What Better Place to Die

Chapter 1-E

While it’s a shame to abandon the hike and turn around and descend so early in the day, I have no formal plan and no need to hike to the summit, which is still cloud-draped. I know there are other options—a number of trails that I can choose to finish my hiking day. As I descend to the Hermit Lake shelter area at the bottom of the ravine, I imagine the challenge of the ravine during the skiing season—the joys, risks, injuries, and even deaths. The real winter snow season is, no doubt, weeks away.

While hiking down the ravine, I must go slower than I did on the trip up, for I have a right total knee prosthesis which makes it easier to ascend than descend. The final trauma to my chronically osteoarthritic knee came during the descent off a volcano in Mexico called Popocatépetl. My knee had swollen to such a degree that I could not bend it at all: my mountaineering career had come to a sudden halt—at least for a while. The trauma was sort of an orthopedic variation on the theme of Montezuma’s Revenge. For almost a year, it felt like an ice pick impaled my knee, causing such pain that I was forced to have a total prosthesis installed. After about three months of self-pity and nine months of strenuous rehabilitation, I once again heeded the lure of the mountains.

Back at the Hermit Lake shelter area, I stop at the hut, which is a large wooden cabin which shows multiple stages of building and repair, like a typical New England farmhouse. I review my options for the rest of the one-day hike by studying the maps on the wall and evaluating the trails that will complete my day. My new plan is to hike up Lion Head Trail, across the relatively flat Alpine Garden Trail to the Auto Road and then down the lengthy, meandering, and undulating road—partly gravel, partly asphalt. That road from the valley to the summit loosely follows the original walking trail, which had evolved into a bridle path. Later the path was widened to create a carriage road, and with the advent of the automobile, improved as the current toll road. In order to conserve limited resources, the layout and location of the road follows the path of least resistance on this steep mountain. Descending the road will be a great way to end the day.

This new plan, as with any plan, has some risk, but it is anything but macho, for it is based on the wisdom of Brer Rabbit: “The shortest way is not always the safest way home.” Having hiked along the Alpine Garden Trail this past summer, I know the area well and am comfortable going there. The new plan brings a renewed spirit to a day that has been deteriorating.

Before I leave the hut, I sit on the deck and enjoy a sumptuous lunch of turkey, low-fat mozzarella cheese, and water. It’s Atkins’ Diet time. I take a moment to reflect on the fact that Dr. Robert Atkins earned his M.D. at Cornell University Medical College, my alma mater, eight years ahead of me. He was not famous at the time of my graduation, but certainly gained fame over the following decades. It is interesting to note that the low-carbohydrate diet concept has been around for quite some time; actually, over a hundred years. A morbidly obese but fashionable funeral director, William Banting, was put on such a diet by the world-famous British physician Dr. William Harvey. The diet worked so well that Banting wrote a book entitled Letter on Corpulence in 1864. It became the first worldwide best-selling diet book. I observe a small group of Boy Scouts and their leaders who are enjoying their lunch, mostly carbohydrates.

The short easy hike (0.1 miles) down the Tuckerman's Ravine trail leads to the entrance of the summer route of Lion Head Trail (elevation 3,825 feet). I follow it back up the mountain. The trail is steep (slope about 15 to 20 degrees) and tortuous, with many switchbacks and stone or wood steps and handrails. However, I make very good progress.

The winter route of the Lion Head Trail joins from the right just short of a half mile from its beginning. I know the winter route for it had been destroyed by an avalanche in 1995, and soon thereafter rebuilt or relocated. I hiked it in early 1996 during a three-day winter training course with Eastern Mountain Sports in preparation for my first attempt at summiting Aconcagua in Argentina, at 22,800 feet the highest mountain outside of Asia. My heart races as I enjoy my return to the Lion Head trail and reflecting on the rigors of training for and my struggles on Aconcagua—the first really big mountain attempt while sporting my new prosthesis. I got to within 1,200 feet of the summit. Perhaps next year, the summit!

Chapter 1- F

The Lion Head Trail is memorable for another incident that occurred during that training time for Aconcagua. Our group of six ascenders met two Canadian hikers who were descending slowly with one injured hiker. He had ruptured his Achilles tendon. It took all eight of us to transport him down that tortuous and steep trail. We carried him down but more often slid him like a log on the compacted snow and ice. Mountains are no place to lose one’s mobility.

