Authors: Jim Davidson
I probe the snow again, and it feels strong, so I step forward; but in an instant my boot pushes deeper into the glacier than before. My mind tries to comprehend what’s going on.
The next few seconds unfold in what feels like an eternity. As I tip forward and start sinking into the snow, I realize what is happening: I’ve walked onto a snow bridge spanning a hidden crevasse, a plank of snow crystals terribly weakened by the sun-baked days, and it’s crumbling beneath my feet.
“FALLING!” I scream as loud as I can, trying to warn Mike. I can’t see him behind me. But I know he’s flopping onto his belly and ramming the pick of his ax into the ice, digging in, fighting to save me and, maybe, himself.
In the next fraction of a second, the snow consumes my legs as if it is quicksand. By now, I’ve sunk into the snow bridge to my abdomen. A hope shoots through my mind: Maybe my pack will jam and stop me. It doesn’t, and I slam through the ever-widening hole.
I react instinctively, swinging the ax in my right hand, hoping to catch solid ice with the sharpened tip and stop my plunge.
The pick of the ax cuts into the mush in a spray of ice and snow. While shouting to Mike again, I feel my face crash against the crevasse lip.
A finger of pain shoots up between my eyes, and my feet flap in nothingness.
The fall is sudden, shocking. I slip through the snow bridge, and the icy, black crevasse swallows me. The most terrifying nightmare of glacier climbers has arrived.
For a moment, I hope that it’s just a small crevasse. Ten feet deep. A hard landing, then a quick climb out. I feel fear but not terror. I know Mike heard me and saw me. I know he’s solid. I know any moment the rope will jerk me to a stop.
But I don’t slow down—I pick up speed.
My body explodes with adrenaline, and my mind furiously calculates as I plunge ever deeper.
Ten feet. Twenty feet. Thirty feet. I’m going too fast. Something’s wrong
.
I rocket through the gloom, crashing back and forth between the ice walls, squeezed ever more tightly in the grip of an enormous slot. The rope jerks hard, and for the briefest moment I hope Mike has stopped the disaster. But just as quickly the tension is gone, and I accelerate wildly. I know now I have dragged Mike in behind me.
I careen off the walls, get knocked sideways, and smash to a stop on my back. I hit so hard the air bursts from my lungs.
Blinking and gasping, I fight to get a breath. I touch the wall with my gloved hand, and there is no noise.
I just fell all that way, and I’m not too badly hurt
.
I wiggle, and pain stabs my neck. Then something lands on my belly.
Whump
. It is a handful of wet, sloppy snow. A pinhole of light high above me flickers, and more wet snow hits me in the face. The
light blinks again, and more slushy snow pours onto me. The snow falls faster and harder and bigger.
Whump. Whump. Whump, whump, whump
. The slurry pours in like a wet avalanche racing down a mountain, burying my shins, my thighs, my belly.
Oh my God. I’m being buried
.
I toss my arms above myself; then the wet slop buries my head.
AFTER A FEW
more distant impacts, there is silence and darkness beneath this cocoon of snow. I wonder whether it’s quiet now because the snow has ceased falling or because I am buried so deep that I can no longer hear what’s happening on top of the thick snowpack. The silence terrifies me.
I open my eyes—at least I think I do—but blackness envelops me. To make sure they’re actually open, I blink a few times and feel sharp snow grains scratch my eyelids.
I see nothing. I’m buried alive.
Terror surges from my gut. I exhale heavily through my mouth and nose and feel the air flow out, then bounce right back onto my face. My left forearm remains draped across my face; it has preserved a small open space.
I need air
.
I bash my forehead against the snow, trying to enlarge the small pocket around my face. The void around my head is half the size of a basketball.
I suck in hard, trying to grab a breath, but my mouth is half-filled with crunchy snow, so I pull in only a small gulp of air. I try chewing the snow to clear it away, but it is too much, as if someone has stuffed a Popsicle into my mouth. I work my jaw and tongue, struggling to push out the rapidly hardening snow clump. But it turns into a dense lump the size of a plum. When I rest for a second, the snowball settles back in my throat and gags me. Afraid that the
obstruction will choke me, I push it forward and off to one side with my tongue. I can breathe a bit more easily, so I pant in a few strained gasps from my air pocket.
