Lifted from the Yosemite Search and Rescue (YOSAR) site
( http://friendsofyosar.org/rescues/missions/11-11-07_Cathedral_Fatality.html )
Weather Related Climber Death
STORM, FAILURE TO TURN BACK, INADEQUATE CLOTHING
November 10 and 11, 2007
Tuolumne Meadows, Near Cathedral Peak
THE INCIDENT:
On Saturday, November 10, Peter Noble (44) and I, Scott Berry (37),
set out to climb the Southeast Buttress (five or six pitches, 5.6) to
the summit of Cathedral Peak (10,911 ft.).
I had been bagging peaks and leading trad routes up to 5.9 for a few
years. Peter, my best friend, had been at it for two. We hadn't
climbed this peak before, but we'd researched the route thoroughly and
knew it was well within our technical abilities.
We also knew it was storm season, but the Thursday evening and Friday
morning forecasts called for sunny on Saturday and mostly cloudy on
Sunday, with no precipitation in sight. We drove up to Tuolumne
Meadows Friday night.
A problem with the clock in our cell phone Saturday morning put us two
hours behind our intended 0630 start. The days were short now, but we
weren't concerned?we planned on hiking back in the dark that evening
anyway and even rappelling a few pitches by headlamp if necessary,
something we'd done deliberately before.
A ranger stopped to chat as we organized at the trailhead, but we
didn't think to ask for a weather update. It wouldn't have mattered
anyway?we figured we'd be out before any storm and felt we were
prepared if one did hit us.
We carried a double rack of protection, a 60m lead rope, a 60m x 8mm
trail line, ascenders, helmets, and headlamps. Peter wore light-weight
synthetic pants and a fleece sweater. I had heavy canvas pants and a
cotton T-shirt. We both had light-weight wind- and water-resistant
soft shell jackets, which had done well in alpine snow storms. Should
we be stormed on here, our upper bodies at least would be dry and only
our legs exposed. We left our heavy rain gear in the car, the first
time I had ever done so in 12 years in the Sierra. Anyway, it was only
two and a half miles from the base of the climb back to the road, and
downhill at that. What could possibly happen to prevent at least one
of us from coming out for help?
We started up the Budd Creek climbers' path at 0830 and reached the
climb late-morning. Among several variations, we chose the "standard"
route, on the left.
Our intent had been to haul our packs with the trail line, but the
route was too shattered and low angled to keep them from hanging up.
Not wanting to carry them all day, and to keep them away from marmots,
we left them on a ledge 100 feet up the first pitch. It was low 5th
class and we could easily retrieve them on descent. We left our hiking
boots, heavy wool socks, lighter, and extra food and water with the
packs. I stuffed my jacket into the fanny pack Peter would carry up
the climb.
The day was beautiful?sunny with high clouds, warm, and calm--and we
did the entire route in shirt sleeves. The climbing was easy and so
much fun that Peter twice lowered and repeated pitch 3, the Chimney
pitch.
We didn't intend to keep rigorous track of the time, and neither of us
had brought a watch. We hoped to estimate the time with our cell
phone, but by late afternoon, with one long pitch to go, we realized
that the phone's clock was still behind by a couple of hours. There
was finally a bit of wind, now ? just barely. More seriously, the
skies to the South and North were graying over, and long, thin
tendrils of darker clouds reached around the peak and drifted over the
Meadows under the higher layer. The East was picture-perfect, and a
little rain?let alone a storm?seemed unlikely to us. We were only
concerned about the time, as the sun had passed behind the peak, and
not at all worried about the weather. We debated whether to call it a
day and decided that, while neither of us minded retreating at this
point, we could probably finish the route if we hustled. I realized,
however, that we were committing ourselves to more rappels in the dark
than we'd originally intended.
Mid face view of the impending storm. Photo by Scott Berry
Mid face view of the impending storm. Photo by Scott Berry
When I reached the base of the summit blocks, I saw a huge, solid
black cloud to the west, hidden from our view until now by the peak.
