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  The history of mountain rescue goes back a long way in this region, in fact to 1786, and though they didn’t have helicopters in those days, the motivation was just the same, the saving of human life – it’s an old instinct.

  The account of this incident from 1999 is told by the survivor, Jamie Andrew, and the rescue controller, Blaise Agresti. It’s a moving story of the rescuer and the rescued and I think a lesson to us all in humility.

  Blaise Agresti

  “He’s alive! I saw him making a hand signal.”

  Immediately, these words created a stir on the helipad at Les Bois. In a few minutes we gathered in a back room to escape the media throng and prying cameras. Philippe Pouts went on, “I saw one of them alive, that’s definite, he gave us a hand signal. They are still at the Brèche des Droites!”

  Around the table each person weighed the importance of this news. For two nights, we had been unable to get near the place where the two British climbers had been stuck since Tuesday, and now it was Sunday. Five nights out in the storm at 4,000 metres, trapped by a northerly wind blowing at more than 100 kilometres an hour. Even the strongest alpinists could not have resisted conditions like these. The pair had set out seven days before to climb the famous North Face of the Droites by the Corneau-Davaille route, an extremely difficult ice route. Jamie Andrew and Jamie Fisher were two experienced climbers, accustomed to serious routes, and, despite their youth, had climbed all over the world.

  On Wednesday we had been alerted by the families who were concerned that the two were overdue. In Chamonix weather conditions were deplorable, snow and wind creating zero visibility. At the first clearance, on Friday, an attempt was made without success to assess the situation, but the wind was still too strong. Trousselier had been winched to within just a few metres of the climbers, but the helicopter couldn’t be stabilised in order to position him to carry out the rescue. All the same, he was able to see that one of the climbers was still alive. On Saturday the north wind was even stronger, nearly 150 kilometres an hour. The temperature was around –15°C in the valley, while at 4,000 metres, we knew that it was not possible to survive for long. In the morning Daniel Poujol had made several reconnaissances to let the climbers and their families know that we were not abandoning them, although we were convinced that we could do nothing useful that day. On one of the flights, Daniel suggested taking me for a look. Right from take-off, the helicopter was buffeted by the storm and we climbed very quickly towards the summit of the Aiguille Verte but then were unable to make any headway against the wind, despite the skill of the pilot. Below us, vortices of spindrift swirled above the ridge which leads along to the Grande Rocheuse, the Col Armand Charlet and the summit of the Droites. The aircraft was thrown around like a nutshell by this wind coming straight from the northern Steppes. I hung on as best I could to the seats of the pilot and the mechanic. Returning to the helipad was difficult, but we finally got down unharmed. The consensus is clear: today we can do nothing.

  Jamie Andrew

  The storm-tossed helicopter, pitching and rolling on a sea of turbulence, is forced to pull out one more time. Swinging crazily at the end of the winch line, the blue-uniformed rescuer, whose outstretched hand we could for a moment almost touch, is jerked suddenly upwards, dangerously close to the rocks that flank the narrow brèche and then away to the open sky above the glacier. Then the curtain of clouds, which parted so recently, closes again around man and helicopter, objects of our salvation, and they are gone.

  The show is over. We are alone on the mountain once more, left to suffer yet another night on this hopeless ledge of ice, scooped in desperation from the snowy crest of a knife-edge ridge, and Jamie Fisher and I begin to despair. It’s Friday afternoon now. We’ve been stuck here since Tuesday, on the mountain since Sunday, and now it looks like we might never get down from this godforsaken spot.

  We arrived in Chamonix on Saturday to find the resort enjoying a rare spell of settled winter weather – the sky was blue, the Chamonix Aiguilles sparkled in the sun, and the forecast was for more of the same. We had planned a week of skiing and snowboarding with the large group of friends, but it was too good a chance to miss and Jamie and I quickly decided to put skis and snowboards aside and go for a speedy ascent of the North Face of Les Droites. There would be time for fun on the pistes later in the week. So we hurriedly prepared our kit and on Sunday afternoon we took the last ’frique up to the Grands-Montets station and bivvied there till early the next morning, before crossing the Argentière Glacier to the foot of the vast sheer face that rises for over 1,000 metres to the serrated summit ridge of Les Droites.

