Tag: Crevasse Rescue

         There are three well-known peaks in the Alaska Range—Denali, Foraker, and Hunter. At 14,195 feet, Hunter is the smallest of the three but is considered one of the most technically challenging 14ers (14,000-foot mountains) to climb in the world. And reaching its summit was our goal, at least until lousy weather got in our way. We were a group of 14, including me and several other Outpost Wilderness Adventure leaders, and two non-OWA guides.

The place is remote, and getting there is not easy. To do so, we first flew commercially into Anchorage. Then a private bus took us two hours north from there to the small Alaskan town of Talkeetna. And finally, we flew by glacier-bush plane to the established base camp on the Kahiltna Glacier in Denali National Park. Kahiltna Base is a clump of tents that skirts a snow landing strip. It also houses a Park Service ranger station, since the area is a significant climbing hub. Once on the snow, we walked toward Hunter. Most of the other climbing teams head in the opposite direction toward the West Buttress of Denali, which is climbed much more often. So, almost instantaneously, we were on our own. After several miles of snowshoeing, our group stopped where the glacier forked off toward the West Ridge of Hunter to set up our glacier camp. Since only a few teams attempt to climb the mountain each year, there was no line of climbers, no footprints, and nothing else we could follow. And so, we relied on maps, various personal observations, and mountain/glacier experience to get us where we were going. We were there to climb the mountain and soon found out that, among other things, it’s a remarkably out-of-the-way place.

The area is a world of mostly snow, scattered rocky outcroppings, and massive mountains. The Kahiltna Glacier, a big river of snow and ice for all practical purposes, butts up to Hunter on its north and east sides. Like most glaciers, a maze of cracks, called crevasses, crisscross the surface. They occur due to various stress and movement forces on and within the ice. Sometimes they’re open or visible to the naked eye. But often they’re covered with snow and ice, making them essentially invisible. While they can be just a few feet deep, some extend as much as hundreds of feet down into the depths of the ice river.

Curious people sometimes intentionally enter glaciers through crevasses, using accepted techniques and equipment. If going into one is intentional, they’re magical, dark, and mind-blowing places in a constant state of flux. Just as sitting on a mountain summit and observing your surroundings creates a sense of wonder, peering down into an enormous crevasse does the same. As a person ponders the intricacies of that world, there is undoubtedly awe, but also a realization that it’s not a place you want to fall into.

Just being out on a glacier is serious business. Among other things, prudent glacier travelers typically spend significant time developing various techniques for getting themselves or others out of crevasses should the need arise. The amount of information a glacier traveler should have can seem absurd to anyone who’s never been out on one. And on top of the various skill and technique requirements, there’s also a lot of specialized equipment that needs to be understood, well-maintained, and readily available. In a word, the place is complicated.

People usually travel on glaciers, tied together with one or more others on a climbing rope, forming a rope team when all are connected. If one person falls into a crevasse, the other or others can hopefully arrest (or stop) the fall and then assist with any extrication or rescue. On the other hand, if a person were to fall into one and were unroped, they would keep dropping until they stopped, wherever or whenever that was.

While moving out on the glacier, each rope team member walks with their ice axe in hand, ready to be used to create an immediate anchor in the event of a fall. As mentioned, crevasses are sometimes open and visible. But they’re often covered by snow or ice, making them invisible to the naked eye. To deal with the various kinds of crevasses, the rope team leader attempts to create a route along the glacier surface that avoids them. That’s hard enough to do when they’re open or obvious, but even trickier when they’re covered or hidden. To deal with that, the leader uses a long pole and probes the snow ahead as they move along to feel for changes in the surface structure, which indicate places to avoid. I always thought that the whole process is akin to the uncertainty a blind person walking through the downtown of an unknown city must experience.

Probing the surface is a constant business. No place or route is considered “safe” until probed. And even then, and in the best of cases, “safe” is only a subjective term. And to top it all off, the entire glacier is constantly changing. This means that the information gained from probing is valid only at that moment in time and may no longer be valid a few minutes later.

When all that combines with weather conditions, individual personalities, etc., many people put glacier travel on their list of things to avoid doing.