As I ascend, the soft raindrops turn into even softer snowflakes. Beautiful snowflakes. Giant snowflakes. By the millions, no doubt billions, they slowly and gently settle on the path, adhering well to the dirt and rocks. Taking a few moments from my ascent, I toss back the hood of my anorak, remove my glasses, and turn upward to allow the snowflakes to whisper on my face. Slowly, they melt, merge into droplets, and stream down my face as tears—heavenly tears, happy tears. Beyond seeing and feeling these snowflakes, I must taste them. I extend my tongue and simply wait as snowflakes land and melt. Fresh, sweet water.

I study these large snowflakes as they land on my gloves. It was Snowflake Bentley in Jericho, Vermont who studied and photographed snowflakes about 100 years ago… claiming that every snowflake is different from all the others. Amazing.

Usually, during an ascent from rain into snow, one expects a band of freezing rain or sleet, with a resulting slippery trail, causing one to turn around. This is not the case now, for this new blanket is not at all slippery. No doubt, this quick change in the weather in the area is due to one or two possible factors: I am ascending into pre-existing colder layers of air; or more importantly, layers of colder moisture-laden air are moving rapidly into my area—perhaps just a few hundred feet above me. Winds have a laminar flow, layered like water in pipes or streams, like blood in arteries and veins.

There is no wind in my immediate world. The thinning forest, now primarily black spruce and balsam fir, falls silent, for the snowflakes are like sponges that absorb sounds. The only sounds are of my footsteps on the new-fallen snow. The gloom and darkness of the rain is now quickly transforming into the joys and brightness of a winter wonderland, and so early in the season. What is it about the first snowfall of the season that captures one’s attention and emotions? For me, the lure of alpine skiing and winter hiking trails, including the circuitous trails over treacherous glaciers, have been a major part of my life.

Snowflakes, marvelous snowflakes: I’m back!

In Celtic myths the legendary hunter is lured into the unknown, forbidden forest to track and bag the largest stag he had ever seen. Are these millions of marvelous snowflakes falling on a mountain trail the “call to adventure” for me? Am I entering an unknown world of wonder, even danger, as the lure of snowflakes turns my simple hike into a mythic quest?

Ascending rapidly up the trail I notice that the snow is deeper and in places crusty. I am entering a zone of snow from previous snowfalls. I am now about one hour underway on Lion Head trail as I reach the “Lion’s forehead.” Here the gentle winter wonderland changes abruptly. Roaring in from the west, over the rim of Tuckerman’s Ravine, and carrying an increased amount of snow, high winds slam into my face.

It’s decision time: turn back down the steep Lion Head Trail or continue on. In less time that it takes to turn around, I realize that I know, from previous hikes, an established shortcut trail from Lion Head Trail that will get me sooner to the Alpine Garden Trail so I can complete my new plan to hike to the Auto Road and home.

Chapter 1- G

I choose to continue to ascend for several reasons. First, I want to achieve my goal—to implement my new plan. Over the decades, I have harbored animosity and impatience for strategic planners who fail to complete their plans. I am not going to be one of those who have been uncommitted, unfulfilled.

Although I am a bit nervous at this point, the desire to finish the commitment—even to meet the challenge—far outweigh any apparent potential danger. Perhaps my underlying psychological basis for this need to finish comes from a lifelong tendency to have too many projects based on too many opportunities in a world of critics who pointed to this lifestyle.

Strategic planning notwithstanding, for some it is a natural human response to continue on, even into adversity: to finish the race.  I recall the story of the marathon runner from Tanzania, John Akhwari, who staggered into the stadium an hour after the winner, the last to finish. Grimacing with pain with every step, he continued to the end. The lingering crowd in the stadium applauded as he crossed the finish line as they would have for the winner. When asked why he didn’t stop when he knew he was so far behind, John was surprised by the question and said, “My country did not send me to Mexico to start the race... they sent me to finish the race.”

Another reason for ascending is the knee prosthesis argument with the easy preference of ascent over descent.

At this point, my heroic quest is in concert with my ideal as a strategic planner, committed to implementation. In mountaineering, the cornerstone is meeting the challenge, striving for the summit. Perhaps there is another element—the fact that I am an ageing man, soon to be sixty-one, who doesn’t want to give up too easily... who wants to cling to his youth.

In addition, I reason that with an additional brief ascent, the smooth gradual descent along the Auto Road would be far more preferable—and expedient—than simply turning around and returning along the steep harrowing trail I had just ascended.

