The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters Page 34

  Half an hour’s digging was still required to release Paul from the rock and ice that had imprisoned him for twelve hours. He could never have freed himself alone. He was lifted out and a jersey laid out for him on the snow.

  Paul said: “I remembered very little of the whole operation. When freed, I tried to stand up but my legs just collapsed under me and I fell in a crumpled heap on the snow.”

  Attention was given to his left hand and he was fed some peppermint chocolate. The rescuers dressed him in warm clothing and placed him securely on a stretcher for the long haul down the glacier.

  Paul recounts: “They had to sledge me down the glacier. This was done with celerity but it seemed an endless journey for me. My whole body was cold and my hands were freezing. I stuffed them down my trousers to try and warm them but there was no warmth in me at all.”

  The condition of the glacier and its ever-present risk of avalanche, the gathering darkness and the need for speed in man-handling the heavy stretcher demanded consummate skill from the rescuers – particularly as much of the route was taken at a run.

  On the way down the glacier the helicopter flew above the returning party and made radio contact, but conditions prevented it hovering and winching up the stretcher. So the downward haul continued. At Gardiner hut, Paul was given hot tea but his hands could not hold the mug, nor could he sit up to accept it. Here, his hands were bandaged and he was wrapped in blankets.

  At 8.30 pm the helicopter came back up the Hooker Glacier to determine whether or not a pickup was possible. Darkness was rapidly falling, but the crew knew the urgency of the occasion. Firmly supported under each arm, Paul stumbled up the rocks as the helicopter was landing. He was hurried aboard and made secure by the loadmaster.

  When Paul arrived at park headquarters, he was in a state of severe shock. He was conscious but hypothermic and pulseless, with frostbite to both hands, left elbow and left knee. Dr Hall and Dr Stavely decided he should be treated on the spot. They set up a drip bottle on the end of a broom to supply intravenous Dextran to help counteract the shock. Park rangers hugged him to raise his temperature by direct body heat. His feet, which were very white, were immersed in a bedpan of warm water. Dressings were applied to the frostbitten areas.

  After two hours, his pulse could be felt and his body temperature had risen to near normal. At 1.00 am he was given Bactrim capsules and went to sleep on a mattress between two electric blankets, which Barrie Thomas had borrowed from private houses. Dr Hall stayed with him through the night. Her main concern was the acute kidney damage that could be expected from the crush injuries and the low body temperature he had suffered.

  The next morning Paul was transferred by helicopter to Christchurch Hospital. He was minus the tips of his index, second and third fingers of his left hand and was frostbitten on his right hand, left elbow and left knee. Initially, he was treated for acute renal failure which had resulted from both muscle crush and disintegration of striated muscle fibre. Other factors considered important were hypothermia, dehydration and a degree of hypoxia (abnormally decreased oxygen supply). A week later he was transferred to the plastic surgery unit at Burwood Hospital and for the next seven weeks was treated for the frostbite damage, particularly involving two serious operations to his left hand.

  One had to admire him for his cheerfulness amid physical discomfort, immobility and the knowledge that his future held so many uncertainties – was this the end of his flying career? However Paul recovered completely and, despite a pinned ring finger on his left hand, was able to return to diving, squash, tramping, climbing, skiing and flying.

  Paul’s remarkable survival appeared to be something of a miracle. The medical world attributed much of the complete recovery to his extreme fitness. But was he now living on borrowed time?

  We eventually married in December 1974, a few weeks after I had qualified as a medical laboratory technologist at Middle-more Hospital, Auckland, and we then very happily settled in Blenheim. Paul was stationed here as base adjutant and pilot for RNZAF, Woodbourne.

  19 July dawned as a Saturday morning with prospects of a reasonable weekend; certainly a full one so typical of the life we had been living. My morning was taken up with working in the lab at Wairau Hospital and general lassitude was sweeping over me by the time I returned home; probably increased by the knowledge that the inevitable end of week housework had still to be done. The previous day Paul had run in a cross-country marathon at Trentham with the Air Force and was exhausted – not only did he appear weary, but actually admitted it. Regardless, he was playing in another squash tournament on both Saturday and Sunday in which Blenheim was host to Nelson and, as I was unable to watch the Saturday match, I promised to watch him play on the Sunday.

