The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters Read online

  Further victims were discovered soon afterwards, outside the former hut. The ninth corpse lay thirty metres downhill. Altogether eight men and one woman were found by eleven o’clock. The tenth man was missing.

  “Charlie, what’s the matter? Nine people again. Where can the tenth be? Haven’t you any idea? Did he go into town with Jim?”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  “What about the out-house?”

  “Dug out already. Destroyed, but the door was found in the frame and was closed from outside.”

  After a short noon break, Joe proposed to enlarge the area searched by making another corridor. I agreed, then remembered the snow mass above us and asked about the cracks. No change, was the report and I forgot about that problem for the time being, unfortunately.

  I was occupied with another idea. I decided to make contact with the hospital, and question the lumberjacks to see if they had any idea of the whereabouts of the missing man. Charlie had told me his name. The reply was prompt: a few minutes before the catastrophe he took a bucket and went down to the brook for water.

  “Charlie, do you know their path to the stream and the place where they got water?”

  “Exactly.”

  The last phase began. The path to the stream ended only a few metres in front of the white snow wall. A wide corridor was quickly dug. A lot of people were at my disposal and they worked in relays. The pit at the foot of the white wall was soon twelve metres deep. But when both the corridor and the pit were complete, nothing was found. Not even the bucket. The soldiers standing on the bottom of the hollow reported that the brook was completely dry.

  “Did you say dry?” Charlie wondered. “The brook was swift and never iced up even in severe winters.”

  A shiver went down my spine. There was something odd here! I was not surprised that the last victim wasn’t found but I was by the absence of the stream.

  “Look . . . look, there!” Joe cried, “the wall’s giving way!” He immediately fired a warning flare.

  The emergency worked perfectly. Everyone took his shovel, saw, axe or pick and ran up the hillside into the wood. In two or three minutes an immense snow block slowly broke out, rolled over and a fountain of water shot up from the white wall as if under the power of Moses’ rod. Then the dirty stream cascaded downhill. Within minutes the search corridors and the avalanche tip were flooded.

  A water avalanche! Something nobody had expected. Not snow but water threatened several hundred people. Thousands of tons of snow had formed a natural dam that collapsed due to the digging of the pit and corridor at the foot of the white snow wall which was actually a dam.

  I stared helplessly at the streaming water and felt suddenly exhausted. Yet one of the last memories of that terrible avalanche rescue I’ll never forget. An officer came from somewhere and though soaked and muddy he reported, “Sir, nobody is missing, nobody has been hurt. Some tools, several covers, one tent and one telephone have been swept away.”

  “Thank you very much,” I managed to mumble.

  It all happened many years ago, on 8 March, 1956. And the reference book facts when finally pieced together read like this: At 9.40 am two bulky powder avalanches released in a remote region of the Low Tatra mountains. One of those avalanches contained 1,590,000m of snow, weighing 380,000 tons and travelled a distance of 3,500 metres from the rupture zone. This great mass ran down into a narrow, curved and afforested valley. The immense avalanche, reaching a speed of about 250 kph was pressed into the valley neck. In that critical section the mass exploded in the air and turned into an avalanche cloud. The pressure wave and the avalanching snow buried nineteen people. Sixteen of them did not survive. Twenty-five hectares of an old forest were smashed. It took eighteen months to clear the smashed timber and the same time for the avalanche snow to melt. The last victim was found by the forester’s dog six weeks after the accident, having been buried under an overhanging bank of the stream.

  A Cauldron of Wind

  Markus Burkard

  I first met helicopter pilots Markus Burkard and Günther Amann in September 1973 when Dougal Haston and I were landed by winch wire at the Eiger’s Death Bivouac. That lower, Dougal’s first, must have been quite an initiation. Being in the rescue business, I had done many previous lowers, often in bad conditions, so it wasn’t quite so alarming for me, but to be whisked up from that awesome face on a slender steel wire, out over the verdant pastures of Alpiglen, gives one pause for reflection with 7,000 feet of space beneath your crampons! It was Günther who was piloting on that occasion and it wasn’t until the following year that I flew with Markus. Whereas Günther is inclined to be introspective and quiet, Markus is more carefree, though no less careful than his colleague. These two pilots have saved many climbers and skiers in difficulties in the Swiss Alps.

