Crumbling Mountainside: Into the Void
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Upfront payment of $45 for three-month plan equivalent to $15 per month required. New customer offer for first three months only. Speed slow after 35 gigabytes if network's busy. Taxes and fees extra. See mintmobile.com. It's late morning on Friday, September the 1st, 1989. The sky is an endless stretch of blue over New Zealand's Mount Cook National Park. Sunlight dances on the towering peaks. Below, Forbes Glacier glistens like a frozen river, its glassy surface sparkling.

Paul Rogers and Marty Sinclair are almost at the top of the glacier. The seasoned climbers are keeping a steady pace, their crampons crunching into the ice with practiced ease. The ascent is exhilarating. They snake their way upwards and take in the breathtaking expanse around them. The snow-topped summits above, the sprawling mass of greenery far below. The air is crisp, rejuvenating. Soon, the incline steepens.

A sudden gust of wind, the first they've felt all morning, kicks up loose snow, sending it swirling in a fine mist. Ahead, their goal looms. Separation coal. A narrow passage wedged between two peaks. The gateway to the south face of Mount Dashiak. Halls' calves and hamstrings throb as the gale strengthens. The higher they climb, the thicker the snow. Powdery flakes whip into his face.

Time and again he wipes them away before trudging on until one particular step brings with it a disturbing sound. Just shy of separation coal, all of a sudden we hear a big whomph and a big crack. The ground suddenly shifts like quicksand. The world tilts. They scramble, desperate for purchase. There's nothing to hold onto.

The whole slope pulls out underneath us. It's just one big slab of snow, tons and tons in weight. We're on the top of this snow slope and we're going for a ride. It's a bit like snakes and ladders, really. We've gone up the ladder nice and slowly and now this avalanche is going to take us for a ride. Paul's instincts kick in. His fingers dart to the buckle of his backpack, fumbling, slipping, before managing to unclip it.

In one swift motion, he shrugs it off and casts it aside. He yells at Marty to do the same, his voice lost in the melee. Before he can turn to see if his friend has heard, another gut-wrenching crack echoes around the mountain. Fractures appear as the snow beneath them shifts again. In an instant, it seems like the very mountainside is crumbling. We went over a dip and then all of a sudden I'm completely engulfed in powder snow.

and we disappear into the avalanche. I'm sort of drifting into this unknown, really. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet Paul Rogers.

In 1989, high in New Zealand's Southern Alps, a huge shift on the surface of Forbes Glacier sends the 25-year-old and his climbing partner hurtling down the slope at breakneck speed. With no time to react, Paul is thrown into a deep crevasse, vanishing into the ice. It was like a trap door on a stage just opening up and like an actor disappearing off the stage and the audience are like, well, where did he go?

The terrifying incident will have tragic consequences. Paul will find himself injured, without equipment, and with no idea what's happened to Marty. And just when it seems things can't get any worse, they do. I can hear this horrendous sound of "pfft." I can hear the crevasse behind me filling up with snow. I'm John Hopkins from the Noisa Podcast Network. This is Real Survival Stories. It's Thursday, August the 31st, 1989. The sun begins its slow descent.

casting long shadows across the mountains of Mount Cook National Park, near the heart of New Zealand's South Island. Paul Rogers and Marty Sinclair crest a hill, their boots crunching over scree, before they catch sight of their accommodation for the night. Forbes Bivvy is a small, unassuming hut. It's perched on a rocky outcrop in the heart of Te Kahuikopeka Conservation Park. With its lack of a flushable toilet or running water, it's not exactly the Ritz.

but it has two bunks, a roof overhead, and is the perfect launch pad for tomorrow's climb. After trekking 26 kilometers, it's everything the two men need. They pause at the door, taking in the vista. Golden tussock carpets the foothills far below. Meandering, braided rivers catch the sun's dying ember, the waters flashing silver and gold. Beyond, towering peaks loom on the horizon, their jagged silhouettes slicing through the blood-red sky. And there,

just about visible beneath a wisp of cloud, is their ultimate goal: the summit of Mount Dashiak. It's a world away, literally and metaphorically, from the streets of London where Paul grew up. Not that he stayed there for too long. Ever since he was a teenager, adventure has always been in his blood.

