The Boy who Fell Out of the Storm

ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD NORMAN OLLESTAD WAS IN A SMALL PLANE WITH HIS DAD AND HIS DAD’S GIRLFRIEND WHEN IT CRASHED IN A STORM 2,500 M (8,400 FT) UP A MOUNTAIN. HE CLIMBED FROM THE WRECKAGE AND BEGAN A GRUELLING DESCENT THROUGH HEAVY SNOW AND WIND. HE WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR.

      Norman Ollestad skiing.

      Flight of the champion

      It was 7 a.m. on 19 February 1979 and sunny in Santa Monica. The three passengers who followed their pilot into the little Cessna 172 were in high spirits, and not just because of the weather. The day before, Norman Ollestad, just eleven years old, had won Southern California Slalom Skiing Championship. His father, Norman Senior, 43, was an incredibly driven and charismatic man who encouraged his son to go right to the edge in life – and then see what was on the other side.

      Ollestad Senior had driven his son back home to the coast for hockey practice the same evening as his slalom triumph. And now, the day after, he had chartered the plane and pilot to return to the resort of Big Bear so his son could collect his trophy and get in a little extra ski training.

      The pilot climbed into his seat and put on his headphones. Norman Jnr was stepping into the back seat when his dad pointed up front. Norman couldn’t believe it – he was going to sit next to the pilot! His dad slipped into the back of the tiny aircraft and helped the third passenger aboard, his girlfriend Sandra, 30.

      The plane taxied and sped down the runway. As it rose into the blue California sun, Norman felt a surge of excitement. But as they banked east over Venice Beach, it was clear there was a storm ahead.

      In front of them a thick blanket of grey cloud was smothering the San Bernardino Mountains. Only the very tips of their 3,000 m (10,000 ft) peaks showed above the gloom.

      Norman Senior asked the pilot if it was okay to fly in that weather. The pilot reassured them: it was just a thirty-minute hop. They’d stay low and pop through the mountains to Big Bear before they knew it. Norman wondered if he’d be able to see the slope he’d won the championship on when they wheeled round Mount Baldy. His dad nodded and sat back to read the paper and whistle a Willie Nelson tune.

      Up front, Norman was savouring every moment. He stretched up to see over the plane’s dashboard and listened to the air traffic chatter on his headphones. As the foothills rose below them, he heard Burbank control pass their plane on to Pomona Control. The pilot told Pomona he wanted to stay below 2,300 m (7,500 ft) because of low freezing levels. Then a private plane radioed a warning against flying into the Big Bear area without decent instruments.

      Suddenly, the sun went out. The greyness was all around them, as thick as soup. They had pierced the storm. The plane shook and lurched.

      A tree seemed to flit by in the mist, its spiky fingers lunging at the window. But that couldn’t be, not up here. Then there really was a branch outside and with a sickening yawn, time slowed down and the horror unfurled.

      Norman instinctively curled into a ball. A wing clipped into a tree, tumbling the plane round, up, down, over and round. The spinning only stopped when they slammed into the rugged north face of Ontario Peak. The plane was instantly smashed into debris and the passengers hurled across an icy gully. And there they lay, sprawled amid the wreckage, 75 m (250 ft) from the top of the 2,650 m (8,693 ft) high mountain and perched on a 45-degree ice slope in the heartless storm.

      The long descent

      Norman came round gasping. Trapped by his seatbelt, he was unable to breathe. Chest heaving he unclipped his buckle and looked around for his dad. No sign. But he could see the pilot ahead of him, strangely slumped in the snow.

      Norman looked down. The mountain simply fell away below him. It was sheer ice and snow and then swirling cloud and roaring snow. One slip and you could fall forever.

      He inched his way across the slope, digging his bare fingers into the ice for grip. His trainers squeaked against the snow. Then a piece of wreckage skittered away from him down the impossible slope. He scrabbled the rest of the way on his belly. When he reached the pilot he saw the man’s head was smashed open, his nose torn off and his brains were spilling from the back of his skull. He yelled for his dad.

      A Cessna 172 plane, similar to the plane in which Norman was a passenger.

      A woman’s voice came wailing on the wind. Norman looked up and spotted Sandra high up on an even steeper funnel of snow and ice. She was crying: ‘Your father is dead. What are we going to do?’ One of her shoulders was hanging weirdly. There was a bloody wound on her forehead, matted with hair.

      Then he saw his dad, still in his seat but slumped awkwardly forward. Norman turned around on the steep slope and inched over towards him, sneakers pathetically trying to hold an edge. He slipped and almost plummeted like a bobsleigh down the mountain. He caught a hold. Then he started crawling back up. It took him thirty minutes to climb 6 m (20 ft).

      His dad was doubled over. ‘DAD!’ No response. Snow was falling on his father’s curly hair. Above him,