"It was not until we made two injections, that his face regained normal color, and lips turned pink again..."

Imagine you are looking at the map of Russia's Siberia, a vast area between the Ural Mountains and the Bering Strait. What draws your attention, besides the immensity of the land that spans from east to west over more than 4,000 miles?

Most likely, your eyes will pick out a long blue stretch of water squeezed between the massive humps of the Sayan Mountains and Stanovoye Upland. That, of course, is the famous Lake Baikal, the world's deepest fresh water reservoir. The huge mountain area that stretches East of Bailkal for 300 miles bears a general name of Trans-Baikal. On the northern tip of the lake sits a small town, whose name -- Severobaikalsk -- is translated accordingly: The town that sits on the northern tip of Baikal.

Michael, a long-time friend of mine, had been nursing a plan to organize a large-scale cross-country ski expedition in the Trans-Baikal region for more than two years. I think I was one of the first who planted the seeds of the idea into Michael's head by suggesting the spot as a promising area for wilderness skiing. Later, a few more discussions with other people must have produced a "critical mass" in Michael, and the decision was finally made.

Michael's plan was to organize something like a mountain skiing workshop, in which knowledge and experience of wilderness trips could be disseminated freely among the attending groups from different regions of Russia and other ex-Soviet republics. Michael's organizational efforts worked out just fine, as over 40 people convened on the scheduled date on the grounds of the local tourist club. To best explore the region, the groups laid out their routes so that they covered the most interesting areas. The groups were to meet en-route a few times to exchange reconnaissance data and to make sure everything went as planned.

Such a massive event had never occurred in the Trans-Baikal before, and the local authorities, as well as the tourist enthusiasts, were excited about the opportunity to advertise their home land to the guests arriving from as far as the Baltic Republic of Lithuania. The local assembly hall became a stage for a nice amateur concert organized to welcome the visitors. After the concert, an ice-breaker party followed, which did not end before the next morning.

Early on February 27, after one day of final gear check-ups, six groups, 4 to 9 people in each, set out for the winter wilderness. Longing for fresh air and clean snow in our cities, we were eager to make the outdoors a home for ourselves for the next 19 days and nights.

For the first 12 days, the weather was exquisite: the Trans-Baikal land treated us to the perfect conditions. For days, there was not a single cloud in the sky. Snow sparkled cheerfully under the sun, as though some playful magician had strewn lavishly a sackful of diamonds before us. We had little wind, and still less snowfall, although in many spots the snow blanket was deep enough to sink to the waist. Because the snow was deep, we judged one of the passes we intended to cross to be unsafe: The probability of an avalanche seemed too high. Instead, we made an easy ascent of Peak 2640 (7,800 ft). From its top, the panorama of sharp ridges and alpine peaks invited a comparison with a sea miraculously turned to rock in the climax of a storm.

The Trans-Baikal area lies in a sharply continental climatic zone. Winters are long and cold here, while summers are short. In elevated areas, woodland only covers the bottoms of the valleys, and the timber line seldom extends beyond 4,500 feet. Still, wherever there is a chance for the trees to survive, they struggle for a place under the sun. Small islands of trees in the head of a valley merge into groves at lower elevations, and eventually form large carpets of taiga, or Siberian forest. Taiga, which consists mainly of cedar, spruce and larch, is rich in game. We did not have luck see much of it; our cheerful company was too loud and shied most of the animals away long before we could see them. Yet, when we awakened in the mornings, we could read messages that moose, deer, and sable would leave for us on the snow around our tents.

Often, at sunsets, there were a minute or two when the bald mountain tops changed their color from white to scarlet, and then it seemed that peace and tranquillity enfolded the whole world. This magic feeling prevailed in the still air while the sun was slowly fading out in the evening haze, and the moon fading in on the darkening firmament.

