Chronology of Choices
During 6 Days Missing
Sam Black
Preliminaries:
·
Dayhiked
to Brandywine Mountain 2 weeks earlier. Detected what seemed to be a passable
ridge in the direction of Mount Cayley (which I thought was called Powder
Mountain). That day, I took a trail up the right side of the valley up to high
ground skirting by Metal Dome and then cutting left across a granite face to
Brandywine Mountain. Returned that day via the ridge and talus slope on the
left (westerly) side of the valley.
·
A
“clear ridge” for my skill and equipment level means no technical climbs, and
minimal snow on level ground.
·
Indicated
my route to Randy, and left instructions to call Police if I am not back on
Saturday night – explaining that this would be the result of a broken bone. (I
had not anticipated losing the route.)
Friday:
·
Hike
to a site in view of Mount Cayley (near heliskiing pads), after ascending the
talus slope on the left (west) side of the valley to gain Brandywine mt.
·
Crossed
a bit of snow – at level grade en route. Took a look at an enormous
glacier/snowfield without venturing onto it.
·
I
knew the weather was changing but did not alter my plans for a tent site
location. The skies were actually clearing on Fri night, and 4 weeks earlier I
had descended from Brew Mountain in rain. I expected to get some rain on
Saturday. Not a big deal. I did not anticipate that the ridge, and all
reference points would be totally obscured by fog (very dumb).
Sat:
·
Wake
up early, visibility restricted to about 10 meters, heavy rain.
·
Pack
up and start heading back along the ridge I walked in.
·
I
could see a valley to my right that I guessed it was leading to Shovelnose
creek. Decided to avoid it. I did not want to try a bushwhack out a different
valley from the one I had come up because I was worried about twisting an ankle
in the rains; being left unable to walk; while also being invisible from the
air.
·
I
veered leftwards (east?) trying to find a ridge that would take me back toward
Brandywine mt – where there are cairns and a boot cut trail down to Brandywine
valley.
·
I
crossed some snow again (about 20 meters) on level ground. This snow was high
above Brandywine Glacier – although I could not see the glacier below at the
time because visibility was about 10 feet. After crossing the snow, I tried
following a ridge to my right (south). I was scared to continue on that ridge
however. The rocks were now slick with rain and lichens. Continuing would be
risky and I was not sure the ridge would lead me out, or even lead to a spot
level enough to pitch a tent. Given the very wet rock, I was worried about
getting stranded on a section of ridge where I could not set up my tent. This
was a problem because the rain was pelting down by now, and the wind blowing. I
thought hypothermia was a real possibility if I didn’t get out of the elements
and into my bag. Passing a night without cover would be difficult.
·
I
partially set up my tent under an overhang that was the only level terrain on
the ridge. It was too narrow for the tent to expand to its full width. The
overhang stopped some of the rain, and also would shield me from falling rock.
I could hear rocks falling. They were actually breaking off from the peak due
west from me (where I had come from) which was disintegrating in the heavy
rains. (Martin has my photo of boulders strewn on Brandywine Glacier. Those
boulders actually fell on Saturday and Sunday.) At the time I could not see
where the rocks were falling from. But the earth shook under their tremendous
impact. I hoped their source was not above me.
·
All
my clothes (2 short sleeve synthetics, 1 long sleeve nylon, 1 fleece, 1 shorts,
1 hat and gloves, 2 pair synthetic socks) are by now soaked in the 100%
humidity – except for my underwear and a spare fleece hat all was wet including
my bag. I went into my mummy bag and put on my fleece on to try drying it. But
I could not generate enough body warmth to heat it. After a 1 hour I take it
off. From then on I wear only underwear when I remain in my bag. I start
rationing my emergency food supply of 1 1/2 bagels, 2 power bars, and 1 can of
tuna.
Sunday:
·
Still
raining hard, and almost no visibility. For the morning (?), I can’t see enough
to figure out where I am. Time passes. Rocks keep falling. I take down my tent
and suit up to see if I can push further south on my ridge. It again seems
impassable to the south. The thought occurs that I might not get out of the jam
I am in. I snap some photos for friends and family just to be safe. It clears a
bit later and I snap some photos of Brandywine Glacier, which is visible to my
right (north). I later hear a chopper. I jump out of the tent and grab my red
mummy bag to signal it. I watch it come up through the valley west (?) of my
site. It shoots over the glacier at top speed about 500 meters west of me. I am
not sure if it is searching for me. I stay out of my tent for 10 minutes,
hoping it will return, and I will be able to signal that I’m OK to family and
friends. It does not return. I get back into the tent. My bag is drenched from
the rain, and I am freezing from standing outside in underwear. The clearing
soon disappears and visibility returns to 10 feet.
