life. Booming cities glowed with new electric lights. New motorcars zipped past horses and buggies. Steel buildings called skyscrapers soared toward the clouds.  

And rising above it all was the sound—Whooo, whooo!—of train whistles. Trains allowed Americans to journey almost anywhere in the country they wanted to go.  

What a change from 80 years earlier, when the only way to travel across land was on foot or by horse. Cross-country journeys could take six months and were filled with terrifying risks. Rattlesnake bites. Wagon crashes. Drownings. Grizzly bear attacks. Poisonous berries. Diseases caused by dirty water or rotten meat. 

Even traveling just a few miles could take hours—which is why most Americans stuck close to home. 

Until they could travel by train. 

The Seattle Express began its journey the week before in the city of Spokane, Washington. Few imagined that such a disaster could happen.

Not in 1910! Not in the United States, the most modern country on the planet!

At the time, new inventions and ideas were changing American life. Booming cities glowed with new electric lights. New cars zipped past horses and wagons. Buildings called skyscrapers rose toward the clouds.

And rising above it all was the sound—Whooo, whooo!—of train whistles. Trains allowed Americans to travel almost anywhere in the country.

What a change from 80 years earlier. Back then, the only way to travel across land was on foot or by horse. Cross-country journeys could take six months. The trips were filled with frightening dangers. Rattlesnake bites. Wagon crashes. Drownings. Grizzly bear attacks. Poisonous berries. Diseases caused by dirty water or rotten meat.

Even traveling just a few miles could take hours. And that’s why most Americans stayed close to home.

Until they could travel by train.

The first trains—nicknamed “iron horses”—appeared in the U.S. in the 1830s. By 1910, more than 240,000 miles of tracks crisscrossed America. Like veins rushing blood through your body, railroads sped people and products across the country. 

A person could now zoom from New York City to San Francisco in less than a week. A farmer in California could pick an orange on Monday and a kid in Texas could be peeling that orange on Saturday.

Railroads made life in America more convenient. They enabled more people to discover faraway places and stay in touch with friends and family from other states. 

But train travel wasn’t always safe. In fact, horrible accidents happened almost every day. Wooden bridges broke apart. Trains collided with motorcars and horses and even other trains. Steam engines exploded. Brakes failed. Train cars broke loose and plunged off cliffs. 

And, of course, there were avalanches. 

The first trains appeared in the U.S. in the 1830s. They were called “iron horses.” By 1910, there were more than 240,000 miles of tracks across America. Like veins rushing blood through your body, railroads sped people and products across the country.

A person could now zoom from New York City to San Francisco in less than a week. A farmer in California could pick an orange on a Monday. On Saturday, a kid in Texas could be peeling that orange. Railroads made life in America easier. More people could now discover faraway places. They could stay in touch with friends and family from other states.

But train travel wasn’t always safe. In fact, horrible accidents happened almost every day. Wooden bridges broke apart. Trains collided with cars and horses and even other trains. Steam engines exploded. Brakes failed. Train cars sped off cliffs. 

And, of course, there were avalanches.

It was already snowing when Raymond and his mother boarded the train in Spokane, a fast-growing city on the eastern edge of Washington, on February 22. But the Seattle Express left on time, at 7:30 p.m., with two long shrieks of its whistle and a puff of steam. 

The journey from Spokane to Seattle was supposed to take about 18 hours, mostly overnight while passengers slept. Raymond and his mother were in a first-class “sleeper” car, one of the most luxurious ways to travel. At bedtime, Raymond’s seat transformed into a bed. Lulled by the gentle movement of the train, he drifted to sleep. 

When he opened his eyes in the morning, the train wasn’t moving. The roar of the engine had gone silent. And out the window, all Raymond could see was a thick swirl of snow. 

The Seattle Express was stranded in the Cascade Mountains, in a small town called Cascade. A few miles up ahead, the tracks were blocked by snow. Passengers grumbled about the delay, but the crew assured them that the train would be moving soon. 

There was no reason to doubt them. Between 1900 and 1910, more than 4,000 trains had chugged back and forth on this mountain route. 

The Great Northern Railway, which owned the train line, worked hard to keep the trains running during winter. It had five enormous snowplows that used whirling metal blades to push snow off the tracks. Plus, teams of “shovelers” helped keep the tracks clear.