  It was another beautiful day, the climbing was great, and we made good progress up the face, knowing the route was well within our capabilities. We have been close friends for many years and climb well together as a team – strong and efficient. We hoped to complete the route and be back down in the valley by Wednesday evening. But the winter days are short and we had to move fast to keep to our schedule. By nightfall we were about halfway up the face. We managed to dig out a couple of small ledges to sleep on and passed the night in relative comfort, considering the situation.

  Tuesday morning once again dawned fine and we set to work at first light. Things were going well and we were at least three-quarters of the way up the face when out of nowhere snow began to fall. Before long clouds were rolling over the ridge above us and the snowfall had grown into a blizzard. We didn’t panic however and kept on climbing, despite the snow which swept over us in waves of suffocating spindrift and piled onto our shoulders and rucksacks. But it was slow and dangerous climbing in those conditions and it was well after dark when we finally reached the Brèche des Droites, the narrow notch in the summit ridge from where the descent down the other side begins.

  It was too late now, and the weather too ferocious to continue, so we dug in as best we could and spent the rest of the night shivering in our bags and praying for better weather. But in the morning the weather was if anything worse and we didn’t debate long before deciding to continue to wait.

  And now, three days later, we’re still here, still waiting. The storm has raged and raged and there has never been a chance of making a descent. The food is long gone, water only a memory. We are fatigued with cold and stiffened with inactivity. Rescue has become our only hope. But that hope too has now been dashed. The Siberian wind rifles through our exposed stance and we huddle together and wait.

  Blaise Agresti

  In the afternoon I met the families of the two climbers, along with Anne Sauvy, the mountain writer, and her husband, John Wilkinson. I explained to them that we held out little hope. I drew a diagram on the board in the PGHM meeting room explaining the position of the two men and the difficulties which we were having in rescuing them. The press were also beginning to take an interest in the story of this rescue, drawing parallels with the tragedy of Vincendon and Henry forty-two years before.

  However, today, Sunday, against all expectations, after a further night, one of the climbers is still alive.

  At the helipad, amongst the helicopters, the faces are grim, each knowing that the two Jamies could not much longer survive the glacial cold of this month of January 1999. In the hut which is our shelter on the long days of duty Daniel Poujol, the pilot, was telling how he was thrown around in his machine, an Alouette III, in the turbulence on the Droites ridge during the reconnaissance. The day before, the impossible had been attempted, but nature had been too strong: the north wind, fast-flowing and bitter, forbade any rescue attempts. All the same, Daniel had agreed to take off to “have a look”, despite the high risk involved.

  This morning the rescuers who flew up know that life is hanging by a thread and depends on the speed of our action. Despite the emotional pressure engendered by the reconnaissance, we have to think about our preparations, weigh the risks, analyse the situation and choose an option. We must resist the temptation to act hastily, we must get the team to work safely. Each member puts forward
plans, suggests an idea, then another, the older ones thinking of other, similar rescues, and step by step a scenario is worked out together.

  The Alouette is not powerful enough for a rescue such as this and we have to call on Pascal Brun, a private pilot who owns a Lama, a very powerful helicopter which is particularly suited to high-altitude rescue missions. Pascal prefers to use his second pilot, Corrado Truchet, who is both an experienced pilot and a mountain guide. The only problem is that he has gone for the weekend to Courmayeur in the Val d’Aoste on the other side of Mont Blanc. Daniel Poujol suggests going to fetch him in the Alouette III in order to save time. The Alouette takes off straight away and Corrado is soon among us to finish our preparations. Now we have the best possible team for a successful rescue and we go over the plan a final time: the rescuers will be put down as close as possible to the climbers, by a strop carried below the helicopter on a rope, which will avoid the need for the helicopter to come too close to the mountainside where it would be more subject to the effects of turbulence. As well as the Lama, we decide to use the Alouette III in order to share the load-carrying and avoid delays: the Lama will evacuate the climbers from the Brèche des Droites to the Grands-Montets ski area, from where the Alouette will take them to hospital.