The wind was strong and coming from all directions, since the buttress
no longer protected me. Peter came up fast and we considered our
options, knowing we would not be down before the storm hit us.
We could cross the summit ridge to the usual 4th class descent on the
west face, then descend 3rd class slopes around the north side of the
peak to the base of the route. We knew of this descent but we couldn't
see it from our position, and I didn't feel there was time to cross
the ridge and evaluate it. Besides, we were more comfortable with a
5th-class rappel than class four of unknown length in the dark, on the
face most exposed to the wind, and on the side of the peak opposite
our packs.
Our original plan had been to recover the packs as we rappelled the
climb, but we now felt we'd be fully exposed to the wind on that
descent. Instead we decided to rappel the face just left of the climb.
From what we could see below us, several ledges offered good stances,
allowing shorter, more secure drops in what was clearly going to be a
nighttime retreat, and its southerly aspect might shield us better
from the wind. Like the climb, this face was also fractured, posing a
risk of hanging up the rope. Because of the conical shape of the
buttress it looked to us that we would reach the ground several
hundred feet left of our packs.
By this time I had put on my jacket. Peter had inexplicably left his
in his pack, five pitches below, leaving him with only the fleece
sweater. Neither of us had warm hats or gloves.
The ropes jammed on the first rappel and nothing we tried would move
them. We wanted to stay ahead of the storm and we planned to make
short rappels anyway, so to save time I climbed half way up to the
anchor and cut both lines. We were left with 120 ft of lead rope and
most of the trail line. We elected to make short rappels for better
control of the rope, so Peter coiled the trail line and lashed it to
his back. From here on we simul-rappelled on the lead line, with the
mid-point of the rope at the anchor and one of us on each strand.
Being side-by-side was helpful?we could hear each other despite the
wind and work out problems on the descent. We descended as safely as
we could, with auto-block back-ups between our harnesses and the rope.
Each rappel was 40-60 feet.
The sun set and we broke out the headlamps on the second rappel. At
this point the cell phone rang?it was our friend Michael. Peter told
him we were descending and would return home Sunday. We didn't feel
the need for help at that time and were surprised at the good
reception. Later, when we were desperate, we could not get a signal.
By now it was pitch-black. The temperature plummeted, it started to
snow, and the wind was picking up. Three rappels later we were in a
full gale that blew the ends of the rope above us, and the snow turned
to sleet, coating our helmets, hardware, and clothes in ice. Ice-water
poured down the rope, soaking our hands, and we were shivering
violently. There was no crack or feature in which to hide. I was
surprised that my shirt was still dry under my jacket, but my legs and
cotton pants were quickly soaked and stayed that way. Without his
jacket Peter was soaked from head to toe. We joined our lights to
scout the route ahead, but sleet covered my glasses and fog cut
visibility to 15 feet.
As time passed, my condition deteriorated dangerously: I slurred my
words. My vision went temporarily black. I spent ten minutes trying to
rig my auto-block, normally a 30-sec. procedure. I looked for a
carabiner for five minutes when there were many clipped to my harness.
As we began one rappel, I paused to adjust the anchor, then left the
rope entirely unclipped, catching my error just as we stepped to the
lip. Peter seemed stronger, taking on chores that confounded me, and I
asked him to check everything I did. For the first time, I thought,
'we are going to be in real trouble in another hour'.
At one point I noticed that the trail line was no longer on Peter's
back. It had somehow detached, leaving us without the option of
longer, two-rope rappels or a back-up if we lost what remained of the
lead rope. We knew the wall steepened below and we worried about
dangling on the end of our rope looking for anchors in our debilitated
condition. So we now avoided vertical drops and followed ramps and
clefts that traversed steeply down and right. Nevertheless we had to
climb to free our rope at least once more. Somewhere below the halfway
point, Peter slipped on a slab and swung into a corner. The impact
separated his lamp?a detachable model--from its strap, sending the
light down the cliff and out of sight.