But this was the Cascade Mountains. More snow fell in the northern Cascades than anywhere on the planet. Blizzards could dump 10 feet of snow in a single day. Avalanches were—and still are—common. 

All that snow had caused some near disasters before. In 1907, a passenger train was nearly crushed by a large avalanche, or white death, as it was called. The train had stopped just in time. But it was stranded for 10 days. 

Finally, the desperate passengers—frozen, starving, and terrified—hiked 5 miles in the snow to the nearest town. It was a miracle that everyone survived. 

It was already snowing when Raymond and his mother boarded the train in Spokane on February 22. But the Seattle Express left on time, at 7:30 p.m.

The journey from Spokane to Seattle was supposed to take about 18 hours, mostly overnight. Raymond and his mother were in a “sleeper” car. It was one of the most luxurious ways to travel. At bedtime, Raymond’s seat turned into a bed. The gentle movement of the train helped him fall asleep.

When he opened his eyes in the morning, the train wasn’t moving. The roar of the engine had gone silent. And out the window, all Raymond could see was thick snow. 

The Seattle Express was stuck in the Cascade Mountains, in a small town called Cascade. A few miles up ahead, the tracks were blocked by snow. Passengers grumbled about the delay. But the crew assured them that the train would be moving soon.

There was no reason to doubt them. Between 1900 and 1910, more than 4,000 trains had traveled this mountain route. 

The Great Northern Railway owned the train line. It worked hard to keep the trains running during winter. It had five huge snowplows to push snow off the tracks. 

Plus, teams of “shovelers” helped keep the tracks clear.

But this was the Cascade Mountains. More snow fell here than anywhere on the planet. Blizzards could dump 10 feet of snow in a single day. Avalanches were—and still are—common.

That first morning, passengers on the Seattle Express ate breakfast at a cookhouse a short walk from the train. Two friendly men, John and Harry, welcomed their unexpected guests. Raymond surely enjoyed feasting on eggs, cereal, fruit, and pancakes. 

But when the passengers reboarded the train, they learned that the blizzard had grown more ferocious. The snowplows couldn’t keep up. A train carrying mail from Spokane to Seattle was also stuck right behind the Seattle Express.

Two more days passed. When food at the cookhouse ran low, both trains were moved just a few miles, to a town called Wellington. Wellington was even smaller than Cascade. The only place to park the trains was at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a canyon 150 feet deep. 

Fortunately, there was a rustic hotel called Bailets that had a well-stocked kitchen. The trains were still stranded, but at least nobody would starve. 

Then, troubling reports started swirling. Some of the snowplows had broken down. Shovelers, who were paid only 15 cents an hour, were quitting. 

The most shocking news came the morning of February 25. A giant avalanche had plowed through the town of Cascade. The cookhouse where the passengers had eaten just two days earlier had been crushed, and John and Harry had been killed.  

Now passengers understood the frightening truth. They were not just stranded in the middle of nowhere. Their lives were in danger. 

The same kind of deadly avalanche that had killed John and Harry could hit Wellington too. All anyone had to do was look out the train windows at the steep mountainside looming above them. The snow was already so deep that even the tops of the trees had disappeared. 

Any minute, it seemed, that snow could break loose—and crash into their train. 

That first morning, passengers ate breakfast at a restaurant near the train. Two friendly men, John and Harry, welcomed the guests. Raymond surely enjoyed eating eggs, cereal, fruit, and pancakes.

But soon, the passengers learned that the blizzard had grown more ferocious. The snowplows couldn’t keep up. A train carrying mail from Spokane to Seattle was also stuck right behind the Seattle Express.

Two more days passed. Food at the restaurant was running low. So both trains were moved to a town called Wellington. Wellington was even smaller than Cascade. The only place to park the trains was at the edge of a cliff. The cliff overlooked a canyon 150 feet deep.

Luckily, there was a rustic hotel called Bailets. It had a full kitchen. The trains were still stuck. But at least nobody would starve.

Then, troubling reports started swirling. Some of the snowplows had broken down. Shovelers were quitting.

The most shocking news came the morning of February 25. A giant avalanche had hit the town of Cascade. The restaurant where the passengers had eaten had been crushed. John and Harry had been killed.