I know from avalanche classes that I must get out of the snow fast or I will die here. But I can’t sit up—the wet slop sucks heavily at my arms and legs and chest. A great weight pins down my legs and torso. My pack, corked fast between the walls of the crevasse, anchors my shoulders, pinning me.
Full-blown panic sets in. I push with all my might, but I can’t move. It feels as though I’m being held down by a thousand cold, wet hands.
Try again
.
When I attempt to curl my torso up, my pelvic muscles feel like they’re ripping. Sensing that the effort is futile, I stop, and my heart hammers in my chest.
Avalanches tumble their victims wildly, and buried survivors sometimes don’t even know which way is up. I worry that maybe I’m not even facing upward, and that I am trying to go the wrong way. Using another avalanche survival tip, I intentionally drool saliva out over my lips. Gravity pulls the spittle back down my cheek, and I feel it ooze toward my right ear. The technique works; I know I’m still facing up.
I struggle to wiggle anything—a hand, a foot. Nothing. Suddenly, a wetness warms my crotch, and I realize I’m peeing. In total fear, I’m peeing. A flash of shame passes over me because I think it means I’m weak. But a survival voice in my head screams like a drill sergeant,
It doesn’t matter! It’s just your body getting ready to fight. So fight, damn it!
I try pushing my chest up again, until my torn abs protest.
My God, I’m really stuck. I’m covered and I’m stuck
.
I don’t feel wounded—no broken bones, no crippling pain, no gushing blood. How, I wonder, could I have fallen that far and not
be wrecked? My God, I think sadly, Gloria was right: I’m going to die on a mountain. I figure I have enough air to last maybe ten minutes. But what if it’s longer? Just gasping away and waiting for the end?
The reality of it all is overpowering. I’m not badly injured; I feel like I could stand up and walk away. But I’m going to die anyway. There’s some air in the void around my face, but it won’t last. I almost wish I were more hurt so that I would go faster. I can think clearly, I can feel my whole body. But I’m going to suffocate slowly.
This is a bad way to go. I wish I’d been killed in the fall
.
Death will come in ten minutes if I’m lucky, maybe twenty minutes if I’m not. It doesn’t seem fair. I push again. Still nothing.
Get out before it freezes. Sit up. Get out. I can’t breathe
.
I pant for air, but my exhaled breaths bounce off the icy surface lining my small air space and flow back across my wet face.
I’m running out of air. Maybe this is it
.
I try to accept that my life may end here, alone. With loving parents and a great wife, I have had a good life. I tell myself to remain calm, to face what happens, not in terror—I have never lived that way—but in peace.
Ride it out. Ride it out as best you can, all the way to the end, the same way you’ve lived your life
.
But I don’t want to die. I want to live.
LETTING MY MIND
drift away in fear makes me lose my focus on keeping the snowball safely off to one side of my mouth. The slippery chunk slides farther back and blocks my airway for an instant. Reflexive gagging shoots another surge of adrenaline through my veins and a pulse of fight back into my heart.
I remember an old adage from the martial arts classes I took years ago, before I became a climber: “Focus your power.” So instead
of trying to push all over, I concentrate on my strong arm, the right one. I imagine all my power flowing to my right arm, and I shove. I feel something heavy—an ice chunk the size of a cinder block—shift off my forearm, and my right hand bursts out of the snow above me. Waving my hand about in the air, I sense openness and freedom.
I desperately grope around with that hand, sweeping the surface, and I can hear crunching through the snow above my head. My fingers brush against our rope. When I realize I can push aside the loose snow on my face, I frantically start thrashing at the mush, shoving handfuls of it away.
The air I’m breathing grows stale.
I can’t breathe. Hurry up! Faster, faster!
I’m digging, making progress—stay calm
.
I feel like I’m the third person in the conversation, the mediator who has to balance the emotional and logical voices, who has to decide who is right each second. It is a strange thing, this battle of wills between the voices. I am buoyed by their resilient tone, and a spark of hope flickers in my heart. Maybe I can make it.
My gloved fingers scratch furiously at the frozen debris around my face. As I dig deeper toward my head, the crunching sound grows louder. I feel the slop above my right eye move. I paw and grasp, and my hand sweeps across my eye. And then it is clear, and I can see up a little tunnel through the snow and make out a hand in the gloom. I am so disoriented that at first I don’t realize it’s my own hand in my own purple glove.