The highlight of our expedition was, of course, a canyon with frozen waterfalls formed by a creek that runs on the bottom of the canyon. Our plan was to climb the canyon downstream and determine the total number of the waterfall steps, which had not been known exactly. Just one tourist group had ventured into the canyon some years ago and had reported two steps, 36 and 15 feet high. Imagine our thrill when the very first waterfall we encountered measured over 80 feet! As we stood at the edge, we looked down. The top of the ice step bulged gently to drop down like a magic curtain of fancy icicles. Rivulets of water ran whispering over the ice and escaped in the shady void behind the curvature of the step. Freezing as they fell, beads of water tinkled as they hit the foot of the ice pillar.

Downstream from Icefall #1 there were a number of others, and each of them seemed to be more beautiful than the previous. Right before the second step, the creek did not freeze, forcing us to walk a dozen yards in water 15 inch deep. Waterfall #3 had a gap between the ice pillar and the rock step. The gap formed of a chamber large enough for a couple of people to walk in. The ice curtain sealed off all sounds of the outside world, and a visitor could get an impression as if he was in an enchanted crystal room, with the soft sunlight filtering in through the walls.

Climbing down the ice steps, we were not sure where exactly the end of the canyon was, and how many waterfalls the creek had in store for us. We had three groups climbing down the canyon together, with the number of people totaling 18. It was getting late. Waterfalls #4 and #5 we climbed in the twilight of sunset. I was the last to climb down, using a special technique to get down the vertical ice drops. Coiling the rope at the foot of the fall, I looked around. The high walls of the canyon on either side were glazed with multi-colored ice. The scenery was so unusual it evoked a weird feeling of visiting a parlor of the Ice Queen. When it was pitch dark, and the stars were blinking in the cold sky, the rock walls widened, and the canyon ended abruptly. Thirty minutes later, we were setting up our camp under the huge cedar trees, and making fires to melt the frozen straps of our crampons.

The generous Trans-Baikal land had yet another scenic present for us. One day before the end of the trip, our group passed through yet another canyon. The mile-long crack in a mountain rock with a small creek on the bottom was not technically difficult, but everybody agreed that few places they had seen before can compete with this canyon in beauty. High cliffs of granite and marble formed the canyon walls. Rock bastions and towers, arches and sharp turns of the crack, which in places was not wider than 10 feet, all produced a stunning impression of austere but unparalleled beauty created by nature with only two simple ingredients -- rock and water...

March, 14. Day 16, four days to go. Weather, OK, spirits are high. Nothing suggests the events that are about to occur. Yesterday, two other groups joined us again to combine our efforts in ascending a mountain pass that had not been climbed before in winter time. Our reconnaissance revealed that the pass was climbable, and in the morning, our group of 18 started the ascent. As we climbed up the couloir, the group stretched out. I was the first to reach the col and stopped there to wait for the others. It is a widely accepted practice that the group assembles before an obstacle to work out a common strategy. This method works well for smaller groups, but in our case, the wind on the col was brisk and cool, and I thought it was not practically feasible to put all 18 people together for the collective descent. To ensure coordination of actions, I chose to stay on the col, meeting everyone and showing him or her the safe line of descent: straight down, to the level spot.

So it went, with the members of the groups coming to the col and starting to climb down, and eventually Michael, the leader of our joint group, showed up on the col, too. Then I judged my mission accomplished and told Michael that I would go down, while he waited on the col for the last four members, who were making their final steps up to the col.

At the time I started my descent, the first climber had reached the bottom of the valley. Everyone else followed in his steps, and was at some point of the trail between the col and the flat bottom of the valley. At first, the tracks in the snow led directly downwards, but halfway down the slope, the leading climber decided to traverse right, crossing the sloping snow field, apparently to make a shortcut to the level area.

The avalanche struck when I was in the middle of the snow field. I did not hear how the slope whooped softly, and a crack ran across the snow field. I only heard yells behind me, turned to look over my shoulder and was swept down by the soft wave of the sliding snow. Fortunately, the snow was not moving very fast, and I could struggle in the sliding mass to keep my face above the surface. The avalanche dragged me like a bulldozer's blade for maybe 50 yards, and then stopped. Half-buried, I felt the snow around me compress as the upper parts of the avalanche pushed at the already halted head of the snow mass.