So, back to our trip. On our second day on the glacier, we made our way across the Kahiltna and up to our Camp 1 on Hunter. While on the mountain, we got caught in a storm and ultimately abandoned the climb. So, we returned to our previous camp in the middle of the glacier. And from there, we headed back to Kahiltna Base. Since we’d already been out for days, we had our rope teams (four teams- two of 3 people and two of 4) already organized. And so, after one night at our glacier camp, we packed up and began walking back to Kahiltna Base, anxious to return to the “real world.”

It was the middle of the afternoon when we finally began leaving. The day was hot and sunny. We’d created a trail in the snow on our way in, and our tracks were still there. So, it made sense to backtrack to Kahiltna Base. We were all aware that while we’d probed the route a couple of weeks before, it still needed to be done again. But that’s not what happened.

Our thought as we walked out of our glacier camp was that by early evening, we’d be back at our base camp and feasting on snack food from the stash we’d left in our supply tent. Once the return got underway, there was a lot of envisioning of glutenous gorging as we kicked back in cozy tents, preparing to fly back to civilization. Thoughts of the “real world” did not even escape me, as I found myself craving peanut butter crackers, tortilla chips, and salsa. In some ways, at that point, we’d all already gone back, even before leaving our glacier campsite. Once the return process started, we weren’t about to waste any time methodically implementing it. By then, we’d spent a couple of weeks out and had decided that we sufficiently respected and fully comprehended what was happening around us in that glacier world.

Except……for that critical detail called change. As mentioned, a glacier’s nature is one of constant flux. And to that end, anyone out on one should act accordingly. Change is a crucial and predictable part of glacier travel. It’s a simple fact that doesn’t care whether it’s the walk back at the end of the expedition or who the people are. It’s a simple axiom that doesn’t vary- what’s good and stable on a glacier surface one moment might not be the next.

And so, we left our camp and began the trek back. Three group members- Scott, Paul, and Matt- made up one of the rope teams and were the first to take off. Matt was the rope leader, Paul was in the middle, and Scott was at the back. It’s worth noting that Matt, in his mid-20s, was the older man on the team, Paul was in college, and Scott was still in high school. A second rope team left a few minutes after them, followed by my team of four a few minutes later. Finally, the fourth team, which included Mike and his son, Topher, our two most experienced glacier people, and the non-OWA guides, brought up the rear. That meant that our most technically experienced people were at the back. While that was a sound guiding principle in some ways, it would’ve been better for my team to lead and control the front end.

We figured the walk back would take about 2 hours. Given the time of day, lack of clouds, and assuming all went as anticipated, we would still have a couple of hours of daylight once we got back.

As my rope team trudged along, my mind wandered from the task at hand to things beyond the Alaska Range. But thankfully, each time it did, I was jolted by a sudden tug on the rope or a gust of wind, which brought my mind back to the glacier and the more immediate concerns related to it. Complacency was doing its best to suck us all in.

The two teams out in front were several hundred yards ahead. A long flat stretch separated my group from the back of the second team. I looked ahead several hundred yards and saw the lead group, followed closely by the second, slowly making their way up a small hump. Both teams topped out and disappeared as they headed down the other side. The fact of their temporary disappearance didn’t alarm me, but I was concerned to note how far ahead they’d gotten.

A few minutes later, as we crested that same hump, I saw the two teams still creeping along as expected. All was as it was supposed to be until it wasn’t. The first team was 300-400 yards ahead, and I watched helplessly as the event, forever etched in my mind, began to unfold. Scott went partially down into the glacier up to his waist as he seemed to get swallowed up by it. I immediately recognized he’d fallen into a crevasse. Paul almost simultaneously sprawled onto his belly and into a self-arrest position, with his ice axe dug deeply into the snow. And after just a moment, Matt began scurrying around doing something. Initially, because of the distance, I couldn’t tell for sure what he was up to, but I could almost feel his mind working in overdrive as he anticipated his next move. We were too far away to yell anything, as if that would matter, and things were happening very fast. I had an instantaneous, hollow, and almost sick feeling as I helplessly witnessed it all.

At first, from our distant vantage point, the only action I could take was to watch. Then, after the initial flurry of activity, all seemed quiet and under control. Scott was still partially visible, and Matt and Paul appeared to be doing what they had trained to do. As it turned out, Paul was, in fact, down on the snow, holding Scott from going anywhere, while Matt was creating an anchor to bear the total weight of all three of them.

