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Hommages |
Leonard Cohen and the Church of Scotland Minister |
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Un prêtre sauvé en chantant Leonard CohenIt was not just a song - he sang many songs. Here is the whole story as he told it in an email to me! SUMMARY: Leonard Cohen and the Church of Scotland Minister In 1994 I was lost in the snow ion the Scottish highlands and had to spend the night in a blizzard in a snow hole. I tried to keep awake by singing songs, mostly by Leonard Cohen. His songs and poems have sustained me for over twenty years and it was important for me to sing them aloud to the snow and wind and rock on a remote Scottish hillside. The Press coverage that followed was exceptional. Even including a call from Radio Canada who wanted to do a piece on the Scottish Minister singing Leonard Cohen songs. COMPLETE STORY: Glencoe Saturday 8th - Sunday 9th January 1994 by Robert S. Anderson It was a hard journey. From the world of people to utter aloneness. Then via a short stop with the Ski Patrol, not back to the place and the people left behind , but instead to another strange world of celebrity. There is of course no way back to the time before and so the recovery and the assimilation of the experience has been difficult. In a way it is a sort of grieving and birthing process, and a memory of being quite alone. A Day's Skiing I arrived in Glencoe about 11 o'clock in the morning and took the chair-lift up to the plateau. On the top the weather was poor but not dreadful and there was quite a large queue for the plateau poma. At the end of the poma I skied a bit down Mugs' Alley towards the t-bar as the chair-lift was not working. The skiing on this green slope was really quite difficult as the fog was down low and it was hard to see when people were coming and whether you were going uphill or downhill. However it cleared a little bit and I got across to the T-bar tow. Standing in the queue at the t-bar two guys next to me said that since I was on my own what I need to do was shout out "single" and someone else who was "single" could come and join me to share the t-bar. I did this with some amusement and a young woman called Susan came and joined me. She was a better skier than me and we made it to the top quite comfortably thanks to her expertise on the t-bar. I was going to ask her to accompany me down but decided that that might sound a bit like a chat-up line. So we parted at the top of the t-bar and she went on to take the poma to the summit ahead of me and I followed on a few bodies later. At the summit I knew there was a red and a blue run down and my intention was to take the blue run down. I skied off following some other people and within a few minutes completely lost sight of them and everything else. The weather had come down and everything was white - not just with snow on the hill but with mist and the snow falling. I was unable to tell how fast I was going or in what direction and I fell over a few times. The Wrong Side of the Mountain When I realised I was lost and had become disorientated I thought I would ski downhill towards the snow-fence and the tow and then either ski or walk back down the hill. I skied a bit down towards the direction I thought would take me towards the snow-fence and the slope rapidly became far too steep for me. I traversed a bit and then decided that it was unsafe to continue skiing so took the skis off and walked down. I climbed on down using the skis as an ice-axe and kicking my toes into the snow and it rapidly became very steep indeed. As I came near some rocks it became much icier and I had real difficulty kicking in good toe-holes. At some points I was hanging on with both hands and both feet and still slipping a little. At this point I became terrified and traversed the hill very carefully to where it was better snow. A slip at this point would have meant a long fall down the hillside, over rocks. Thinking about the fall, I took great care with every step, thinking through what I wanted to do before moving. Talking aloud to keep the terror down. Pausing every few steps to shout out again in the hope someone would hear me. Hoping for the embarrassment of a skier coming alongside to tell me I was just on a black run. My cries for help were real by this time. Shouting out into the emptiness, the wind and mist. Hearing absolutely nothing at all except the wind on my hood. Tired and very scared, I stopped below a rock and dug my first snow hole. It was a good one, dug into the hillside, and squatting inside I could look down the hill just waited for the weather to lift a little bit. As I rested and ate half my chocolate bar the mist cleared up the valley. I realised to my complete horror that I was in a valley with no skiing at all and that the slope I had been coming down thinking it would lead me towards the tow was in fact the other side of the mountain and lead down towards the valley floor. The thought had crossed my mind earlier whether I should just close my eyes, ski straight down and wait until I hit the