I decided my first big adventure overseas was to go to California and go skateboarding. I was 17 at the time and I just got on a Freddie Laker Skytrain which was the cattle class flights to America in those days. I met some coal miners from Sheffield on the plane and they were dressed as skateboarders. I guess most people don't associate coal miners from Sheffield and skateboarding but they were just as passionate as I was and although

We needed subtitles to understand each other's accents. We had a great time skateboarding together. After six sun-kissed weeks in California, Paul returned to Britain, now forever driven by a desire to travel and explore. Back in London, he met youth worker Peter Thorpe. The two bonded quickly. Through Peter, Paul was first introduced to climbing and trekking in the great outdoors. It left an indelible mark on the teenager.

I'd maintain contact with Peter and I'd go along and help out some of his weekend trips. And then he invited me on a five-day climbing course in the West Country. Yeah, so that contact with the youth worker was key for me. These bucolic weekend getaways were exciting and refreshing for a young Paul. But back in the city, things weren't quite so pure or simple.

In the spring of 1981, racial tensions in Brixton, South London erupted into violent clashes between police and locals. Paul was on the ground during the riots. I was a keen photographer. I ended up doing a sort of photographic montage collaboration based on the Brixton street riots. It was pretty full on. During the frenzy, there were altercations with officers, extensive damage and some close shaves.

The incident ultimately led Paul towards some self-reflection. One of my mates was a bit of an idiot really, threw a rock at a window to try and smash it. You know, it was a copycat thing. I can't remember nearly getting my head taken off when the police did a baton charge down the Woolworth Road. I managed to leg it and get away. So, you know, obviously I had an eye for a sort of adventure, a misadventure and a bit of risk management. I needed to channel it somewhere better.

Not long after, an opportunity arose to leave London behind. With nothing but a pushbike, a backpack, and some photography equipment, Paul boarded a train bound for Penzance in Cornwall, on England's southwest coast. From there, he cycled to Land's End, where he worked in an outdoor center, a job that not only paid the bills but allowed him to develop his climbing skills. Every spare penny he earned went towards this passion.

Trips to Scotland and the Alps followed, where he pushed himself to the limits on challenging rock faces and icy slopes. It was there, amid Europe's towering peaks, that he had his first brush with death.

On my second trip to the European Alps, we got caught in a really big storm in a mountain called the Petit Dru. It wasn't my climbing partner, but it was someone in my proximity that was killed outright by a rockfall. Yeah, that was a really close call for me. I survived by diving into a crevice to get out of the way of the rockfall, and this person was killed outright right next to me. It was a harrowing, sobering episode.

But moving forward, you try to learn from it. Climbing's many hazards are clear, but for Paul, the positives still outweighed the dangers. It's not just about reaching the summit. It's about forging unbreakable bonds with people and experiencing the world's most beautiful places from a unique perspective.

My youth worker told me about this thing called Operation Rally and they run these sort of adventures all over the world. People from different countries would all converge into places like Chile, New Zealand, parts of Africa. Of all these exotic places, it was New Zealand that really captured the imagination. What was meant to be three months in the country stretched to five. Paul made friends. He fell in love with the mountains, drawn in by the endless climbing opportunities.

Staying in New Zealand felt like the obvious choice, a no-brainer. In 1988, he met a fellow mountaineering enthusiast, Marty Sinclair. He was an all-rounder. He was a windsurfer, a kayaker, a caver, and a mountaineer and a rock climber. And he was fast, fast and very fit. Yeah, we worked together on a 10-day mountaineering course in Arthur's Pass National Park.