  It was while baking that afternoon that an excruciating stomach cramp suddenly pierced my system with such violence that I almost collapsed on the kitchen floor. The pain remained as a constant throb and on awaking on Sunday morning I felt dreadful. However, I had a strong urge to attend mass. I mended some Dachstein mittens for Paul which kept me occupied for a while before stirring myself for the 11.00 am mass at the Catholic church at the end of our street. I hadn’t been for ages, as many other things had temporarily assumed equal importance. I may as well not have bothered. The priest’s words I did not hear. I felt detached and alone. Voices thundered in on me and washed over me. Eventually the mass ended and once again I was caught up in the surging tide, everyone moving towards the door. Then it happened. As I walked out of the church I experienced what I can best describe as a premonition. I looked down at myself as a message flashed through my brain, “My God, you’re wearing widow’s clothes.” I immediately erased this from my mind and didn’t think anything further about it until three days later, but that morning I had worn my favourite slacks suit – black slacks, black and white woollen jacket over a red skivvy and complete with red accessories.

  The same day I watched Paul play one of his most dynamic squash games. He was a very strong player with particularly powerful shots and his superb fitness allowed him to spring across the court with such agility that it appeared effortless.

  Paul’s mountain experience was invaluable to the Air Force and he was asked each year to assist in the training on a particular Air Force survival course. He was to instruct a party this week, an aircrew from No. 40 Squadron Whenuapai, which flies Hercules aircraft to Antarctica. He took a considerable time packing his old faithful canvas pack.

  “I’m going prepared for anything,” he assured me, putting in plenty of warm clothing and several pairs of mittens, as his hands readily suffered from the cold since being frostbitten two and a half years previously. My baking was not only to be a special treat, but more important, was a survival “standby”.

  Monday morning at work was a struggle. Finally, I had to acknowledge that I could no longer persevere and so biked home at lunchtime. Sadly, I had just missed Paul who had been home earlier in his lunch hour after being refused a warrant of fitness (or test certificate) for our Fiat. However, the necessary arrangements were made for me to take the car to a garage the following day. We had a brief chat over the phone and by mid-afternoon Paul was on his way to Wigram, Christchurch. How I wished I was going with him – just to be there. Paul seemed uneasy about going alone, even pleaded with me to join him – but we knew this would be impossible on an Air Force exercise. I was so grateful when he rang me that night from Christchurch.

  The 9.00 pm news on TV featured heavy snows in Christchurch. I immediately and somewhat anxiously thought of Paul, but realised of course that he was fine. I had only just been speaking to him and had confidence he would take every care. Before leaving he had emphasised that he would be prepared if they were caught in a storm. After all, he had experience, fitness and the equipment.

  Little things started to go wrong the following day. Trivial really, but still big enough for me to wish Paul was home again. Then, the next day, 23 July, 1975, seemed to be a continuation of trouble. It
started with further complications in getting the car through its test – now it was a headlight – later the day merged with night in one shattering nightmare.

  I noticed someone dressed in black as I walked out of work at 5.00 pm that evening. I was anxious to check the Fiat which the mechanic had delivered. I saw the car parked under nearby pines. Relieved to see that I now had a new warrant of fitness sticker displayed, I leapt in, then remembered the headlight and just to be sure it too had been replaced, decided to take a quick look. The black figure materialised beside me as I bent over. It was the Rev. Dick Simpson, an Air Force padre, and he told me that Paul was involved in an avalanche at Mount Cook.

  “I couldn’t take a second one,” I murmured to him almost disbelieving what he’d just told me.

  Paul had spent Tuesday night at Ball hut at the foot of Mount Cook with the rest of the instructors and students. On the Wednesday morning they had all climbed the ridge behind the hut to do basic snowcraft, self-arrest with the ice axe and generally skylarking in perfect snow conditions. Their final task for the day was to dig snow caves at the head of the Ball Glacier and sleep in them overnight.

