Days of Epic Proportions
David Smith
Why is it that the less successful days turn out to be more memorable than the better days? The epic tale of disaster after disaster undergone by two past presidents of the YRC and a trusting guest has been told on many an occasion since those memorable two days, with no doubt varying degrees of elaboration to suit the audience at the time.
Before memories become too dimmed it needs documenting; this is the ‘definitive’ version. It all started on a day at the Plaunus campsite near Pontresina in 1988. Two parties set out, one bound for the Biancograt of Piz Bemina and the other for Piz Roseg a less demanding route. The second party comprised Arthur Salmon, Michael Ackeriey and David Smith. It is this group that is the subject of the amazing story.
It was a beautiful day as we made our way along the Val Roseg. We saw a large colourful group conducting a religious service in a hollow at Alpa Magna. Flowers decorated the moraine leading to the Tschierva hut 3lA hour from the station at Pontresina. It is a wonderfully situated hut with impressive views of both mountains.
The first part of the route involved descending unpleasant scree and boulders into the Vadret da Tschierva and up the glacier to the obvious col between Piz Roseg and Piz Aguagliouls at 3148m. It was here that the first mishap occurred. Arthur put his foot through thin ice to receive a wetting. Undeterred we moved on to the rocky south side of the mountain; how conditions had changed since I was there with John Vamey in 1960, much of the snow had disappeared leaving gravel on the sloping shelves hardly conducive to speedy progress.
It was at this stage 3590m and well into the afternoon that we realised that we were not going to make the 3937m summit and decided to abandon the attempt and make for the Refuge Marco Rosa where we were to meet up with Roger and Sue Allen who were out with Graham Salmon on the Biancograt-Cras Alva. We descended cautiously onto the glacier Vad da la Sella and made our way up to the col, Fuorcla da la Sella at 3269m.
Here was the start of our problems, we met an Italian guide and his client who suggested that we keep to the middle of the couloir leading towards the hut. What he meant was the middle of the glacier, but we should have checked the guide book first. Dropping down into the Vadretta di Scerscen Suoeriore we could clearly see the Marco Rosa hut 3597m high up on the Fouorcla Crast Aguzza.
The couloir was steep; we wasted some time looking at the rocks, but as they were loose and neither Michael nor Arthur showed any enthusiasm for giving them any consideration we returned to the comparative safety of the snow. This was another mistake as we learned later at the hut. Proceeding up the couloir we encountered a series of bergschrunds which once crossed presented a situation of no return. The couloir steepened and the day became evening and the signs in the sky became ominous, there was a storm brewing. However, all seemed well, the hut was clearly in sight a mere 500m above us.
Heading leftwards, we considered it wise to have the rocks on the edge of the couloir to hand in case conditions did get worse. As we looked down the glacier a series of flashes of hghtening heralded an approaching storrn. Hastily we took to the rocks finding a huge block about four feet square, flat on top but at an angle of something in the order of 15 degrees from the horizontal. This was to be our bed for the night, there was no obvious cover to be seen in the failing light. My brother-in-law and I made use of my double poly-survival bag, Arthur had to survive alone in his bag.
We were adequately belayed to the rock, but this did not prevent us from slipping down the rock from time to time and having to re-adjust the belays. We witnessed the most dramatic storm that I have ever seen in forty years in the mountains. It was almost as light as day at times. I do not think that we ever thought we were in any danger, it was just a case of sitting and sliding it out until dawn. Nor do I not think that any one of us had much sleep but I expect that we did.
Once agam we could see the Marco Rosa hut. We left our perch on the rock, regained the couloir and moved slowly upwards. It was very cold and it stalled to rain. The snow turned to ice, on an ice wall of perhaps 75 degrees Arthur lost hold of his axe which slid and fell down the couloir, it was quite impossible to recover, what on earth could we do now?
Arthur had over the past three alpine holidays canied two superb titanium ice screws, which he had obtained on one of his visits behind the Iron Curtain. These two pieces of high tech metal were to be our saviours. Placing one in and belaying Michael and Arthur to it I cut footholds and handholds into the steep ice wall moving with extreme care across and upwards for about 20 feet at a time before inserting the second ice screw and belaying myself. With double protection Arthur joined me and belayed, then Michael joined us. So this process continued with cold icy water dripping on us from above until we had reached the comparative safety of the rock and snow slope that would take us to the hut.
It was so cold that we were past shivering we just shuddered with the damp cold of the early morning. We saw Roger’s party leaving the hut, but were unable to make contact. Then the mist started to descend removing the hut from view but not before we were able to get a line on the place. It was full noon before we actually set foot in the hut, some seven hours after starting off that morning.
