An Unexpected Night With The Ayatollah Khomeini
AN UNEXPECTED NIGHT WITH THE AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI
I woke up on a bunk bed in a concrete shack in Chelgerd, a small town in south-west Iran. We were a group of British ski mountaineers who were training in the Zagros mountains for a ski ascent of Damavand the highest mountain in Iran with a summit at 5610 metres, quite a lot higher than Mont Blanc at 4810 metres.
We were down south to get fit and acclimatised for the attempt on Damavand the following week. The Zagros mountains extend over one thousand miles and are an effective border between Iraq and Iran – or historically between the Ottoman and Persian empires. Alas, the mighty Persia was rather run down in 2002 as the country was still suffering economically after the Islamic Revolution of 1979. So, the ski resort we found ourselves in was very run down with horrendous roads, broken down ski lifts of 1950s vintage, and poor communications.
None of this was in my mind as I stumbled out of bed to find breakfast. This was not difficult as we were now following local customs and breakfast was laid out on a large white sheet on the floor at the end of the bunk beds in the small common area we shared. We tucked into a modest meal of naan bread, soft cheese, jam and tea. Soon we were outside with our rucksacks and clipping into our mountain skis. We were going to climb up to a high hut at Chal Mishan, 3850 metres, to spend the night and off we went. The hut was deserted so we had some porters who were engaged to carry our food and cooking equipment up the mountain. They were on foot in the deep snow which made progress very difficult for them.
After a couple of hours of steep ascent on ski, using skins under our skis for traction, I found that the wet snow was sticking to the base of my skis which stopped them gliding along. So, I did the standard thing which was to continually bash the ski with my stick to dislodge the snow. Unfortunately, my stick suddenly broke and was useless, which is not ideal on a high mountain. By this time, it was snowing hard and with a strong wind. The group pulled up together for a chat about the conditions and we felt that it would be dangerous to go on, so we agreed to take our skins off our skis and ski back to the base camp. We were all relieved to be skiing down now, but after just a couple of turns I was hit hard by a wall of snow that appeared over my left shoulder – it was a serious avalanche. I was rolled over and over again and again. It was like being in a washing machine with me, my skis and sticks rolling head over heels beneath the snow. I thought I might die. I tried to keep breathing but the snow was in my mouth and up my nose. I was using my arms in a fruitless attempt to swim to the surface but in truth, I did not know which way was up. When the avalanche hit, the wind was howling, and the snow was blowing.
After what seemed an eternity the moving mass of snow came to a stop I was buried below the surface.
I was breathless, exhausted, but thrilled to be alive. I felt I was lying on my back and was pleasantly surprised to see light above me through the snow, so I knew which way was up. At this point, my right arm was trapped under me and was very painful. But I could breathe as the snow was fresh and loose. I lay for some minutes getting my breath back and waiting for the others, with their electronic trackers, to find me and dig me out. Surprisingly no one came and I wondered if we had all been buried. I was beginning to get cold, so I decided to self-rescue and using my left arm dug up to the surface which was only a few feet above me. Moving more snow I sat up and looked up at the sun and blue sky. In a few minutes, I had been swept down hundreds of metres from a snowy ridge to a sunny spot below. I stood up and could see no one. My skis had been torn off but I had my rucksack so I could survive the night. My worry was a second avalanche so I decided to move on foot as fast as I could in the deep fresh snow. As I started, I saw one ski tip glinting in the sun so climbed back up to retrieve it. Then I set off downhill and caught sight of two of our Iranian porters and together we carried on down. One of the party arrived on skis and told me that some others had been hit by the avalanche, but no one else had been swept down the mountain and buried.
We soon came to the tree line and a track in the forest which we followed. We knew that we could not get down to our valley base at this slow walking speed but were unsure what to do. Luckily, we came across a small stone building in good condition which looked as though it belonged to the local water company as there was a dam nearby. The door was locked, but the padlock was no match for hungry men with ice axes and soon we were inside. There were two or three small rooms, all clean and tidy so the porters set up a stove and prepared a meal. I took some serious painkillers, washed down with sweet mint tea, and stretched out my sleeping bag on a good quality carpet below a large framed picture of Ayatollah Khomeini.
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