  The avalanche struck all twenty-five of them just before 4.00 pm. Some rode it and swam furiously to keep on top, some were buried with shovels in their hands and even succeeded in digging themselves out, but those who were actually excavating the snow caves at that time were engulfed.

  John Moore, Dick Strong, Howard Conway and Olly McCahon had been instructing the climbing on the Mueller Glacier, together with ranger Martin Heine. They returned to HQ to be met by Barrie Thomas, the chief ranger, who told them that several people had been buried in an avalanche on Ball Pass. An Iroquois helicopter which was in the area as part of the course would fly them in as soon as possible. They all piled out of the Land Rover and raced off to pack their gear. When they returned the Iroquois was waiting and avalanche probes, radios, spare headlamp batteries, food and shovels were being loaded. The rescue team were airborne by 4.45 pm. First they flew down to Unwin hut (the Alpine Club hut at Mount Cook) where the air crew were based and landed on the road outside to pick up a doctor. Then they flew up the Tasman Glacier to Ball Pass where they landed by 5.00 pm. As soon as they were on the snow, equipment was ferried to the avalanche tip. Once there radio contact was established with HQ and avalanche probes assembled.

  Just below the avalanche debris were a few men in sleeping bags. They had been dug out, shaken but uninjured.

  In Olly McCahon’s words: “I went uphill with a load of probes and handed them around, then returned for more and met Martin Heine who said that Paul Gazley had been dug out and looked pretty bad, but was still alive. It was a grim moment and my first reaction was a desire to cry, but there was no time, so Mart and I just looked at each other, muttered a few inadequate words and got on with it.”

  Over the next few hours the Air Force men were organised into probe teams and dug anxiously for those who had been located by the probes. Now the search party relieved them of the digging for these members of the avalanche party were near exhaustion. Theirs had been an emotionally and physically demanding experience and without much direction they had worked as a close-knit rescue team.

  A food box was uncovered some six feet down. Then another buried man was located, whereupon Olly and Howard Conway were called over to assist in digging him out. Meanwhile, the rest of the Park’s Board team had arrived and now had a probe line operating in an endeavour to locate the remainder. By then the survivors had gone down to the base of the slope and were provided with a well-earned hot meal and then directed to bed in a snow shelter. For them it was to be a night of terror – an overwhelming fear of yet another avalanche taking them in their restless sleep tormented them until daylight. As it was almost dusk it was decided that the helicopter would come in after moonrise to take out the most shocked of the survivors and the body of the man they’d just found. The rest of the night passed slowly in increasing cold, probing the snow and taking breaks for cups of tea and soup until they found another and finally the last body just after midnight on the last attempt before they had decided to give up. There were three dead and Paul who was critically ill – or so they all thought until they learned the next morning that he had died at the Hermitage, despite every effort to save his life.

  Olly wrote later: “I can’t even pretend to understand why Paul’s and my paths should have come together on these two occasions or why I should live and he die. All I can do is to remember him as he was; fit, brown and happy on his way up the Hooker and then so cheerful and courageous in hospital afterwards . . . I remember him as he was and I’m grateful for what we shared in the mountains and what I gained from those experiences.”

  The weather was good so the helicopter was able to operate, first lifting the survivors. Finally, the search team flew out to Park HQ with two bodies.

  When the Rev. Dick Simpson told me that Paul had been involved in another avalanche, I was absolutely numbed of any emotion and I drove home, parked the car in the garage and then went with Dick to his place and didn’t for one moment think the worst. It just couldn’t happen twice! Minutes seemed endless as we waited for news. At 6.00 pm I was relieved to hear that three of the four missing had been found and Paul was one of them and was being flown to Timaru Hospital. At this point I phoned both our families. More waiting. The phone rang. Dick answered it in the hallway as I sat anxiously in the lounge already planning my journey down to Timaru.

  Then there was an ominous silence! A firm hand rested on my shoulder; I turned to hear the agonising words, “I’m sorry, Karen.”