  The insurance service provided by the Swiss Mountain Rescue Flight provides an excellent service. Its pilots, like their compatriots doing the same job in Chamonix, have proved beyond doubt that mountain rescue with helicopters is by far the most efficient means of taking the injured off mountains.

  Helicopter winch rescue originated in Britain where it was developed for Air-Sea Rescue. It was first used in the Alps in 1961 on the East Face of the Watzmann, a peak near Berchtesgaden. The aircraft used was an old Sikorsky. Though many different types of helicopters are in use for rescue work today, the French Alouette has been the most popular workhorse and its souped up small brother, the Lama, is one of the few helicopters which can lift its own weight; it also holds the world altitude record of almost 41,000 feet. Now there are many new high powered kids on the block, such as the BK117, and some of these also give good high-altitude performance.

  The Eiger North Face didn’t succumb easily to this helicopter revolution. Here, too, as with other firsts, psychological barriers had to be broken and it wasn’t until 1970 that Günther, as a rescue exercise, lowered Rudolf Kaufmann, a Grindelwald guide, on to various parts of the face, the Spider, the Flatiron and the Ramp. This was an amazing breakthrough, but prior to this the helicopters had played a combined operations role. For instance, a rescue team was flown to the summit ridge in the winter of 1970 with winching equipment and an injured Japanese climber was taken up from the Exit Cracks. Fixed belays were established at the top of the mountain, at the finish of the Ramp and the North Pillar, which meant that in the event of a rescue taking place in weather too severe for a helicopter to operate, normal winching procedure, as pioneered by Ludwig Gramminger and Erich Friedli, could be swung into action with the minimum of delay.

  During the summer of 1970 that astute master of the telescope, the late Fritz von Almen saw from his base at Kleine Scheidegg that one of two Italian climbers had fallen, close to where the unfortunate Corti had bivouacked many years before. He informed the authorities and at dawn next day a rescue party was flown to the summit ridge and a guide lowered by winch wire to the scene of the accident. Angelo Ursella, a climber from Udine, had fallen thirty metres and unluckily some coils of his rope had caught round his neck. He was immediately strangled. His friend, de Infanti, was whipped off his belay, but being uninjured, managed to climb back up to his stance. The guide got de Infanti to the summit shortly after midday. Ursella’s body was recovered later.

  In September of that same year, the first exclusive helicopter rescue was done on the face. Günther Amann was the pilot. The circumstances leading up to this rescue, which fortunately ended happily, were rather bizarre. Two German climbers, Martin Biock and Peter Siegert, started up the original route. They were both strong climbers. Siegert, for example, was one of the first to try the Eiger Direct in winter and was also a member of the party that made the first winter ascent of the Matterhorn North Face. However, the Eiger didn’t seem congenial, for at the Difficult Crack Biock dropped the rucksack he was hauling up a pitch and, though they recovered it some 200 metres below, Siegert’s crampons had been lost. One advantage of their close proximity to the 3.8 window was that it made
commuting possible and Peter dashed down to the Stollenloch window, took a train to Grindelwald, where he bought a new pair of crampons and was back on the climb with Martin by midday.

  By now the sun was causing havoc and the usual stone trundles had started down the Hinterstoisser Traverse, so they decided to get to the Second Icefield via the Japanese Route, up the Rote Fluh. This is the intimidating overhanging red wall to the right of the Hinterstoisser. It was whilst bivouacking in hammocks from this huge overhang that night that they discovered their stove had been damaged in the fall and couldn’t be used. For some reason best known to themselves, they decided to carry on next morning, but by the evening had only reached Death Bivouac. When they were at this fateful ledge the weather broke with a vengeance, typical of the Eiger, and the next two nights were spent at this isolated eyrie.

