A Winter Alpine Adventure

Carol Norris

In January 1977, I went on my first ski-ing holiday abroad to a small resort called Macugnaga, high in the Italian Alps. This village lies in the foothills of the mountain called 'Monte Rosa' which is 16000 ft. high.

I had not heard of this mountain since, until recently, when it was mentioned in a television broadcast. I recognized the name at once with a sudden frisson of excitement, tinged with some mortification.

At that time, I was not a teenager, but a mature woman of over 30. I was a complete skiing novice but was very pleased with my progress on the nursery slopes on this, the first morning of my holiday. Very pleased indeed. I sat out on the terrace of the Cafe at the top of these slopes, warmed in glorious sunshine, at lunchtime and was further warmed by several glasses of Gluwein.

In a high-spirited haze, I felt emboldened to go higher up the mountain, and so with skis strapped on, ascended on the chair lift in fine style. In fact, I ascended higher and higher, to a mere 500ft. from the summit of Monte Rosa where the lift stopped, the empty chairs turned, clanking downhill on their return. I managed to ski off the chair lift before the turn. There was no winch man or supervisor here, the other passengers, all expert skiers had vanished at 60 miles an hour back down. I was entirely alone on this mountain at 15500 feet altitude, at 4pm, in January, with darkness now fast approaching. I then studied the Notices and saw the only routes down were Black runs, for very advanced skiers, clearly dangerous for novices. I decided to ask the next skiers to get off the lift to help me get down.

It was at that moment that the lift clanked to a halt. Then there was silence; a silence so deep and so far, I have never experienced the like before or since. I realized that I had come up on the last lift of the day. There would be no more skiers. No more anybody at all.

I was completely alone on the roof of the world. The sky, still a pale azure blue was beginning to darken, almost imperceptibly as I stood there. Slowly, a pink tinge suffused across the white mountain snowscape facing me, peaks and mountain ranges stretching to an infinite vista were becoming less distinct from sky. There was a great bowl of darkness just in front of me; I realized then, the rapidly darkening valley, down which I must descend to safety. The temperature was now dropping, I could feel the nipping on my nose, cheeks and ears, I heard the snow starting to squeak with super cold as I stamped on it to keep warm.

The alcohol had completely removed my sense of reality, and thus my sense of fear. I heard a sound of rumbling like thunder, and looking across the valley I saw a huge white side of mountain falling down. That must be an avalanche I realized, strangely detached, fancy that. It dawned only quite slowly that the same thing could happen on this side of the valley, under my feet. I took off my skis and tried walking in my ski boots, smooth soles on ice and frozen snow, no crampons or ice axe, no idea of the safe way down.

Strangely, I have never been able to recall to myself any detail of this descent. I can only remember it seemed so easy, almost effortless; I was descending of course; I seemed to flow down like a mountain stream, there was never a stumble or slip, although it was completely dark, I always seemed to be in the light because of the amazing ability of the snow to illuminate the landscape. Somehow, I got down that mountain in darkness, reaching the hotel about nine o' clock at night. The people I was with were in the process of calling out the Mountain Rescue to search for me; fortunately I came back before the search was organised, but they were very angry with me and didn't speak to me for the rest of the holiday. I learnt a lesson at the cost of humiliation at the time, but I have never ceased to be grateful that somehow, almost miraculously, I was kept safe when my own folly put me in such danger.

I understand a phenomenon known as the 'Brockenspectre' is recognized in high mountain altitudes particularly about sunset. This is an optical illusion of a ghostly apparition following the mountaineer, seen whenever he looks back over his shoulder, and is caused by some form of altered diffraction of light, a spectral sight. I was not aware of anything like this but the strange other worldliness of my descent which seemed to be outside of time and about which I have never been able to recall the detail, does make me ponder and wonder all these years later, whether I may have encountered an angel on the mountainside.