BROAD PEAK, JULY 1984
There was a whoosh … then a dull thud!
My instincts told me that something was happening: something I should be aware of. I struggled for a moment, trying to regain consciousness from the deep sleep that engulfed me after the enormous exertions of the previous days, but my heavy eyelids just would not obey my brain’s instructions to open and I gave up trying. I felt Kurt moving, trying to free himself from the straitjacket restriction of the tiny one-man bivouac tent into which we were both tightly squeezed, and took the opportunity to stretch my cramped limbs into a more comfortable position, snuggling deeper into my warm sleeping bag, and gave in to the over-powering urge to sleep.
‘Julie, Julie! Wake up!’ The urgent panic in Kurt’s voice woke me instantly. I had assumed that he had rushed out to answer a call of nature, but his tone made it obvious that all was not well, and immediately cleared all thoughts of sleep from my mind.
‘What is it?’ I started to ask, but another ‘whoosh’ and ‘thud’ on the front of the tent answered my question most graphically. Avalanche!
The front part of the tent where an integral extension housed our rucksacks went dark and flat. I heard Kurt moving frantically outside. Finally the doorway was clear again and I could see the grey-white of the snowstorm outside.
‘Quick, Julie, my boots. It must have snowed very heavily after our descent last night, and now … God, we must be very fast!’ I found one of his heavy double boots and passed it out of the tent, but the other one? I could not see it. Kurt’s empty sleeping bag covered all the spare space in the tiny tent. I managed the difficult cramped manoeuvre to reach the tapered far end where the tent was only eight inches high (it was only three feet wide and twenty-four inches high at the front end). I felt around but his second boot was not there, then returned to the entrance gasping from my exertions and the lack of oxygen in the thin mountain air. This was Broad Peak in the Himalayan mountains, and a height of 25,000 feet was no place for such contortions. Frantically I dug at the fresh snow deposited by the avalanche in the entrance. To lose a boot at such an altitude on one of the world’s highest mountains meant disaster for both of us, and there was no one else on the mountain. I had to find it if we were to survive. I dug more frantically still into the cold wet snow. I unearthed a torch, and some rubbish, and then … I almost cried with relief … Kurt’s other boot! I passed it out to him and dived to the end of the tent again to get my own boots.
The next minutes were filled with frenzied activity. My boot would not go on over the normal two pairs of socks. In the early morning my feet were swollen from sleeping at altitude, one pair would have to do. I hoped it would not be too cold. It would be ironic to get frostbite now after returning unscathed in the night from the summit.
I was about to stick my foot into the second boot when Kurt shouted, ‘Here comes another avalanche!’ and I bent my head forward between my knees. Again he worked to free the front of the tent, his arms thrashing like windmills trying to divide the force of the snow, sending some down the steep slope on the outside of the tent and the rest into a deep crevasse on the outer edge of which we were camping – the only flat place we had found to put our final assault camp. Thank goodness he had reacted to the first avalanche while I slept on, otherwise we might have been buried alive in our refuge. I lifted my head and looked at my poised boot. Hell, it was full of soft wet snow. Well, perhaps frostbite was better than dying! With fumbling fingers I struggled with the laces and my snow gaiters.
Once outside the tent Kurt’s eyes and the weather quickly conveyed the full seriousnes
