Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

At the end of that long diagonal run, I found him waiting for me, a solitary figure in that blur of white and grey, the track of his skis running right up to him like a little railway. I stepped out of his tracks just before I reached him and stopped by running uphill. I looked at him and saw that he had brought himself up standing by a Christi. A wide arc of ploughed-up snow showed where he had made the turn.

‘Just wanted to find out whether you were all right on a Christi,’ he called to me.

I shook my head. ‘Sorry!’ I shouted back.

‘All right. Just wanted to know. We’ll soon be in the pass now. That’ll give us some shelter. I’ll go easy and stick to diagonals.’

He turned and started off again. I joined his ski tracks and followed on. We reached a steeper part, made two diagonals down it, with standing turns at the end of each. Then followed a long clear run across a sloping field of snow.

It was like a plateau — like a white sloping desk-top. As I came to the edge of it, I realised suddenly that it was going to drop away sharply. I remember noticing how the edges of Mayne’s ski tracks stood out against the grey void of falling snow beyond the lip. Then I was over the edge, plunging, head well down, along tracks that ran straight as a die down a long, very steep hillside of snow.

I should have fallen before my speed became too great. But I had confidence in Mayne’s judgement. I felt sure that the steep descent must end in a rise. Mayne would never have taken it straight otherwise. The wind pressed in an icy blanket against my face. Already I was travelling at a tremendous pace. The snow was thick and I could not see more than forty or fifty yards ahead. I kept my legs braced and supple at the knees and let myself go. It was exhilarating, like going downhill on the Giant Racer.

Then suddenly the snow lifted a little. Mayne’s tracks ran down into the bottom of a steep-sided little valley of snow. The opposite slope of that valley seemed to rise almost sheer. It was like a wall of snow, and I was hurtling towards it. And at the bottom I could see the flurry of churned-up snow where Mayne had been forced to do a Christi. His tracks ran away to the right along the floor of the valley.

My heart leaped in my throat. There was nothing I could do about it but hope that my skis would make the opposite side and not dig their points in. I dared not fall now. I was going too fast.

The snow slope of the opposite side of the valley rose to meet me with incredible speed. It seemed to pounce at me. I braced my legs for the upward thrust of my skis. My ski points lifted as I hit the floor of the valley. Then the snow slope beyond flung itself at me. A cold, wet world closed about me in an icy smother.

I was suddenly still. All the wind was knocked out of my body. I could not breathe. My mouth and nostrils were blocked with cold snow. My legs felt twisted and broken. I could not move them. I sobbed for the air I needed.

I fought to clear my face. I got my hand to my mouth and scraped away the snow. Still I could not breathe. I panicked and lashed out with my arms. Everywhere I felt soft snow that yielded and then packed hard as I fought against it.

I realised then that I was buried. I was frightened. I fought upwards with my hands, gripped in a frenzy of terror. Then the grey light of the sky showed through a hole in the snow and I breathed in air in great sobbing gulps.

As soon as I had recovered my wind, I tried to loosen my legs from the snow in which they were buried. But the ski points had dug themselves firmly in and I could not move them. I tried to reach down to loosen the skis off my boots. But I could not reach that far, for every time I tried to raise myself in order to bend down, my arm sank to the shoulder in the snow. It was very soft.

I tried to find my sticks. I needed the webbed circle of them to support me. But I could not find them. I had removed my hands from the thongs when I was fighting for air and they were buried deep under me. I scraped a clear patch in the snow around me and slewed my body round, bending down whilst still lying in the snow. It took all my energy and gave my twisted legs much pain. But at last I was able to reach the spring clip of my left ski. I pressed it forward and felt immediate release from the pain in my leg as my boot freed itself from the ski. I moved my leg about in the snow. It seemed all right. Then I did the same with the other foot. That too seemed sound.

I lay back exhausted after that. The snow fell steadily on me from above. The wind kept drifting it into the hole in which I was lying, so that I had to be continually pressing the fresh snow back in order not to be smothered.

When I had recovered from the effort of freeing my legs, I began to set about trying to get on to my feet. But it was quite impossible. The instant I put pressure on the snow with either my hands or my legs, I simply sank into it. It was like a bog. I was only safe as long as I continued to lie at full length. Once I struggled into a sitting position and managed to grasp the end of one of my skis. With this I levered myself on to both feet at the same time.

Immediately I sank in the snow up to my thighs. I was utterly exhausted by the time I had extricated myself. There is nothing in the world more exhausting than trying to get up in soft snow and I was tired from the long run in the first place.

I lay on my back, panting. My muscles felt like soft wire. They had no resilience in them. I decided to wait for Mayne. He would follow his ski tracks back. Or would they be obliterated! Anyway, he would remember the way he had come. It might be a little time yet. But he would soon realise that I was not behind him. He might have to climb a bit. How long had I been there? It seemed hours.

I lay back and closed my eyes and tried to pretend that this wasn’t wet snow, but a comfortable bed. The sweat dried on me, making my skin feel cold. The snow was melting under me with the heat of my body and the wet was coming through my ski suit. Fresh snow drifted across my face.

I thought of that long steep descent that had ended so ignominiously here in the snow. And then I remembered with a terrible feeling of panic how Mayne’s ski tracks had turned sharply along the floor of the valley. That flurry of ploughed-up snow! Mayne had done a Christi there. Yet only a few minutes earlier he had stopped expressly to find out whether or not I could do a Christi.

The truth dawned on me slowly as I lay there in the snow. Mayne had meant this to happen.

And I knew then that he would not come back.

When I realised that Mayne would not come back, I had a moment of complete panic. Half-a-dozen times I tried to get on to my feet. But arms and legs were simply swallowed by the soft snow. At the last attempt, I suddenly felt utter exhaustion sweep over me. I put my hand out to hold myself in a sitting position so that my head would remain above the edge of the hole in which I lay. I was afraid of that hole. It was like a grave. The fresh snow drifted so persistently over the crisp edges of it. I felt smothered there. But my hand sank into that feather-bed of snow and I toppled slowly over to my side.

I lay still for a moment after that. My muscles relaxed. A great feeling of lethargy stole over me. Why should I care? Why should I struggle? I could just lie there and go to sleep. I wasn’t cold any more — not for the moment. The snow had got inside my clothes and melted, but my blood had warmed my wet underclothes. Only my hand was cold where it was buried under me.

I began to move it about in order to extricate it. And then my fingers touched something hard — hard and rounded. With sudden renewed energy I searched about with my frozen fingers. It was the top of one of my sticks. Hope, and that sudden relief that hope brings, flooded through me. I lay with my head buried in the snow-caked sleeve of my left arm and sobbed with relief. One of my sticks! Anything seemed possible if only I could get hold of my sticks again.