Enthusiastically, yet recognizing a bit of risk, I scramble over the Lion's forehead for an additional ascent of only about fifty feet. In this short distance, there are deep snow pockets and drifts shaped by the forces of the insistent winds. Soon I find the shortcut trail and hike for approximately four hundred feet when I meet the Alpine Garden Trail. I am entering the barren, wind-blown expanse of an alpine meadow, now a pure white snowfield swept by the giant broom of the mountain king. This area is actually an island of arctic tundra with a climate similar to that of Northern Labrador. The tall trees have been replaced by krummholz (German for “crooked wood”), which are the dwarfed and stunted adaptations of the black spruce and balsam fir. The only reason they survive from year to year is that they are usually covered with protective layers of snow during the depths of the winter. The parts that are not covered with snow simply die.

The intensity of the snow and wind increases as I hike faster and faster, from cairn to cairn along the trail. Cairns, the heaps of rocks marking the trail like silent sentinels pointing the way home, or away from home, are the gifts of the many AMC volunteers who annually maintain the trails. I am grateful for each of them. I am going home. Enough of this hike, this experimental, “low-carb” hike. It’s time to go and find some real food and, why not, a hot toddy or two, or maybe three. Carbohydrates?

On the trail, I meet a lone descending hiker who says, “I'm from Florida. This isn’t my kind of weather; I'm going home." I think to myself I'm from New England; this is my kind of weather! Is this arrogance, or just an expression of exuberance, or simple joy, perhaps mixed with some fear, some attempts at meeting the challenge?

Last summer, our small group of casual hikers had walked very slowly and carefully along this trail, studying the tiny flowers: the bell-shaped Lapland rosebay, the five-petal white diapensia, and the pink alpine azalea. The situation is now quite different.

Another series of blasts of wind-driven snow and my remaining exuberance is snuffed out. I am now growing deeply concerned, but I am making excellent progress with some help from the wind at my back. I recall the Irish prayer “May the road rise up before you, may the wind be always at your back, and may the Lord hold you in the palm of his hand.” A few thoughts go up in the search for that comforting hand.

Chapter 1- H

I hike faster, running whenever I can. New snow is mixed with layers of old snow and ice that cover the rocks on the trail, making each step a challenge and a potential danger. The snow depth varies greatly, up to ten, maybe even fourteen inches. Although the trail is relatively straight and flat, I lose my balance and fall down in the snow. My glasses are covered with ice and snow and my are fogged up. I am now sweating. I clean the lenses with a handkerchief as best I can and continue to hike. I fall again. Be careful… walk slowly. Walk like a cat—forget the move like a river bit.

Even though my vision is markedly diminished, my other senses are compensating. My hearing seems to be increased, for I can hear the crunch of snow and ice under my feet in spite of the roaring of the wind. Perhaps I am really feeling the crunch as it transmits through my leather boots, up my legs, to my brain. I suddenly get a taste of salt on my lips. Am I sweating so much? With a glove, I wipe my lips to find blood, salty blood, no doubt related to one of my recent falls. My sense of smell may be heightened, but there is nothing to smell in this strange world. During the summer, one can occasionally be downwind from the Cog Railway and smell the smoke of burning bituminous coal, but they are closed for the season. On rare occasions, I have been in winter snowstorms complete with lightning and the accompanying smell of ozone. I hear no thunder; I see no lightning; I smell no ozone—at least not yet.
For years I have harbored a fear that, should I be in an accident involving my right knee and its prosthesis, the surgically-modified bones would be easily shattered and the high-tech metal and plastic pieces would be dislodged—or, in my deepest fear, pop out from my smashed knee. If I were to lose the use of my right leg, my descent would be over. I would be stuck, for there are no fellow hikers to carry me, even slide me, home on the snow and ice.

I now slow down and carefully plan and execute each step. After about thirty minutes of hiking the one-mile stretch along the Alpine Garden Trail, I arrive at the junction with Huntington Ravine. A series of huge cairns, some of the largest I have ever seen, offer some shelter from the blizzard as I remove my outer waterproof shell and don my remaining clothing, putting the Denali jacket under the shell. This sucks! Any joy of my winter wonderland hike has been blown away.

I know this area well, and that a descent down Huntington Ravine, perhaps the most dangerous trail in the White Mountains, is not an option. Having descended via Nelson Crag Trail last summer, it was also not an option since it was difficult enough in the summer. I could continue on the Alpine Garden Trail to the Auto Road, which was about seven-tenths of a mile away.

