Cwm Idwal, site of the rescue. Photo: Richard Outram

As mountain rescue teams raise the public’s awareness in a series of May Day events, Ogwen Valley Mountain Organisation member Matt Sutton recalls a difficult rescue of a badly injured winter climber that almost ended in disaster.

Winter had arrived with a vengeance after what had seemed an indefinite break. Pete and I were keen to get out. The only problem was that slightly milder conditions were feeding into Snowdonia, so our hope of climbing Cascade, the classic grade V ice climb on Craig y Rhaeadr, had an air of desperation about it.

As it turned out nothing below 500m was in condition so climbing higher in search of the freezing level we discovered an interesting line of steep icy chimneys up through the cliffs of Upper Cwm Glas topping out on the Snowdon Horseshoe ridge crest just below the summit of Crib y Ddysgl. Here the wind, cloud and snow suggested navigational difficulties so we opted for an extended but safe descent via Bwlch Goch using the ridgeline as our guide.

Dusk was falling by the time we reached the road and, having only had two honey sandwiches and a rushed cup of tea on the summit, I thankfully accepted Pete’s offer of one of Angela’s famous dinners at their cottage. I dropped him off promising to return after a shower and change of clothes at my house.

I had just enough time to feed the cats before my phone registered a text. “Ogwen Valley Mountain Rescue Callout. Job starting in Devils Kitchen. Possible femur injury. Rendezvous Oggie Base”.

I rang Pete to explain the situation and hoping the helicopter could get in and winch the casualty to safety I concluded by saying that, all being well, I would be back down by eight. He promised to keep the dinner in the oven.

The track to Oggie Base was snow bound to all but four-wheel drive vehicles so I parked on the A5. Ahead of me I could make out someone’s shadowy figure unloading gear from their boot. It turned out to be Alex Bath who had also just returned home after a day on the hills. As we walked to base Paul and Pauline arrived with the Land Rover and had base open by the time we made it up the track.  Now the details stated to emerge.

“Matt,” called Paul from the Operations Room, “you know the Devil’s Cellar ice climb in Cwm Idwal. A climber has taken a huge fall from the top pitch – maybe 40m (130ft). They think he’s broken his femur,”

I immediately knew we had a job on our hands, as the approach to the climb is steep and exposed, on shattered rock and poor ice. Furthermore a helicopter rescue below the route would be highly unlikely due to the size and proximity of the cliff. I immediately grabbed my flask, stuffed my pockets with Mars bars realising that this was going to be my dinner and Angela’s cooking a distant fantasy.

“His climbing partner is a female,” Paul continued. “She managed to hold the fall and is now trying to descend to him. Apparently two other climbers have managed to reach them and secure the man.”

Alex, Pauline and I loaded first aid requirements into our rucksacks that included oxygen, morphine, traction splints and a casualty shelter. First to Base we were to form the ‘hasty party’.  The seriousness of the accident was not lost on us: if there was a severed artery, or the bone was protruding, internal bleeding could mean death within two hours. The task of meeting the medical challenges was going to fall to Pauline as the advanced first-aider. For Alex and me the task was simple: to get us there as quickly as possible and ensure everyone’s safety.

Soon other team members started arriving. They would form a second larger rescue group bringing the big ropes, technical equipment and stretcher. These were heavy loads but the hope would be for their arrival to coincide with our stabilisation of the injured casualty, so that we could evacuate him without delay.

Flying conditions in the Ogwen Valley were difficult. Photo: Masa Sakano CC-BY-SA-2.0

The cloud hung low over the hills and there was no light to be discerned once we left the car park.  I led the way with powerful torches over each shoulder locating a path to avoid snow that was knee deep in places. Once we reached Lyn Idwal we could make out head torches high on the hill above and as we approached via the snow slopes below the climb I could clearly make out pools of light with figures silhouetted against the rocks.

On such a dark night, and in snow, perspectives were distorted and this created a strange impression. The torchlight was not enough to show their position in relation to the surrounding terrain – they were simply like little round photographs surrounded by intense blackness.

