The Fall

There is a moment before, when everything is calm.

The computers are silenced, the airlock is sealed, and your final checks are done. Although we know that the precautions are all in place and that this is a calculated risk, it is still a risk. I try not to think of my wife and children in the valley below, but the adrenaline begins to flow and I do my best not to panic.

And then the final signal is given on the radio, the button is pressed, and the snow falls.

We watch through reinforced windows a metre thick as a sea of white charges towards us. It looks soft and kind, like a gentle fog. But as it gets closer the pressure changes, and we brace for impact. No more than thirty seconds after we have triggered the avalanche, we are in total darkness.

The emergency lighting blinks itself on. I look to my left and right and nod to my colleagues. We made it. I can't help but let a smile of relief spread over my face.

“That was intense,” says Sara, a young research scientist who has joined us from Sweden.

“Might have been a D4 if we are lucky, start running the analytics and we’ll radio for dig-out,” I say.

The scale, D1 through to D5, basically tells of the destructive force of an avalanche. And that’s my subject of excellence. I hold a Master's and PhD in the field of Avalanche Research. I’m a fellow at the University of Innsbruck and work with the University of Applied Sciences in Western Switzerland. It’s not a boast to say I’m an expert in my field. Around five times a year I do what I did today - sit in a reinforced tube at the bottom of a mountain, and trigger an avalanche to fall onto myself and my colleagues. It is the only way we can get reliable, real world data.

I’ve always loved the mountains. I grew up on the Swiss Alps, learning to ski before I could even tie my shoelaces. That’s what we all did, my parents, my brother and sisters, and I. We would go for a day out to the mountains, drink herb tea from thermoses and eat Landjäger sausages, ride chair lifts and ski all the runs until the sun fell below the peaks.

And then we would spend the evening completely spent, in our tights and thermal tops. Playing card games and eating heavy soups. I would sleep deeply and wake up completely at peace.

My brother and I loved the mountains the most though. We started ski touring, where you place animal skins onto the bottom of your skis. This allows you to grip to the snow, and you hike up into areas off-piste and then ski down on untouched powder.

It is the ultimate freedom. It is a chance to be at one with nature. It is wild and rugged, with only the odd chamois for company. And I loved it. Just me and my brother.

Nowadays you have a lot of equipment. Beepers which will help locate you. Inflatable backpacks which aim to keep you above the snow. But in those days we had nothing but a shovel and a rescue pole - essentially a long stick to prod into the ground desperately in search of resistance.

There was a moment before, when everything was calm.

I remember that I could hear the gentle sound of my brother ahead, carving corners in the powder. I turned my skis, and began descending, but chose a different line for some reason. And then there was a sound I cannot describe, a rumbling so low that I could feel it in my chest. I watched as the top layers of snow cleaved off and took him with them.

Next was panic. Scooping snow, shovelling, prodding my ski poles deep into the white, hoping, praying. The look of terror on his face. The gasp for air. The sense of relief.

He was pretty beaten up. We shuffled on our bottoms to a safe ledge, and then I went on ahead, promising to return. The helicopter picked him up as soon as possible, and landed straight on the roof of the hospital. Broken leg, detached shoulder, possible concussion. Alive, somehow.

But the accident changed him. We never talked about it, but I know it did. It was an invisible crevasse between us. He rejected the outdoors, retiring his skis, staying away from the mountains.

Not everyone reacts like that. If they are fortunate enough to walk away from an avalanche. Some face their fear, taking the first opportunity to get back to the snow. Others might dial down the perceived danger, only sticking to the prepared slopes. But many aren’t that lucky. If you grow up where I grew up, then everyone knows someone. It is best not to dwell on the almost certain asphyxia, trauma or hypothermia, as your body is buckled and twisted at an unnatural angle. Buried alive. But I can’t help but think about this.

The tap comes on the airlock. We spin the central lock and open the door. I emerge into the beautiful afternoon sun, taking a moment to hold my head up and let it warm me. A moment of freedom, and thanks to the science and technology, or to the gods - I don’t mind which.

Tomorrow, I will take my kids skiing. I will bring a thermos of herb tea and pack some dried sausages. We will head up to the local slopes and have a day of family fun. I might even have a beer in an alm as my kids build snowmen and throw handfuls of snow at each other. As the sun drops in the sky, and the wind picks up a chill, we will ski down towards the town, and take a bus home. We will play games and eat a heavy soup, and then I will tuck them up in their beds, their ruddy pink cheeks glowing after a day of adventure.

And the next day I'll be back to my work.

With my research I have learnt more about avalanches than anyone else. I have learnt how they shape the mountains that they fall on. I can model with almost certainty, knowing how compacted snow will react over the course of the season. I can pinpoint weaknesses, and I can provide guidance, and I can also apportion blame.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have followed my brother’s line down the mountain that day. I know what I did wrong and I will work every day to make it right.