And we got on really well. And we sort of said to each other that, you know, maybe we should go off and do a climb sometime together for ourselves. By August 1989, a plan is in motion. Fresh from a grueling climb in Pakistan, Paul is ready for his next challenge, Mount Darshak, nearly 3,000 meters of unforgiving terrain. And if that isn't ambitious enough, the pair want to scale the mountain's south face, something that's never been done before.

While both are enthusiastic about the task, there is some disagreement as to the best way to approach the climb. Paul favors a more gradual approach to the base of the south face, whereas Marty wants to tackle the Forbes glacier on the way, making the trek to the mountain nearly as challenging as the climb itself. After some discussion, Marty's plan wins out. He knows the area better than Paul, having windsurfed on the lakes nearby.

We were going to climb up the Forbes Glacier to Separation Coal and that would be our first objective, which for me wasn't ideal. It was decided that Marty would look after the approach and I would deal with the technical climbing on the South Face, which is a fair swap.

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial and start selling today at shopify.com slash promo. Go to shopify.com slash promo. After parking at Erewhon Station, a sprawling 35,000 acre farm in the Southern Alps, Paul and Marty shoulder their packs and set off. The day progresses well. They keep a steady pace, pausing occasionally to nibble on their sandwiches and take a glug of water. Dense beach forest slowly thins.

giving way to rolling golden grasslands. Rivers thread through the landscape, glinting in the daylight, natural wayfinders leading them onwards. We went up the Rangitata River for a number of kilometres and you're just bashing up this sort of bouldery riverbed and sometimes you're having to cross and re-cross the same river, you know, several times so you get your feet wet. So it took us the whole day to get into Forbes Bibby.

To Forbes' bivy, a simple white hut is a welcome sight after their trek. The cabin is the only structure for Miles, a tiny speck in the enormity of nature. After a final moment absorbing the green and white landscape, Paul and Marty step inside and start unpacking. Sleeping bags are unrolled, foam mats laid out, a compact stove hisses into life.

As the bubbling water cooks their dehydrated meals, the hut is filled with the welcome scent of hot food. After they've eaten, they methodically check their gear. Soon, the floorboards are covered with ropes, ice axes, screws, helmets, head torches, and extra layers to combat the unpredictable mountain weather. They've even brought avalanche safety equipment, snow shovels, and a transceiver each. After a relatively easy first day, the next leg promises to be far more demanding.

A good night's sleep is what's needed. It's Friday, September the 1st. The sky is dark, the moon casting its final beams on the river's shifting surface. The sun is an hour away from breaching the horizon, but Paul and Marty are already on the move. There's a lot of climbing to be done, and they want every minute of daylight they can get. Their head torches scythe through the gloom, flickering over the rugged terrain.

The thick, tussock grass becomes unstable, rock-strewn slopes, loose stones slipping underneath their boots. They push forward carefully, breath misting the morning air, until they find themselves at the edge of Forbes Glacier. It's a vast sheet of ice, stretching towards Separation Coal and beyond it, the imposing south face of Mount Dashiak. The rising sun stains the icy surface red and pink.

The men kneel to strap crampons to the soles of their boots. The metal spikes will give them the grip they need on the slippery ice. But after a few first cautious steps onto the glacier, a gnawing doubt creeps in. We're going up onto the snow slopes and I'm starting to get a

feel for how big a day we're looking at. And I'm starting to sort of calculate whether I want to get onto such a committing climb that I can't even see yet with the amount of daylight, hours and time that we have. Paul keeps these feelings to himself and pushes on. He and Marty progress up the frozen slopes, moving in a practiced rhythm. They take turns leading, setting the pace, boots carving a zigzag formation across the ice.

a technique that conserves energy and reduces the risk of falling. At one point, a hiccup, a sharp snap, echoes in the still air. Looking down, Paul notices that the heel clip of his crampon is broken, the metal spikes flapping uselessly against the ice.

