Summit 8000

by Andrew Lock

  Although he was by nature fairly shy, Anatoli was an international mountaineering celebrity, so he had agreed to be interviewed by an American journalist. He arranged to meet the journalist at an all-you-can-eat restaurant, which suited Anatoli as he had little money and a big appetite. The journalist, an attractive young woman, waited patiently while Anatoli finished one serve of food and then another. She then began to speak, but he held up his hand and took his empty plate back to the buffet. This went on for quite some time. Finally, Anatoli indicated that the journalist could ask her first question, which was, innocently enough, ‘What brings you out of the mountains to civilisation today?’

  Anatoli leaned forward, a hungry look still in his eyes, and said, ‘I come down for food … and woman.’

  Having seen what he’d just done with the food, the journalist was up and out of the restaurant in seconds. She never contacted him again.

  *

  After three days of rest, our interpretation of the weather indicated that a good spell might finally be approaching K2, so we agreed to start our summit bid the next morning. Two days of climbing saw us arrive at Camp 2, only to find that it had been all but destroyed by gale-force winds. We had spare tents, but the real disaster was that Peter’s sleeping bag had been blown away. His expedition appeared over, but then Ernst offered his sleeping bag to Peter, so he would be able to continue.

  Ernst had been the weakest member of our team, because he had been struggling in the high altitude. We all knew that he had the least chance of reaching the summit, which was still several difficult days of climbing above us. Offering Peter his sleeping bag was the right thing to do, but it was still a hugely magnanimous gesture, and indicative of his very strong friendship with Peter.

  Ernst descended to Base Camp while the rest of us settled into our new tents, but that night a howling gale blew in. The wind wailed throughout the night and the following day. Sleep was impossible, our nerves were on edge and boredom was at an all-time high.

  On the morning of the second day, with the gale still raging, Reinmar shouted from his tent that he and Anatoli were going to continue climbing towards Camp 3. I could see little sense in that, because climbing in such a storm was fraught with frostbite danger. True, when the window of good weather arrived they’d be a day closer to the summit, but if the storm continued they’d be stuck at the higher camp, and getting weaker by the minute. Peter and I decided to stay put.

  The wind blew throughout that second day and all we could do was keep warm in our sleeping bags. Finally, on the morning of our third day at Camp 2, the wind eased and the clouds parted to reveal blue skies. We were quickly out of our tent, eager to get on with our summit attempt.

  Arriving at Camp 3 that afternoon, we expected to find that the other two had continued up to Camp 4, but they were still there. The climb up from Camp 2 and the subsequent need to dig a snow cave rather than put up a tent in the savage storm had exhausted them so much that they needed a day’s rest. It was good to be back together as a team, and the view from our tent at 7300 metres was extraordinary. The Godwin-Austen Glacier was now more than 2 kilometres below us, and the nearby mountain giants of Broad Peak and Gasherbrum 4 seemed like they were almost within reach.

  The next day, the four of us pushed up through deep snow across several crevasses, then climbed onto a flattening of the Abruzzi Ridge known as the Shoulder, at an altitude of 7900 metres. There we set up our Camp 4, a short distance from the wind-battered tent that had been abandoned by the badly frostbitten Slovenians some weeks earlier. Their dead friend was still inside. This ridge was incredibly beautiful, with majestic views of nearby mountains and the lofty summit of K2 looming overhead, yet it has been the scene of much tragedy. In 1986 seven climbers had also died here, trapped by a storm. Many others have perished in the same location since then.

  In the evening glow, the route to the summit was laid out before us: a steepening slope of snow and ice to a narrow chimney called the Bottleneck, followed by an exposed traverse beneath a massive 100-metre-high serac to a steep snow gully that led up to the long, easier-angled slopes of the summit pyramid, and finally the summit itself. I was excited but also intimidated. I found myself wondering: Do I actually have what it takes to summit this mountain of mountains?

  As we settled into our tents and started the stoves for an evening meal of soup and cheese with biscuits, a noise alerted us to the arrival of two more climbers. Unbeknownst to us, two members of a Swedish expedition, Daniel Bidner and Rafael Jensen, who was actually a Norwegian, had been following us up the mountain, apparently climbing a few hours behind us each day. Naturally, we were thrilled to have been able to provide the trail for them at our own physical expense!

  We hunkered down for a few hours of rest, agreeing to make a start at 2 a.m. My experience on Everest told me that a midnight start would be better, because the extremely rarefied air in which we’d be climbing would slow our rate of ascent to as little as 50 metres an hour. A midnight start would give us twelve hours to climb the 700 vertical metres to K2’s 8612-metre summit and still leave us enough time for a safe return to Camp 4 before nightfall. I tried to make this point to Reinmar but failed to convince him.

  We rose at midnight to heat a last drink and don our frozen boots. When 2 a.m. finally came, Reinmar felt too cold to begin and demanded that we wait for dawn, which would be at 4 a.m. I was extremely frustrated, but the others agreed to wait. Since I was the outsider on the team, I felt it would only cause friction if I went off by myself, so I lay in my tent for the next two hours. All I could think about was how this delay could cost us the summit. In retrospect, I think Reinmar was still exhausted by the tough climb from Camp 2 to Camp 3 during the blizzard, and successive nights at progressively higher altitude had only sapped him of his strength.