Look! I see a small sign indicating I should turn left, up toward the summit to reach the “safety” of the Auto Road. The sign indicates that it is only about three-tenths of a mile away, the shortest distance to the Auto Road. Is this a gift from some supernatural guide, showing me the way home, or the way deeper into unknown dangers? I assume the former, hoping that this ordeal will soon be over and will be my secret. I may, however, have to re-live this experience in my nightmares.

Heeding, trusting the small sign, I start to hike up the mountain on the extension of the Huntington Ravine Trail. Soon the wind and snow create whiteout conditions. Visibility is down to almost zero. The trail beneath my feet is a blur. I search for the second sign that should take me on to the Auto Road. I can find no sign. I continue ascending as the Huntington Ravine Trail crosses the Nelson Crag Trail heading towards the summit. I have missed the Auto Road just barely.

I feel my way along, step by step. I move slowly from cairn to cairn, but now I can go no further. I cannot see the next cairn. I cannot see a cairn that is five feet high and three feet across! Reaching out with my gloved hands, I try desperately and repeatedly to touch the next cairn in the white darkness. I fail. I retreat to my last cairn.

I stop. I hunker down.

Chapter 2- Awaiting Rescue

                                          “Greater love hath no one than this,
                                          than to risk one’s life for a stranger.”
                                                    —Bernhoff von Bergen

It is about three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. I am familiar with this trail and know my location. Here, well above the tree line, all major points of reference are now lacking. The only benchmark I have is a cairn, the last cairn that I could find. I can go no further without straying into the snow-covered wilderness and becoming lost. My world is one of rocks and boulders covered with layers of old ice and snow, as well as an admixture of new snow and rime ice. It is white, totally white… the absence of all colors. Above all, it is a world of wind. All I can do is hunker down and wait.

The center of my limited world is my cairn. To gain maximum protection from the wind, I choose an area on the downwind side and dig down through the snow and ice to the underlying rock, creating a pocket. It is a small pocket, much too small for my six-foot body. I lie down, curl into the fetal position to reduce my surface area—to minimize heat loss. I am still warm from the hiking but I know that the cold will soon grip my body. I can only wait and hope that the weather will improve, and that I will be able to continue down the mountain. The weather had abruptly changed once today; why not change again, this time for the better?

I open my small knapsack and hastily search its contents. Inside I find a brand new—still in the wrapper—Thermo-Lite Emergency Bivvy Sack that I had purchased the previous day. The purchase had not been planned, not an item on a shopping list. It had been an impulse purchase. It looked like something that a mountaineer, even just a day hiker, should have. Printed in bold letters on the package is a welcome message:
                                      Survival Protection for the Unexpected Night Out

The bivvy seems small, packed in a plastic bag measuring only about four by eight inches; however, it is amazingly voluminous when I unfold it. It billows up in the wind. The silver bivvy is made of a lightweight, waterproof, metallic material, reminiscent of a silver and red “space blanket” I had in the sixties. I quickly climb into it along with my knapsack. It is amazingly spacious. There are Velcro-type closures at one end that provide an effective seal from the outside storm.

Bivouacked there at the base of the last cairn, I can still hear and feel the wind screaming outside. Encased in my silver cocoon like some metallic chrysalis, I am surprised how safe I feel. But what if the weather doesn’t change for hours? I feel around in my pack for the trusty Mini-Maglite, turn it on, and find the label from the bivvy packaging and read on:
                                    Reflects and retains up to 80% of radiated body heat.
                                       An ideal survival/safety item for day hikes, summit
                                            attempts, snowboarding, and all winter sports.

Well, that’s comforting. If necessary, I can survive the night in my cocoon, and emerge tomorrow as a new creature, ready for the remainder of my descent and the rest of my life. Will I have to struggle as any larva must to exit the cocoon in order to fly away as a butterfly?

From Joseph Campbell I had learned that at a crisis point in the mythological quest, a guide provides a supernatural aid to assist the hero in his journey. Is my bivvy sack such an aid? Certainly it isn’t supernatural, but quite natural and practical. Perhaps the individual in the sporting goods store the previous day had served as my benevolent fairy guide.

I am now getting cold in spite of my bivvy sack, so I start some isometric exercises—the voluntary flexing and relaxing of the muscles of my legs and arms—to create heat and avoid  the onset of hypothermia. This is helping me on both physical and psychological levels, because I am doing something to contribute to my comfort, well-being, and perhaps my survival.