Obviously, crampons is a really important piece of equipment. You don't really want to be taking on such an undertaking if your equipment's not up to it. It was a decent piece of equipment failure, really. So at that point, I said to Marty, I said, "Ah, well, that's it. Let's just turn around here. We'll call it quits." But as Marty digs through his pack, he finds what they need, the repair kit. With a pair of pliers and a length of wire, he manages to refasten the crampon into Paul's boot.

It's sturdy enough. The mission is back on, in theory anyway. You don't really want to take on a major ice climb with equipment that you've sort of rigged to be able to use it, so I felt we should turn around. Marty was keen to carry on. I think he acknowledged the fact that time possibly might not be on our side, but he wanted to get to Separation Colt. The guys agree that climbing the South Face is now no longer a possibility.

But if they press on to Separation Coal, the point at the top of the glacier, then they will at least be able to properly observe Mount Dashiak. It'd be a shame to come this far and not at least have a proper look. Paul nods his agreement, and they set off again. The fix on the crampon seems to have worked, and the pair are soon once more in their rhythm. The glacier steepens. There's a thick layer of snow here, so each step is a struggle and a hazard.

The wind near the summit of Forbes Glacier is howling, ripping up flurries and dumping them on Paul and Marty as they make their approach. The shifting drifts are an unpredictable challenge, but nothing they haven't seen before. And what's more, Separation Coal is now within touching distance, nearly there. Side by side now, they forge ahead until a sinister grumble within the ice stops them in their tracks.

Just shy of separation cull, all of a sudden we hear a big whomph and a big crack. The whole slope pulls out underneath us. It's just one big slab of snow, tons and tons in weight. We're on the top of this snow slope and we're going for a ride. It's a bit like snakes and ladders, really. We've gone up the ladder nice and slowly and now this avalanche is going to take us for a ride.

Paul and Marty have unearthed a wind slab. Formed when the wind sweeps loose snow across the mountain and packs it into dense layers, a wind slab can appear deceptively solid, yet remains dangerously unstable. Given enough time, these layers can settle and bond with the surface below, eventually becoming part of the glacier itself. This one, it seems, has not had time to set.

Wind slabs, a bit like rockfall, it's a kind of constant thing you have to be managing or be aware of. But for us that day, we obviously didn't do enough of that. We weren't thinking on our feet enough as climbers. Our body weight was actually what brought that wind slab down. The shifting wind slab sweeps the men away. Paul and Marty are no longer climbers. They are passengers, hurtling down the glacier on a vast field of ice roughly the size of half a football pitch.

All of a sudden, if you could just imagine like crazy paving,

just kind of cracks occurring all around us. We're starting to gain speed now. It would be fair to say it felt like a magic carpet to start with, and then it just started breaking up around us. A sudden dip in the glacier's surface breaks the wind slab completely. In an instant, it shatters, fracturing like glass. A deafening roar fills the air as Paul and Marty are swallowed whole, buffeted by tons of cascading ice and snow.

I've lost sight of Marty and I'm saying, "Okay, this is it. No one's going to find us." We're both in the avalanche, which means our ability to self-rescue or be rescued by our partner is looking really doubtful. You just get these little moments, little sort of sparks that go off in your mind.

about something you wanted to say to somebody or something you regretted or something that you hadn't addressed. And so I just had these little moments, tiny little moments, I guess all part of the sort of regret and coming to terms with the fact this might be it this time. Paul falls, a snowy deluge engulfing him, the world a white blur. Then, without warning, there's a shuddering impact. He's thrown face first into a wall of ice.

It was a bit like getting hit with a wet dishcloth, but the only thing is that this dishcloth is frozen solid. Before the pain has time to register, his body lurches again. Now he's falling through nothingness, through a gaping chasm right in the heart of the Forbes glacier. What effectively happened, if you can imagine, it was like a trap door on a stage just opening up and like an actor disappearing off the stage. And the audience are like, well, where did he go?

He plummets 10 meters, landing hard on his feet on a ledge inside a crevasse. The force sends him sprawling forward. He does what he can to react. I'm completely stunned. Nothing I've done since taking my backpack off is deliberate or a reflex to my situation. I'm completely at the mercy of the forces of nature.

