Three women—Caroline Sekar, her sister Liz Clabaugh, and Kate Vitt—died in an avalanche while on their dream trip. Their last ten words were…

TRUCKEE, California — In a gut-wrenching turn amid one of the most tragic backcountry disasters in California history, families have finally confirmed the names of six extraordinary women swept away by a massive avalanche near Lake Tahoe. Among the confirmed dead: two inseparable sisters who shared a lifelong bond over adventure, and a beloved former radio executive and mother of two whose vibrant life was cut tragically short.

The catastrophe struck Tuesday, February 17, 2026, around 11:30 a.m. in the rugged Castle Peak area of the Sierra Nevada, just west of Truckee and north of the Boreal Mountain Ski Resort. A group of 15 experienced backcountry skiers—many longtime friends bonded by their passion for the outdoors—found themselves buried under tons of snow during what was meant to be the highlight of a three-day trip to the Frog Lake huts.

Eight bodies have been recovered so far, with authorities presuming a ninth missing skier deceased amid relentless blizzard conditions that have hampered recovery efforts. Six survivors were pulled from the debris, but the scale of the slide—described by officials as one of the deadliest avalanches in state records—has left communities from the Bay Area to Idaho reeling in shock and grief.

On Thursday, February 19, a joint family statement shattered the agonizing wait for answers, identifying six of the victims as Carrie Atkin, Liz Clabaugh, Danielle Keatley, Kate Morse, Caroline Sekar, and Kate Vitt. All were mothers, wives, and fiercely passionate skiers in their 40s and early 50s who “cherished time together in the mountains.”

“We are devastated beyond words,” the families declared. “Our focus right now is supporting our children through this incredible tragedy and honoring the lives of these extraordinary women. They were all mothers, wives and friends, all of whom connected through the love of the outdoors… consummate professionals… Nobody was new at this—this was no one’s first rodeo.”

The spotlight has fallen heavily on two pairs of lives forever intertwined. Sisters Caroline Sekar, 45, of San Francisco, and Liz Clabaugh, 52, of Boise, Idaho, were on a long-awaited reunion ski trip with friends from their Stanford University days when the mountain turned deadly. Their brother, McAlister Clabaugh, told The New York Times they were “the best people I’ve ever known”—vibrant, caring women who made every adventure unforgettable.

Caroline, a tech consultant and Stanford graduate, was a mother of two who thrived on innovation and exploration. Liz, a dedicated labor and delivery nurse at St. Luke’s Health System in Boise, brought compassion and strength to every room—and every slope. The sisters often skied together, turning powder days into cherished family memories. Now, their shared passion has claimed them both, leaving a void that words can scarcely capture.

Then there’s Kate Vitt, the former SiriusXM radio executive whose name surfaced first among the victims. A 43-year-old mother of two from Greenbrae in Marin County, Kate had built a successful career in media, including stints at SiriusXM and the music streaming giant Pandora. Colleagues remembered her as sharp, creative, and endlessly enthusiastic about connecting people through sound.

But to her family and community, she was simply “Mom”—the woman whose children attend local elementary schools in Marin. A school district email quietly confirmed the heartbreaking loss of one student’s mother, later tied to Kate. Her father, Peter Coakley, declined to comment, but the outpouring from friends painted a picture of a woman who balanced high-powered professional life with unwavering devotion to her kids and her love of the mountains.

The other identified victims—Carrie Atkin of the Truckee-Tahoe region (a former corporate executive and Division I track & field athlete), Danielle Keatley (Soda Springs resident), and Kate Morse (Marin County)—rounded out a group of women who embodied resilience, friendship, and adventure. Many hailed from the Bay Area, with deep ties to the Tahoe region where they escaped to recharge and reconnect.

This wasn’t a group of novices tempting fate. Authorities and survivors emphasize the skiers were skilled, equipped with avalanche beacons, probes, and shovels, and traveling in a guided or semi-guided capacity. Yet even the most prepared can fall victim to nature’s fury when conditions align disastrously: heavy snowfall, high winds, and unstable snowpack from a brutal winter storm.

Nevada County Sheriff Shannan Moon shifted operations from rescue to recovery Wednesday, citing the extreme weather and danger to search teams. Blizzard conditions persist, delaying full recovery of remains and fueling anguish for families waiting for closure.

The tragedy has sent shockwaves far beyond the Sierra slopes. In Marin County, schools and neighborhoods mourn Kate Vitt’s loss, with fundraisers and support networks springing up overnight. In Boise and San Francisco, friends of the Sekar-Clabaugh sisters share memories of laughter on lifts and late-night talks. The tight-knit outdoor community grapples with how a routine backcountry excursion turned catastrophic.

Questions linger: Was the group aware of rising avalanche risks? What role did weather forecasts play? Authorities, including the Placer County Sheriff’s Office and regional search teams, continue investigating, but the human toll overshadows technical details.

These women weren’t just statistics in California’s deadliest recorded avalanche. They were moms dropping kids at school, nurses delivering new life, executives shaping media landscapes, consultants solving complex problems—and friends who found joy in the mountains together.

Their story is a stark reminder of nature’s unforgiving power and the fragility of life. As recovery efforts inch forward and communities hold vigils, one truth endures: the mountains claimed six remarkable lives, but they cannot erase the love, laughter, and legacy left behind.

For now, families cling to memories—of powder turns, sisterly bonds, and the simple thrill of shared adventure—while grieving the impossible: lives buried too soon under snow that showed no mercy.