Much lower, I suddenly realize there’s something strange in the atmosphere. Without our noticing it, it has gotten darker, a freakish transformation of light that gives the grayness the color of slate. It couldn’t be nightfall; it’s too early for that. Or is it? Intently I study the sky, which is strangely attentive and calm, as if something is about to be born.
Then two things happen more or less at once: Augustin’s hair stands on end on both sides of his helmet, as if someone had rubbed it with an invisible balloon . . . and my ice axes start to hum with static.
Never will I forget how the atmosphere starts rumbling: a deep, subterranean sound that seems to be coming from the mountain’s core and causes the earth to tremor. The sense of vacuum is an illusion; the mountain’s faces are speaking. Even Augustin is startled. To my bewilderment, I feel my skin start to tingle, a prickling that invades my body and travels down my spine, making the hairs on my neck stand up. The humming of the aluminum turns into an electrostatic crackling. I realize we’re in the midst of a negatively charged thundercloud, which is causing an enormous positive charge to build up in the rocks around me.
With all the metal on our bodies, we are human lightning rods.
The wind rips a cloud fragment apart, clearing the view to the glacial basin to the right, about two hundred yards into the abyss. I suddenly see that after a last upheaval in the ridge, there’s an easy descent to a saddle, from which a wide snow couloir gives access to the glacier.
“Augustin, now!” I shout.
I start driving him like cattle. We scramble, we stumble, we run on rocks, faster than we can think, faster than the wind. It’s our only chance to make it off the ridge before the thunderstorm—
The world perishes. The snowstorm explodes in a forked branch of white fire. The sound crashes right through me, a pandemonium, as if the mountains are flinging house-sized boulders. It crushes my spirit and shatters my mind when tens of thousands of volts strike somewhere up the ridge. I believe I’m screaming, but if I hear it, it’s only in my head. A blue, crackling flame shoots from the spike of the ice axe on Augustin’s backpack. I even feel a shock, though I probably only imagined it.
Augustin starts to scream, and it takes a moment before I realize it’s a pouring forth of ecstasy. Arms outstretched, he stands like an insane imitation of Dr. Frankenstein.
I shut him up by lashing him with the rope, and then we hurry on, because I feel the storm is building up to strike again. And it does, as soon as we stagger onto the saddle. I throw myself to the ground, flat against the snow. The thunder makes us forget that light exists. Augustin starts laughing hysterically.
“Down!” I scream, after I have recollected myself. I search feverishly for a way to reach the relative protection of the couloir. The first part is extremely steep—more than sixty degrees is my estimate—but after about ten yards, a lonely rock protrudes, from which I can possibly lower Augustin past the worst bit.
Traversing down to that hump of rock is the most treacherous thing I’ve ever done. The powder is so deep that I sink into it up to my hips, and I keep kicking it away in sugar avalanches. It’s like I’m climbing something that doesn’t exist. By now, Augustin is completely out of control. Leaving him behind on the saddle till I’ve set up an anchor would have been the only option under any other circumstances, but the chance that he’ll be hit by lightning is too high, so I have no choice but to take him down with me. I laboriously dig my way down, facing the wall, my axes clawing into clouds of powder. I shout to Augustin to follow me closely.
The next thunderclap seems to light up the snow from within, and I try to literally separate myself from the wall. To my shock, Augustin is scrambling uphill. The snow shoots out from under his boots and he slips. He crashes into me, almost bowling me off the wall. Everything around me starts reeling. Luckily, the distance between us is too short for him to gain speed, otherwise that would have been the end of us both. I shorten the rope to less than a yard, so I can practically hug him down. He doesn’t even realize that I am now supporting his feet as they search for a hold in the snow.
I don’t think we’ll make it. The whole time, I think we’re going to fall.
But we do make it. Somehow, we make it to the hump. I throw a sling around it and, out of breath, hang in the anchor.
With the storm growing relentlessly stronger, thunder and lightning now follow each other in rapid succession. Without wasting words, I free the rope in order to lower Augustin. He disappears with rustling powder avalanches into the gray mass. Numbed, I let the rope slide through my hands. I watch it go through the hitch.
Over and over, sparks of lightning illuminate the narrow glacial canyon, a combe surrounded by the grimly etched cliffs of the facing mountains. The combe acts as a natural amplifier, causing the thunder to rumble with ferocious, evil animation. The storm doesn’t feel any less threatening, now that we’re off the ridge. The mountain has not let us go yet. This is an irrational certainty I can taste as clearly as the ozone in the air.
An eternity later, I have climbed down the whole stretch. When I reach Augustin, the incline is somewhat attenuated. We are now halfway down a steep slope of powder that leaves us no choice but to descend unanchored. But it’s no more than 150 yards, and the closer we get to the bergschrund, the less steep the couloir becomes. And wonder of wonders, the quality of the snow has improved. It’s stickier here. A lucky break, for the first time. The path to the glacier may not be paved, but we should be able to cross the schrund within ten minutes.
I tie twelve yards between us, tie brake knots in the rope, coil it in loops in my hand, and keep Augustin locked at a constant five-foot distance. It is a mistake I will pay for dearly.
We’re off. Augustin first, me following. Step by step, we come down. A hundred and twenty yards. A hundred. Eighty. The slope’s inclination eases up to forty-five degrees and we can now step down facing the valley, our heels dug deeply into the snow. Augustin does what’s expected of him, and I’m pleased with our sudden speed, without losing my guard for even a second . . . not realizing our fates have already been sealed.
I look at the glacier, search out a descent route. Augustin slows down for a moment, the rope slackens. I haven’t noticed that a loop has slipped out of my hand.