"Accidents happen only in our heads, in our limited perceptions.
They are the reflection of the limit of our knowledge." (Franz Kafka)

In the main mountaineering casualties can be divided into two sections: those resulting from a fall whether climbing or walking, and those resulting from exposure only. The former is easily understood by the layman and the novice. The latter is more difficult for the non-mountaineer to imagine.

There are many kinds of weather and conditions in the mountains and many degrees. There is a light snow shower and a heavy snow shower. There is light snow with a wind and heavy snow with a wind. Driving snow may be called, by the novice, a blizzard, thus giving himself an exaggerated idea of his own capabilities in bad weather. In fact, it may be years before he encounters a blizzard - and longer before he meets up with the worst conditions possible - a blizzard at night. But if he has climbed say, for two years, has reached Very Severe standard and above, perhaps done expeditions like the Cuillin Ridge and been to the Alps, he may still never encounter anything worse than streaming rocks or snow-plastered ledges: the aftermath of a storm, and yet he is considered by himself and his friends experienced. No man is experienced until he has known - and coped with - all kinds of weather and conditions. Many V.S. climbers have died in Scottish blizzards and lesser mountaineers in Welsh ones.

North Wales is not the size of Scotland by any means, nor on the whole, is the weather so severe. It doesn't need to be. There are different degrees in weather but not in death.

The Black Easter of 1951 demonstrated to the layman the extreme winter conditions (as opposed to weather) to be found above 2,000 feet in April. The man who knew how to use an axe would have had little difficulty with the Snowdon ice cap, yet he might still have died in a winter gale.

Wind is the most insidious enemy by day or night. One can survive cold and wet; one just keeps going, miserable, uncomfortable to the point of suffering, but one is able to keep walking. Wind impedes progress. It buffets the body and muddles the brain. To the man on the point of exhaustion it is animate: pulling, pushing, tearing, and incessantly - but not rhythmically - noisy. He thinks only of getting away from it - of sheltering, of sleeping.

If the wind is combined with snow or rain - and darkness - the result is often fatal.

I climbed for eleven years before I met a blizzard at night.

I had agreed to meet two men in the Charles Inglis Clark hut below the north-east face of Ben Nevis one evening in February.

I knew the Ben fairly well, and I was living in Fort William at the time. I knew what the weather conditions had been like for hours - and days - before I left. There had been snow clouds in the north all day. I had watched them intently. They didn't come any nearer and I decided to start up to the hut about an hour before dark. I knew both paths well (they start some distance apart and go up either side of the burn, to meet above the first steep section) and even if they were snow-covered, there would be the tracks of the men in front of me.

I shopped for food in the town and caught the bus along to the distillery. As I left it the driver watched me hoist my sack out of the door and then said viciously,

"And I hope you break your bloody neck!" Continue to Page 2