We'd been using up our cams and nuts for anchors, doubling them up
with no thought to their cost. The 14th or 15th drop found us on a
slab with no cracks in sight, where we were forced to rely on a
single, small, marginal cam. As we descended from it we thought we
could see the ends of the rope lying on snow below us, and we hoped
that was the ground at last, not just another ledge. Halfway down the
anchor placement failed. We tumbled and cart wheeled and I knew that
if this were not the last rappel it would certainly be the last for
us. Fifteen feet lower we stopped in snow and slush, surrounded by
snow-covered trees?we were down. We got up, discovered we were
uninjured, and laughed it off. I guessed the time at midnight but it
could have been later.
The cliff was a sheet of ice and the wind and sleet as strong as ever.
Recovering the critical gear in our packs, 100 feet higher and
who-knew-how-much-farther east, was out of the question, even if we
managed to identify the pitch in the dark. We would have to hike out
in our smooth-soled climbing shoes--no jacket for Peter and no way to
build a fire.
We had two objectives. First, reach the denser trees along the creek
below, to seek shelter from the wind. Second, follow the drainage
downhill and north toward the road. Becoming lost in this simple
topography should be impossible, even in the dark, but any sign of a
climber path was obliterated by three or four inches of snow and ice.
No matter?parallel the creek, hit the main trail, then the road. Just
don't stop. We ditched our gear.
Though sloping gently, the talus slope was so icy that every move sent
us sprawling. We walked on all fours, like crabs, over the top of the
rocks and into the forest. As we reached the trees we both fell down
again, but this was different. We'd been going non-stop for at least
16 hours, we were exhausted, dehydrated, and our legs--not just our
fingers and toes--were numb from cold, the muscles barely working.
With great difficulty, we got up, trying to help each other, and both
toppled over again. We had two miles to go at that point, on legs that
felt like stilts. A log we would have jumped over in the morning
required both of us working together to pass on hands and knees. We
looked for any sort of wind-break, but there was nothing, so for hours
we continued walking and falling, along the creek.
Whereas Peter had held up better than I as we rappelled, he
deteriorated faster now and I seemed to rally. He fell more often and
stayed down longer. I was still on my feet half the time and I thought
we might make it if one of us stayed up. I tried to help him walk, but
I lacked the strength to support him or even to grip his sweater.
Eventually he simply crawled because it was easier that way.
All night Peter had been rational, even joking, but then he said, in a
calm voice, "Maybe we can get some in those shops over there." I
warned him that he was hallucinating and urged him to fight it.
We had progressed a little further, when he simply rolled over onto
his back. I yelled, "Peter, you have to get up or you'll die!" "That's
OK", he said, but he rolled onto his hands and knees and continued
forward. Then he said, "Who are all of these people around us?"
"They're our friends," I replied, now certain that neither of us would
make it. And he said, "Oh, it's OK then." We had moved again a tiny
bit, when he asked, "What is that bright light over there?" As I
turned to look, he collapsed onto his back and jerked once. A rattling
sound came from his throat, then he lay still. I called his name and
shook him.
I couldn't check his pulse, since I hadn't been able to feel my hands
for hours. I tried to listen for breathing, but I was shaking too
hard. For 15 minutes I administered CPR, remembered from Boy Scouts.
Finally I realized that, if Peter were not already gone, he would be
shortly, and there was nothing more I could do. I was barely standing.
I felt the chance of getting out, myself, were slim to none, but if I
were to survive I had to leave. 'Also', I thought?though I didn't
really believe this, 'if I get down there might be a chance for
Peter'. I took the phone and car keys from his jacket.
As I was leaving I noticed the dim form of a tree trunk 30 feet away
and I realized it was daybreak. We had travelled hours on hands and
knees. It got brighter and warmer as I descended; I was staying on my
feet longer, and eventually I found the climbers' path, under the
snow. Nevertheless the final mile and a half after leaving Peter was
the hardest physical challenge I've ever met. When I finally hit the
main trail I knew I could make it. I was incredibly thirsty. I made
straight for the water and food in our bear box, then went to the car.
