Reader’s Digest India – August 2019

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 Crouch

was 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