That time that we nearly died

 

It was -13, the light was gone and we'd broken down in a snow drift in the middle of the Swedish tundra. We were miles from civilisation, there were no houses anywhere and we hadn't seen another car for over an hour. The snow was knee deep, more in the forest, some drifts could eat you whole. Our road had been entirely swallowed up; it was, at best, a memory. We had no phone signal and nobody knew where we were. We sat in the car shivering, preserving the fuel that we'd use up to keep us alive overnight. And then what? Temperatures would be well below freezing the following day. And the following night we'd probably be dead. It was a hopeless situation and not one of the one's we revel in either, this wasn't some jolly mishap we'd all laugh about in the pub; like arriving at a gig without our instruments. This was life and death. The Odd Folk? The Dead Folk more like.

But how on earth did we find ourselves in this desperate place you may ask? And why on earth are we recounting it now?

This blog was always going to be a bit different; after a year without both anecdote or adventure, we've now turned to you for questions and Heidi Claes' what's the most dangerous situation you've been in? really struck a chord. And here it is...

... We'd flown to Sweden, the bass player, the guitar payer and I; one of those stupidly early morning flights that seem a good idea at the time cause they're so much cheaper.

We arrived in Ostersund; a small town in the middle of Sweden. My aunty, who's made her home here, picked us up from the airport and drove us to her farm. We promptly went to bed because we'd been up since stupid o clock and the whole first day was a right off. Should have paid the extra £50 and left at a logical time. 

We'd come to Sweden to go skiing, believe it or not the band are actually avid skiers; the drummer would have joined too if he could get the time off work, and the piano player if he could afford it. It's not an image you associate with us, but myself and the bass player set off annually to throw ourselves down mountains, I find it the most liberating thing. It has quite overwhelmed me in recent years, the hunger to satisfy that itch. It's the first holiday I look for, which hasn't always gone down too well with the family. Probably because I often book it at the last minute and announce the news shortly before we leave. 

"By the way we're thinking of going skiing?" 

"Thinking? Or going?"

"Going"

"When?"

"This month, maybe"

"Have you already booked it?"

"Yeah"

"You know we're having a baby this month!" 

"I'll be home before that, we're going in a couple of days!"

So off we went. We borrowed my aunties car, piling our bags and instruments into the boot and setting off to Åre; Sweden's premier winter resort. We were to spend a couple of nights in ski city and then drive further into the wilderness to my aunty's old cabin with no electricity or water where we'd 'survive' and get inspired to make music. That was the plan, and the challenge of returning to the isolated hut on the hill at Kamsåsen had been calling to us ever since we'd discovered it two winters previous.

But first we had some serious skiing to do! We spent the days throwing ourselves down the mountain and the nights spending too much time and money in the fancy bars and revelling in some of our jolliest mishaps.

On the second day the bass player dislocated his shoulder.

On the third day, we left. After skiing we had a quick sauna, packed the car, stole a game of Risk from the apartment and headed north into the wilderness. It was 5pm, the drive would take two hours, we knew the road well but for some reason we checked the satnav and found a quicker route that cut out half an hour and stupidly we took it.

... we headed north into the wilderness ...

There were two warnings on the way but we ignored them both. The first happened when we turned off the main road onto an unploughed road but for some reason instead of serving as a wake up call, it only seemed to make us more excited. 

A little further along and the road narrowed and the snow deepened. This time we actually stopped the car to investigate. We had snow tyres, it didn't seem too deep plus the satnav said we weren't far away and we were going downhill. "I think we'll be fine" we encouraged each other, but this was our get out of jail card and I think one of us even suggested it. But instead we ploughed on, quite literally. But the snow got deeper, and the road got narrower and the car went slower and slower until that moment that we all dreaded, when it ground to a halt. 