Our final approach took a steep line right up to the base of the cliffs and on to a ledge around 2m by a metre that sported an impressive spike of rock from which we could belay ourselves and put on crampons. The party were now just 20m above us and at last we were able to communicate with them. Alex went up to make the primary survey of the casualty while I traversed into the gully to make an operational assessment of what we faced.

The casualty, a boy called Rob in his early twenties was secured by a rope system that Mark, one of the climbers who had come to assist, had set up and was now overseeing. The other assisting climber, a lad called Jonah, and the casualty’s partner Alys – who to her considerable credit had managed to abseil from her belay 40 metres above – were beside Rob comforting him and trying to keep him conscious.

Heavy blood loss as a result of a bad break would lead eventually to medical shock and loss of consciousness and they had been at this point for nearly two hours in temperatures well below freezing. I climbed up to check Mark’s ropes but he had done very well to secure them all. Due to the steepness of the gully and the precarious position of the casualty’s party I untangled the remaining rope and set up a security line to the lower ledge for other rescuers later in the operation.

As we were bringing Pauline up, the drone of 22 Squadron’s Sea King helicopter could be heard making its way up the valley. The first plan was for the helicopter to make a rescue attempt from the position we found ourselves in. If this failed we would attempt to lower the casualty using the stretcher to a point low enough down the mountain and clear of the cliffs for the chopper to make the pick-up. As team members we knew what to expect from the approach of the helicopter close to the cliffs in winter conditions. There was no time to give the others more than the most basic instructions – ie, not to look at the helicopter with head torches, which might blind the crew using night vision glasses and to secure any loose items.

The beating of the rotors became steadily louder until the noise became all pervasive, forcing all activity to cease. Suddenly the hillside was lit as if in the middle of the day, the helicopter’s landing lights finding us pinned motionless to the cliff, the thudding of the blades seeming to vibrate one’s very chest. Then came the downdraft throwing up furious gusts of spindrift laced with ice crystals and the stench of aviation fuel.

As I looked across to where a minute before had been only darkness: there right beside us was the helicopters massive yellow frame and, up through the maelstrom, was the clear outline of the rotor blade tips spinning within a few metres of the cliff. As the crew searched for somewhere to put the winch-man down, I withdrew into the hood of my jacket to breathe free from the choking cocktail of ice and fumes. The intensity was unbearable, the emotion overpowering and then, as if unable to bear it itself, the helicopter banked away and the pounding slowly receded back into the distance before leaving us surrounded by silence.

A direct rescue was going to be impossible.

While Mark and I remained at the belay the others were cocooned in the casualty shelter and soon Alex emerged to discuss the situation with me.

“We’ve got to get him out of here now,” he said under his breath so as not to alarm the others. “Pauline is growing more concerned with Rob’s condition. As well as a broken femur we think he has a broken ankle as well as head and chest injuries.”

Any movement was causing him terrible pain and he was getting ever colder. Alys picked up on the concern in our voices and at one point I heard her reminding everyone in a cheerful voice that everything was going to be OK. This attitude required great courage in the circumstances and I sorely hoped we could repay her faith.

The helicopter returned to RAF Valley to refuel and worryingly had sent news that bad weather was expected within the next half an hour and if we didn’t get him down for a pick up quick we would have to carry him out. With his injuries our concern was he wouldn’t survive, as it would take three brutally punishing hours to get him to the road. The tension mounted considerably.

Though the lights of the stretcher party now flooded the valley and slopes below their help was still more than half an hour away. I descended to survey whether we could lower him out of the gully on the rope to save time. The first 30m looked good, not too steep; but then came a vertical drop of around 15m. The risks involved in sending his broken body over the edge without support from above or below were unjustifiable.

There was no choice but to be patient and wait for the others to arrive.