And so best described as a parachute roll, you know, when you kind of land and then you kind of tuck and try and take the energy out of the impact with your knees as a shock absorber and you roll forwards. And now I'm going head first down into this cavern, into the bowels of the glacier.

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Paul finally comes to a halt. All around him, an eerie neon blue glow emanates from the glassy walls of the crevasse.

For a moment, he lies there, dazed, trying to make sense of the madness of the last few seconds, while struggling to steady his ragged breathing. Eventually, he slowly pushes himself upright. His heart is hammering. He's missing a tooth, and a deep ache in his ribs tells him he's hurt. Something could be broken, he can't be sure. But, against all odds, he is alive.

Paul takes slow, deliberate breaths, trying to get a handle on his racing pulse. He glances around. There's nothing. No sign of Marty. But before he has time to start his search, a chilling sound tears through the silence. I can hear this horrendous sound of "pfft." I can hear the crevasse behind me filling up with snow. Powder tumbles down from above. In mere seconds, he will be trapped, buried in an icy tomb.

But mercifully, Paul's parachute roll forwards when he landed has meant he has ended up in a small cavern, away from the direct path of the falling snow. Eventually it slows, then stops. Snow now carpets the inside of the crevasse, but not enough to fill it up or block his escape. Above him, through the crack he's just fallen through, you can see a thin sliver of blue sky. The relief is fleeting.

More snow could tumble in at any moment. He needs to get out while he still can. With what? His pack is gone. Lost somewhere on or in the glacier. Without it, he has no ropes, no ice hammer. His crampons are still attached to his feet. Marty's handiwork has even managed to keep the faulty one attached. That's something. Paul strides down the length of the crevasse. Around 40 meters. His boots crunching softly on the fresh powder.

Still no sign of Marty anywhere. He assesses the crevasse's edges, judging which spot will give him the best chance of escape. I walked along the bottom of the crevasse until the crevasse started to narrow.

And crevasses do that. One part of the crevasse might be wide open and slowly but surely they'll close up. And it's all to do with the way the glacier, which is a kind of elastic living river of ice, moves over the landscape. And sometimes the crevasses open up and in other times in the compression zones they close up. And so I just walked along the bottom of the crevasse until it narrowed enough

At the narrowest part, Paul raises his right foot and drives the front point of his crampon into the ice face. Then he does the same with his left. His fingers slide over the slippery wall, searching for any purchase he can find. Drawing on skills honed through countless self-rescue drills, Paul climbs the ice slowly, steadily. Each crampon kick is meticulous, each movement checked before making another.

Without tools, his arms quiver and burn as he shimmies up, before at last he manages to pull himself over the lip of the crevasse. He is out. Taking a beat, he scans around. Back above ground, it's like a scene from a disaster movie. Debris from the avalanche litters the mountainside. Snow is piled high along the edge of the crevasse, with tons more covering the foot of the glacier below.

If he hadn't fallen through the crevasse, he'd likely have been consumed by the avalanche, crushed and suffocated under its immense weight. Fortunately, I'd fallen out of the bottom of the avalanche into the crevasse, and so it was interesting. The crevasse saved my life, but it didn't feel like it at the time. Among the debris, there is a flash of red, 400 meters or so downhill.

Something is partially buried in the snow, standing out against the sea of white. It could be Marty. Paul wastes no time. He breaks into a run, muscles straining as he charges towards the flash of color. When he reaches the spot, he falls to his knees and digs frantically, his hands working through the chunks of ice. I was hoping that the red pack would be my climbing partner, but the red pack turned out to be exactly that, my red pack. And so I'm on my own still.

It's a hammer blow. But at least Paul has his equipment. And one piece is particularly useful right now: the avalanche rescue beacon. The device is always on, sending out frequent signals to other beacons, so that climbers can pinpoint each other's location. In theory, it's the best shot at finding Marty. Paul quickly jams the earpiece into place and flips the switch on his beacon from transmit to receive.