  On the second night they signalled for help by torch and Kurt Schwendener, the rescue boss in Grindelwald, set the rescue machine in motion. The weather was still bad next day and in case Amann couldn’t get in with the Lama, Schwendener also arranged for a group of guides to be ready at the Stollenloch. Despite intermittent cloud Amann got close enough to the bivouac to speak to the two Germans using the helicopter loud hailer, for he was not absolutely sure that they now wanted to be rescued. In the past many climbers had retreated from Death Bivouac and above, and it was assumed that these two were uninjured. Later, when the cloud cleared, Amann saw that they had abseiled two rope lengths to the side of the Flatiron and here they made definite signals that they wished to be picked up.

  Rudolf Kaufmann, the guide, was lowered to the tiny stance (the size of a biscuit tin lid) and Biock was hoisted up and taken to Scheidegg. Fifteen minutes later both Siegert and Kaufmann were winched aboard in safety. In all, the rescue had taken less than an hour.

  Between 1973 and 1977, I did many flights with Günther Amann and Markus Burkard connected with filming and TV. Most of the winch lowers were either on the North Face or on the West Flank. My last trip with Markus in 1971 was a hurried one. I had a meeting in Zürich about a possible live TV climb of the face and I had to check on one or two points, which meant a flight to a ledge high on the West Flank on a cold September morning. I had only four hours to complete this work. The well known Swiss climber and guide, Hans Muller, was with me and when Markus dropped us off on a snow-covered ledge, it felt both lonely and cold. The mountain was in the first grip of an early winter. The helicopter landed close to Kleine Scheidegg, keeping in radio contact with us for the return trip.

  When our survey was completed we called Markus on the walkie-talkie and he picked us up. On the descent I asked him if he could fly close in to the Japanese Direct route to enable Hans to check on some ledges which we were wanting to see. Hans had done the route in both summer and winter. Markus nosed the Alouette into the wall like a dog scenting a lamppost, until we were below the great overhang above and to the right of the Rote Fluh. He then eased the helicopter beneath this so that the deafening roar of the rotors and the gas turbine bounced down on us from the rock roof. It was both exhilarating and frightening, yet he was in perfect control. His only apparent concern was before he took the machine beneath the rock when he asked Hans if the overhang was solid. Hans had assured him that it was. This is typical of the confidence which these pilots have in their crew, for both the winchman and the guide have to be experts also and equally cool in a crisis. Markus wasn’t worried when he took us under that overhang and Günther wasn’t scared when he dropped Dougal and me off at Death Bivvy and other places on the wall. When Markus in the following narrative talks of almost crashing the helicopter on a rescue, he must really have been out on a limb.

  On Friday, 11 November, a group mostly of younger climbers from Belfort in France started from Rosenlaui in the Bernese Oberland for the Dossenhütte. The weather was fine, the sky cloudless, but the forecast was very bad. A depression had been threatening for days.

  The group camped below the moraine, in the Gletscherhubel area and started the ascent on Saturday. As the day wore on, the expected bad weather front reached the Rosenlaui area. By evening it started to rain heavily, turning later to sleet and snow. Two days later, on the Monday evening, the Swiss Alpine Club rescue leader in Meiringen received a report from Belfort that several people were missing. Later when I was on duty I heard about these seven overdue climbers. The operations leader told me what he knew and I assumed that they were waiting in the Dossenhütte for better weather and a helicopter to pick them up. There are ten days’ emergency provisions in the Dossenhütte and plenty of wood but, unfortunately, no telephone.

  On Monday it snowed without stopping from 10.00 am onwards. For a while even the Brünig Pass was only passable with chains. Winter had started with a vengeance. Later on that Monday night an unusually severe storm raged over the Alps and on the Tuesday morning I heard on the news that the met. station on the Säntis had recorded a wind speed of 140 kph. During the night we were awoken several times by the noise of the storm. I had forgotten about the seven climbers, because the weather was so bad that a flight to the Dossenhütte was out of the question. A telephone call from operations headquarters shortly before 9.00 am changed the situation completely!

  A twenty-two-year-old climber from Belfort had reached Rosenlaui absolutely exhausted and raised the alarm. He, with the six others, had left the Dossenhütte on Sunday morning, two days earlier, and had tried to descend to the valley. When they left, it had already been snowing all night, so they attempted the descent under the worst imaginable conditions. The normal route through the Dossenwand, threatened by avalanches, seemed too risky and there was no choice but to climb to the Dossensattel and reach the valley via the Rosenlaui Glacier.