Outside it was deathly silent and the realisation of just how isolated we were hit home, especially when the guitar player climbed the ladder of a nearby hunters lookout to scan the landscape. "It's bleak" he called down. Our options were limited. We either stay put or continue on foot, according to the satnav we were 8 miles away. "We could walk it in two hours!" I chanced. And for a while that really seemed like an option. Myself and the guitar player even started packing bags. But the bass player wasn't keen. "I don't think we should leave the vehicle, it's our only guarantee of surviving the night!" he reasoned. "How about we push the car!?" said the guitar player. 

And so for the next hour we took it in turns; one at the wheel and the other two pushing. Progress was painfully slow but we were edging along. Until the road started to climb again and the metres we'd gain got smaller and smaller while our breathers got longer and longer. We pushed and panted and slipped and skidded in a monotonous fever, like some abstract contemporary dance company, like three men pushing a car uphill for three miles in the snow. "There's a junction ahead and it's a ploughed road!" shouted the bass player and we all jumped for joy. But like every good disaster story there's always a catch. And this was that glimmer of hope that was snatched away all too quickly. The junction was ploughed, and we could see safety, it was right there, 6 feet away, no more. The only problem was the snow drift in the way; a wall of frozen ice, like a large fridge/freezer on its side cutting us off. 

The next hour we worked in a frenzy, scrambling through the snow like beavers, smashing it with whatever we could find; rocks, sticks, shoes, we even used our skis. Chipping away at this never ending ice block. It was like trying to sand something with toilet paper. The impossible job. And i've lost count of the amount of times we tried the push the car over it. Watching the wheels spin around like a carousel.

And then suddenly lights ahead. A car, maybe. Approaching. We were like Robinson Crusoe seeing a ship in the distance. We ran up the road towards it waving our arms around like lunatics trying to flag it down. Like it had an option! God only knows what the old lady thought when she found us. We talked English. She talked only Swedish, and so we ended up doing a theatre show with our hands, gesticulating wildly like mad directors. We spent an hour with the lady. She had a rope in her boot, she tried to pull us through the drift twice but then the rope snapped and that was that. Defeated, we let her go. She didn't even have a phone. Our theatre show was over. We were alone again in the silence.

"It's cause you stole that game of risk!" said the guitar player. "This is karma"

That spurred me on, I wasn't spending the night in the car and hoping the old lady would think of driving back this way in the morning. We were getting through this even if we worked all night. I sprang back to life; chiselling away at the drift with a CD case; I didn't even have gloves on, or a coat, I was sweating in -13.

As it happened it didn't take much longer. I suddenly remembered that hessian sacks are good for gripping. Course we didn't have any of those but we had towels and after shredding a couple we finally got enough grip on our jumpers to launch ourselves over the drift. We collapsed on the road like sprinters at the end of a marathon.

But like all good disaster stories there's always another twist. We followed the Satnav those final five miles until it ended. Just like that. In the middle of the road. In the middle of nowhere. "You have reached your destination" said the voice. And our destination didn't exist. Realisation is almost more frightening than being in the thick of it. When you're in it, you're just focused on getting out. Adrenaline almost blindsides you and it can warp your thinking. If we had abandoned our car and attempted to walk to the hut, we may just have made it there but I doubt we'd have made it back. And that really scared us. We were silent as we pulled away. Shellshocked. Our only option was to set a course to my aunties farm, two hours south, the fuel was low but we'd make it. On the way after half an hour or so the bass player suddenly piped up from the back, "Hold up" he said, "That's the turning! That's the road up to the cabin!" And it was. We'd finally found it, 20 odd miles from where we'd broke down. We'd been nowhere near. "I'm never using a satnav again" I said.

We arrived at the cabin at midnight. Trying to save us half an hour had actually cost us 5 hours and almost lost us our lives. We had to dig a path to get the door, the snow was waist deep up here. We bundled in and spent an hour lighting both fires to warm the place up, it was freezing now. Almost colder indoors. The place had been empty for months. The bedding was frozen. We had to hang it all up to thaw it out. We lit the candles and opened the wine. All talking at the same time. All telling the same story. Reliving it like it was a jolly old mishap. But deep down we knew it was wasn't. We were very lucky. 

"I think we'd better play that game of risk!" said the guitar player with a wink.