Dear readers: I wrote the following article in 1974 for Backpacker magazine. It is a true story, and a long one. Iím reprinting it in four parts. I hope you enjoy it.--David Heiller

Part one: Stuck in a blizzard

Only fifty yards to go; I was almost there.

I blinked as the wind swirled down the trail, powdering everything with snow. Looming above me was 10,485-foot Tuolumne Peak. It appeared ghostly; gray-white against white. So close. So deceptively close.

For the past six hours of that fateful November 10, 1973 day, I had waded through drifts up steep switchbacks below the peak. Now, standing on a small bare patch of soil protected by a dozen large pines, I scanned the outline of the snow-choked trail as it rose steeply over a crest.

Beyond the crest was Yosemite Valley, 20 downhill miles to the south. For seven days I had back- packed over mountainous trails, many like this one, always managing to stay one step ahead of the deep snow. But now?

This was the most crucial distance. The final 50 yards. The chilling wind, my snow-soaked clothes and numbed hands were forgotten. With all my remaining strength, I began wading up the drifted trail. Twenty steps brought knee-deep snow; each successive step was worse. Leaning forward, hands pawing uselessly, I crawled through the snow as it drifted around my waist. But it was no use. I could go no farther.

The long dayís bout with snow and wind had taken its toll. Defeated, I waded back to the shelter of the pine grove. With hands that had no sensation, I clumsily tied my nylon pup tent between two trees, staked down the sides, threw my sleeping bag, food bag, mess kit, matches and notebooks into the tent, and myself with them. My body was deeply chilled; I shook uncontrollably from head to foot as I slowly stripped off wet jeans and long-johns. My mind was numb.

There were no thoughts of the magnitude of my predicament, or of home or death; only of the freezing cold and my saviorómy down sleeping bag.

But as I reached in the stuff sack, my heart sank: the bag was soaked! The night before, a steady drizzle had infiltrated my tent and seeped into the bottom of the bag. My spare clothes also were soaked. I hadnít taken the time to dry anything. Now, lying cold and nude in the half-wet bag, with darkness falling and the wind beginning to howl from the mountaintops, I started to cry. My fight to survive the snow and cold and find civilization in the Sierra Nevada had begun.

From Saturday night to Mondayís dawn, as a blizzard raged, I reflected on the past month. I had taken a fall vacation from my University of Minnesota studies to try back- packing and see some of the country.

The week Iíd spent in Yosemite National Park had been my first extensive backpacking. Now, beginning my second week, totally unprepared for snow and freezing temperature, I chided myself for being such a greenhorn.

By Monday morning, three feet of fresh snow had piled up against the tent, blown by roaring winds. Initially I had tapped the inside of the tent to knock off the snow, but my fist soon met with a heavy thud. Now the tent was almost buried.

I put on my wet clothes again, crawled out into the tempest and waded a trench around the tent. The dim morning light made the scene eerie and unreal. The blue tent sagged like a squeezed marshmallow under the snowís weight. The bare ground of two days before was covered with swirling, flowing mounds of silvery snow. And there was no sound, save for the wind as it sifted over snow and through pine boughs.

A few hours later on that morning of November 12, I began writing a diary in one of my notebooks. ìThe wind howls and blows snow over my tent as I write this. I can only hope and pray (Iíve done a lot of both in the last 48 hours) that the storm will soon blow itself out, and I can make it back to civilization on my own two feet, not on a stretcher or over a horse. With the help of God, Iíll do all within my power to get out of this hellhole. I donít want to die.î

When the wind quieted down an hour later, I put on my wet clothes and stepped out into the white stillness. Common sense told me to stay where I was: to wait for rescue, build a fire, get warm. Common sense warned of the futility and danger of retracing the 30 miles I had come, especially in three feet of fresh snow.

But fear overpowered common sense. I stuffed everything into my pack and started wading.

It was nearly my last living mis- take. I was much weaker than on Saturday. During the last two days Iíd eaten only a raw trout left over from Friday and a bowl of granola. My stomach muscles ached.

I went 50 yards before hitting a drift up to my waist. I tried pulling myself out, but the snow held me fast.

In the deathly silence a tiring but peaceful calm settled over me. ìIt would be so easy,î I thought, ìjust to lie here and sleep.î

Flashes of death crossed my mind, first with vivid scenes of my motherís heartbroken sorrow; scenes of grief, tears, the funeral. Then with a face-to-face confrontation with death. I realized that the past 20 years were all in vain. Only the unknown lay ahead. It was the most frightening, awesome vision I have ever had, enough to give me the strength to roll out of the drift and wade back to my campsite among the pines. There I determinedly secured the tent to four trees and began another phase of my ordealówaiting for rescue.

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