Hammond Innes - The Lonely Skier

The glacier seemed interminable. Twice, as I struggled across it, snow came down in a grey curtain from Monte Cristallo. But each time it drifted on, down into the valleys. The incline was gentle enough here. But, though my skis slipped easily through the powdery snow, it was a real effort to drag each ski forward. I used my sticks. But there seemed no strength in the thrust of my arms. The wind cut into my wet clothing and froze it, so that, despite my exertions, it became stiff and unyielding and as cold as the snow itself.

At length I reached the place where the smooth rock outcropped and took my skis off. Across my shoulders they were a dead weight. They cut into my shoulders and weighed me down so that I staggered rather than walked.

But at length I stood at the very top of the pass. The air was white — translucent with light as it had been when we had passed this point nearly five hours ago. The peak of Popena stood up, cold and black, and all around me was that world of angry-looking crests. The wind came up from Col da Varda with a violence that whipped the snow away from under my very feet. Everything was just as it had been before, except that Mayne was no longer with me.

I stumbled on from outcrop to outcrop until I stood on the rim of that white basin out of which we had climbed. I set my skis upended in a drift and stared unhappily at that frightening slope. The tracks we had made were still there, a line of hachures that rose to meet me out of the grey murk of snow that filled the lower reaches of the pass. The ski marks were faint and dusted with snow. But they were still visible, like a friendly signpost, marking the way back to warmth and safe sleep.

I put on my skis again and then, very slowly, began the descent, side-stepping down into grey cotton-wool clouds of snow. I kept my eyes on my feet. Once and once only was I fool enough to look down the line of the faint ski marks I was following. They seemed to fall away from under my skis and my knees became weak and trembled, so that I dared not make the next step down for fear the upper ski would slip. It took me ten minutes, or thereabouts, to nerve myself to continue. After that I kept my eyes on my skis. My exhaustion was so great that I found difficulty in placing my skis properly and several times one or other of my skis began to slide from under me.

But I made it in the end. And it was a great relief to see the ski points sizzling through the snow of their own accord like the prows of two ships, thrusting the powdered snow back on either side. I felt safe then, even though the leaden grey cloud mist closed about me and the snow began to blow into my face.

I must have been about halfway down the pass, when figures loomed out of the driving snow. There were several of them. I forget how many. But I saw Joe’s heavy bulk among them. I hullooed to them and waved one of my sticks. They stopped. I made straight for them, the snow fairly melting under my skis. They seemed to come towards me very fast out of a blur of snow. I remember seeing Joe crouch down, training his baby camera on me. Then the blur became a blank. Apparently I just fell unconscious in my tracks.

When I came to, rough hands were chafing at my legs and arms. I was lying on the snow and Joe was bending over me. The cold rim of a flask touched my lips and I nearly choked with the fire of brandy in my throat. Somebody had taken off my skis and a blanket had been spread over me.

‘What happened?’ Joe asked.

‘Mayne,’ I gasped. ‘Tried to — murder me.’ I closed my eyes. I felt so tired.

As if from a great distance, I heard Joe’s voice say, ‘Must be delirious.’

An Italian began talking. I could not hear what he was saying. I was only half-conscious. I wished they would go away and let me sleep. Then I was hoisted on to somebody’s back and the wind was cold on my face again. That and the strain on my arms brought me to full consciousness. My cheek touched dark, thick-growing hair under a peaked cap. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see dark tufts growing in a man’s ear. My direct line of vision was towards the points of his skis pushing fast through the dry snow. He was skiing without sticks, his arms under my knees and his hands locked in mine. I learned later that he was one of the guides from Tre Croci and had often carried casualties in that manner down the mountains.

‘I think I’ll be all right now,’ I told him in Italian.

‘You will faint,’ he said. ‘You are too weak.’

But I insisted and at length he stopped and set me down. They fixed my skis for me and then, with the guide travelling beside me, I continued under my own steam. He was quite right. I did feel faint and terribly weak. But, having said that I could make it, I was determined to do so.

But I was very glad to see the snow-covered gables of Col da Varda. It seemed like coming home after a long journey. The guide and Joe helped me up to my room. Between them they got my clothes off and then started to massage my body to bring back the circulation. The pain in my hands and feet was indescribable as the blood returned to half-frozen veins. Then I was put to bed with hot-water bottles that Anna brought up, and I fell immediately into a deep sleep.

I woke to find Joe standing beside me with a tray of food. ‘It’s past ten,’ he said. ‘You’ve slept for nearly four hours. Better have some food now.’ I sat up then. I felt much better; very stiff, but quite fit.

Joe went to the door. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘He’s awake.’

It was Mayne who entered. ‘My God, Blair!’ be said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’ He sat down uninvited at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ve only just got back from Carbonin. I was in despair when we were searching up through the pass. We couldn’t find a trace of you. Then, when we got back at nightfall, there was Wesson’s message saying they’d picked you up on this side. I’ve never been so glad to get a telephone message. I’d almost given up hope. How do you feel? What happened?’

It was incredible. That charming, boyish smile. It was so natural. But it did not extend to the eyes. Those grey eyes of his were expressionless. They told me nothing. Or was that my imagination? He seemed so delighted to see me. He made it sound important to him that I was alive. But all I could think of was that wall of snow rushing up to meet me and the great swirl of snow where he’d Christied into the floor of the valley. ‘You should know what happened,’ I said coldly. ‘You meant it to happen.’

He went on as though he had not understood my remark. ‘When I got to the end of that valley, I found I was on the edge of a glacier. It was the Cristallino Glacier. I knew then, of course, that we had struck much too far to the right. I waited there for a few minutes. When you didn’t show up, I began to get worried. I started back up my ski tracks. But I hadn’t realised how quickly the snow was covering up my tracks. By the time I’d gone back five hundred yards, there was no trace of them left. The valley wasn’t clearly defined. Without any tracks to guide me, there were innumerable ways I might have come down. The snow had been so thick in my face that I could not remember the features of the ground. It was a maze of little valleys. I tramped up every one I could find. I climbed from one to the other, calling to you. And in the end I thought you must have had a spill, found my tracks covered and made your own way. I went on down to Carbonin then, and when I found you hadn’t arrived I telephoned here for them to send out a search-party from this end, and then started back up the pass with all the decent skiers I could muster at the Carbonin Hotel. My God!’ he said with an apologetic smile, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. You see, I felt it was my fault. I should have realised that my tracks were being covered up like that and kept closer touch with you. What did happen?’ he asked.