Dense, cool air flows down the foot-long snow tunnel and settles on the wet skin of my right cheek. I dig the hole wider, reaching my nose and then clearing off my mouth. Desperate to breathe freely, I make a one-finger sweep of my own mouth and pluck out the cursed ice ball. Finally, I can take an unconstrained breath. I suck in a
bunch of rushed gasps, blood ringing in my ears. My eyes dart back and forth as if I’m a cornered animal.
My heart slams hard and rapid against my sternum.
Bring it down. Bring it down
.
The grip of fear is tightening. I try calming myself—I’m not going to suffocate. I can last an hour under here, but I’ve got to get out of the snow before it sets up and I’m stuck for good. Fumbling around, I grab handfuls of snow, tossing them behind me, one after another, as quickly as I can. I’m in a race, and if I lose, I die.
“Mike!” I scream.
Probably only a couple of minutes have passed since I plunged through that snow bridge, dragging Mike into the crevasse behind me. In the terrifying moments that followed, I was so occupied with trying to gulp in air that I hadn’t thought clearly about my partner, my friend. Wondering where he is, I figure that since he fell in after me, he’s got to be on top of the snow.
“Michael!” I yell again.
Thrashing around with my right arm, I hit his plastic climbing boot, knocking it sideways in front of the tunnel above my face.
He’s on top. Thank God
.
My eyes feel very wide open, as if someone is pulling back the lids—and a flurry of screams erupt from my mouth.
“Michael, get up! We’ve landed and we’re covered with snow. Jesus, get up and dig us out. Get up quick!”
My words reverberate between the frozen walls, but I hear no other sound.
“Mike, we fell in, we fell in, I’m buried,” I shout. “Dig me out.”
I hear a muffled moan. I think for an instant it’s muted because the snow is jammed up next to my ears, so I call out again.
“You gotta get up,” I yell as I shake Mike’s foot to rouse him.
I hear another moan. Maybe he doesn’t know where I am. Still
buried to my chin, I wave my free arm wildly, until it bumps into Mike’s calf.
“Mike, I’m right here,” I yell in desperation. “Michael, get up! Dig us out before it freezes up!”
For a moment, I believe Mike is merely stunned. But his leg doesn’t move. Then I realize he’s probably hurt, bad. He can’t hear me, or he doesn’t understand what I’m saying, or he can’t move. He can’t dig himself out—or me. I have to get out myself, and I have to help Mike.
I feel an incredible weight settle onto me, the burden of sole responsibility for our survival. I moan as the emotional side of my brain comprehends what my logical side has already realized.
Furiously pushing snow with my right hand, I widen the hole around my face. A minute passes, and I uncover my neck. I am making some progress, but an inner critic in my mind lashes out:
You’re digging too slow—you’re never going to get out
.
Mike’s breathing is slow, labored. My first-aid training kicks in, and I remember that words of encouragement can sustain someone badly hurt.
“I can’t get to you yet, Mike, but I’m trying,” I yell. “I’ve gotta dig out. I’m coming.”
TOSSING A HANDFUL
of snow over my shoulder, I realize it is falling down behind me, but I don’t know where or how far. Clearing away more snow from around me, I am still buried from the chest down. My head and right arm protrude from the snowy floor of the shallow depression I have dug around myself. It’s been five or ten minutes since we fell in, so my eyes now focus better in the near darkness. I can make out Mike’s other boot on the opposite side of my snow basin. His feet are pointed toes down, on either side of my
head, and I assume he’s facedown, with his head positioned way down near my feet.
Staring at the sole of his boot, I grab his ankle and shake it.
“Michael, wake up!” I plead.
I hear a single moan.
Then Mike’s breathing grows raspy. I have never heard this sound before, but it horrifies me to my very core.
“Michael! Michael!” I scream.
I know now that he is on the edge, and I try to keep him going.
“Breathe, Michael, breathe!” I shout.
It occurs to me that if I dig out my left arm, I’ll be able to uncover myself and more quickly get to Mike. Fumbling around in the near darkness, grabbing handfuls of snow, I find an ice ax. I use the scoop-shaped adze on the ax’s head to dig faster. As the basin around me gets wider, Mike’s feet flop down near my face, so I have to move my head to dodge his boots, as well as my own swiping ice ax.