bottom. If I had done that I think it would have taken quite a while to reach the bottom and I would not be talking about it now! I could not see what lay below clearly enough and did not fancy my chances on icy rock wearing ski-boots. Time to recover from the shock of seeing that I was on the wrong side of the hill then looked up to see how far back it would be. I was despairing at this point realising that it had taken almost all my energy to climb down and I did not think I had any more energy to climb back up. Thought about skiing round the hill, or walking down the hill and out to the road, or climbing back up to the skiing area. The importance of the decision sharpened my thinking. I was not good enough to ski round the hill, too steep below to climb down, risk of accident, poor chance of being found. The weather got rapidly worse again with snow storms and sleat. I decided to climb up to one rock that I could see ahead of me and I made my way up there. Then I set another reasonable target about 20 to 30 yards away and climbed to it and so on until I came closer to the summit. I could not remember when I had started climbing down so I did not know how far back I had to go but I knew that it was most important to get to a point I might reasonably be found. Snow has a sort of mirage effect and I would see an outcropped stone and quick ly convince myself that it was people walking towards me. Sadly it never was. When the climb up became too steep I traversed across the slope on more gradual inclines. Basically by slamming my skis in flat into the snow so that the bindings dug in like an ice-axe and then made deep toe-holes or steps with my feet. It was a very exhausting and throughout the fear of an avalanche starting as the snow did not seem very secure. Sometimes the snow fell away from under my boots when I dug the toe-hole and I had quickly to spread my weight across all four points and try to lie flat against the face of the hill. All the time I expected to feel the snow move and my grip loosen, I expected to lose, to fall, but kept on going in hope. This was the worst time. Fear of falling, of crashing down the hill, of dying broken at the bottom, filled my head. I rested and started again. Never stopping for too long, always shouting out and never hearing a reply. For a moment the fear would paralyse me, then energize me to take another few steps. Digging the Hole The top of the hill came slowly. I was now exhausted and the change in gradient was slight. My back began to hurt and I felt that I was probably back up near the piste. The snow looked smoother and groomed. Then the fear came back. What if I walked off the wrong way, down another gully, back down where I had come? I stopped and tried to think. Still the weather was awful and visibility very poor. Wind blowing the snow up all around. Noise and whiteness. I knew the next decision was critical. Whether to keep walking to where I thought the tow would be, or dig in. Being cold, tired and frightened I decided to spend my resources of energy in digging a hole. I had been very frightened climbing up the mountain because I realised that if I fell there I would fall to almost certain death. Having made it to the top I felt I had achieved a great deal and hoped that I would manage to achieve enough to survive. I had heard about snow-holes on television and read about them superficially in books but until I was confronted with a great deal of snow and skis and the necessity to dig one I had not expended much energy in thinking what they actually were and how they were created. I remembered reading that one should always hold on to one's skis no matter what and this had already helped me to get back up the hill because the skis had proved to be a great ice-axe. Once again as I tried to dig the hole the skis proved invaluable. The heel of the ski makes an excellent shovel and I dug a hole about 2 feet deep and then began to expand it lengthwise until it was about 4 feet to 5 feet long. Felt quite pleased with myself. Having decided to dig in I became quite cheerful and talked away to myself as I dug. Still the whole situation did not seem real. I still suspected that someone would find me and laugh at my snow hole. But the hour and the weather were wearing this defence down by the minute. It was now after 5pm and I knew the Centre was closing. Thought of my wife Jennifer and hoped I ould be found in time to call her before evening in order to stop her worrying, to say I was on my way home. Tried to write a message in the snow just in case I didn't live through. The need to communicate was strong, to say something, to leave a message, to be in touch with the world of people beyond the world of ice and wind which held me. Before climbing into the hole I remembered the importance of making a good sign so that rescuers can find you. I put my skis up in the standard criss cross signal which marks an accident or emergency. Digging them in as far as I could, aware that this was the only thing between me and the outside word. Stuck one pole down beside by head to keep an airway open. As