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Surviving an avalanche For more information, see our |
On November 13, 1994, I was avalanched off the lower east face of Long's Peak, the highest mountain in Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park. I was climbing with my friend Paddy McCarthy, an experienced and capable mountaineer. We climbed together frequently, and had made an unsuccessful attempt on Alexander's Chimney (one of the faces of Long's Peak) two weeks before.
On this occasion, the day dawned gray and miserable. However, we were only an hour or so away from the climb, so we decided we should go up to the base of the chimney "to take a look." The chimney's steepness, and the absence (we thought) of any obvious collecting areas for snow at the top of the route suggested to us that, despite the poor weather, the avalanche hazard would be fairly low.
We reached a point on the lower east face at which it was possible to climb up easy (fourth class) but somewhat loose terrain for about 80 feet to the base of the chimney. Another party had set up in the best spot, well to the left of the chimney. The only alternative spot that offered the chance of belay was very close to the start of the chimney and just off to the right.
As we debated the wisdom of proceeding with the climb from our perch, a small but heavy avalanche of dry snow blasted down the chimney, covering me in white powder. I looked to Paddy and commented that if something like that came down while one of us was leading on the steep ice, it would be very easy to be knocked off balance and fall. I said, "Let's go home," and we began packing up to leave. During this time, at least one more similar avalanche came down on us, and, seeing our decision, the other party decided to leave, too. They yelled up to us, "You guys can have it!"
Shouldering my pack, I took a step towards the descent line. I was just reaching for my ice axe when I heard another dry snow avalanche come down the chimney. I turned my back on it to keep the powder from going down my neck, and felt several heavy blows on my shoulders and helmeted head. Then I felt my crampons start to slide, and knowing I could never stop a fall on the loose ground, said a quick prayer - "Please God, don't let me get too messed up by this."
I have a vague impression of rolling around in the snow, but otherwise remember nothing of the fall itself. I regained consciousness lying at the foot of the slide next to my pack, and made a tentative effort to stand up. I recognized none of the obvious landmarks I had just passed a few minutes previously. I had been knocked off my feet and slid the 500 or so feet to the bottom of the snow slope, but had no idea where I was.
I felt slightly nauseous at the effort of standing up, and realized I probably had a concussion. This prompted me into action, since the altitude and bad weather, in conjunction with the injury, could easily lead to hypothermia, so I put on my pack and began to trudge up the snow slope in front of me.
After a couple of steps, I heard a loud yell, "There!" and we saw the others. They came down to where I was and I remember Paddy saying, "I'm pretty glad to see you!" One from the other party pointed out a large gash in my chin, fortunately frozen so it wasn't bleeding too badly. We spent the rest of the day hiking the five miles or so back to the car, then driving to Boulder Community Hospital.
By the end of the day, I had a mild concussion and nine stitches in my chin, but otherwise I was fine - no aches the next morning, no broken bones or sprained ankles, probably the result of my relaxed (unconscious) state and a landing in soft snow.
I was lucky to have gotten away with so few injuries, but unlucky to have been caught at all, given that we had done our best to be out of the line of objects falling down the chimney, and had decided to retreat at a fairly early stage. However, there are several features of the experience that may prove instructional. All of these relate to the fact that the accident was a product of a chain of events that started at least two weeks prior to the accident.
First, we had already failed on the climb. Two weeks previously, Paddy and I had to rappel from two (very expensive) ice screws when I had gotten off route and we ran out of sufficient daylight to complete the climb. I wanted to go back, not only to do the climb, but also to see if my ice screws were still there!
Second, the haul up to Alexander's Chimney is (for me) such hard work that there is a strong temptation to "see how it looks" from close up, rather than turn around and go home, even when conditions are poor.
Third, the presence of another party moving to the foot of the climb encouraged us that our decision to do so was reasonable. (The mistakenly reassuring presence of other climbers in otherwise dangerous situations has been identified as a factor in other avalanche disasters.)
Fourth, we were insufficiently receptive to a warning signal that, in retrospect, seems obvious - if I was so frequently being hit by small avalanches of dry snow, I could be hit by something bigger. Had we absorbed the meaning of these avalanches, we would have gotten out of there a lot more quickly.
Finally, we had clearly underestimated the avalanche hazard, although we had taken steps to minimize our exposure. Possibly, a cornice broke off, or snow was being tunneled down Alexander's Chimney from the upper east face. Either way, even slopes too steep to accumulate snow, such as this one, can be hazardous.
In conclusion, I feel we made some good decisions (the climb was unsafe that day) as well as some bad ones (going up to take a close look, not appreciating the dry snow avalanches), and that we both came away from the experience a little smarter.
Interested in other avalanche accounts? The Colorado Avalanche Information Center lists recent accident accounts.
