The Prologue

A scream shatters the stillness. On instinct, my body pounces to the sheet of ice in front of me, crouches low, with one arm over my head and the other groping for the cordelette of an anchor we were building. What was the scream I heard? Was it rockfall? Did a dagger collapse? Snow begins to sift over me. It’s just some spindrift, like we saw earlier in the day. It will only last a moment. Just wait it out. 

Crystals of aerated snow fill my lungs, it becomes harder to breathe. I choke on each inhalation. I lower my gloved hand to my lips to prevent the powdery snow from filling my mouth. Snow continuously pours down, increasing in intensity and substance. Unable to locate the cordelette, I drape my right arm across the back of the woman hunched over beside me, holding her firmly in place. It is a comfort I am not alone. Heavier snow cascades over my shoulders and is now accumulating, covering my boots. The idea that we will be buried from the feet up crosses my mind. I shift my stance slightly upwards hoping to take a deeper breath.
 

I feel a sensation of being lifted up by the chinstrap of my helmet; a wave of snow slams into my chest; I am hurled backwards. My body is tumbling downhill, swept by a force beyond my control. It does not hurt. There is no light. I am weightless.

Struggling to comprehend what is happening, my limbs begin to flail in the current. I have no visual markers, yet I perceive my body is being swept away from the ice wall, down the gully, towards the railway tracks and the Kicking Horse River.

There is no way this can be an avalanche. Walking in that morning our lead guide said a couple of times, “I know we are carrying our safety gear, but if we had any concerns about avalanches, we wouldn’t be here today.” Still, there is no other explanation. I must do everything I can to stay on the surface. 

I thrash my way through the darkness. I pray not to hit a rock or a tree. I do not want to die today.

I formulate a plan based on what I remember about surviving an avalanche. An avalanche will slow before it finally comes to a stop and will then set up like concrete. There is only a moment before the snow solidifies for me to create an air pocket and to have a body part visible on the surface. I have to swim like hell until that moment. 

Kicking and clawing through the torrent, I sense I may be losing my campaign.  

And then, just as incomprehensibly as it started, the velocity of the mass around me slows. There is a subtle, though perceptible, change in momentum. The time is now. I take a huge breath to fill my lungs. I punch my left arm high up above my head. My right hand is in front of my face to create a pocket of air. 

The slide comes to a stop; my body fully interred. Everything is quiet. The only sensation is my heart pounding against the compression of snow on my chest. I flutter my eyes open. I look upwards to my left hand. There is a patch of blue beyond my gloved fingers. Never have I been so grateful to see the sky.

My teeth are cold. With the fingers of my right hand, I scoop snow out of my mouth. I take a breath.

I will myself to stay calm, to inhale a controlled breath of air, to slow my racing heart. I squeeze the muscles in my legs, then relax them. I wiggle my toes. There is no pain. I am not paralysed. My torso is facing down the slope; my legs twisted beneath me. 

My mind races. Is anyone on the surface to dig me out? Am I the only one alive? Will another slide come down and bury me completely? It would not take much, just a few inches to suffocate me. Secondary avalanches happen all the time. How in hell am I making it out of this alive?

Now is not the time to panic. I windshield wiper my left forearm side-to-side, hoping there is someone to see my hand above the surface. I whimper, ‘help me, help me, help me.’ Words muffled in the snow, heard only by my own ears and God above. I can’t recall ever stringing those words together. I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice.

There is a shuffling noise coming from behind and suddenly a face appears, blocking out the sky. It is Benjamin, our assistant guide. I am relieved to see him. He brushes powdery surface snow away from my face and neck. His eyes are saucers; he does not say a word. I tell him I am not hurt, that I can breathe. 

The moment is pierced by shrieking; we hear feral, primal screams. Benjamin turns his attention away. I comprehend something terrible is unfolding, down slope from me, just beyond my view.
 

A voice behind Benjamin calls out; “I have three metres.” More hysterical wailing. Then a continuous callout; “I have a signal. 1.8 meters. It’s the lowest number.” That sounds like Madeleine, my climbing partner for the day. Benjamin looks back at me. His eyes convey everything I need to know; I tell him to go.

My mind is clear and quiet.

We were six. I’ve seen Benjamin and heard two female voices. That leaves two women unaccounted for. 

I understand I will not be dug out; help is not coming. I am on my own. 

I set to work digging out. Steadily, I scrape against the solidified snow with gloved fingernails. I push the crystals away from my chest up and out the opening. Progress is slow. I focus on my breath to stay calm.

Is anyone watching for another slide? I twist my neck to look over my right shoulder at the ice climb behind me. I take on the responsibility to warn everyone should a secondary avalanche come down. Those on the slope below me are my only hope if I am buried again. I can not let them get blindsided.

Our lead guide, Merrie-Beth, appears before me. She tells me they are digging through the snow with bare hands. She asks for my gloves. The request is so absurd; her stare so despondent. I blink twice and relinquish my gloves. She turns her back to me, falls away down the slope, disappearing out of view. I pull the sleeves of my puffy jacket over my hands and curl my fingers inside the cuffs. I struggle to break up the snow without exposing my fingers to the cold. I am unsure how to proceed. My mind is racing. Who else is buried? Why are they digging with their bare hands? Has anyone called for a rescue?