Then he begins combing the glacier, listening intently for the tell-tale beep that will lead him to his partner. I'm sort of walking at a reasonable speed, zigzagging across the debris, desperately trying to pick up a signal. And I kind of get sort of an electronic background sound. I'm getting no signal at all and I'm a bit baffled by this. And then all of a sudden it dawns on me, my partner's up in the crevasse. Paul rushes to the lip of the icy chasm.

He gazes down into the crevasse's gloom and checks for a signal again. Still nothing. But if there is a chance Marty's down there, he only has one choice. He has to go back in. Paul pulls his ice hammers from his pack. He secures them on the edge of the crevasse and then begins to lower himself. Now with his kit, he's able to descend quickly. Soon his boots crunch against the snow-covered ground down below. He listens carefully. At first, there is only silence before a signal.

He moves deeper into the crevasse, following the sound. With each step, the beeps grow louder, sharper, guiding him until he's in the right spot. When I move to where the signal is the strongest and I start digging, and I'm digging as fast as I possibly can, and I'm moving a lot of snow, a hell of a lot of snow. By the time I've dug down two meters, all of a sudden I get a strike, and it's Marty's backpack. And so I'm digging like a lunatic.

And I managed to dig the backpack out and then I get Marty's hand and then I'm digging more and I managed to get Marty's arm and finally I got Marty's head, but it was too late. Marty is gone and there is nothing that can be done to help him. But in this devastating moment, there is still duty to be done.

I need to get some help. A lot of my search and rescue experience has revolved around just getting a body out so the family can grieve and they can bury their lost one. I don't even try and dig the rest of Marty out. I just try and get myself out. I'm aware that there's potential for something else to come down that slope, another pocket of instability maybe. So I just get myself out. It's a few minutes later. At the top of the crevasse, Paul pauses to collect himself.

He stows his tools, adjusts the straps of his backpack, and begins the slow descent down Forbes' glacier. The sky is darkening, the day slipping away. He takes his time, planting each step with care. Eventually, as night is truly drawing in, he spots Forbes' bivy, barely visible in the fading light. He and Marty shared a meal there less than 24 hours ago. At the toe of the glacier, Paul removes his crampons and limps the remaining distance to the hut.

There's no phone, no way of contacting the outside world. His best bet is to spend the night here to try and rest. Then, at first light, he can trek the 26 kilometers to Mesopotamia Station and alert the relevant authorities. He sets up for the night and gets into his sleeping bag.

I have a really rough night. I'm just getting quite bad flashbacks to the avalanche and then obviously my last dealings with Marty. About two o'clock in the morning, I had a pretty nasty sort of panic attack really. And the panic attack was based around, maybe I've got it wrong. Maybe he's still alive. And I've just abandoned my climbing partner. And so there was all sorts of stuff playing with me at the time.

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The leaves glow a vibrant green. The river shimmers with a turquoise hue, but none of it really registers. I'm just bashing down these river flats and I'm formulating a plan. I'm quite determined about what I want to do next. As he tackles the more rugged terrain, the pain in his ribs flares up, though the adrenaline keeps the worst of it at bay. It's afternoon when he spots the roof of a house poking through the trees. He has reached his destination, Mesopotamia Station.

a high country farm alone in the wilderness paul hurries down the final stretch and knocks on the door of the farmhouse an elderly woman answers a song from a radio drifts through the opening the woman looks at paul expectantly he explains that there's been an accident and asks if he can use her phone she opens the door wide and ushers him in paul picks up the receiver and calls the police

He explains what's happened and asks for a helicopter pilot and two ski patrollers to meet him at Mesopotamia Station. Next, he calls a friend and asks him to go to Marty's house to support his partner when the news breaks. With the calls made, all he can do is wait for the emergency services. But as he sets the phone down, the enormity of the situation hits him.

