by Jim Davidson
“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.
All the while I try connecting with Mike, to keep him sucking in breaths.
“Come on, Michael, breathe!” I shout. “Breathe! Hang in there!”
Finally, I extricate my left arm from the snow. Frantic, I try to sit up, but can’t.
I hear his sputtering breath. Then an exhaling sigh. Then: silence.
I freeze, staring straight ahead. Eyes wide, I remain motionless, listening. Clutching the ice ax in mid-swing, I realize I’m holding my breath.
Maybe he’s just between breaths. Maybe I can’t hear him with all the snow crunching around my ears. Quiet!
I wait three, four, five seconds, and I know he’s really not breathing.
“Mike!” I scream in a rising pitch. I grab his calf and shake the hell out of it. Through his climbing pants, I pinch his calf hard, trying to get a reaction. Nothing.
Panic clutches me, and I thrash violently at the snow, trying to break free, trying to get to my partner. In frustration I punch the snow pile.
“Mike!” I screech again, my shrill voice cracking.
I open my hand and let the ice ax go. I sense it slipping past my right ear and disappearing into the blackness behind me, far from reach. A critical voice in my mind hisses, Stupid move.
I try again to sit up. But something holds me back: my helmet. It’s caught on something behind me, probably my pack. I pull hard on the chin-strap buckle to loosen it. I yank the nylon strap up over my nose, and as it drags across my face, I feel stinging pain—I must be cut up. When I let go of the strap, my helmet falls behind me, and I hear it bounce away. Clunk. Clunk. Silence. Clunk.
I sweep aside mounds of wet snow with both arms, digging my way laterally toward Mike’s head, which is still out of sight and out of reach. I can now see along the backs of his legs up past his knees. My fingers hook on something as I dig, and when I pull, I snag the brim of Mike’s helmet. Touching his helmet confuses me, because it should be on his head, which is way down near my feet, not up here, next to my chest.
I dig again, and on the next scoop, I hit Mike’s sunglasses. Mike’s head seems to be here near my chest, facing upward. But that can’t be as his feet are here too, but facing downward. I brush aside loose snow next to his sunglasses and see Mike’s cheek. Relieved to have found him, I clear more snow off his face, but I’m still confused as to how both his head and his feet are up near my chest.
T
hen I understand.
Mike is on his back, facing up. His legs have been bent way too far up toward his head. So far that his feet are just behind his ears. He’s folded over.
I brush more snow from his face, and his head flops gently to the left side, toward me.
I reach into his mouth, pulling out a bunch of snow. I start to do it again, but I fear that I will make him vomit and choke, so I make a baby sweep with one finger.
“Mike! Mike!” I scream.
I grab his cheek, pinching and twisting the flesh as hard as I can, giving it everything I have. Pain is a powerful thing, and humans—even ones knocked out or on the edge of death—respond to it.
Nothing happens.
I rip a wet purple glove off my right hand and reach to his neck, checking for a pulse, but I feel nothing. My fingers shake against my friend’s neck.
This can’t be real. This can’t be real.
CHAPTER 11
EVERY SECOND THAT ticks by, the chances that I can save Mike—or myself—drop perceptibly.
A little light filters through the gloom, and I can see some details. Mike, doubled over on top of me, is in big trouble.
With Mike’s head on my chest, and me still trapped behind and beneath him, I twist my upper torso and crane my neck sideways to look at his face. I detect no movement in his lips, nose, or cheeks. Tucking my face close to his, I feel for his breath against my cheek while I stare down at his torso. I pray to see his chest rise or feel his puffs of life against my wet face, but my spirits sink further as I detect nothing. Again I place my fingers on his neck and press, trying to find a pulse, but my hands are so cold from clawing at the snow for the last few minutes that I don’t know whether to trust the fact that I feel only stillness.
Random loops of our climbing rope arc in and out of the snow, snagging my arms and hampering my movements. Claustrophobia grips me as I tussle to maneuver while still buried to my sternum in our cramped little snow pile. Mike faces up with his legs doubled up toward his face, in a hyperextended pike position. His feet dangle up by his head and by my head. One of his boots sticks in my face, next to my ear.