Monday:
·
I
recognize that my site of the last 2 nights is difficult for SAR to detect. I
have heard aircraft high above the cloud cover, and so I believe that SAR is
indeed looking for me. I am also hopeful of finding a different route out – if
I can just see the top of Brandywine Mountain or Mount Fee. I wait for a
clearing in the sky, and pack up when the Brandywine Glacier is visible. (A
clearing gives about 500 meters of visibility downwards to the Glacier. I took
photos during periods of maximum visibility which Martin has. Maximum
visibility seemed to start at 10 a.m. and last a few hours.) I pack up and head
north (?) and then East (?) hugging the right side of a steep slope. I then
start climbing sharply up a slope that I hope is either the backside of
Brandywine Mountain or will lead there. I can’t see the summit, and can’t see
any surrounding peaks. The rains return in earnest. I despair of getting to the
summit or pass that day. I set up tent on what I hope is an exposed site,
visible to SAR, on an open slope in a patch of heather. The grade is
considerable, and there is a drop off at the foot of my tent. I am worried
about sliding over the edge in my sleep. But it is the flattest patch around. I
have to sleep diagonally in the tent to try to avoid from sliding down. The
exposed site is a lot windier, and I am colder than before.
·
Later
that day I hear aircraft high over head. I come out from the tent to signal but
they are totally obscured by cloud. Leaving the tent, and standing outside
naked in the rain leaves me very cold. Even opening up my mummy bag or the tent
fly on the tent chills me. Yet the aircraft are above cloud and can’t see me. After
repeating this exercise several times, I decide to rig a flag (a tan and white
shirt) on a ski pole. I waive it whenever aircraft fly over head and sound
close by, while remaining zipped inside my bag.
·
Eventually
this seems to alert a craft, who I sense has slowed down. I jump out of the
tent. I spot a chopper, and grab my red mummy bag and start waving it. The
chopper alters course (it had been west of me in the direction of the valley)
and heads slowly in my direction. It keeps flying towards me for about 5
seconds (?). It is about 200 m away or less. I believe I’ve been spotted, and
my first reaction is to signal thumbs up so that the crew communicates to
friends and family that I am OK. (I have been worrying a lot about the toll
this must be taking on Randy and Laura, and praying they have not told my
parents, who are somewhat fragile.) As soon as I signal I’m OK, the chopper
veers away (to its left or north along Brandywine Glacier). I feel some regret
since it is pretty miserable outside. I wonder if I should have indicated to
the pilot that I was desperate and needed to be airlifted out. But that would
have been dishonest. I remain standing in the rain watching for the chopper’s
return. A grey chopper then shot northwards, further west of where I’d seen the
previous one, traveling at a very high speed. I reckoned it held crews to
repair the heli pads and was a private operator not interested in lost hikers.
·
***
I knew the chopper I had seen was SAR. It was painted red and seemed identical
tp the choppers that patrol the West Coast trail – which I have done twice in
foul weather in April. My expectations and information about SAR choppers and
practices reflects the West Coast trail. That route is normally patrolled by
air. But all hikers are warned that they will not be airlifted from the trail
unless they have suffered a serious physical trauma (e.g. a broken bone). It is
furthermore made explicit that being cold, tired, or wet are not grounds for being airlifted. I
believed this was normal practice for all
SAR operations. (This mistaken belief would soon prove fateful.) In fact,
one year Randy and I had been on the West Coast trail in April. Once we hiked
in the trail was closed on account of receiving the tail end of a hurricane. We
were cold and soaked. We heard choppers continuing to patrol the trail. But we
reasoned they were not looking for us (they were not in fact).