  Every bodily emotion erupted as I sat screaming No! No! in utter horror and total disbelief. My hopes had soared so high. Now crushed so cruelly to a pulverised nothingness. That dreadful phone call was to report that Paul was dead. Shock froze every fibre within me as the world helplessly looked on.

  Storm on Peak Lenin

  Paul Nunn

  Paul Nunn and I had known each other for more years than we cared to remember. In 1970 we were fellow members of an expedition to the Caucasus, that stark upthrust between the Caspian and the Black Seas, a cradle of civilization and now a playground for mountaineers. Paul, Chris Woodall and I completed a climb up the forbidding face of Pik Shchurovskiy and at our second bivouac, Paul, usually a human power house, with an exuberant enthusiasm for life, came dangerously close to being an exposure victim. It was probably a blend of two dangerous ingredients which fortify this death cocktail: altitude sickness and exposure.

  In the following account Paul’s role is reversed and it was he together with others who set off from their base camp in the high Pamirs to attempt to reach Soviet women climbers, encamped and trapped on the summit of one of Russia’s highest mountains. All big mountains are potentially dangerous; like fast cars they must be treated with respect. Yet if one uses common sense they can be traversed and enjoyed with impunity. The two popular ranges in the Soviet Union, the Caucasus and the Pamir, are high and subject to violent storms. Also being marooned in a vast land mass they can be grippingly cold.

  The Russian climbing bureaucracy appeared somewhat ambiguous in its policy. On the one hand they were acutely safety-conscious and enforce a control time. Before setting out a party was allotted a number of days or hours to complete their climb. The route itself must be approved by a panel of Masters of Sport, experienced senior mountaineers. This panel and the climbers agreed on a reasonable time for the expedition. Should the party fail to return at the specified time, a rescue party sets off im- mediately, unless of course the overdue mountaineers have managed to advise base by radio or some other means that they have been delayed. It was also necessary to have a simple medical examination before setting off on a major route. To western climbers all this was an anathema, although I can see the point of it in such dangerous mountains. But what I can’t reconcile it with is the Russians’ press-on-regardless policy, which advocated that the objective, ie. the summit, should always be reach
ed. I can remember on a previous trip to the Caucasus in 1965 being told off for turning back when we had retreated in the interests of safety, on a relatively low peak, due to adverse conditions. After all, I climb for enjoyment not for death-dicing thrills. It will be interesting to see how the freedoms which came with the break-up of the Soviet Union extend to the climbing scene.

  In the 1970s the Russians ran organised climbing camps in both the Caucasus and the Pamirs and in this way mountaineers from all over the world have had the opportunity to climb in the Soviet Union. I received an invitation to climb in the Pamirs in 1974 from the Federation of Sport, but couldn’t make it. However, many of my friends, including Paul, did and for them it was an experience they won’t readily forget.

  There was little hesitation for me in joining the British Pamirs expedition of 1974. Every member knew me and I them, while some were among my oldest friends. Fourteen years before Clive Rowland and I had a first weekend climbing together in the Lakes, dreaming up Overhanging Bastion and the steeps of North Crag Eliminate, and Kipling Groove on Gimmer Crag in Langdale next day. Our ventures together were always successful. The same could be said of previous experience with Doug Scott and Paul (“Tut”) Braithwaite, particularly in our ascent of the North-East Pillar of Asgard on Baffin Island in 1972. Guy Lee impressed by his wide experience, Speedy Smith by his enthusiasm and ability on rock. It was the most able group of climbers ever to leave Britain for the Soviet Union, and also the most piratical in appearance.

  There had been only one British expedition to the Pamirs since 1963, when Robin Smith and Wilfrid Noyce died and relations became strained for some years. In 1970 Hamish MacInnes, Chris Woodall and I climbed a new route on Pik Shchurovskiy in the Caucasus in one push. In 1974 the objectives were ambitious – nothing less than an alpine-style climb up the East Face of Peak Lenin (23,400 feet/7,134 metres) seemed satisfactory, with all the seriousness and difficulty of commitment at high altitude.