I broke down when the old lady came around, gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit and I had a bit of a cry. But I'd made the two really most important phone calls. It was an enormous release for me being able to sort of mobilize the police and the climbing community. It's not long until the unmistakable rhythmic thud of rotors can be heard. Paul steps outside, watching the helicopter descend, then touch down gently on the nearby farmland.

He runs across to it, climbs aboard. The heavy door slams shut behind him and the blades start up again. The engine hums to life with a low whine, the noise growing as the ascent begins. The ground drops away below them. Soon, the little cottage is nowhere to be seen. We flew up to the glacier and you could see all of my activity is in footprints, really. And you could see by my footprints in the snow what was going on. Hovering over the expanse of ice, Paul points out the crevasse. They'll find Marty there.

With that, his part in the recovery mission ends. They flew me back down to the Forbes bivvy and I think I hung out there with the police officer and they didn't want me to come up. Enough's enough. I've got broken ribs, damaged goods and that was the beginning of me sort of handing over, if you like. Eventually, a police car ferries Paul back to the City of Christ church. While the ache in his ribs is near constant now, they'll heal. His missing tooth will need attention, but it's not an immediate concern.

There'll be time to go to hospital later. Right now, he wants to be dropped off at Marty's house. By the time he arrives, there is already a sizeable gathering of his climbing partner's loved ones. In this particular social group, I was a little bit of an outsider, if you like, but I'm given some comfort. We're all sort of folding into each other, like kneading dough, if you like. In the weeks that follow, Paul's body mends. The pain in his torso fades and his tooth is replaced.

But relatively speaking, the physical wounds are the easy part. He admits that in the months and years after the tragedy, there are times when things get really difficult between him and those who were close to Marty. Paul has to find ways to deal with that, as well as his own trauma.

I think survivor's guilt would be a normal part of the process. There was a few moments that were quite hard for me, you know, but I strongly believe that I honoured my climbing partner on the day. I honoured my climbing partner's close friends, partner and associates as much as I could. In the immediate aftermath, Paul moves away from recreational climbing.

I focused on getting work in outdoor education. I didn't shy away from using all of the insight and knowledge that I gained from my personal experiences that

Didn't always go right to help other people either as an instructor and then training to become a mountain guide and then building up enough experience to be considered an asset in search and rescue. They've been all part and parcel of my continued journey as a mountaineer. But in time, the mountains lure him back. His experience on Forbes Glacier though has left a lasting impression.

It'd be fair to say that PTSD makes me a difficult person to collaborate with in the mountains. You know, I don't suffer falls or poor decision making. Over the next two decades, Paul travels the world as a qualified mountain guide and consultant for search and rescue operations. But he never returns to Dashiak. I've kind of always steered clear of that particular area. It's almost a bit of a sacred site for me.

The only thing I can put my survival down to is I wasn't holding on to a heavy backpack that was causing a lot of drag and that would have meant I would have landed badly on that floor in the bottom of the crevasse and I wouldn't have been able to roll forward into that downhill kind of cavern away from where all the snow was coming in. There was a lot of luck that

I made it out at all. But in this incident, stitching my backpack was the right thing to do.

I've lived a pretty full life from that time. I think I've managed to get myself back on my feet. I still like going into the mountains and I'm still putting up new climbs. I love exploring and steering young climbers now. And so I don't need to be possibly on the sharp end myself anymore, but I'm still very supportive of climbing. And so, yeah, I'm glad to have made it to 62.

Next time on Real Survival Stories, we meet Jonathan Ritchie. One day, while enjoying a relaxing fishing trip in the Ivory Coast, John's boat and life is turned upside down. He and his family have inadvertently strayed into the territory of one of the deadliest animals in Africa, a species thought to be responsible for around 500 human deaths a year. So when the young man finds himself in its lethal grasp, it seems there will be only one outcome.

There's no way to escape. At that point, it was like, I'm dead. You know, there's nothing you can do about this. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen today without waiting a week by subscribing to Noisa Plus. Get into your body's vitals with the Vitals app on Apple Watch.

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