  Three of the climbers got as far as the first icefall at 2,500 metres. There they were left behind as they were unable to go further. A seventeen-year-old boy reached the shelter of the Dossen bivouac with a fourteen-year-old companion. The youth who later was to raise the alarm continued the descent accompanied by his girl friend. They failed to locate their tent at the Gletscherhubel campsite, an hour above Rosenlaui and were therefore forced to bivouac in the open. During the night the girl died from exhaustion and hypothermia. This was the sad news I was given.

  Just then thick clouds made a flight impossible and so the rescue leader in Meiringen had to go about organising a rescue party from the Hash. We promised help as soon as the weather improved. Rosenlaui was to be the meeting point. At Interlaken Urs Menet, the mechanic on duty with me, made the Alouette 319 ready for take-off. I obtained the latest weather reports. They promised some temporary improvements due to the strong winds. At 3,000 metres wind speeds of fifty knots and gusts up to sixty-five knots were reported. Above Interlaken there was a patch of blue sky. Shortly after 10.30 am Peter Winterberger reported that the Dossenhütte was clearly visible. We took off.

  I had a sinking feeling – a glance at the peaks was sufficient. Everywhere the same picture presented itself; snow showers, wisps of cloud which rose, dissolved and reappeared, gusts of wind shaking the helicopter. Above Meiringen the valley was completely clear of clouds. We flew up to 2,000 metres and cast our first glance in the direction of Rosenlaui. Seen from the air, this glacier is one of the most beautiful of its kind, but today there was a storm above the ice. Everything seemed to be moving. The snow swept along the rocks, was hurled high in the air and formed eddies which jumped like dancers over the crevasses. A dim light lay over the scene. We flew into this cauldron and into the lee of the big Wellhorn. Terrible gusts of wind caught the Alouette. We were hurled upwards and the next moment we were hit from above, then once more pressed down into our seats. I required the full range of the controls in order to keep the machine in the air. I felt sick. During my thirteen years’ helicopter experience I had seldom encountered such winds. This was hell. I flew a full circle 200 metres above ground. It was impossible to keep a look-out for people. I could reach the radio-controls only with difficulty, as this meant lifting my a
rm off my knee and this impaired my steering. There was nothing I could do – the force of the gale was overwhelming. I could not tell from which direction the wind was blowing – it seemed to be everywhere. On my right the snow swept over the rocks in the direction of our flight. On Urs’ side was a counter-wind blowing across the glacier. I did not know what to do.

  After circling for the second or third time, far away – 300–400 metres higher – we saw two figures, one of whom was waving. They were standing near an icefall where the huge crevasses begin. This meant flying higher, further into the cauldron. I simply had to overcome my feelings and control myself. For a moment the thought crossed my mind that the tremendous winds might snap a rotor-blade or ruin the tail rotor. I was terrified to crash out of control on to this cruel glacier. The upper end of the glacier was hidden by clouds consisting of snow and ice crystals. The cold hard snow swept in from a westerly direction and continued horizontally over the icefall.

  Now we were above the two men. Only with difficulty could I keep the stick steady in my hand. It was being shaken by the strong bumps and the upwards and downwards currents. There was no question of flying on course. We thought that we would never get anywhere near our men. Still, I could not simply leave them, I imagined the long steep climb which the rescue party would have to face. I saw the threatening clouds on the Dossensattel on my right. The victims had been fighting for their lives for the last two days in this hell composed of wind and cold. Ice axes, half-buried rucksacks, ropes and scattered bits of clothing protruded from the snow. It was a horrifying picture. A landing was impossible as the angle of the glacier was too steep. At the utmost I could touch down with the nose-wheel and hover at the same time in order to try and get the victims on board. But first I had to get near enough. It just had to work! I was thinking of Sigi long ago on the Monte Rosa Glacier in the south-west wind and of that avalanche disaster behind the Testa. Here, however, was the Rosenlaui Glacier. I fought, I was frightened, I cursed, I was furious with myself and the profession I had chosen. Twenty times I asked Urs where the wind was blowing from; he probably thought I had gone crazy.