At that point, I visualized a sickening chain of events. One, where the side of the crevasse breaks off below Paul, sending both he and Scott plummeting into the void. And then, the cumulative weight of the two overwhelms Matt, who is pulled in as well- while I watch from afar, unable to do anything. Thankfully, it was only a fleeting thought, and I was relieved when my mind returned to reality.

At first, Scott was stationary and protruding halfway out of the crevasse. Perhaps, I hoped, the crack was only a few feet deep. I could see that Paul was continuing to provide an emergency anchor. And at the same time, Matt was finishing up the main anchor, and when it was completed, I watched him clip the three of them into it. So, for that moment, all was stable.

And it was, until the stuck and partially sunken 17-year-old Scott made a move to get himself out and back up onto the trail. When he moved, the rope leading to Paul cut deeply into the snowbank, creating unwanted slack in the system. Scott’s foothold was not substantial, and since he was hanging at the end of the rope, his actions sent him all the way in, and he completely disappeared. When we’d first come over the hill and saw what was happening, I had stopped to watch and assess the situation from afar. But once Scott disappeared, I realized we were too far away to offer any assistance and needed to get there quickly. So, I began moving my team toward them as expeditiously as possible. As we snowshoed toward the scene, I continued watching the situation unfold, but made every effort to remain mindful that we were still crossing a glacier ourselves.

Within a few terrifying moments, we arrived at the glacier’s edge, opposite Paul and Matt. Initially, I noted that the anchors were solid, and I could see the rope was weighted, verifying that Scott was still attached.

We immediately probed out an anchor point for ourselves. We picked a spot well back from the edge of the crevasse in question and immediately began building our anchor. To that end, we pounded a snow picket deeply into the surface, backed it up with another, and finally clipped our entire rope team into it. I stayed attached but re-tied myself farther down the rope, freeing up about 25 feet at the end to pass to Scott if needed. When all was ready, I moved toward the crevasse with one of my team members belaying me.

As I walked/crawled toward the crevasse’s edge, I surveyed the entire scene more thoroughly. From my closer-in vantage point, I could see that the anchor system Paul and Matt had created did indeed look bomb-proof. “Perfect,” I thought. They’d done it correctly. I heard Scott making random, nervous-talk comments, which was also a relief. “Thankfully, he’s conscious,” I reasoned. And so, at that point, I had surmised he was connected to the rope and alive.

Leading up to the event, the snow had covered and hidden the crevasse. But now it was open where the teenager had fallen through. I could see the crack was perhaps ten feet long and 8 feet wide at the top. From my new vantage point, I noted that the climbing rope ran up out of the crevasse to the sprawled-out Paul and then to the snow anchor just above him. I was eager to make eye and voice contact with Scott and further assess the situation. So, when I finally got to the edge, I quickly went down on my belly and looked in.

And there he was– dangling at the end of the rope about 10 feet below the surface. He appeared massive relative to the rope but almost insignificant compared to the crevasse’s interior. He hung down into an enormous, dark, and seemingly bottomless cavern. There was a jumble of ice ledges and walls below him extending 50 feet down until seeming to melt into the darkness. If we’d ended up in such a place during training, we would’ve talked about how beautiful and neat it was and snapped photo after photo. But I saw none of that beauty this time because that’s not what I was looking for. Undoubtedly, Scott saw the same thing. We were both in awe, not of how spectacular the place was, but of how big, unforgiving, and ominous it seemed.

My first words were simple but profound: “Wow, that’s a big hole.”

As he’d learned earlier on the expedition, Scott was already beginning to remove his backpack after connecting it to the rope. No one needed to tell him he was hanging above almost certain death from a 10-millimeter rope. Undoubtedly, his situation’s “big picture” was overwhelming. And so, he focused his efforts and energy on one micro-task at a time, each aimed at getting himself up the rope and back onto the surface. The enormity of the situation would’ve overwhelmed most people. But thankfully, Scott was not one of those, as he continued to methodically work through what needed to be done.

Within a few minutes, he realized how cold it was out of the sun, and I watched as he began looking for warm clothes. Even though it did nothing to make him warmer, I talked to him relentlessly to remind him he wasn’t alone and also helped him think through the process. And at the same time, it made me feel like I was doing something.

As we conversed, I continued assessing the situation. Foremost, I was pleased to note that the entire climbing system was in good order and working as intended. I could see that the knot where the rope was connected to Scott’s seat harness was tied correctly, and that the rope ran up from there, freely and directly, to Paul. And finally, I noted there weren’t any large chunks of ice or snow poised to fall on him. Once again, all appeared stable, and I avoided thinking about what the consequences would be if any of those seemingly minor but crucial details were not right.