We were greeted by the Warden who immediately diagnosed our needs and produced a calor gas fire. I cannot remember having anything to eat, but remember the generous offer of spare clothes from an East German girl before we went up to the dormitoiy for sleep. Roger had telephoned and established that we were safe. We looked out of the window to view the couloir, it looked honendous and quite impossible to all but the foolhardy. In fact we felt quite pleased with our performance, or at least I did.
The following morning we prepared for the safe and straight forward Bellavista Traverse, this would take us to the Fortesa Ridge which we had experienced on a near perfect traverse of Piz Palu some days earlier. It was very misty out, but we moved off towards the traverse. As we crossed a series of shallow open crevasses I found myself at the bottom of one having misjudged the length of rope between me and Michael. No harm done and we were off again. The plateau exhibited a series of what we took to be old footprints which we duly followed until the mist reached down to join the snow.
Fortunately this atmospheric condition did not last, the open expanse of snow eventually presented me with a crevasse about two feet wide. This I jumped and moved away to safeguard the other two. Some ten feet away from the crevasse on apparently safe area of snow I disappeared from view. “He’s gone” was the cry from Arthur. And indeed I had gone, I found myself suspended 15 feet below the surface looking up at a small hole letting in the blue sky light. It was as though I had fallen through a chandelier. It was quite exciting to the extent that I had no fear. I just looked round in total bewilderment.
I heard cries from above and felt a pull on the rope, but as the crevasse was on an mcline the rope cut itself into one edge locking itself into the ice. Michael, who had had no previous alpine experience had reacted instantly and driven in his axe rendering me, one might say, relatively safe. What now? As the crevasse was at an angle a drop of melting water-had relentlessly dripped onto the opposing ice wall and had formed a bulge. This was to be the foundation of my escape.
Gradually developing a swinging movement I managed to gain a delicate purchase on the bulge with my knees but only to be returned to square one by a pull on the rope intended as an attempt to extract me. Regrettably it only compounded the situation, the rope cut deeper into the ice. Again I set up the swinging motion and regained my tenuous hold on the bulge. The crevasse was about five or six feet wide at this point, widening as it became deeper. I could not see the bottom but estimated it to be about 70 ft below me.
I still had my axe, just as well as it was new and to loose two axes would have been considered careless by Lady Bracknell’s definition. To safeguard my precarious position on the bulge of ice I reached backwards with the axe to touch the opposite wall. The crevasse narrowed to about two feet at the top. It could only get better if I could move upwards, which I did by front pointing up the overhanging wall and holding in position by my axe on the opposing wall.
How long it took I do not know, but eventually my head popped out through the hole much to the relief of my companions I expect. I was none the worse for the experience in fact it was in some curious way enjoyable. I never had any doubts that I would get out, but no doubt St. Bernard was watching over me.
We headed for the Fortesa Ridge we knew, but could well have been better finding a way down the Labyrinth, which leads on to the Morteratsch Glacier. The very word Labyrinth is off putting, and so we crossed to the Fortesa Ridge. It was quite different from the ridge of a few days earlier, it was covered with new snow. Progress was very slow as safety was of the essence. Slowly we descended belaying on the numerous awkward steep rocks.
It was now getting dark again, but we had reached safety. We made the wrong decision. Instead of heading for Diavolezza we elected to return by the lower dry ice Morteratsch Glacier. We had seen large parties on it earlier in the week and it looked easy enough. We moved with relative speed at this stage to prompt Arthur to refer to his movement as being ‘like being taken for a walk by two alsatians’, Michael and I being somewhat taller with longer strides were unaware of Arthur’s rapid paddling of his feet though the snow and rocks.
The Guardian at the Boval Hut, whose wife drinks at the same pub as Arthur in Leeds thoughtfully left on the outside light giving us a reference point. Moving towards it we encountered the rough rock and earth of the moraine. It looked dangerous to say the least, but had we spotted the track marked on the map, we would have been better placed.
The glacier was a never ending challenge; the open crevasses blocked our way incessantly and we had to continually retrace our tracks. By about one o’clock we, or rather Arthur had decided enough was enough, we stopped, searched in vain for food in our rucksacks and settled down for our second night out, this time on a bed of ice.
At first light we saw lights moving up the track to the Boval Hut. We saw one person head upwards, but the other two had obviously spotted us and were making for us. It was Roger with Alan Linford two of my dependable alpine friends. It took them no time at all to reach us; arriving well prepared with food. What it is to have such friends. It is the magic of the mountains that cements such friendship.
Arriving back at the campsite, chastened to some extent by our experiences, we were greeted by our wives who had probably had the worst of it. A long and refreshing sleep followed and the episode became part of the tapestiy of our lives.