My hand bumps against something hard inside my jacket. It is my cell phone. I remove it from my pocket and confirm there is service. I begin making calls out for help, starting with Sarah, the owner of the guiding company who organized this multi-day women’s clinic. Followed by Sarah's partner Will who participated in the guide's meeting the previous evening at the hostel. When neither answers, I send them text messages, “Avi Massey’s - Buried 911.” The message to Sarah is sent by chance to our mutual friend and local ice climber, Margo. Margo knows the area we are climbing in, the women in the clinic and climbed with us the previous day. She would know who to contact for help and where to send them.
 

My fingers are cold and numb; the screen no longer detects my touch. I’m unable to send another text. I jam the phone and my fingers into my armpits to warm them. Please do not let the battery die. Notifications begin to ping; “Parks Canada will call you.” “A helicopter has left Canmore.” “Help is coming.” I slide the phone back inside my jacket, clenching my fists into my cuffs. I return to the problem at hand. How do I push snow away with my hands balled up in down?

The phone rings. A Parks Canada dispatcher asks if I observed the avalanche. I explain our group was caught in it and that I am buried. Two clients are unaccounted for, at least one is buried as well. I explain to the dispatcher I am self-rescuing and concerned about another slide. I tell her I can’t stay on the phone any longer and to please send help. She signs off with “thank you, good luck”. The phone goes silent.

I hear more screaming. What is going on below me?

I push the wall of snow further away from my face so I can see what is happening.
 

The scene unfolds before me. Four figures are bent over the snow; they are scratching at the surface using crampons, an ice axe and sticks. 

Where are the probes and shovels? After rappelling the route, we set our packs, including our safety equipment, on the platforms we were instructed to carve out at the base of the climb earlier that morning.

Someone yells out, “use your helmet to dig.”

I immediately remove my helmet and begin to scrape the snow away from my body.
 

Suddenly Sarah materializes on site. I’m surprised to see her. It feels like just mere minutes since I texted her. How did she get here so quickly? When did I get the calls out? How long has it been since the avalanche ran? Sarah pulls a probe and shovel out of her pack.
 

I hear her shouting, “we are coming for you Sonja,” “we’ve got you,” “hang on.” Oh my god. Sonja. Sonja is buried. Madeleine assembles the probe and begins plunging it deep into the snow. Sarah begins to shovel. It is a race against time.
 

Someone yells out, “That’s her helmet, she is face down.”
 

I see Sonja's limp body hauled out from the opening in the snow. Another guide has arrived on site and begins CPR. Chest compressions paused only for intermittent breaths. Someone is squatting at Sonja’s feet taking photos. 

Exhausted from the dig, Sarah crouches down with her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. She cries out, “Where are they? Why are they taking so long?” Sonja is her camp manager. Her friend.
 

Madeleine comes over to me with the shovel, she chips away at the snow around my legs. I toss the chunks of snow out of the opening. My right leg is free. Then my left. Maddie helps me crawl out of the hole. My legs buckle beneath me for a moment. I turn to look back to the ice wall, to absorb the the path my body traveled down the slope, compelling myself to take it all in.

I am safe.

I stare at the ice wall in disbelief; yellow cordelette hangs in stark contrast to the blue ice behind it. Just an hour ago we were joking around as we practiced building anchors. Now a mood of desperation settles over us, with a life hanging in the balance. My thoughts are interrupted as Sarah orders me to leave the site and wait down by the railway tracks.

A helicopter circles above, descending in a powder cloud to deposit a rescuer at the scene. Sonja is packaged in a litter; she and the rescuer are lifted above the trees. The helicopter turns towards the town of Field with both of them trailing behind on a long line. They are quickly out of sight.
 

Now everyone is coming down the trail. We make our way back to the hostel along the railway tracks. The guides walk out well ahead, their words lost in the void between us. We walk behind in silence.
 

Senior Parks Canada rescue personnel meet the guides in the parking lot. They climb into an idling vehicle, heads together. The rest of us continue on to the hostel. We are met by a woman from Victim Services out of Golden; she offers counselling assistance. RCMP officers arrive and request private interviews from those involved; participation is voluntary as the officers do not consider this to be a criminal investigation.
 

At some point in the evening, one of the clients recounts seeing a large powder cloud high on Mount Stephen. She alerted Sarah to the avalanche. Sarah had just a moment to call our guide Merrie-Beth, apprise the group’s location and warn her of the avalanche. Merrie-Beth was able to shout out, “EVERYONE” before the thundering snow drowned out “…to the wall!” Everyone… so that is the word I heard screamed out just before the snow came down. 

We only a moment to react. Sonja’s position, removing her crampons on the little platform she dug out for herself at the base of the climb, put her directly in the path of the avalanche. There was nothing she could have done given her vulnerable stance. 

We were her only hope.

But all of our safety equipment was blown away in the downdraft of the avalanche and buried.

Reality sets in.

I shift my attention to the man at the front of the room. He’s a Parks Canada Safety Specialist, friend and professional colleague of the guides, clears his throat. “We all would have been there today. There is nothing anyone could have done differently to change the outcome. Everyone did their very best.”

A whumpf reverberates through my body; the floor underfoot feels hollow. I am not safe at all. The secondary avalanche has released and will run directly through our path. We will each be caught in the aftermath. It is not a wall of snow as I expected, but rather, a wall of silence.