Feeling intuitively that the worst part was over, I began digging frantically with my hands to liberate myself out of the snow trap. When I was floundering in the sliding snow I noticed two people beside me, Eve and Alexander, who were caught in the jumble of the rolling snow blocks too. After the avalanche stopped, Alexander dug himself out quickly, and we hurried to assist Eve. After one minute of vigorous digging, we succeeded, and Eve was now free, too. We had no sooner drawn a sigh of relief than voices from atop of the slope reached our ears:

"Is anybody missing? Let's count!"
"Where is Jora?"
Everybody was present, except for George. When the avalanche struck, he was following the tracks behind me and was the 12th person to cross the slope. The place where he disappeared now looked like a plowed field.

It was then that I began to realize the scale of the avalanche. It was a real monster: The break-off line stretched for no less than 800 feet, while the thickness of the snow slab reached 5 feet. The whole mass slid 50 to 200 feet down, and somewhere inside this fearsome mess was our friend, Jora. We started looking for traces. By some incredible luck, ten minutes later, we found him by the tips of his skis which were sticking out above the surface. Jora lay on his back below 2 feet of snow, and was in a coma... Immediately, we dug him out and proceeded with artificial breathing as well as indirect heart massage. For about a quarter of an hour, we worked on him, but with no result. It was not until we made two injections, that his face regained normal color, and lips turned pink again. Praying for him in our hearts, we continued our efforts. After 40 minutes of continuous stimulation, his heart started beating, and he began brathe on his own. He was still in a coma, though.

Using an improvised sled, we moved Jora to the nearest safe spot, where other members of the group had put up the tents. It was evident that urgent help would be needed, so Michael asked myself and three other men to try and reach the nearest place with a telephone and call for a helicopter and a doctor. The nearest telephone was over the mountain ridge and 40 miles away... Without much discussion, we packed up and ran, leaving Jora and the others to struggle for his life.

The four of us crossed the ridge and at 4 PM the next day were at a railway station. Because of severe elements, the rescue helicopter could not reach our comrades for two days. When the chopper arrived, it was too late... Having survived the night after the avalanche, Jora passed away at 10 o'clock in the morning of March 15, six hours before the four of us reached the telephone... Oddly, the Ides of March revealed their gruesome nature once again.

I am sitting in a stuffy railway car and staring through the window. Familiar Russian landscapes change from one to another in an endless sequence. My mind is going in rounds, time and again returning to that horrible day of March 14. I strive to recall every small detail, every minor decision and action taken by every one of us on that treacherous pass. Dozens of questions are haunting me: Who is responsible for the tragedy? Was there a safer route for the descent?

There were 5 people caught in the avalanche. Why did it have to be Jora to pay the highest price? Some of the questions demand serious consideration; others, perhaps, will never be answered. We have been taught a lesson, and should draw our own conclusions. I regard it as a reminder of how narrow the margin between life and death can be, and how grave may be the consequences of carelessness.

I am thinking of the responsibility that the person who takes the lead must assume, because everybody else will follow in his steps. I think we all have our own share of responsibility for the tragedy. The man who was the first to climb down was not experienced enough to assess the threat of traversing the snow slope. Perhaps, I should have taken the lead to show the others the safest way. Perhaps, Michael, the leader of our groups, should have explained better the strategy of crossing the pass. Those who had concerns about the safety of traversing the snow field should have voiced them so others could be on alert while traversing...

The train rattles busily through the snow-sprinkled groves and fields, carrying us back to our homes. I am staring through the dusty pane, as though out there, on the broad planes of Central Russia, I can find the answer to yet another question that grips my mind: Whatever is the Trans-Baikal wilderness - a fairyland or a deathtrap?

— Dmitri Nichiporov, Mountain Zone Pubster