NSW Nordic Ski Club
Close Encounters of the Skiing Kind or What A Buzz
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| Date: | Sunday, September 28th 1986 |
| Location: | Somewhere upstream of the site of Rawson's Hut |
| Weather: | Overcast, foggy with occasional showers of snow and/or rain |
We awoke sometime between 7 and 8 o'clock in the morning to the sound of rain on the roof of the tent. A quick glance out the door confirmed that the fog which had so cleverly descended on us last night still thought that it was pretty clever in not lifting in the morning. The rain stopped long enough for us to think about having breakfast. Then it started snowing. Fortunately, there was virtually no wind, so breakfast proceeded in relative comfort.
Our plans for tackling the slopes of Mt. Townsend would have to be amended due to the abundance of pea soup.
"Hey, it's lifting," I exclaimed as the world opened up about us and we could see clear across the valley to Mt. Northcote. The fog, having heard these words of enthusiasm, immediately closed in again just to show us how clever it was.
"Oh well, I guess we'll just muck around on the slope in front of us," was suggested and consensus was reached.
We started climbing up, our skis often slipping backwards on the soft and slushy snow. It wasn't long before we reached the poles which mark the edge of the Kosciusko Road. Our view of our tents had by this time been swallowed up by either the fog or the edge of the slope we were on - it was hard to tell which. We had a feeling of isolation which was only interrupted by the yelling and screaming of someone trying to come to grips with a disobedient sleeping bag in the campsite not all that far removed from our own.
As we climbed higher up the Etheridge Ridge we emerged from the clutches of the fog and we caught some amazing glimpses of some of the higher peaks just poking up above the cloud. We reached the top of the ridge and took off our skis and went about the happy business of taking photographs. I had stuck the tails of my skis in the snow and leant them against a boulder in an attempt to prevent them from skiing away while I wasn't looking. After taking copious photographs of the fog I suggested that it would be a good idea to practice skiing on a particular slope which descended more or less to the east. It had a big advantage over most of the other slopes in that we could see it.
"How about we leave our day-packs here while we ski down that slope," seemed a reasonable thing to say. Meanwhile, one of our party was over on the next knoll, and another was answering the call of nature somewhere among the rocks close by. The one on the next knoll began to ski back.
I placed my day-pack down on some rocks and turned to my skis. I was immediately distracted by a buzzing noise which seemed to be coming from near my skis. I had a quick look about for some nasty flying insect but could see none. Then I realised that the sound was actually coming from the tips of my skis. This seemed quite strange as I had never heard my skis make a buzzing noise before. "Hey, my skis are making a buzzing sound, listen!" I exclaimed. A colleague replied, "That must be air coming out through a tiny hole", as he placed his day pack down next to mine. "You'd better try and find it and plug it up before we do any telemarking", he said.
"Sounds a bit like a corona discharge to me", I said jokingly.
"Yeah, it does a bit." he replied, being conversant in electrical terminology he knew exactly what I meant. I was about to add, "You know, like the noise you get from power lines in the rain", but then I remembered that he works for the Electricity Commission so I didn't bother elaborating.
"No, it couldn't be," I said in an attempt to squash this ridiculous idea. He lifted up his skis which had previously been lying down and stood them up in the snow. A few moments later they also began to buzz. By this time I noticed that the only other pair of skis around were also buzzing. I was feeling rather perplexed at this point. Surely three pairs of skis couldn't all be leaking air out of them.
"Hey, it is a corona discharge," he said, "'cause when I put my hands over them it stops."
The fellow skiing back from the other knoll was about half way towards us. "Yeah, I think you're right," I said. This seemed even stranger still. Why would our skis be leaking electricity from their metal edges to the surrounding air unless ...
The buzzing suddenly became more intense and the frequency increased behond the range of human hearing as a flash of lightning and a boom of thunder shook us in our boots. A brief pause of silence and then our skis started humming again.
"Let's get out of here!" seemed like exceptionally good advice. It had become glaringly apparent that we were in some sort of electrical storm. We yelled to our comrade who was still amongst the rocks that he should not delay in retrieving his skis and proceed as quickly as he could down the slope. Fortunately, he had just finished his urgent message and walked back to where we were, telling us of the crackling sound he had heard as he stood up. It seemed to him that the very rocks were making noises. That member of our party who had skied back from the other knoll told of the feeling of the flash of lightning going across directly in front of him. The hair on his head was standing on end due to the static electricity, although it may as well have been due to the frightening experience.
We skied back down the slope stopping every hundred metres or so to test the conditions. This involved lifting the tip of one ski up in the air and planting the tail in the snow. If it still buzzed we knew we were still in danger. We went down well below the level at which the buzzing stopped and discussed the experience amongst us.
We decided that we were probably safe and went about the business of trying to ski normally again. We saw no more lightning nor did we hear any more thunder that day but the higher we went up that slope the more our hair would stand on end.
Some words of caution then. If you feel a prickly sensation cheek to see if your hair is standing on end. If so you are probably in immediate danger of being struck by lightning. Those of you with metal edged skis might like to stand them up in the snow during rest breaks, especially on the tops of mountains and ridges, and if they start to hum then I would suggest beating a very hasty retreat to lower altitudes.
Of course, the chances of being hit by lightning are negligible, aren't they?
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