the darkness became more complete and the weather started to get vicious again I climbed into the hole and filled it up with snow from the sides very quickly feeling more comfortable out of the wind. I was sitting in the hole lengthwise with my head and back raised a bit so that I could look down towards where I though the ski centre and the tows would be. Head at surface level and the rest of my body a foot or so below the snow I drew my arms in close to my body and tried to fill the rest of the space up so that I was completely covered. Like burying yourself in the sand on the beach. Once in the hole the snow melted and refroze to form an icy crust. I became quite snow-hole proud! Maintained the hole, patching and remaking bits that were crumbling or not thick enough. Throughout I wriggled my toes and fingers to keep them moving and avoid frostbite. Huddling down under the snow, filled in, I realised that I was in that hole for the night and began to allow myself to wonder when the rescuers would come and even whether they would come. Feeling the success of having got to the top and that the snow hole was the right decision to make gave me some feeling of confidence that I was at least on the right track. If only I could manage to hold myself together until the rescuers came. I wondered if anyone knew I was missing. Had my car been spotted? Had Jennifer phoned the police? I worried about the anxiety I would be causing. With the snow piled on top it felt a bit like getting under a good quilt or being buried in the sand at the beach, and momentarily I had the sort of elation that comes with a first night camping in the garden of the family home. A feeling of adventure and security. The ice formed a case inside the hole with a little bit of space to move my legs up and down and move my arms against my body. Space for my nose and eyes to peep through so that I could look down the hill for rescuers a nd I think I imagined that I would burst forth at the first sign of help. It was not to be so easy. Uncontrollable shivering soon dispelled that feeling of comfort. Generally I felt comfortable in the hole although I woke at two or three points during the night to find myself shivering. This was uncomfortable but I felt quite happy that my body was still functioning properly and able to shiver. When shivering stopped the hypothermia would begin. Staying awake would be critical, so I tried to do this at first by holding on to my bladder but that only lasted for two hours until my bladder gave in and I found my legs swamped with warm and then very quickly cold liquid. My mother has survived many operations in hospital by keeping her mind going with arithmetical sums and I began to try that. Soon realised that being non-numerate this was not going to take me very far. So I tried other things; thinking about work, thinking about my family, thinking about music that I liked and things I liked to do. As each thought or song or bodily function came to an end I quickly replaced it with another one to keep me going, to keep me awake, to keep me thinking, - basically to keep me alive . I tried to think of all the people I know, friends and family and of things that I would do if I got off the hill safely. All the time I tried to push out of my mind the image of the frostbitten body being dug out of the snow. My body. I wondered if I would live to tell the tale to my friends over a beer of if they would be talking it all over without me. I remembered Glencoe and the MacDonalds driven out of their homes to hide in these hills. Confronting the possibility of death, making peace with my Maker, were not things that I felt ready to do although I realised that death was an imminent possibility. I had begun to pray while climbing up the side of the mountain and heard myself making the sort of bargaining prayers which I do not have a great deal of respect for. The day wore on, the snow and mist became thicker and I found myself praying less in a formal sense but probably moving closer to God. I remembered John Bell and his encouragement that we should pray as we are able a nd should not be afraid to be angry with God. So I shouted out my anger at my children being left fatherless, at widowhood, at my life being ended. These were authentic prayers, they felt right, in common language. These were the things I wanted to say at that time. In the solitude there was a sense of solidarity, of closeness. I thought my way to my home, imagined the journey and the reunion. I felt closer to the elements of snow rock and wind, to the stars which came out at one point, to the moon and of course to the wonderful sun which woke me in the morning. I sang some songs by Leonard Cohen whose music celebrates life in all it richness and complexity. They reminded me of the life that I wanted to return to. I also tried singing a couple of songs by Tina Turner but couldn't remember the words so gave up. Singing Kettle songs, a Fife folk band who sing children music, lasted me for almost an hour because I had memorised so many of the tunes with my children listening to them. I began