Reader’s Digest
80 august 2019
a veteran of snowboard films. The
Wyoming- based rider had spent his
winter working on this production
in Europe. Like Campos, he’d just
met Crouch a few days earlier, but
Crouch’s talent and demeanour—
driven but not arrogant—had already
made an impression.W
hen the chopper deposited
Fitzpatrick and Crouch on
the ridgeline for the last
time, the men rode across to Campos
to discuss a wide area of fresh powder
they’d spotted from the sky. It was a
perfect line, wedged between two
cliffs—the type that would nicely lend
itself to the camera’s lens. Fitzpatrick
reckoned they could access it if
they ventured 50 metres across the
mountaintop. Campos agreed and
reminded both of them to look out
for cornices—overhanging masses
of snow that clung to the ridgeline,
looking deceptively firm from above
but prone to break off at any moment.
Campos watched as Fitzpatrick and
Crouch moved across the top of the
mountain and disappeared behind
the jagged rocks and boulders that
made up the ridge. He could no longer
see the men but could still hear them
checking in periodically with the team
on their radios.
Fitzpatrick led the way, conscious
of not veering from the zone they’d
established as safe. It took a while for
him to realize that they’d gone too far,
and even longer to notice that Crouchwas standing right on a massive
cornice that had been heating up in
the afternoon sun.
Fear crashed over Fitzpatrick. He
couldn’t rush to grab Crouch, as his
own body weight might aggravate the
situation. It was best for them both to
remain calm, but he needed to shout
out a warning. “Be careful!” he yelled.
“This is a hanging cornice!” It was too
late. The snow and ice had already
begun to give way.
In a split second, everything
beneath Crouch’s feet disappeared
with the loudest crack Fitzpatrick had
ever heard, followed by a vacuumous
‘WOMPF!’ Fitzpatrick looked on in
horror as Crouch, too, disappeared.
For a time, he could hear his colleague
screaming as he plummeted along
with 140 square metres of snow that
had broken off from the ridge. Then
he heard the sound of Crouch’s body
scraping against the rocks below. After
that, nothing.F
rom his perch on a neighbouring
peak, helicopter pilot Josh Poole
could see a cloud of snow rising
up near where he’d dropped off the
two snowboarders. The 40-year-old
had just landed his chopper, cut the
engine and was sitting out in the sun.
He knew what had happened even
before he heard Fitzpatrick screaming
“Avalanche! Avalanche!” into the
radio. He bolted back into the cockpit
and started the blades.
Lifting into the air, Poole pushed the