  As soon as the methodology is decided, everyone sets about their preparations, the Lama soon lands and the strop is fitted, the rescuers check their sacks, put on their crampons, last adjustments, last looks around, the show is on the road, it is time. The characteristic whine of the turbines fills the air, the blades begin to turn, on the tarmac of the helipad everyone protects themselves against the rotor downwash and soon the helicopters claw their way off the ground and fly away towards the Brèche des Droites, 3,000 metres higher, behind the Drus and the Verte. The noise fades, in a few moments calm returns, the commotion of the preparations gives way to a tranquil silence. Now the operation is under way, faces are serious and ears tuned to the crackling of the radio which will bring us news of developments. Up on the Droites ridge, Iglesis Alain, experienced rescuer, devoted alpinist, is moving precisely, methodically. Put down a few cable lengths from the climbers, on an airy pinnacle, Julio, as he’s known to his friends, sets up an abseil and goes down to the brèche.

  Jamie Andrew

  Saturday morning and we’ve survived the night. But the new day brings us little in the way of hope. The sky is blue this morning but the north wind is stronger than ever and great plumes of spindrift stream from the mountain peaks like vapour trails. There will be no helicopters flying today.

  We wait. We talk, share our thoughts, share our warmth. But the energy is failing now. We can’t hold out much longer. The hours drag by and finally daylight leaves us once again to the savage night.

  Sometime in the night the battle for survival is lost. Comprehension evaporates into the darkness and confusion reigns. Jamie is shouting at me but I can’t understand him. My fingers are frozen like pieces of meat. One of the bivvy bags disappears into the night. Finally Jamie stops shouting. He is lying face down in the snow now. I sit beside him, face into the wind, and wait for the end to come.

  But death doesn’t come and I wait and wait, staring straight ahead into the cold darkness. And the next thing I see is not death, but sunlight, touching the summits of the mountains all around, lighting them up like candles, and a small flame of life is rekindled deep within me. Then when the helicopter comes, swoops overhead with thundering blades, I manage to stir enough to raise an arm, wave my hand, rigid and lifeless as stone.

  I watch with curious dispassion as a man is set down on the ridge above. He sets up a rope, struggling in the strong wind and abseils down into the brèche to join Jamie and me on the ledge which we have shared for so long.

  Blaise Agresti

  Iglesis’ heart sinks when he sees the porcelain-white face of Jamie Fisher wrapped in a bivouac bag which is flapping in the wind. Beside him, the face of Jamie Andrew, still full of life, looks at him imploringly. Without delay, he takes a thermos of tea from his sack and gets him to drink a few mouthfuls. The first drops to warm his bones. Simple gestures, few words. The helicopter is ready for the evacuation, there is no time to lose. Iglesis Alain takes Jamie in his arms and clips him on to the cable which is hanging fifty metres below the helicopter. In seconds Jamie is snatched from the Droites, from the Calvary which he has lived with his companion. Life will continue, life must continue.

  We are in the Alouette III a few dozen metres away when the Lama lifts its precious load and begins the descent to the Grands-Montets. We see behind us a private helicopter turning above the Droites and quickly realise that it is a TV crew intent on having exclusive pictures of the rescue. We tell them to get out of the way. The Lama continues down to the Grands-Montets ski area. It is a beautiful day and there are many skiers out on the pistes who aren’t thinking about what the helicopter passing over their heads may be carrying. The contrast is poignant.

  With Philippe Pouts and Jerome Morrachioli, we receive Jamie Andrew at the intermediate helipad at the Grands-Montets, which has rapidly been prepared by a piste machine. With our poor English, we say a few words of comfort to him. While putting him in the stretcher, we touch his legs, hard as wood up to the knee, frozen. The hands also are concrete. We exchange looks of horror. Daniel’s Alouette III comes to pick him up in order to take him to the hospital with Jerome, the doctor: he will live, it is written in the annals of fate. The Lama has already left to get the other Jamie.