to take an interest in snow. The hard snow close to my body, the thicker damper snow in the inner layer and then the fluffy white stuff that was falling all around. I remembered reading of a man who suffocated in his snow-hole so I tried very hard to keep wiping the snow away from my face afraid that I could be come completely buried. Around midnight I saw the hillside light up with stars or candles. Thought that I was hallucinating again with the frost on my glasses. Took the glasses off and was able to see lights coming down the hills and could hear dogs barking far away. I shouted and shouted but no-one came. Calmly went back to resting in my snow-hole waiting for something to happen. I thought they would find me but I was not bothering too much. In a clear moment the lights came on and I could see the ski-centre, realised that I was at least facing towards the right part of the mountain. That felt great. I tried to get out of the hole, thought about skiing down to greet the Mountain Rescue, but I did not have enough energy left and just slipped back into my reclining position and sleep. The mist came back down again and I was quite grateful for it because when the mist lifted it became very much colder. At a couple of points during the night I woke up shivering terribly and realised that I had been asleep. I was glad of the rest but terrified that I had passed out from consciousness again and hoped that the shivering would keep me awake but each time I just went back to sleep again until I woke up shivering an hour or two hours later - I do not know how long. I slowly came round listening to the birds calling to one another with short shar p notes, one bird to my left and one bird to my right, as if I was lying in bed at home on a summer's morning. Then, slowly, I woke and realised that I could not see. My hands and face were buried under the snow. Began to dig, trying to make a passage for my face so I could have more space to breathe, using my chin and moving my head back and forward to broaden the space that my head was in so that I could get some air. Dug frantically, back arching and biting the snow. With my hands free dug down from the top and up from the bottom with my chin until these two passages eventually met and I was able to look through a two inch square gap to see bright blue sunshine. Delighted to still be alive and it to be morning. Morning meant I had been under the snow for over 12 hours. It was time to get out, but I couldn't. Panic gripped . The elation at seeing the blue sky in the morning was eclipsed by the terror of being buried completely apart from one hand which stuck up through the snow. Rescued I heard the clang of the poma going round the wheel at the top of the tow. Marvellous sound! The tow was in operation and so people would be out on the hill - other skiers or the rescuers. A couple of times I thought I heard people coming towards me and I shouted. At long cold last I heard the swish of skis on snow and then someone shouting. I shouted as loudly as I could and eventually saw the ski-suit of a member of the ski-patrol right above my head. I said "I am very glad to see youS and they replied "We are very glad to see you as well." They seemed surprised to see me! They asked if I was injured, I said no, and they radioed down the hill. Then they reached down to start digging me out with their skis. I felt pretty good and began to chat. I asked if Dr Ian was on duty that day, Ian being the partner of one our volunteers who worked in India, and the patroller who was working at my head came round and said "I'm Ian, how do you know me?" " Cindy... friend" I replied and we exchanged stories and shook hands through my arm-hole in the snow. I gave my home phone number and they called down to the Centre to say I was ok and pass the message on. Began to shiver uncontrollably, suddenly it felt very very cold. The Ski Patrollers lay alongside me to preserve, or provide, body warmth. They radioed down the mountain for a casualty bag and that soon arrived and I was wrapped up in it. I felt terrified to be tight into a bag on a hillside and I was afraid that I would slip back down the hill I climbed up so desperately. I think at this point I was being a bit unreasonable and they calmed my fears and stood around the bag so that it would not slip. I could overhear their conversation whether the sledge or stretcher was coming up and eventually a stretcher/sledge arrived and I was loaded on to it. It seemed to involve skiers at front and back. The bag was zipped over my head and I next remember hearing the sound of the helicopter which we were told had landed at the Centre cafe. Someone put hands or muffles over my ears to cut out the noise and the next thing I knew I woke as the bag was being unzipped and the helicopter was half way to Fort William. Great view. Glad Ian was still with me. They do not serve coffee and there is no duty-free. As the helicopter landed the crewman lent over and said "You are going to be famous. 