So here is what I inferred on Monday: SAR now knows
my exact position, and knows that I’m OK (they saw the thumbs up). They have
not tried to airlift me because they believe I am capable of walking out on my
own once the weather breaks, and they want me to walk out. At this time I
thought I could walk out, and reasoned that I was at most 1 hour from the way I
came in – something that could be accomplished in good weather without much
trouble provided I set some food aside. I totally stopped eating as a result
convinced I should save my stores until the weather broke. In fact, I thought I
was a good deal less than an hour away from the ridge since I had been moving
very slowly on Saturday on account of the wet rock and lack of visibility. I
reckoned that SAR would perhaps occasionally monitor my whereabouts to make
sure nothing went dramatically wrong, but that I was OK and very close to where
I needed to be. I felt very optimistic
at this point, and very grateful that you had sent a chopper to make contact
with me. I attributed most of the high volume of ongoing aircraft activity from
then on to heli skiing operations preparing their winter sites (some of which I
had encountered in the area), or government avalanche crews. Since I believed
you had my coordinates, I didn’t think you’d be sending out more crews.
This chain
of inferences may seem a bit whacky. On the other hand, it was premised on the
extraordinary coincidence that a SAR chopper altered its course just as I began
to waive my red mummy bag, and headed in my direction. It then sharply veered
off at precisely the instant I signaled using the thumbs up. I now understand
that in the event the crew had seen me they would have signaled back using
their lights. But I’m afraid that your average hiker does not know the
protocols for communicating with choppers. In fact I suspect the entire SAR
protocols are a bit opaque to ordinary hikers. They are not described in any
hiking books I have read. Significantly, the SAR protocols differ between
regions in the same province (e.g. the West Coast Trail, and the Whistler
region). The West Coast Trail protocols are the ones I was familiar with.
Tue:
·
I
pack up and try to hike up the peak again (south). Give up again in
frustration. It is becoming an increasing technical climb as I gain altitude,
and I figure that even if I make the summit I will have to descend similar
terrain on the other side. The rain and wind are unrelenting. I hike with my
pack. I will not leave the tent to explore, since the tent and bag are
necessary for survival, and visibility periodically drops down to less than 10
feet.
·
Set
up tent again in same spot where I thought I’d been spotted on Monday.
·
This
was fortunate. Soon after, there is a deluge lasting all afternoon and through
the evening. This is by far the most intense rain of the trip. It is like
nothing I have ever camped in – including the trip during the closure of the
West Coast Trail -- and I am fearful that I will be washed away in a flood or
landslide. Amazingly, the volume of rain falling remains steady all night. I
stretched the tarp taught using rocks, and it sounds like a snare drum inside.
It is difficult to sleep during the awesome violence of the storm.
Wed:
·
Woke
up praying for clear skies. Laura gigs on Wed night, and Randy and I usually
meet for beer to hear her. Hoped I’d be able to meet them, and surprise Laura
at her gig. (Remember: I am thinking that I’ve been spotted on Mon, and the
information has gone back that I am OK but socked in. I expected Randy and
Laura to be monitoring the situation, worried until I came out, but basically
keeping things together while waiting out the weather system in Vancouver.)
·
The
weather remained bad.
·
During
a two hour clearing (visibility 500 hundred meters) I hiked down the mountain
(north) towards Brandywine Glacier. I believed that moving leftwards (west)
along the glacier was the only remaining exit. There was nothing passable to
the right (where the chopper hovered that eventually pulled me out), and the
route south over the peak was impassible. There was no option left for getting
out than to drop down. I believed I had come from the left (west?) and that my ridge
was only a few hundred meters away in that direction. I had crossed the snow
much higher up the glacier where the crossing was level and short. But I
thought it would be difficult to return to that crossing since I had tried and
failed on Sat and Sun to get back that way over the wet rock.
·
I
still could not see any peaks and figured that without better visibility I
might as well stay put. I set up the tent again on a flat rock outcropping now
about 30 m above the glacier.
·
It
was cold enough that night that I could not sleep for the first time on account
of the temperature. My body was no longer putting out enough heat to keep my
bag warm. I figured the cold indicated the skies had cleared. I got out of my
tent, and stood outside under brilliantly lit stars. I remained outside until I
began to shiver badly.
·
I
resolved to be up at daybreak to make use of the change of weather.