  In a sky of deep blue we soon see the Lama coming back with a body hanging below it, his arms crossed, crucified in his youth for his love of the mountains. We receive him in silence, and once more the Alouette returns to take him to the hospital. At the helipad, when Julio is brought back by the Lama, we feel a profound relief. The rescue is over. When he is put down by the Lama on the helipad, tears roll down Julio’s cheeks, his eyes misted.

  The rescue was a particularly intense experience, but it is nothing in comparison to all the emotion undergone by the families, to the life that goes on. Jamie Fisher leaves parents devastated by the death of their son, while Jamie Andrew is going to have to learn to live without his legs and hands, to rebuild his life in another way and to find the strength to overcome this terrible handicap. His alpinist’s wings have been clipped, but he will be able to show us with his courage that one can travel one’s road without these precious assets.

  The rescue operation is over, the press are at the helipad at Les Bois, desperate for information and details. The deadlines for the afternoon papers are in a few minutes and we have to relate the conduct of the rescue as succinctly as possible, feed them what they want so that finally we can regain some peace. After a few interviews the mob is satisfied and disperses from the helipad in various directions. We are at last by ourselves, some sort out equipment, others talk about the rescue, life resumes its course and other rescues await us.

  However, this exemplary operation did not come to fruition by chance, it woke in me the need to understand, the need to explain this extraordinary profession. I look into history to find the deep meaning of our action. I need to go over the origins of this mountain rescue mission in order better to understand it today. Some people have drawn the parallel between the rescue of the two Jamies on the Droites with other stories in the past, thus showing the continuity of our effort. We are only here thanks to the work, commitment, courage and sometimes the sacrifice of our predecessors, those who opened the road to a professional rescue service. This is a heritage which we owe it to ourselves to pass on to our successors.

  Jamie Andrew

  For Jamie Fisher, tragically, the rescue came only hours too late. For me it arrived at the very last moment, snatching me from the jaws of death. When Julio reached the brèche, forced hot tea between my lips and helped me into the rescue harness, I revived sufficiently to be aware of what was happening. I could see that the helicopter was unable to hover over the brèche and wondered for a moment how I was to be attached to
the winch line. Seconds later the aircraft made a pass straight overhead, trailing the winch line beneath it. Julio deftly caught the hook as it swung past, and in one action clipped it into my harness. A moment later, before I had time to prepare myself for what was about to happen, I was jerked bodily into space and was spinning high in the air, the pristine white glacier far below. The last thing I saw as I was borne swiftly away was Julio in his blue uniform crouching over the slumped form of Jamie – my best friend, dead.

  Many considered the operation on Les Droites to have been a failure. One of the climbers was dead, the other as good as dead, losing his hands and feet, a fate unthinkable to a mountaineer. But the rescue was far from being a failure. To the PGHM I owe my life and that is the most precious thing that any of us have, far more important than hands and feet, which I have learned to live without. And I know that if Jamie Fisher had survived and I hadn’t, he would have grasped the second chance with just the same enthusiasm. So with every day that passes I am thankful for the success of my rescue from Les Droites.

  The Venomous One

  Hamish MacInnes, Reup Brooks,

  Noel Williams, Steve Hayward

  Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in the British Isles, though only a mere 1,344 metres above that finger of the Atlantic, Loch Linnhe. However, if you consider the weather pattern at this latitude and its exposure to storms, then it can become a formidable opponent, especially for the ill-prepared.

  This is a tale of a father and son pursuing their passion for the hills and observing the rules, who were caught up in events beyond their control which will haunt them for the rest of their lives. It illustrates the determination of individuals to get out of a situation under their own steam, until they were overwhelmed by obstacles in their way. It is also a tribute to rescuers who put the evacuation of both the living and dead above their personal safety.