Chapter 2- B

Digging deeper in my knapsack I find just a few other items- the turkey, mozzarella cheese, and water. At least Dr. Atkins is still with me. Much to my surprise, there is my cell phone. Why did I bring my cell phone on this hike? I have never taken a cell phone on a previous hike. My experience has shown me that there are many dead cells in rural areas. But maybe it will work here. Perhaps the sheer altitude will offer me a chance to reach someone and share the story of my struggles. After all, I am nearly six thousand feet up on a mountain and on the side facing populated areas that should be replete with cell phone towers. I take off my gloves and press the tiny keys.

After a series of frustrating attempts at operator and 911 calls, I finally connect with a person. Since my cell phone service is Maine-based and my number is a Maine telephone number, and I am only about seventy-five miles from the Maine border, I do not know to whom I am talking or where they are located. My message is simple but perhaps a bit more dramatic than my current situation calls for:
“Dahl, Mt. Washington, dying.”
                                                                 *     *     *
                             The following is compiled from several rescuer first-person accounts,
                                official written reports, and audio tapes of the 911 calls made.
                                      No record of Bernie’s first 911 call to Maine is available.

2:50 PM
When Bernie’s first call comes in to State Police Troop F in Concord, the Mt. Washington Observatory is reporting weather of 29°, 4” of snow, and 50-60 mph winds. Troop F notifies the Appalachian Mountain Club that Bernie is suffering from hypothermia somewhere on the Alpine Garden Trail. AMC calls Bernie on his cell phone but receives no answer.

3:07 PM
Troop F notifies New Hampshire Fish and Game, the agency responsible for coordinating the various search and rescue teams, of the situation. Lt. Martin Garabedian advises Troop F to divert any future calls from Bernie to the AMC.
                                                                  *     *     *
On my second call, reaching the AMC, I give my hiking itinerary of the day and the estimate of my current location. My message is: “I came across the Alpine Trail ... to the junction of … Huntington Ravine ... and Nelson Crag and took a left … like I was supposed to toward the Toll road.” It is important that I stress the fact that I have turned left, because I am now in a location that is heading up the mountain.

Actually, the correct name for the first trail is the Alpine Garden Trail—not Alpine Trail. The Toll Road is currently referred to as the Auto Road. Fortunately for me there are no other Alpine Trails or any other roads on Mt. Washington that can cause confusion. Now I am waiting with a reasonable hope of being rescued. Things are looking up, for I have reached the outside world and I have told my story.

Assuming a rescue team could just drive up the Auto Road by car or truck and find me based on the data I have given, we could simply hike to the vehicle and drive home. It is, however, Saturday afternoon and it will soon be dark. Can a winter rescue team be found, assembled, equipped, and ready for the search and rescue, so late in the day—and so comparatively early in the winter search and rescue season?

Chapter 2- C

3:20 PM
Bernie calls 911 and is routed to AMC. Bernie reports he is cold and unable to move due to the whiteout conditions. He is at the junction of Alpine Garden and Nelson Crag Trails in a bivvy sack.
                                                            
                                                                 *     *     *
I am grateful for the apparent capability and professionalism of the several levels of 911 operators and associated agencies that are, hopefully, preparing to rescue me. How fortuitous it is that I have my cell phone with me on the mountain. Why had I taken it? Why does it function so well under such adverse rural conditions? Is my cell phone another aid offered to me at a time of crisis in my quest? I think so.

During the next hour and a half, I am surprisingly warm as I lie and exercise in my cocoon. I make five additional 911 calls and each time I repeat my name, situation, and itinerary. My contacts are cordial and professional, asking pointed questions, and reviewing my itinerary and location. Although the multiple levels of available resources impress me at first, I am becoming concerned that my message will not be communicated accurately through the system to the rescuers in the field. Even worse, I soon become agitated and frustrated when, on several of the calls, I can hear the dispatcher reaching unmanned switchboards or answering machines. What is going on down there? The dispatchers, however, continue to provide support and try to keep me informed of their progress in contacting rescuers. Their support is key to maintaining my perseverance and my hope, for the weather is not improving as best I can judge from within my bivvy.

