The Grave

A Story by AlfieHenwood

Inspired by 'Touching the Void', I wrote a first person account of a mountainous disaster.

Enwreathed with perfect, untouched white " the mountain beguiled us. La Grave had a certain charm about it, a seductive quality, it would only let us go momentarily before hauling us back in. It was the fisherman and we were the fish.

It had been two years since our last visit, Jason and I, and after intensive planning it was time to return. Not many skiers attempt the vertical drops and jagged cliff faces of La Grave " snowboarders are even more scarce. It was the danger that we found most beautiful about the mountain; there’s a reason its called ‘The Grave’. However, all worries of risk and imminent death disintegrate when your boots finally rest in the untouched snow at the summit. From here onwards, all one has to do is reach out over the edge and fly.

***

Stood at the foot of this great mountain, we discussed routes and passages and certain tricks to try along our decent. With no designated pistes, La Grave had to be tackled on soft powder snow. Snow that masks sharp rocks and sudden drops; it was vital to plan a route before summiting the mountain.

Our journey would take us down the east face of La Grave, with a brief traverse onto the north face to the infamous Glacier du Râteau (se pendre un râteau means ‘to fall badly’ in french) for a slalom between numerous crevasses and rocks. The slalom ends with a jump off a small cliff, it was this jump that drew us back to the mountain. The path from the bottom of the cliff would lead us back to the east face for a fast 55° decent back to the foot of the mountain. The whole session would last about half an hour.

After a 40 minute cable-car we summited the mountain and clipped our boots into our snowboards. It was time. The white of the alps encompassed us as we gained speed down the first slope. We soon became giddy children laughing and racing as we flew across the fresh snow. We were free. Free from the stresses of every day life. Free from the vice grip of home. Free from all harm. In that moment, we were invincible. The tracks left behind us weaved and twined as we waltzed down the mountain " above us, the slope looked like a mess of rope had been dropped onto the mountainside. Below, the blanket of undisturbed white was soon to be interrupted.

In all our excitement and joy, not Jason or myself managed to notice the weather closing in.

As we reached the north face of La Grave, the sky transformed from a rich blue to a dark and murky grey. Before we could figure out a route to turn back, fresh snowfall had been loosed from the clouds above. Jason and I had no choice but to continue along the Glacier Du Râteau. Tentatively, we manoeuvred the labyrinth of crevasses and rocks and soon the weather was an absolute white-out. Jason was 5 feet in front of me and I could only make out a faint silhouette; to avoid plummeting 100 feet down a crevasse was solely down to luck now. As we made our way down the glacier it was as though we were surrounded by a vast nothingness: pure white in all directions. Even our shouts and cries for help were engulfed by the mountain.

In such conditions, the task of travelling in a straight line became borderline impossible as any reference points were obliterated by the white. We couldn’t even tell which side of us La Grave was on. The biggest difficulty we faced on the glacier was control. Like a bicycle, snowboards are far easier to control at higher speeds " find yourself going too slow and you will lose balance and fall. Ideally, we would have taken off the snowboards and walked across the glacier. Alas, the snow was too deep to consider walking. We had to continue at an uncomfortable speed across the expansive field of uncertainty and death.

Eventually, after what felt like hours of fear and confusion, the weather cleared enough to ride with a little more confidence. Except, confidence is easier to muster when one knows their surroundings. The blizzard had thrown us off course - goodness knows how far. Thankfully, we were still on the glacier, we now only needed to find our way off: the cliff. Jason wasn’t sure about trying to find the cliff (he wanted to find an easier way to the eastern face) but after I had told him that the conditions would be perfect with piles of soft snow for the landing, he came around.

We boarded for another twenty minutes before we saw it. In the distance, the perfect white of the glacier gave way to a darker, slightly less perfect white of clouds " this was the cliff. Excitedly, we sped up. Like giddy children once more, we raced towards the cliff. I was determined to land a Stink-Bug off it’s edge. Jason wanted to land a Melon Grab. However, as we flew towards the cliff " something didn’t feel right. I had to sharply swerve to avoid a large rock mostly submerged in snow and then had to jump to avoid a large crevasse. We had been to this cliff three times before, the run up had always been smooth " no rocks, no crevasses, just a fast track towards the jump. Rocks don’t grow at such a rate. Furthermore, by the time we were 100 feet from the edge we had always previously been able to see the landing. This time was different. At first I put it down to the still slightly shaky weather conditions but by 50 feet there was still no landing.

This was not our cliff.

I tried calling to Jason, tried to stop him. He was too fuelled by excitement and determination to notice me. I screamed his name, desperate for him to turn back. He did not. He continued to speed ahead while I continued to shout and call. My desperation caused me to lose control of my board and I stopped suddenly out of fear that I would plummet of the cliffs edge. I called his name once more. Nothing. I watched Jason speed towards the edge. I watched him crouch in preparation to jump. I watched my friend fly off the edge and into oblivion.