Avalanche!

by L.C. Baume

Whoever it was^[1] said: “Man, like a pebble on a glacier, moves imperceptibly but always down,” had obviously never descended the North Gully of Ben Lui in quite the way that six Ramblers did on Good Friday, 1963.  Not that their way is to be recommended but “imperceptibly” would hardly be the right choice of word: precipitately, perhaps—unpremeditatedly, certainly.

We had in fact already turned back from our attempt to reach the snow-covered summit, wise counsels having finally prevailed, and we were descending perceptibly though somewhat precariously, when it happened.

At the very moment that I heard Dave’s warning shout of “Avalanche!”, as the snow hurtled silently down from above us, I felt myself projected with all the kick of an elephant’s hind foot into outer space and suspended there motionless, between what had been and what was to be, while the whole mountain with its ice-covered rocks and snow-filled gullies rushed upwards and past me and the earth hastened inexorably towards me.  Towards us, I should say, for there were in fact six of us, though from the moment that I was fired into temporary orbit I was totally unaware that five other linked human beings were in similar parlous positions.

I was completely alone, in absolute darkness and utter stillness.  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that I could do. In all other similar predicaments that have occurred periodically during my life my eventual survival has largely depended on my own reactions and will. But this time, I realised, I had “had it”. This, I felt, was a pity, but at least it might be worth while exerting myself so as to make my journey from one world into the next as comfortable as possible. I was conscious of the fact that when the accumulated mass of minute gossamery snowflakes had overwhelmed me, it had precipitated me into meteoric flight face down and head first.  It would be better, I thought—for during all this time my mental processes were wholly rational—it would be better by far if I were to reverse this hazardous aerolitic position so that my feet, rather than my head would be the first to come into contact with any immovable object crossing my irrevocable path.

I had the impression that this dual axial manoeuvre was successfully accomplished and I felt reassured. A little later however—and this is relative, for time and space are one— I thought it would be safer still if, instead of keeping my arms, Icarus-like, outstretched, I were to wrap them round my head even at the risk of upsetting my delicate equilibrium.  As I did this or at least had the impression of doing it, I felt the outside pressures increase alarmingly; I was being crushed and suffocated beneath an intolerable and unsubstantial load.

It was imperative, I remembered, to remain on the surface, to ride the crest of the wave and not drown; I must swim, swim forcefully as I had never swum before; I must rise from the depths and free myself from the oppressive weight that was crushing the very life out of me. I struck out, a sort of butterfly stroke, for all I was worth. I could no longer breathe; I must clear a space before my face, push back the enveloping snow and create a pocket of air.  But this was not easy, the snow would not stay put. I must hold my breath then until I reached the surface.  How long, how long?

The pressure eased a little but at the same time I felt myself accelerating rapidly; I had probably gone over the edge of a cliff, or else my trajectory had re-entered the earth’s gravitational field.  This was proving endless, I thought; I must be near Tyndrum by now.  My eyes, my ears, my mouth, my lungs, all were full of snow; my body was ready to burst; to hold my breath any longer would be impossible. This was the end.

At this moment I felt my speed slacken suddenly.  I slowed down and slithered to a stop, with neither a bump nor a tremor: a perfect three-point landing.  I fought my way to the surface, found I was there already, sat up, opened my eyes on to this wonderful world and looked around me.  Slowly the other snow-plastered astronauts emerged, each from his private world yet all entangled together in a network of nylon.  All emerged, that is, except one for I, quite unwittingly was sitting on top of him; only his nose protruded from the snow.

So there we were at journey’s end, some 700 feet lower down the mountain and none of us seriously hurt. We had been fortunate in our experience.  Was it Oscar Wilde who said that experience is simply the name we give to our mistakes?  There is of course a moral to this story but it needs no stressing: it is what we have been teaching and preaching for many years.  For myself, I shall always think of Ben Lui with undying gratitude.

 

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