'Reporting Scotland' are waiting there with cameras." We thought it was a bit of a joke but sure enough as the back of the helicopter opened and I was stretchered off I could see a TV camera and a photographer taking pictures. So from fearing that nobody knew where on earth I was I suddenly realised that everybody was about to learn where I had been. Landed in the arms of the friendly casualty staff at Belford Hospital, Fort William. They stripped off my wet clothes and were impressed by the heavily embroidered Indian silk shirt that I was sporting underneath my ski polo. With everything off they wrapped me in tin foil blankets and I could feel my body heat increasing. I was put on to a drip with warmed fluid coming in and that helped to bring my temperature up. The sister said that she was satisfied with my core body temperature after removing the thermometer from my back-end. It turned out that two of our volunteers working in El Salvador are friends of the Sister in Casualty and that the Doctor was best man to Malcolm & Cati Ramsay who the Church of Scotland is sending to Guatemala so there was a lot to talk about. Then the telephone rang and the consultant announced with some amusement that it was Radio Clyde on the phone. I think I was still a bit too far gone to act sensibly so I happily agreed to speak to them. I began by demanding a new pair of ski-gloves as a fee for the interview as I had lost mine on the hill. They gladly agreed to this and then went on to ask me about what I had done to keep awake and so on and thus the Leonard Cohen and Tina Turner stories began. Ian MacLaren came in to see me in the casualty room and say his farewells. He was getting a lift back to Glencoe. I was ready to let go of him and felt enormously grateful for all the work that he and his colleagues do in the Ski-Patrol and Mountain Rescue. Wheeled along to the ward and tucked up in bed with hospital pyjama jacket and given some lunch. For the first time in 25 years I willingly ate a meat soup! Jennifer and Nick, our neighbour, arrived after I had been in the ward about half an hour and it was good to see them. Looking at their eyes to see quite how bad my situation was and discerned that while I was not pretty it was not too bad. My legs ached and I had great difficulty in moving. My right hand was very swollen and not much use. The left hand was better but up on a drip. The Press The press began telephoning and I had a regular series of little messages from nurses and from the hospital nurse manager to say that another had phoned and would be phoning back. Some left free phone numbers and some asked to call and to reverse the charges. I spoke to some as best I was able (Radio Clyde, Scotsman, Herald, Telegraph, Associate Press, ITN, Radio Canada, Courier, P & J, Stirling Observer) and found that they had already got the story constructed from the interview with Radio Clyde and only wanted confirmation and a few new angles on the whole thing. They all fixed on the cross in the snow. Time and time again I explained that this was an internationally recognised signal and not a religious symbol but the headline "Cross saves Minister in snow-hole" was irresistible. I found the idea that I had been singled out for salvation really quite offensive. The Ski Patrol and Mountain Rescue risked their lives to save mine out of their human concern , out of solidarity with other skiers and climbers. The Press were demanding. They "knew" I was tired but if I could just manage 5, 10, 15 minutes holding a phone . Talking about the accident was helpful initially so I guess I got something out of it. Reporters were courteous, most put in a plug for SCWE as I asked (all except the 'Scotsman'). Front page news across the UK. Phone calls from Canada, Johannesburg, Nashville, Washington. I began to feel it is my story, my snow-hole, my family's and friends' terror. The first week Extra night at hotel in Ft William was much needed. Good meal. Couple at next table- man had broken leg. They were talking about the "skiing vicar" and Jennifer proudly introduced me. Drove on down and collected my skis at White Corries. The wife of the lift operator was very kind. She had wanted to invite Jennifer up for the night of the search. Stopped for lunch at The Lade Inn in Callander and realised I looked a bit of a sight. Very hard to eat left handed. On homewards. Lots of messages to be answered. Radio Canada to speak to about Leonard Cohen, that was one I wanted to do. Messages and cards from friends. Two stand out. A book of mountain poetry (a Christmas present from Jennifer) edited by a mother whose son died climbing, helped made sense of the experience, and a card came from Robert Davis with an extract from Blake's "Vala or the four Zoas". Los breaking free of chains, the elements unable to hold him. People were finding it hard to relate to me now, he was trying. (Dictated most of this story on the second day home, just letting it come out gradually. Today, 21st June 94, there was still skiing in Glencoe. Robert S. Anderson
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Document fourni par Dominique Boile.
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