Читать книгу Extreme Survivors: 60 of the World’s Most Extreme Survival Stories - Collins Maps - Страница 42

They rested by a tree at the base of a rock wall. Night was only a couple of hours away and they were still thousands of feet above the meadow. Norman didn’t know how they were going to get down. He turned to check on Sandra and suddenly she was gone, tumbling into the icy funnel.

‘An insatiable spirit, he was crazy for the storm. And it saved my life.’

Norman Ollestad, of his father.

From Crazy for the Storm by Norman Ollestad.

At first he cursed himself for not staying close to her. Then he ate some snow to pacify his savage thirst and kept going down.

There was blood on the snow. Lots of it. So much he could follow it like a trail, right down the throat of the funnel.

The blood smear ended at a tree. Norman called out. Nothing. He moved past the tree and saw blood again. His chest felt empty. He struggled towards a tree at the edge of the gully and threw his arms around it. He needed to hold something, any living thing.

Calmer again, he looked out to see he was sandwiched below the cloud and above the fog. There was no way the helicopter would see him here. The cabin was nearer, but he was still too far above it and night was getting closer. He had to keep going. He plucked another couple of limbs from a tree. The pine scent thrilled his senses. He was alive.

Norman half walked, half skidded down the slope until eventually it began to widen and the gradient relaxed. He found Sandra a little further down, tall spruces surrounding the patch of snow where she lay. Norman’s seat from the plane was just above her. Her eyes were open but she was stiff and dead. He covered her body with twigs then moved on.

Now that the slope was shallow enough for him to control his descent, he slid on his bottom down the apron for at least 300 m (1,000 ft). He made his way down into a narrow and twisted gulch in front of the huge ridge he had seen earlier. Carefully he avoided the ice-covered stream that snaked below him. Get wet, you get hypothermia, you die.

Norman slid down a 30 cm (12 inches) wide bench of snow beside the creek on his hip until he reached a rock bowl. At the far side, the stream emptied over an icy waterfall on to sharp rocks 15 m (50 ft) below. Somehow he used cracks to worm his way down from rocky crease to icy blister.

The slope wasn’t steep here, but Norman had to traverse giant shale boulders. His stomach was chewing itself and exhaustion tore at him like an animal. He staggered woozily on until looked up and saw the meadow of snow 180 m (600 ft) down slope.

But the mountain still wasn’t done with him. Now the enemy was a snarling mass of buckthorn, which lurked below a thin layer of snow. He dropped into it and stuck deep in the well formed by the jagged branches, unable to climb out.

A plane passed high above. He yelled and waved. It circled. It had seen him. No. It sailed over the massive ridgeline.

‘I never gave up. My dad taught me to never give up.’

From Crazy for the Storm by Norman Ollestad.

With the last ounces of his strength, Norman scrabbled and slithered out of the nest of buckthorn. With a flush of euphoria he found he had made it to the oasis of the snow meadow. It was tempting to sit down and celebrate, but he knew he might never get up again. He had to push on. But how would he get out? The vines wove a dense forest on the other side of the meadow.

Then, he found some footprints. They were fresh. Norman followed them. After a few minutes, he realized the boot tracks made a circle. Was he delirious? Panic flooded his system.

Then: ‘Hello! Anybody there?’

Norman screamed his lungs out. A teenage boy and his dog appeared out of the thickening gloom.

‘You from the crash?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyone else?’