It also became clear that in the cramped conditions of the upper gully, butted up against the cliff and on appalling ground, to set up a rescue system above him would involve massive additional risk to everyone concerned. As a result Alex and I decided to use the original ledge with the rock spike as the anchor point for the technical team, to avoid the risks of crowding in the gully. The problem was that the ledge was below the casualty but, if we could lower Rob on the rope some of the way, at least we could get him into the stretcher for the vertical drop. We also hoped that in the time we got Rob down the gully the stretcher would be ready. It was a tough ask. Simply to find enough anchor points would be a challenge let alone building a stretcher on such a confined space.

We wanted to splint the leg with the traction device but it was difficult to apply on the steep ground and lowering him over rough snow risked catching the device so Pauline tied his legs together using his good leg as a splint. This meant we could sled him down and as we prepared the lower she delivered morphine.

Glynne Andrew, our team doctor, now arrived on scene and supervised how best to move Rob, asking Alex and myself to descend and cut out a ledge just above the vertical drop for Rob’s transfer onto the stretcher.  The stretcher, now complete, overhung the void like a cantilever and Chris Lloyd, realising only three of the four joining pins had been fitted asked me to help, as he could no longer reach the fourth pin. I climbed up from below and lent out to fit the pin as if on an overhang of a rock climb.

The task of ‘jockey’ fell to Al Cook. The jockey goes down with the stretcher and keeps the lowering process going by making sure the stretcher doesn’t get snagged or tip over. On steep ground in deep unconsolidated snow this was the toughest of jobs. The worst moment came when Glynne, Alex, Al and I had to lift Rob onto the stretcher as his cries of pain were heartrending to listen to despite the help of the morphine.

Once on, we could wrap him up in the casualty bag. He shivered uncontrollably, but this was a good sign, as in advanced hypothermia, the body can no longer attempt to warm itself through the act of shivering. Once he was safely strapped in, the stretcher team took over the lower and Alex, Glynne and I could start to relax.

I climbed back up to where Mark had remained, without shelter, on belay duty for over three hours now, a passing climber selflessly helping out two people in big trouble. He remained very cheerful and great credit is due to him. He was getting an experience he would never forget! By the time we had cleared the casualty site, the stretcher, following the training of our winter trips to Scotland, had been lowered by the technical team 180m (600 feet) off the mountain, through a belay station at 100m, in around 20 minutes. A proud moment for everyone concerned.

I descended to where Chris Onions and Chris Lloyd were dismantling the belay at the ledge. Soon the red and green lights of the chopper came into view and we stopped to watch. After all this is the true moment of rescue for us, as we could at last pass our responsibilities into the capable hands of the RAF and Rob’s life would be safe.

Looking down from our perch the bowl of Cwm Idwal was thick with snow and the mountainside below peppered with the torchlights of our colleagues. The cloud suddenly thickened, swirling around us and sending icy blasts of wind across the face of the hillside. The torchlight below dimmed as the mist descended threatening to fall below the helicopters altitude. If this happened the pick-up would have to be aborted and we would lose our opportunity.

An RAF Sea King helicopter in the Ogwen Valley: Photo: erwlas

Slowly the helicopter made its way towards us then on came its searchlights creating an orangey-white halo of light below it as it passed over Llyn Idwal. The soft light eerily lit the hillside revealing features previously hidden in the darkness. The noise returned, the thudding amplified by the close proximity of the mountains. As a spectator I felt increasingly detached from this extraordinary scene yet oddly aware of my own presence as if watching a scene from a movie, the helicopter, the lights of the rescuers all players in an epic staged drama. The closer the chopper came the greater the sense of this drama.  I had never seen a scene like it and I remember thinking that not even Steven Spielberg could capture it.

As the helicopter descended to its target tremendous columns of spindrift were sent spiralling upwards enveloping it before being dispersed in great arcs by the rotors. It was terrifying to watch as the snow, like sweeping curtains of cloud, must have blinded the pilots at times. I could only imagine what it would be like for Rob and the team members caught up in the fury of the downdraft directly below it. Yet down came the winch-man, who appeared to land secure the winch wire and begin the lift all in one movement. One could only stand in admiration of the crew’s skill and teamwork. The winch seemed to take forever such was the anticipation of success.

