I once had the unique opportunity to spend the night in the mountains of Tasmania during a blizzard. A potential emergency was developing involving an injured hiker stranded with her partner and their guide on the cirque below Cradle Mountain. High winds and driving snow meant it was unlikely a rescue helicopter could get there to assist. The three of them were holed up in a one man tent with just one sleeping bag.
I had just returned home from a trip when I received the call to action. Within an hour a colleague and I were ready to depart. We drove out of town and into a grey rain being blown across a black night. It was the type of night that is made for warm drinks on the couch. We’d discussed the situation, and we mostly drove in silent anticipation. I was nervous but I never said so. An hour passed, then another and we climbed toward highlands where the rain became sleet and snow. There were no other cars on the road at this hour. Why would there be?
Just before we lost reception there was confirmation the high winds had prevented the chopper landing and – as expected – we would be required to go up on foot. Any hopes of returning and sleeping in our own beds that night were quickly and necessarily forgotten. We parked and dressed in the car. One layer, two and three. Our packs were already fully loaded with all we might need and within minutes we were striding into the night. Our head torches beamed from the hoods of our jackets. We were climbing steeply and were sheltered from the worst of the wind but knew that as soon as we crested the ridge there’d be no protection. Just before we hit the top we stopped to apply another layer; few words were spoken.
We followed the track as best we could, looking up intermittently to search for the poles guiding our way. Most of the time our heads were bowed to protect us from the snow whipping into our faces. We had a ten minute stop at Kitchen Hut where we ate a couple of muesli bars and guzzled some water. I allowed myself a wry smile at my colleague. He was in his element. A child of the mountains with melted snow dripping from his nose. On we went.
Sometime around midnight we found the party we were searching for. Though there were shelters just a kilometre or so in front and behind their position, the injury and weather meant they couldn’t move. They were relieved to see us and the guide was a good friend. We embraced but there was little emotional response. He was in survival mode. He left the tent to the other two and moved into a bivvy we supplied. None of them were interested in any food. After providing all the help we could in the circumstances we retreated to an emergency shelter to collapse for a few hours. We removed our soaked outer layers and listened to the adrenaline drip from them as we climbed into our bags and quickly fell asleep.
A few hours later shortly before sunrise we chewed on a couple more muesli bars as we pulled on our soaked boots and wet weather clothes. The wind had eased but the snow was deep and we had watch our footing carefully as we trudged back to check on the others. The bivvy was half buried in snow but the guide was up. We heard on the satellite phone that the chopper was on its way to meet us. Our ears strained to hear the throb of an engine echoing through the valleys. All fingers were crossed that the wind had dropped enough for them to land. It had.
It was a pleasure to see the rescue pilot and paramedics at work as they assessed, treated and removed the stranded party with seamless professionalism. We sat for a few minutes in the snow eating some chocolate with a wind of relief cold on our faces. Then our mate dug his pack out of the snow and continued ahead to guide five more days on track. The walk downhill to the car was one I hope to never forget. We were on virgin snow following the tracks of a Tasmanian Devil that had obviously been out patrolling just before dawn. Cradle Mountain was intermittently showing its face through the mist and we were fuelled by the scene as we headed for home.

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