It’s still dark outside as I set off. The sky is starlit, it’s freezing cold and completely windstill. That’s what the calm before the storm feels like, I think. I’m nervous, so agitated I can hardly swallow my breakfast on the way to the mountain pass. The avalanche situation is extremely serious, even though there has been little snow so far, the snow that’s there doesn’t want to stay where it is. Usually, you don’t go in the backcountry with conditions like these, especially not alone. That’s why I was quite relieved when Jill & Dani called yesterday and offered to ascend together. Due to the current avalanche risk and the bad weather forecast, today might be the last window to get up there safely. Up there means to the Chamanna Jenatsch, a remote mountain hut in Graubünden, at 2652m altitude. The two of them are the hut wardens and I will help them to run the hut for ski mountaineers during the next 10 weeks. Technically, the hut opens tomorrow, due to the current conditions however, all guests have cancelled for the upcoming week.
Once we set off on the route down at the pass, we keep hearing the sound of the snow settling. On the steeper slopes, we can see the avalanche tracks from the past days, and the drifted snow makes breaking trail a real pain. What we find matches the predicted alert level. As I take charge of breaking trail on the final stretch to the Fuorcla d’Agnel, there’s a huge WHOOMMP under my feet. “Damn, that can’t happen once it gets steeper in a bit”, I think. You can see the drifted snow but when it comes to old snow: no chance. Feeling tense, I start climbing the steep slope below the Fuorcla. On the last crossing, my ski keeps slipping on the compacted drift snow. Then we’ve reached the top and the view of the surrounding peaks and the hut below opens up. Although we are seeing the end, it’s still quite a way to go. In order to avoid an avalanche slope, we have to descend further down to then ascend anew.
From time to time I start feeling too comfortable. My days start to smell like a daily routine, I am constantly surrounded by the same situations, activities, people and thoughts and finally, the autopilot takes over. I’m running on standby, I am neither open to new impressions nor to new perspectives. What helps me at that point are new situations that I’m not familiar with. Situations that are outside of my comfort zone, in which the autopilot just doesn’t work, because it has no idea what to do. In this state of “deliberate overload”, I consciously take the reins and am open to new things, to learn, to question and to advance again. That was partly what motivated me to apply for the job. Obviously, I like the mountains and exploring them on ski tours out of my own strength anyway. But the instructions on how to endure one winter on a remote mountain hut, with very limited means, only surrounded by strangers, I must have misplaced somewhere during the last clear-out. That’s what it’s all about for me.
On the climb back up to the hut, we pass the turbine house and don’t hear any water. Jill examines the situation and sure enough: the hut’s water supply has run dry. First we climb up the remaining part of the route and make ourselves “Zmittag”. Soon, the helicopter arrives and brings a net full of supplies before the weather window closes for the upcoming days. While Jill carries the supplies into the basement, Dani & I head out to the sand trap, a shed situated above the turbine house, which is fed by the glacial stream and channels the water to the turbine, from where it is pumped up to the hut. The sight that awaits us there, can best be described as Elsa’s Ice Palace. Inside and outside, everything is frozen, partly in bizzare shapes. Dani starts hacking into the sand trap, two hip-high concrete basins. I am looking for the water intake point in the glacial stream and start shovelling away the snow. We don’t get very far that afternoon, but we understand the problem. But however simple the analysis might be, the elimination is difficult: everything is frozen! We are heading back. Jill has actually taken care of the full helicopter-net by herself and fired the oven all-day, the kitchen’s temperature is about to reach 0°C. Additionally, she has already cooked “Znacht” for us. For hours on end we fought our way up here through the powder, have to melt snow for cooking and drinking, are about to freeze our fingers off working outside and then we come inside and there’s a fragrant fondue waiting for us. That’s what a safe haven smells like.
So we have to start at the top and bit by bit melt free the over 300 meters of the water intake. However, melting ice using glacier water at 2°C turns out to be a rather tedious task. Our strategy is as follows: Ski down to the stream, each with a 25-liter container in tow, fill it up at the stream and carry it back to the hut. Heat up the water on the stove, add salt in order to decrease the melting point and tow the filled container back to the stream. With our arms in the stream, push a hose into the inlet of the water intake and use a hand pump to feed the heated salt water into the frozen pipe. Meanwhile, someone constantly needs to push the hose bit-by-bit into the inlet of the water intake, hands in the stream, of course. Afterwards, everything needs to be disassembled and packed up, so that it doesn’t freeze or is snowed in and we start from the beginning. Actually quite simple, but due to the distance between the hut and the glacial stream and the bad weather, we will not manage more than three runs a day in the days to come.