Previously, we’d trained for two rescue scenarios. And so, in a general sense, there was a plan. In both cases, the first step is to create a solid, reliable anchor independent of the self-arrester. That means any rope team member or members who haven’t fallen into the crevasse should build a bombproof anchor and connect the entire team and rescue system to it. And that’s what Matt had done.

Up to this point, the extrication procedure is the same for both options. But from there, the two diverge. The first one assumes the person on the rope’s end is conscious. In that case, the fallen person climbs out of the crevasse on their own using the rope. The rope-climbing process often involves using a mechanical ascending device that grips the rope as it moves up, allowing the climber to move up but not slide down. As anyone who’s performed the rope climbing process knows, the procedure can be confusing and arduous. And it can be made even more so if the fallen glacier traveler is wearing a backpack and/or pulling a sled loaded with gear. This first one is the procedure Scott attempted to follow.

If the climb-out-on-your-own technique doesn’t work, the other option (or Plan B) is for the people on top to directly haul the person up and out. The simplest way to do that would be to pull the person out directly. But that can be physically difficult to do and is not often practical. And so, various pulley systems that create mechanical advantage are frequently rigged up and utilized.

Scott’s situation was the real thing, and we all knew it. Matt had built a good anchor and transferred all the weight onto it. I was confident Scott was well anchored, but even so, aware there’d be no do-overs. This wasn’t training. There was one shot at getting it right. Scott and I avoided looking down into the void because we realized that down there was where any little boo-boo would likely cause him to end up.

And then, I noted his body movements and actions beginning to slow down. Undoubtedly, I reasoned, that was happening because he was getting increasingly colder and the things he needed to do progressively more tedious.

After a short while, as it continued to get colder and he made little progress climbing the rope, I concluded it was time to do something different. And so, it was on to Plan B. There were three others on my rope team waiting back near the anchor, and the area around them was flat. We were a strong group of four, and we had an excellent surface to work from, so I decided to try to pull him straight out. There would be no complicated rigging or remembering who did what. We were merely going to pull him up by brute force to the surface.

As mentioned, I was attached 25 feet from the rope’s end, which provided that much free rope to work with. I grabbed the end of it, took a few coils in my hand, and tossed it down to the dangling climber. Once he had it, I told him to tie this second rope to his harness so he would be tied into two ropes—one on either side of the crevasse. Once he did that, he would be anchored to both his team’s anchor and ours.

When he was ready, I got up from the edge and worked my way back to the snow pickets that anchored my whole team. And then, each of us got a firm grip on the rope, made sure we had solid footing, and pulled with everything we had.

In a matter of moments, we saw the red of Scott’s helmet, followed by the blue of his raingear, and finally the whole of his body. And then, in another instant, he was fully sprawled out on top of the Kahiltna with the sun beating down on him. Immediately, the hollow space in my gut began filling in, and my heart moved back into place. It was over.

Once up onto the surface, he rolled over onto his back. Then, he untied himself from our rope and moved toward his rope team and their anchor. While he was coming out of the crevasse, there was a lot of excited yelling and screaming. But once he was completely out and the event was over, everybody quietly looked at everybody else and the surrounding world. The air felt lighter, and the crevasses became more visible.

We gathered our gear, re-roped, and within minutes, our four rope teams were once again headed toward Kahiltna Base. As we moved, I couldn’t help but notice everyone putting on coats and checking knots. It was good to be going forward. But our progress was slower and more deliberate than before, as the person out in front probed relentlessly. I considered the possibility that another crevasse was hidden and waiting to swallow us up. For the first few moments as we walked toward Kahiltna Base, I was almost paralyzed with crevasse apprehension and unable to move. But then, I looked at the miles of the glacier that forked out in every direction and watched the clouds part to reveal the summit of Denali. And my legs began moving on their own. Things were complicated, I concluded. But I was glad to be moving since it was getting late and we had a lot to do.

I think that was the day my wrinkles actually took hold. I’m forever thankful that it worked out as it did. But it also clearly demonstrated the difference between “theoretical” and “real” and how interdependent the two are. That was the day I definitively realized that “practice” does indeed matter.

 

Crevasse Rescue Practice