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majid_sabet
Jun 15, 2008, 3:25 PM
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Also read LED harness failure in RC Lab.
MS
http://friendsofyosar.org/...hedral_Fatality.html
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.
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.
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
(This post was edited by majid_sabet on Jun 15, 2008, 10:16 PM)
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sspssp
Jun 17, 2008, 9:18 PM
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Majid, thanks for posting this. I think it is worth a bump so that maybe a few more climbers will read it and perhaps learn some lessons the easy way...
Some of the decisions that contributed to this accident are tough calls. How much clothing to take up the climb; rap down or look for the fourth class downclimb in the dark... However, climbing with cotton clothing is something that I hope other aspiring alpinist will avoid. [Even though the climber with the cotton t-shirt and canvass pants was the one that lived,] its unfortunate that the lesson "cotton kills" still hasn't hit home. You don't have to buy $100+ wind shirts or $200+ alpine pants. There are relatively inexpensive nylon shirts and pants that might not have the latest water resistant/breathable performance, but they will still shine compared to cotton...
(This post was edited by sspssp on Jun 17, 2008, 9:20 PM)
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knightrain
Jun 18, 2008, 12:18 AM
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Check out the original posted article for photos and updates at:
http://friendsofyosar.org/rescues/missions/11-11-07_Cathedral_Fatality.html
Hats off to Scott Berry for his priceless input - please absorb his tale so it is not repeated.
(This post was edited by knightrain on Jun 18, 2008, 12:28 AM)
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majid_sabet
Jun 18, 2008, 3:55 PM
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sspssp wrote: Majid, thanks for posting this. I think it is worth a bump so that maybe a few more climbers will read it and perhaps learn some lessons the easy way... Some of the decisions that contributed to this accident are tough calls. How much clothing to take up the climb; rap down or look for the fourth class downclimb in the dark... However, climbing with cotton clothing is something that I hope other aspiring alpinist will avoid. [Even though the climber with the cotton t-shirt and canvass pants was the one that lived,] its unfortunate that the lesson "cotton kills" still hasn't hit home. You don't have to buy $100+ wind shirts or $200+ alpine pants. There are relatively inexpensive nylon shirts and pants that might not have the latest water resistant/breathable performance, but they will still shine compared to cotton...
In Jan of 2007, party of four climbers in another country planned to summit a peak in winter. All four were cut in storm, one died while rappelling and the other died while hiking to base camp, very similar to the Cathedral incident. I personally knew both of those guys who died. When Search and rescue helicopter was send to rescue the other two survivals, it also crashed on snow. Luckily all eight SAR personal walked away from the crash scene unharmed.
Technical climbing in winter is dangerous by itself and it requires a good planning. Climbing fast and light, leaving essential gear behind, and trying to cut corners is an invitation for a disaster.
MS
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onceahardman
Jun 18, 2008, 8:55 PM
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In reply to: Climbing fast and light, leaving essential gear behind, and trying to cut corners is an invitation for a disaster.
I disagree, at least partly. Let me explain.
One could carry portaledges, stoves, 20 gallons of water, sleeping bags, food for a week, extra ropes and hauling gear, rescue equipment, etc, on a 6 pitch 5.6 route.
OR, one could carry shoes and chalkbag, not even a rope.
Somewhere in between lies the correct gear for most climbing parties.
The problems encountered by this tragic party was not primarily a problem of going fast and light. It was poor judgement. This party chose terrible equipment for an alpine environment. Cotton t-shirts, canvas pants, no windproof/light rainproof? That is a judgement problem. They had to wear SOMETHING, but they chose to wear inferior clothing for an autumn alpine route.
Then, they did not keep track of time. They didn't realize they were in trouble until it was too late. Had they gone FASTER, they might be alive today.
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vterinme
Jun 18, 2008, 9:22 PM
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majid_sabet wrote: In Jan of 2007, party of four climbers in another country planned to summit a peak in winter. All four were cut in storm, one died while rappelling and the other died while hiking to base camp, very similar to the Cathedral incident. Snip... Technical climbing in winter is dangerous by itself and it requires a good planning. Climbing fast and light, leaving essential gear behind, and trying to cut corners is an invitation for a disaster. MS
Seriously guy, I've got a girlfriend, but you wouldn't know her. She's from the Niagara Falls region of Canada.
Who were these "friends"? What country? You'll have to post a pic so that we can all see through your BS.
Ummm, I'd have to say all climbing requires good planning regardless of summer or winter. Winter climbers are just another breed of sufferers. You're probably not aware of this b/c you come from a community that would rather hang ten then climb 10.
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midwestpaul
Jun 29, 2008, 5:41 AM
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In cases of hypothermia it is best not to administer CPR as the heart beat may be so faint as to be undetectable. The shock of chest compressions in this case may cause the heart to stop.
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patto
Jul 1, 2008, 3:36 PM
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This incident reverberates pretty strongly with me as I was in the Valley when this occurred. I remember being very surprised about it all because the bad weather was forecast 2 days in advance.
As it says, bad weather, poor clothing and misfortune lead to the ultimate cost.
Just the previous day to this incident I attempted to summit Half Dome up Snake Dike. My first and only 'alpine' accent climbing.
After sweating our way up the walking track we started up the climb only to have cloud and wind close in on us. I went from t-shirt to down jacket and rain jacket in half an hour. I could barely see my belayers. I ended up being frustrated from the conditions and the fact that neither of my partners want to take the lead. While the climbing was easy, rope management was annoying. Furthmore rain was a possibility and the 4th class terrain on top worried me far more than the run out 5th class I was currently on. As much as anything it was no longer fun. So despite the other's protests I made the decision to bail.
While bailing was more due to me being soft than anything else, in light on the incident the following day it makes hammers home the importance of caution.
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dingus
Jul 1, 2008, 4:34 PM
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Sadly this incident was a chain of poor decisions leading to an easily avoidable tragedy. There was a dozen or more mistakes or bad decisions along the way. I know the bold strokes of the incident because I live near by and knew of it all 'real time' so to speak. But I can't read that whole analysis post - it really eats me up inside - I want to shout NO! Don't do that! But its too late.
Their ultimate mistake though, was dawdling.
DMT
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