The next morning, the bad weather has arrived, just as predicted. During the night it was so cold that I’m a bit tensed up from shivering. It’s snowing, you cannot see more than 30 meters ahead of you and there’s no trace of the hole we had dug out by the glacial stream yesterday. The temperature’s -17°C but with the wind it feels much colder. I’m wearing everything I brought to the hut, fours pants on top of each other, and still I constantly need to keep moving in order to avoid cooling down. We start and Dani is the first to put his arm in the cold water. When it’s my turn, I really have to pull myself together not to back out. “Damn, it’s cold!”, I think as I feel my way toward the opening of the water intake. Outside in the fresh air, it doesn’t get better however. It’s so cold, that the water we just heated up partly freezes in the pump and the tubes, while we are pumping. Dani shows me some tricks on how to keep warm and that’s how we end up standing next to each other doing the penguin. Whether it’s the exercise or us laughing about it that warms us up remains unclear, but it certainly helps. The first days are exciting. Being out in the storm during the day and the three of us sitting together in our little flat share in the evening, warming up and laughing about the strains of the day. But eventually, our courage leaves us, going out in the cold every day and sometimes we only advance 10 or 20 centimeters.
“I signed up for a season at the hut not for a polar expedition.”
Don’t get me wrong, I like tasks like this: analyzing systems and understanding them, identifying the problem and fixing the infrastructure with the few means that are available. Also working physically and suffering a little to be proud of the success at the end, is what I often chose on my own. However, when I’m wrapped up warmly and crawl into bed at night, I do ask myself what it is I’m actually doing here. I wanted change, I wanted to learn. And the only thing that is currently changing from one day to the next is that our supplies are decreasing. “Whatever, don’t overthink it”. The next day, head out again, clear the stream, hold your breath, arm into the freezing water, hose in, saltwater in, and start pumping. Dry your hands and stuff them somewhere under your clothes to try to keep them from cooling down.
That’s when Dani shouts over the radio: “Water!”, finally. We finally have water in the sand trap. And just one day later in the turbine house as well. Jill starts the pump from the hut to transport the water up. And what happens: nothing at all! Endlessly, we are looking for the problem. As dusk is already falling, we find it: a valve isn’t opening the pipe to the hut. Dani & I take everything apart with numb fingers. Very quickly, every piece that came in contact with water is frozen again. We strap the pump, the valve, and the control unit to our backs and, wearing headlamps, make our way up to the hut in the dark as the snowfall is setting in. “Don’t think about it, just follow the tracks from noon. The fingers will warm up again eventually.” Up here I developed a very distinctive inner voice, that is trying to encourage me in difficult moments. Is that called resilience? Anyway, it helps.
In the evening I take apart the well-aged velvet control system on the kitchen table. We find the problem, put everything back together and defrost the pump. Tomorrow is the big day. And sure enough, after six days, water is finally flowing into the hut’s tanks. The dishes have quite piled up by now and we are all looking forward to a shower. Even the temperature in the kitchen has already passed the 5°C, what a time to be alive…
Of course the conditions up here are extreme. Basically, the life here is a continuous battle between human and nature, where we realize daily that we have no say. But all the infrastructure, that we depend on everyday and that makes our lives so comfortable, has not always been there, neither down in the valley. And during extreme situations, whose frequency and severity are increasing worldwide, we become aware of how fragile it can be. What are we actually taking for granted in our lives? Water, electricity and heat but also social connections are resources of unmeasurable worth. We all realize this once they’re not available anymore, whether due to a lockdown or because the supply chain has collapsed as a result of an extreme event. Experiences like this result in the fact that I reflect on my behavior and life and question what is considered to be “normal”: Are we treating these resources with enough care and gratitude?
In the following days, we are cleaning up, making firewood and preparing the hut for guests. The weather is getting better and we do a small ski tour in the afternoon and have a look at the shrinking glacier gate. The avalanche conditions are still serious, that’s why even with good weather, there’s only a few guests from time to time. But the situation is gradually easing. When I’m heading off to the valley on the last day of my first shift, Jill & Dani accompany me for a bit. On the slopes that are not visible from the hut, we discover avalanche cones and fracture lines up to two meters high from the spontaneous avalanches of the past few days. At the top of the Fuorcla, we take off our skins and say goodbye. I look back at the hut one last time, which lies far below us. When I’m coming back, it will be very different here, for tonight over 30 guests are expected. And just as I am making my first turns down the slope, I spot them. Like small strings of pearls there coming towards me. During the past two weeks, I spent much time outside of my comfort zone, in many ways. And it did me good. I experience everything very consciously and have built the inner confidence to be able to accomplish many things. I’m looking forward to a bit of rest with Newton in the valley. And even more I’m looking forward to the next chapter, when I am returning in a couple of days: not with strangers at the hut anymore but with Jill & Dani and especially with guests. Grateful and satisfied I enjoy the descent through untouched snow.
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