While I wait and telephone, I continue to do my isometrics, now tightening and relaxing any muscle I can control. I am, however, starting to get cold. My exercises are increasingly difficult to continue because of fatigue. However, I continue to flex, relax, flex...
                                                                      
                                                                         *     *     *
3:35 PM
Bernie calls, having not moved since the last contact. F&G reported that his speech is slurring pronouncedly and he is uncertain of his exact location. However, 911 tapes indicate Bernie is exactly certain and had made this clear in all calls. (See Appendices.)

NHF&G Conservation Officers Kevin Jordan, Michael Moody, Sam Sprague, and Doug Gralenski respond to the base of the Auto Road, assisted by volunteers from Androscoggin Valley Search and Rescue (AVSAR) and MRS (Mountain Rescue Service). All are advised of severe winter weather conditions on the mountain. The Auto Road Corporation provides a truck with chained tires, as well as a truck with a snow plow driven by Brian Bennett.
                                                                      *     *     *
From within my bivvy, I can hear the wind increasing and feel the weight of the accumulating snow as it covers my body. I struggle to shake off the buildup, a mixture of snow and rime ice. Despite the wind, the ice/snow combination adheres all too well to the smooth surface of my bivvy sack.

Becoming concerned that the bivvy will soon be so covered with snow and ice that I will be buried just enough that my rescuers will not see me, I slowly and carefully inch my way up onto the surface of the snow. At last I feel that I am now on top of the snow. What’s happening outside? Can I look for my rescuers? Can I shout to them?

I decide to peek out of the end of the bivvy, to survey my changing yet still hostile world. Slowly I separate the pieces of Velcro and open the end of the bivvy. A powerful gust of wind enters that small opening, inflates the bivvy, and starts to pull it off my body. I struggle to re-envelop myself, to re-close the end of the bivvy, but wind gusts fill it and start to wrench it from my body. My knapsack with its few contents tumbles out of the bivvy.

I need both the knapsack and the bivvy sack. The bivvy has been responsible for holding in my body heat and slowing down the process of hypothermia, of freezing to death; the knapsack contains my food and my cell phone, my only contact with the outside world.

I am well aware of the admonition that has helped seamen for centuries: “One hand for yourself, and one hand for the ship”—meaning, “Hang on and work!” While both my bivvy and pack are important to my survival, there is no time to choose between them. Keeping a firm hold on my knapsack with one gloved hand, I desperately grasp the trailing edge of the bivvy sack with the other. The wind is howling inside the sack with far more force than I could have ever imagined. I grab the bivvy tightly, but it billows up like a spinnaker sail on a racing sloop. My fingers are numb with cold. Through the gloves, I can barely feel whether my grip is true or not. I realize that I must let go of the knapsack and hope its weight will be sufficient to hold it in place. I reach out to grab the remaining edge of the bivvy sack with both hands—but it is too late. Suddenly, the silver balloon is torn from my grip and hurtles through the darkness, down, down, down towards Huntington Ravine, out of sight and well out of reach.

Chapter 2- D

Should I have chosen the bivvy sac over the knapsack? Was it more important? Should I have put all my efforts into saving the bivvy at the outset and hoped that the knapsack would remain nearby? I had made my choice to save both, yet now the bivvy is gone. The knapsack, however, landed next to me and remains within reach.

What have I done? My situation has gone from extremely bad to utterly desperate. The bivvy sack, my best hope for survival as I wait for the rescuers to arrive, is gone. This aid, this gift, I have squandered. That which had protected me from the wind has been taken from me by the wind, because of my risky decision to survey my world outside the bivvy sack. Will curiosity end up killing me? But I still have my cell phone. Taking off one glove and placing it carefully in the knapsack for safe keeping, I find the phone. Frantically I press the tiny buttons to make another 911 call. I fail on several tries. Then I realize that the “on/off” light is not lit… and it will not light because the battery is now dead. Another aid is gone.

Deadly cold penetrates deeper into my body. The snow is increasing, as is the wind. I imagine the impressive statistics being recorded right now in the warmth and comfort of the observatory on the summit, which is just several hundred yards away. Now it is just me, in my late fall hiking outfit, against what has been called “the worst weather on Earth.” In 1934, the wind speed here had been officially recorded at two hundred thirty-one miles per hour.

Worst of all, the day has turned into night… I am cloaked in darkness. My day was totally white, the absence of all colors; my night is completely black, the presence of all colors—colors than I cannot see.

