Danger on the Mountain (Skiing)

Member Name: travelnotes

Product:	Skiing
Date:	17/09/00 (211 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Skiing is a great way to get across the mountains in winter; it's also fun.

Disadvantages: Not much fun when you're lost.

I was heading for the chair-lift once more, when I realised the time. It was rapidly approaching 3:30pm and I wasn't too sure of the connecting pistes back. Allowing for queues, and a possible wrong turn, I was leaving it a bit fine.

I had passed two skiers on the way down, who also appeared indecisive. I looked back to note their progress. They were gone.

I consulted my piste map to confirm my bearings. The path I needed was the route that the two vanished skiers had obviously taken; to the left, some 50 to 100 metres above me. I could see the chair-lift in the valley below, there was a little queue, so I figured I was best to head for the piste that was homeward bound.

Looking at the map again, a little cluster of trees corresponded to the ones I could see over to my left. On the other side of this, the two button-lifts that would drag me up to Mont d'Arbois and the long descent to Megeve. If I was lucky, I could catch the last cable-car back up for a final fling on the Stade de Slalom.

I set off across the clearing towards the trees, remarking how peaceful everything was and at the quantity of snow that had built up around two isolated settlements.

While the farmers were off the mountain for the winter, an unsuspecting skier could literally ski off their roof.

I glided slowly through the powder toward the woodland, heading slightly downhill but not too much; so as not to miss the lifts.

Taking it easy through the first few trees, I emerged into another small clearing. and continued my traverse towards the next little cluster.

Slaloming the second set of trees, I was aware that this little assemblage resembled more of a thicket. I stopped, looked around; it was beginning to snow.

I was encircled by trees. It was as if they had marched up and totally surrounded me; catching me unaware. I made a feeble effort to retrace my steps, it was no use, I had come too far.

So of
ten you seek peace and solitude on the slopes, but how I now missed the sound of other skiers; this was an eerie silence. The light was fading, I tried harder to hear. Was that the vague sound of whirling steel? It was now 4pm; if that was the button lift, I was still in with a chance.

Continuing across, the wood became thicker. I had to head in a slightly more downward direction. The light was playing tricks; reflecting off the snow and creating a false illusion of space.

If I had heard the sound of the button-lift before, it was no more. I was alone with senses that could tell me nothing.

My heart pumped faster, beating in my eardrums. This was no use, I was verging on panic. I tried to breathe deeper, telling myself to stay calm. Calm, how can I stay calm. I'm lost and alone, the cloud is upon me and I'm in the middle of a forest, half-way up a mountain, in a foreign country.

Logically, I was also half-way down that mountain, and on skis. These attributes I had in my favour, down I shall continue -- it's got to lead to somewhere, hasn't it? I was not so sure.

Continuing down, I found a trickling stream. The stream became wider, I could see rocks through the water.

The snow gave way, I slipped. Thankfully the length of my skis saved me from going in.

I was no longer skiing around trees but through them and on them. The slope was steeper and the snow had built up so high in places that I was skiing half-way up the trees, actually on their boughs; ducking to avoid the branches above me. Every time I knocked a branch, snow tumbled from above.

I was getting in all sorts of problems. A ski would get caught, and in the ensuing struggle to free my foot, a mini avalanche would engulf me.

A branch broke, one foot went, the other was stuck. I had to unfasten a binding to free myself. The snow under my bottom ski gave way and I was in the stream. I unfastened my bottom ski to avo
id scratching them on the rocks.

I thought my ski-boots had held out against the water as I tried to pull myself out. Slowly, I felt the damp seep through my socks, but it didn't seem cold.

I was sweating from my efforts. Over an hour had passed, the lifts would be closed by now. I felt despondent and thought about the night ahead. I was warm now, but it would certainly get chilly later. I looked destined for a night in the snow, thinking about the warm, empty hotel room; paid for and waiting.

I grabbed a handful of snow and slapped it across my face, another smaller handful into my mouth. Slightly refreshed, I tried to continue. Down, thinking; trying not to think.

Another blunder and again the snow gave way. This time I clung to a branch; I wasn't going in that stream again. Groping through the tree, I continued to follow the stream, from a higher position on its bank.

Ahead of me was a sheer rock face. I had to cross the stream. Slowly making a firm surface for each ski as I went, I reached the edge. A prayer of thanks as I worked my way up the other bank without incident.

Was I hallucinating, or could I see a path? Another mouthful of snow, and the same slow, continued effort downwards. One thing I had was time -- either a lot, or very little.

The air was fresh, but I smelt no fragrance; the stream was running, but I heard no movement. All I could do was continue my deliberate descent. To keep up the spirit at such a time, I cannot describe; except to make conscious efforts to get down and survive, clinging preciously to life.

A sluice gate was a sign of man's presence in this valley, an offering of hope to my very existence.

As I began to work my way around this man made obstruction, I could definitely see a path some 50 metres ahead. It was about 4:50pm and highly unlikely that anyone would come along, but at least I had a definite goal to spur me on, to keep me moving
, no matter how slow and wearisome the task.

With no more branches for support, it was impossible to manoeuvre along the snow covered pipe. I had no safe footing and literally had to fling myself across to the other side of the bank. I missed the branch on the other side and began to slide with the giving snow. Again these long extensions to my feet acted as a brake; preventing another inevitable soaking.

On the path I could see a wooden sign. darkness was beginning to beat me, but I had a direction, a bearing; somewhere to head for.

The path was a red-graded cross-country track, 2.8km to St. Nicolas. My legs were aching and now I had to work at cross-country. I shut out my mind to the task ahead; began to push and work up a rhythm.

A faint sound of a motor engine intruded the mountain tranquility and then a beam of light.

It was a thrilling buzz to be found at last. Once again I could think of the warm hotel bed in Megeve; a great glow of gratitude inside me.

The moral to the story is: When skiing, always have a pistemap with you and try not to leave the last run too late. If you do get lost, stay calm and remember that if you're up a mountain, skiing down it will lead you to a valley and life, eventually. I guess carrying a mobile phone wouldn't be a bad idea. Keep it turned off to save the battery, and turn it on if you need to call for help.

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