Avalanche!

by Jamie McGuinness

In the Himalaya, the highest mountain range in the world, you would expect big avalanches. Just how big? Himalayan trekking guide Jamie McGuinness recounts:

A movement caught my eye. The bright white mass high above surged down, gently swelling in size. Then the low rumble reached me and I could feel the power. I watched spellbound as the avalanche gained a huge momentum and the resonant rumble turned to thunder.

Moving in a powerful slow motion, still with a kilometre to fall, this was a big one. Involuntarily my eyes widened and in a fleeting moment of sickening despair I looked around. This was what looking death in the face must be like. I was a long way from the valley floor where it should land and the huge boulders all around would protect. I was safe. The relief was euphoric, and mentally I kicked myself for releasing all that adrenalin.

The avalanche coursed down ever larger, and long seconds later thumped into the valley floor. The impact spread its force out like a huge explosion and a brilliant cloud billowed out, and out and out. With a feeling of slight anti-climax after experiencing something so powerful I watched the cloud lose potency and puff into thin vapour.

The trail to Makalu Base Camp headed up wisely avoiding that section of the valley floor. Later over lunch I reflected ruefully that it would have made an incredible series of photos. These events never happen when you are prepared. Now my camera was out of my rucksack and I was in a good spot to have recorded it, another avalanche might be months away and... BLOW ME DOWN, glancing at the face again I clearly saw a large block of glacier crumble and fall in slow motion. Elated and disbelieving, I picked up the camera, changed lenses and willed myself to count to at least three between shots...

Since that 1988 trek I have seen and heard many Himalayan avalanches. The last I experienced was also particularly spectacular. Six of us were camped beside Tilicho Lake, an alternative route to the 5416m Thorung La (pass) on the famous Annapurna Circuit. Dramatically set, this large lake rests at 5000m and has no visible outlet.

I walked over to test the lake's ice - would it be safe enough to walk on thereby saving one of three high pass crossings? Although the debris beached on the shore was substantial, a glance told me it was futile; there was open water on the shore further along at a vital point. I tested the ice anyhow, crampons lightly splintering the surface. In Sweden while running dog teams I had been assured that a mere 40mms of ice was enough for a team and sled. We frequently crossed twelve kilometres of lake without problems. Running up valleys was more nerve-wracking; in the soft twilight arctic world of only snow and sky, I couldn't always tell where the stream might be, and the dogs didn't care, simply following the easiest line. If their paws started breaking though, especially with a splash, they pulled harder. Fighting instant horror, I would look down to watch the snow-covered sheets beneath runners untidily break and splinter. The theory was that as the stream levels dropped the surface froze in several occasionally thin layers.

Out on the lake this ice looked thick. My axe barely made an impression and I knew that it was strong and, literally, bullet-proof. Near Island Peak Base Camp in mid-winter we had delighted in dislodging boulders, some weighing a tonne or more, from the moraine wall, they crashed and spun down the 100m face to bounce (!), admittedly with a few heavy-sounding cracks, on the lake's ice, but didn't ever break the surface.

Acutely tuned to the surroundings, movement caught my eye. Half of a huge block jutting out from the nearly vertical face of the 7134m Tilicho Peak had obviously succumbed to gravity. I watched in fascination as it exploded against a ledge and like a waterfall the mass cascaded out, growing in stature every moment. The rumble finally reached me and I hoped that the guys back at camp would hear or notice it.

The avalanche roared down, welling bigger and bigger and as it hit the flat glacier below the cloud exploded outwards. The growing snow-dust effortlessly traversed a kilometre of flat glacier and I expected it to simply pour into the unfrozen section of lake. How wrong I was! The boiling cloud rushed unstoppably on. I calculated my position, and although I doubted it could blow me into the shore rocks, I backed up doing up every zip and closure I had. First the powerful froth hit a vertical cliff on the narrow side of the lake, spectacularly pushing the cloud straight up. I crouched behind a rock and looked entranced, as the 100m high snowstorm engulfed me. My nervousness mellowed to pure thrill. Logic was right, the blast wasn't too strong. Gradually the cloud dissipated and, my jacket plastered with ice particles, I strolled back to camp. The tents had easily survived but were coated with a thick layer of frost. The guys were still standing outside.

Wow! Later we looked at the map to check the distances. The cloud had traversed a very real kilometre of glacier and at least 2 1/2 kilometres of lake to reach the camp. Admittedly the air is almost half the sea level density at 5000m, but that was still one Himalayan-sized avalanche!

And the photos? At the end of an amazing days' trekking, by coincidence, nobody had any film left In their cameras...