                                                                    *     *     *
5:15 PM
The Mt. Washington Observatory reports 22° F with winds at 80 mph gusting to 92 mph.
AVSAR and MRS volunteers Bill Arnold, Ian Turnbull, Ben Miller, Craig Taylor, Peter Lewis, and Rob Adair, with Sprague and Gralenski, begin driving up the Auto Road in the two trucks, heading for the Cow Pasture just past the six mile mark. The Cow Pasture is within one-third mile of Bernie’s last reported location.
                                                                      *     *     *
The next six hours or so pass very, very slowly. At one point I “hear” the admonition of Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars. Standing tall, undaunted by these hurricane force winds, he offers his wisdom: “May the Force be with you, Bernie; go for the Auto Road.” But diminutive Yoda, standing close by my side, next to my knapsack, quietly advises me in his unique backward speech: “By the cairn stay you, Bernie… by the cairn you stay.”

Not willing to simply lie there and die there, I decide to make a last-ditch run for the Auto Road. I fully realize that new snow has fallen on the layers of old ice and snow, the winds are ferocious, and the surrounding area is made of large rocks and boulders. In addition, while I know in general terms where the Auto Road is, I know that in its course it meanders, so I can easily walk parallel to it for some distance. Worse yet, since the road undulates, some sections of the road appear to be going down the mountain when they’re actually heading for up towards the summit.

However, it doesn’t really matter, for I soon discover that I can hardly stand—much less muster the strength to climb anywhere. In spite of my isometrics, hypothermia has set in, grabbing hold of me in its icy vise. Now I am really stuck.

Chapter 2- E

About 6:00 PM

The winds are at a steady 80+ mph. Snow forms dense drifts and visibility is less than twenty feet. One rescuer reports some of the worst conditions he’s experienced in twenty years of climbing and rescuing.

At the 5.5 mile mark, the pickup lurches toward the edge of the Great Gulf while attempting to plow through the heavy drifts. Rescuers in the back of the truck describe the frightening incident, fearing they were going over the edge. It is far too dangerous to attempt to drive the truck any further, so the rescuers continue on foot. Sprague and Bennett stay with the truck to await further rescuers who are on their way and for the rest of their team that might return with Bernie.
Soon after, Arnold and Taylor both have vision problems with their goggles, and have to return to the truck for new goggles. Gralenski goes with them.

Shortly thereafter, Mike Pelchat arrives in another truck with Neil Brodien and Taylor (who had fixed his goggles). Bearing a litter, they begin ascending Alpine from the six mile mark of the Auto Road to the junction of the Nelson Crag Trail.

Pelchat, a twenty-year veteran of the Mt. Washington trails, says, “Only the day before, tourists were driving their two-wheel drive automobiles all the way to the summit … now, even with a chain-equipped four-wheel drive truck, there was no telling how far up the mountain we would make it … this storm had already deposited six inches of snow with drifts up to six feet tall and it was still snowing hard up there. Having a little wintry weather by the third week of October is not unusual. Having snowdrifts up to six feet high in October is not normal. Besides the visibility being reduced to about five feet in the approaching darkness, with the freezing fog and blowing snow, driving on the higher reaches of the Auto Road was impossible and the trail conditions about as bad as it can get … the breathtaking drop-offs into the Great Gulf, though hidden by the storm, nevertheless still yawned beneath the maelstrom.

“I had the definite advantage of knowing the terrain. Map and compass would be nice to use to keep on track, but in these stormy conditions in the black of night, it takes an intuitive knowledge of where the trails go.”
                                                                         *     *     *
During a winter course with the Wilderness Medical Society, I had learned how to build a snow cave. Perhaps I can create such a structure and survive the night. Immediately I realize that any attempt to build a cave will be futile. Even a primitive and incomplete snow cave cannot be created out of ice and snow mixture that does not “pack” at all. Perhaps I can simply augment the limited wind protection that my cairn provides by building just a wall of snow—a wind break. As I gather, by the handful, and try to pack the limited nearby snow/ice combination, the winds simply blow it away.

I realize that the best thing to do is to simply lie as still as possible to allow some of the new snow, but especially the rime ice, to adhere to my body, as it had to the bivvy, giving me some insulating effect. I will become krummholz; I will survive because snow, with its insulating effects, will cover me completely. Offsetting the idea of lying still is my need to continue to move, to do isometric exercise of any sort to produce heat. Soon, however, my muscles become weak and spastic. I cannot flex them without experiencing pain. Now the muscles do not even relax.