At that instant, I heard an approaching truck--a Ranger. I flagged him
down.
A Park Service team gathered immediately and followed my tracks back
to Peter. By that time it was too late. A subsequent autopsy confirmed
the obvious?death by hypothermia.
After six months, feeling has returned to my fingers and toes and
shooting pains in my hands have subsided. More surprising was the
pronounced, though temporary, effect on my left brain--difficulty with
routine calculations, names of friends and family, and short term
memory. I could sense co-workers waiting patiently as I processed my
thoughts.
Source: We are grateful to Scott Berry for providing this narrative.
ANALYSIS:
The primary cause of this tragedy was insufficient clothing for
prolonged and full exposure to the storm.
NPS Stock Photo
That may seem obvious, but back issues of ANAM and other
mountaineering literature are full of similar cases?including close
calls on Cathedral Peak. They involve beginners and experts and myriad
"unlikely" events. Stuff happens in the mountains, even on easy
climbs?an inaccurate forecast, a late start, a stuck rope, a dropped
rack, or a broken ankle high on the route. Those events are secondary
to being prepared to sit immobilized and fully exposed to the weather,
in any location. In Scott's and Peter's case, they started out
underequipped, lacking warm hats, gloves, fleece, and rain pants. Then
they separated from the critical gear they did bring?Peter's jacket,
their hiking shoes, and fire starter?and left it in a potentially
inaccessible location. [An alpine climb means gear on your back.
However, if a lightning storm is headed your way, sitting there is not
an option. Descend as fast as you can. See ANAM 2001, California,
Cathedral Peak.]
Secondary factors:
The forecast: Weather Service forecasts on Friday and Saturday
mornings called for 20-50% chance of snow Saturday night/Sunday
morning. The forecast is available in the park by phone, 24/7.
The late start: This is not necessarily an issue if you go prepared to
climb or hike at night, with a descent plan and survival gear, but if
you add any of the "unlikely" ingredients your risk increases.
The "short" distance to the road: Remoteness should be measured by
time, not distance. You can be in serious trouble while in sight of
the car and should plan accordingly.
The weather surprise: Hiding a storm behind a mountain is one of
Mother Nature's standard tricks.
The descent plan: Given the location of their survival gear, reversing
the route was their best option, and in hindsight, Scott should have
rappelled back to Peter at his first glimpse of the storm. As an
alternative, the 4th class descent was the fastest way out, putting
them at the base of the climb in a couple of hours, but Scott and
Peter lacked confidence with this kind of terrain. Some critical
components of a descent plan are (1) a set of retreat criteria?dark
clouds and a turn-around time, for example, (2) a plan for every point
on the route, and (3) caution when changing the plan. Scott and Peter
were not reckless, but with only a few technical alpine routes behind
them they lacked the experience to recognize how quickly conditions
could change. In addition, they had climbed so late in the day?obvious
from the angle of the sun in their photos?that they were assured of a
night-time descent.
Rappel tactics: Leaving half of your rope behind when you can easily
retrieve it is a risky strategy. Short rappels may lessen the risk of
a stuck rope, especially in the winds Scott and Peter faced, but more
anchors and more time are required for the descent. Had they chosen to
continue rappelling on what remained of both ropes they could have cut
the number of rappels by roughly half.
Losing the headlamp: The best way to carry spare batteries is inside a
spare LED headlamp.
Navigating in the storm: After the accident, rangers climbed Scott's
and Peter's ascent and descent routes, documenting and recovering
their packs and rappel anchors. Because they had been forced to rappel
to the right, and in poor visibility, Scott and Peter had unknowingly
merged with their original climbing route at the top of the first
pitch, despite thinking they were hundreds of feet to the left. In a
twist of fate typical of disasters, they had climbed a slightly
different variation that bypassed that particular anchor, so they did
not recognize--as they rappelled from it--that their packs lay only 30
feet to the right.
Source: Scott Berry and several NPS Rangers, Yosemite National Park