Now passengers understood the scary truth. They were not just stuck in the middle of nowhere. Their lives were in danger. The same kind of deadly avalanche could hit Wellington too. All anyone had to do was look out the train windows. There was a steep mountainside on the side of the train. The snow was so deep that even the tops of the trees had disappeared.

Any minute, that snow could break loose—and crash into their train.

As another two days and nights passed, did Raymond feel the panic that gripped his mother and many others? Did he gag at the stench that filled the train cars? Did he overhear the crew whispering that food was now running low at Bailets?

Surely, he noticed when the weather suddenly changed. On February 28, day six of the crisis, the temperature rose. The snow turned to rain. At midnight that night, a violent thunderstorm swept in. Lightning slashed the sky. Thunder boomed. 

And then, at 1:42 a.m., there was a new sound. 

Whumph. 

It was the sound of a massive slab of snow cracking loose from the mountain. Within seconds, it reached the tracks. It lifted both trains into the air and hurled them off the cliff. The train cars shattered apart in midair. 

Many people died right away, in their sleep. Others were buried under snow and hunks of wood and metal, trees and boulders. A lucky few were thrown out of the cars and landed in the snow, incredibly unharmed. 

Workers from the town raced down the cliff. One of them spotted Raymond. He was horribly injured—but alive. A 3-inch piece of wood had stabbed through his forehead, into his skull. The man scooped up Raymond and rushed him to Bailets. The dining room was quickly turned into a makeshift hospital. 

There were no doctors or nurses. It was a man named Basil Sherlock who took a blade, cleaned it with boiling water, and cut the wood from Raymond’s skull. He carefully bandaged Raymond’s head and covered him in blankets. 

Few believed Raymond would survive. 

Another two days and nights passed. Did Raymond feel the panic that his mother and many others felt? Did he gag at the stench that filled the train cars? Did he know that food was now running low at Bailets?

Surely, he noticed when the weather suddenly changed. On February 28, day six of the crisis, it got warmer. The snow turned to rain. At midnight, a strong thunderstorm hit. Lightning slashed the sky. Thunder boomed.

And then, at 1:42 a.m., there was a new sound.

Whumph.

It was the sound of snow cracking loose from the mountain. Within seconds, it reached the tracks. It lifted both trains into the air and threw them off the cliff. The train cars broke apart in midair.

Many people died right away, in their sleep. Others were buried under snow and pieces of wood and metal, trees and rocks. A lucky few were thrown out of the cars. They landed in the snow, incredibly unharmed.

Workers from the town raced down the cliff. One of them spotted Raymond. He was horribly injured. But he was alive. A 3-inch piece of wood had stabbed through his forehead, into his skull.

The man rushed Raymond to Bailets. The dining room was quickly turned into a makeshift hospital. 

There were no doctors or nurses. A man named Basil Sherlock took a blade and cut the wood from Raymond’s skull. He carefully bandaged Raymond’s head and covered him in blankets.

Few believed Raymond would survive.

And most people did not. There were 125 people on the two trains that night—passengers, crew members, and workers from the town. Only 23 made it out of Wellington alive. 

The Great Wellington Avalanche was—and still is—the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history. 

In the years after the tragedy, the Great Northern Railway tried to make the mountain route safer. They built miles of snowsheds—roofs over the tracks to protect trains from avalanches. In 1929, they completed an 8-mile-long tunnel so trains could avoid the riskiest parts of the journey across the Cascades. 

As for Raymond Starrett, he was one of the few who made it out of Wellington alive. So was his mother, Ida. He would go on to spend his life in the state of Washington, where he got married and worked for a power company. 

He was known for his bright and friendly smile, his handsome face—and the scar on his forehead from the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history.

And most people did not. There were 125 people on the two trains that night. Only 23 made it out of Wellington alive.

The Great Wellington Avalanche was the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history. It still is.

In the following years, the Great Northern Railway tried to make the mountain route safer. They built roofs over the tracks to protect trains from avalanches. In 1929, they completed an 8-mile-long tunnel. That way, trains could avoid the most dangerous parts of the Cascade Mountains.

As for Raymond Starrett, he was one of the few who survived the avalanche. So did his mother, Ida. He lived his life in the state of Washington. He got married and worked for a power company.

He was known for his bright and friendly smile, his handsome face—and the scar on his forehead from the deadliest avalanche in U.S. history.