Before long, I stop shivering, either voluntarily or involuntarily. From my medical training and high altitude experience, I know that this is a certain sign that moderate hypothermia has set in, and that my core temperature is now probably below ninety degrees Fahrenheit, perhaps as low as eighty-six degrees. Below that temperature, severe hypothermia will set in, leading to total paralysis followed by death.

Since there is nothing else physical I can do, I spend my time thinking. At first, I think only of my deadly situation and how I got here. My hopes are now refocused on two possibilities: that the rescuers will come soon, or the wind will die down.

Eventually, my thoughts turn to my life. I reflect on the great mountains I have climbed, in much deeper snow and at much higher altitudes, and involving precarious situations such as climbing on steep glaciers harboring secret and deadly crevasses that can suddenly swallow you whole and spew you out decades later. There is abundant time to think of the wonderful, supportive, and patient mountaineering guides with whom I had hiked.

Chapter 2- F

There is Minnie Purington, who led our group to the summit of Kilimanjaro in Africa. It was October 1989 and we were celebrating the first summiting by a European, Hans Meyer, one hundred years earlier. Unlike many of the other stalwarts on the mountain, we avoided acute mountain sickness (AMS), by heeding the Swahili advice “poli poli,” “ascend slowly.” Here, at merely six thousand feet above sea level on Mt. Washington, there is no risk of AMS for me.

I remember Ricardo Torres Nava, M.D., the first Latin American to summit Everest, who guided us up Popocatépetl and Ixta in Mexico. Several years later we trained together on Ixta and then headed for Pico de Orizaba. We failed to finish the climb on Orizaba because, on our summit day, Hurricane Mitch slammed into Central America and Mexico. Since we descended in a rapid and timely fashion, I had avoided the experience of hurricane force winds on a mountain. Mt. Washington was fulfilling that void with a vengeance.

I recall Sergio Fitz-Watkins, our chief guide on Aconcagua in February 1996. There was the long hike up the Horcones Valley to the Plaza de Mulas, a dreadful place of filth and depravation that needs no translation from Spanish. I can easily visualize Sergio's face as he refused to allow us to hike over to the refugio, the rustic hotel, for a shower, a hamburger, and a night in a bunk bed. “We are on Aconcagua to rough it, to suffer, to be one with the mountain,” he’d said. Now, on Mt. Washington, I will gladly settle for a small tent, stomach cramps, diarrhea, and even the obnoxious tent mate I had at the Plaza de Mulas. Am I to be “one” with Mt. Washington and suffer… and to what degree of suffering?

Above all, there is Olga Voskova, who guided us up Mt. Elbrus in the Caucasus Mountains of Russia, the highest mountain in Europe. Olga had a sixth sense about danger. As we struggled to the summit to celebrate and take pictures, Olga abruptly said “We go now,” for she knew our struggles that tumultuous day had just begun.

Sergio, Minnie, where are you, now that I need you? Ricardo, ¡Ayudame! Olga… okay, Olga, we go now.
But this Mt. Washington situation is different from the others. There is the snow and freezing temperatures that one might expect on a mountain hike, apparently even Mt. Washington in October. There are also the highest winds I have ever experienced. But, above all, there is isolation. I am alone.

It doesn’t take much of a leap to remember other solo hiking adventures that nearly ended in tragedy. While attending the University of Oslo Summer School, I had hiked alone up Galdhøpiggen, the highest mountain in Norway. Near the summit, I wandered over to all the edges of the snow field to take a series of panoramic photos. After my descent to the nearby village, much to my horror, I saw a postcard that clearly indicated I had been standing on the edge of a cornice—a thin shelf of layers of snow and ice created by the wind. Nothing held this shelf of ice up except itself, and a tenuous, frozen connection to the rock ledge from which it protruded. Recalling this on Mt. Washington amidst my circumstances, I realize that fragile snow cornice was not unlike my own life: connected tenuously to the world by little more than a temporary connection of a cell phone that has been so easily broken.

Several years after Norway, while on a tropical disease externship in Costa Rica, I had soloed on an active volcano named Irazú. I hiked around to the back of the rim and decided to slowly and carefully descend into the crater toward the roaring fire. The inside of the crater was steeper than it looked, and to my horror I was suddenly sliding uncontrollably down towards the mouth of the volcano. I halted and tried to simply stand in place, but still I slid further. I tried to scramble back up, but the faster I climbed, the further down I went. The next few minutes felt timeless as I furiously tried a variety of directions, speeds, and techniques. Some combination worked, for I finally reached the crater’s edge and left Irazú forever.