Thursday:
·
The
sun is hot despite the fact that it is about 5:00 a.m. I eat my last power bar
and half bagel, set my clothes out on the rocks for drying, and take the tarp
off the tent. I expect that drying everything out will considerably lighten the
pack. Dry socks and boots, along with dry rock greatly improve my footing. (The
numbness in my feet from the wet and cold had made me reluctant to trust
footholds, and there are no friction holds on wet rock.) I spend an hour or
more just drying off and warming up. This is the first heat I had felt since
Friday.
·
I
had tried to do leg exercises in the tent each day to prevent cramping. But my
legs are rubbery from being confined to my bag, and the lack of food. (Again,
since I had no dry clothes, and it rained more or less constantly the entire
time, and the wind was often severe, I could not leave my mummy bag, except
when packing up camp.)
·
I
carefully make my way to the lip of the glacier. I had hoped to hug the rock
wall rather than climb onto the glacier. But the rockwall is impassable going
left (west). I see many crevasses on the glacier. The grade is steep where the
glacier separates from the mountain. Most worrisome is a large crevasse
directly north from me, about 25 m down into the glacier bowl. I hope I can
traverse leftwards (west) without sliding down the bowl. This looks risky. On
the other hand, I feel there is no alternative, and that I must be close to the
ridge out. (Why else would SAR leave me in the tent during the torrential
downpour of the last few days?) Also a new front is developing in the west. I
am desperate not to get socked in again for another week, without any food. I
hoist myself onto the glacier, and dig in the heels of my boot. I move along
the lip but slide after a few steps. Very quickly I am hurtling into the
glacier bowl towards the crevasse I had hoped to avoid. I try to keep my legs
in front me while sliding. The crevasse comes up very quickly. As I go over its
mouth I can see that its blue walls that taper downwards for about 15 feet,
leading to a boulder field of green granite. The thought flashes that I should
by all rights be crashing down onto that granite, either broken up or waiting
to die at the bottom of a chasm that I could not climb out from. Instead, I
hurdle over the width of the crevasse, land with my left leg on the opposite
side, and stand up with a full pack on one leg. I estimate the width of the
crevasse at about 3 feet. I could not span it standing still. But I am moving
so fast that this estimate may be unreliable. (I would welcome accurate
information here about the width of the glacier.) My crossing of the crevasse
seems inexplicable, and deeply shakes me up (and has continued to shake me up).
·
I
continue with my plan to move leftwards along the glacier. I see crevasses in
the distance. But the glacier surface is level. The crevasses are exposed. I
have about 200 m to walk, and hope to peg a route that allows me to avoid them.
A chopper enters the valley and hovers over the glacier. I signal it, and stop
walking. The chopper was SAR I believed because it was painted red. It hovered
near a peak at the north side of the glacier. I reasoned that the crew is
monitoring the situation to make sure that I continued along what I thought was
the correct route out. They continue to hover about 400 m away, and I continue
to walk quite slowly in a south west direction (?) hoping to get off the glacier
at the base of the mountain that had been crumbling earlier that week, getting
back onto rock. I was mentally shaken up at this point, but felt like I had
enough steam to descend Brandywine Mountain. I wasn’t going to ask to be
airlifted, but felt very comforted by the chopper’s presence – which I assumed
was monitoring to ensure I remained on course, and found the cairns before the
next front hit. The chopper made a pass towards me as I began to move again. As
it approached I could see the crew motioning violently that I should stay put.
I froze. The chopper rounded the glacier, and then dropped Braden onto the
glacier to join me. I was pretty shaken by the crevasse, and recall how much
his jovial manner put me at ease. In another few minutes I was taken
aboard.
Conclusion:
Part of these events unfolded as they did on
account of the extraordinary situation in which a copter turned to head in my
direction at the precise moment I began to waive my sleeping bag, and then
veered off to leave the glacier valley at precisely the time when I flashed a
thumbs up. My determination to walk out, and my confidence in the feasibility
of that course stemmed from the mistaken belief that I had been located by SAR
on Monday, and that SAR was keen to see me take a shot at getting myself out on
my own steam.
I certainly don’t hold SARS responsible for my
errors and misapprehensions. I have nothing but admiration for their
efficiency, and gratitude for their having saved my life. (I think it is
virtually certain I would have not have made it out on my own steam, either
because I was heading off course, or another system was moving in; there was
also a risk – difficult for me to assess -- that I would have stumbled onto a
crevasse as I traversed the glacier.)