Great hunks of accumulated snow, illuminated by the landing lights, fell from the stretcher as it rose, but finally it was gone from view and in an extra burst of power the helicopter began a vertical ascent that went on until it disappeared into the cloud above. Silence returned and the emotion of the moment passed into one of deep satisfaction. We stood around for a few minutes exchanging exclamations of awe over what we had just witnessed before I turned to begin my descent.

I had gone maybe 10m when Chris Onions called out to me: “Matt could you come back here? I need to speak with you.”

His voice came across with an unusual authority and I immediately headed back. Chris Lloyd was stuffing his sack in a distracted sort of way. “The helicopter has just sent out a radio transmission of ‘Mayday, Mayday. Uncontrolled Descent’.”

I stood speechless, turning to look out over the valley. No thought went through my head, but an awful physical sensation of horror passed down through my body as Chris Lloyd added: “We think the chopper’s gone down.”

Utter disbelief. No one spoke; we just stood there staring out into the night.

Chris had his radio on and I could hear the communication from Oggie Base with the ground party back at Ogwen Car Park. It was Paul calmly going through a list of questions.

“When was it last seen? Did you have a sighting of it? Did it appear to go down in the Nant Ffrancon? Can you confirm it was last seen heading over the Gribin?” I looked out towards the Gribin Ridge. There was nothing to see but cloud.

I was aware of standing there wondering at my body’s capacity to continue working and then thinking, “I’ve been on the go now for fourteen hours but really I don’t feel too bad. I could probably continue through the night now that I’m out!” Then, slowly, the sheer scale of dealing with a helicopter crash started to sink in. After all, we weren’t so many really and it would overwhelm the capacities of our team. It was too big and I had a definite sense of our collective fragility in the face of a tragedy on this scale.

I couldn’t begin to address what we would find at the crash site, or the full implications of having gone through all that we had just to lose everyone in a stroke. We continued to stand there lost in our own little worlds but then Chris suddenly said, “There’s nothing we can do here. We might as well go down.”

I had descended about 10m ahead of the others and no longer able to hear the radio communication when Chris Onions called down to me again in an excited voice.

“Matt! The helicopter recovered!”

At first I couldn’t take in the news but then, almost as one, we broke into guffaws as if we had been subject to some appalling practical joke or Candid Camera sketch. We continued down the mountainside occasionally breaking into pained giggles, the contrast between a moment of absolute horror and one of total elation psychologically too great to bear.

From then on it was like any other successful job; banter, laughter and a huge jolly meeting of rescuers and their helpers at the Ogwen Car Park as news came through that Rob was safely in hospital and his condition stable. We decamped to Base for a midnight curry, more laughter and endless tea before heading home.

I woke around eight to let Pete and Angela know all was OK and then promptly fell back to sleep till eleven.

That night, I went up to their house for the dinner we were going to have the night before. Pete had a friend staying, and they had climbed the Devil’s Cellar that day. “Did you find the evidence of our handiwork,” I said rather expectantly, thinking of all the people that were there and the snow ledges we had constructed.  “Not a thing” said Pete registering his own surprise, “The whole hillside was virgin, not a footprint, no tracks or ledges.”

I was dumbfounded:  all that work, and no physical imprint remained just 12 hours later. The snow and wind must have taken it away in the night; a moment in time that nature had now covered over, and all that remained was just a memory.

Postscript

Due to the onset of the bad weather and low cloud at the time of rescue the helicopter was climbing to a point above the surrounding mountains; however in the ensuing snowstorm the rotors had become so heavily iced the pilots no longer had the power to remain airborne. This led to a rapid and uncontrolled descent. Battling to keep the chopper stable the pilots broke cloud cover on the descent, thankfully avoiding striking the mountains, and managed to regain enough control to land safely at the hospital in Bangor. It was a close call. As for Rob he’s well on the way to a full recovery despite his numerous injuries.