  As we waited for the sky to lighten, we divided up the equipment that our group would need on the climb. This included 40 metres of rope, divided into two lengths of 20 metres; two radios; a first-aid kit; spare gloves and goggles; and a small amount of food. Right on four o’clock we were out of the tent and strapping on our crampons. Peter, Reinmar, Anatoli and I were quickly away, the firm snow crunching noisily underfoot in the bitter cold. The Scandinavian pair set off some time after us—again—but as Reinmar’s exhaustion slowed his progress, he dropped behind and joined them, effectively forming two groups of three climbers.

  Peter, Anatoli and I climbed steadily on the steepening snow and ice for the next few hours, moving up and into the Bottleneck. This couloir extended for nearly 100 metres and steepened to an angle of 75 degrees or more, forcing us to climb delicately on the front points of our crampons. Not anticipating such steep ground, I’d only brought one ice axe, a decision I regretted greatly. If I made even the slightest slip while swinging my axe, I’d be unable to stop my fall down the mountain face.

  As we emerged from the Bottleneck, we found perilously loose snow that clung to rock-hard ice. To safeguard our traverse to the left under the enormous ice cliff above us, we needed to fix both of our 20-metre lengths of rope to the ice, but Reinmar had one of the lengths in his backpack. After three hours of climbing, he was now nearly an hour behind us. We had no choice but to wait. We watched, freezing and hanging tenuously from our ice axes, as he made his way ever so slowly up to us.

  As soon as Reinmar reached us, we grabbed his rope and attached it to ours, then belayed Anatoli from a safe anchor of ice screws as he led the way across the slope. At the far end he attached the rope to the ice with another ice screw, then Peter and I followed him across. Had there been just the three of us, we’d have retrieved the rope and carried it with us, so we could use it again further up the mountain, but Reinmar and the other two were resting at the lower end and showed no signs of getting a move on.

  We couldn’t waste any more time. Hoping that they’d bring the ropes with them, we pushed on. This was a mistake that would have devastating consequences.

  *

  Mountains ar
e funny beasts. On K2 that morning the weather was incredible—windless and sunny. In fact, it was so warm that I took off my inner down vest, leaving just two layers inside my down suit, and clipped it to the last ice screw. To lighten my load by just a few more critical grams, I also left my headlamp and goggles there, since I knew that we’d have a full moon that night. If caught out by darkness, I would be able to climb down to that point by the bright moonlight alone. The downside of that lovely warm sun was that the snow had softened so much that it provided no support whatsoever.

  As we moved onto the steep ramp that would take us up beside the ice cliff and towards the final summit ridge, we found ourselves flailing, virtually swimming, in unconsolidated wet muck. Worse, the slope was very steep, and beneath the wet snow was smooth rock into which our crampons could not penetrate a millimetre. For every two feet we clawed our way up, we’d slide back one, two or sometimes even three feet. If we slipped too heavily, we knew we’d fly straight down the slope and over the buttress, perhaps bouncing a couple of times before landing at Base Camp, which was now 3 vertical kilometres below. There would be plenty of time to think about it on the way down. If we’d been able to retrieve the rope that we’d fixed on the traverse underneath the big ice cliff, we could have fixed it here to protect both our ascent and descent. As it was, we just hoped that Reinmar would bring it with him and fix it here himself.

  It took hours to force our way up this 100-metre ramp, and it was the most exhausting thing I’d ever done. We were now at an altitude of 8300 metres, and climbing more strenuously than I could have imagined. My lungs heaved to the point that I nearly blacked out, and my heart was pounding so hard that my chest hurt. I honestly expected to have a heart attack at any moment.

  At some point I lost track of both time and reality. I forgot the view of the route that I’d seen from our Camp 4 tent and started to imagine that the top of this ramp was actually the summit. The thought that I was so close renewed my energy, and I fought insanely to paddle my way up the snow.

  Finally, exhausted beyond words, I reached the top of the slope and fell to my knees. With my last vestiges of strength I could now hold aloft my Australian flag and slap the backs of my friends in celebration. And then I looked up … and up. What I’d thought was the summit was just the start of yet another long slope that stretched into the sky—the true summit was still hours away. The realisation was soul-destroying. All my exhausted body wanted was to lie on the slope and sleep.

  Exhaustion alone was not enough reason to stop. I wasn’t on the mountain to nearly summit, I was there to actually summit. Wearily, I stood, faced my opponent and took the next step. I don’t know exactly where that strength, that motivation, came from. It was almost painful in its own right. It was certainly tangible. There was never any question of stopping or going down; it didn’t even occur to me. I accepted that the pain was going to last for a while longer, and that was that. Might as well get on with it.

  The angle of the climb was a little kinder now, but the snow on the ridge was shin-deep below a fragile windblown crust. With each step, I’d balance precariously on its surface, praying that it would hold and allow me to take another, but as I’d move forward the crust would collapse and down I’d plunge for a couple of feet. Every step was the same, and my progress was agonisingly slow. I started counting my steps.

  ‘Okay, ten steps and then a rest,’ I said aloud. But I couldn’t make it. ‘Five steps, then. One.’ Pant, cough, gag, spit. ‘Two.’ Pant, pant, wobble. ‘Three.’ God, I can’t make five steps. Pant, pant, pant. ‘Come on, get on with it! Four.’ Gasping for breath, head reeling. ‘C’mon! One more. Five!’ I slumped forward over my ice axe, my head spinning and lungs bursting. Panting, constantly panting.

  A minute passed, then another. Still panting. ‘Okay, get on with it. One …’

  At nearly 8600 metres, and without additional oxygen, Peter, Anatoli and I were all now seriously hypoxic. The climb seemed interminable, but at 5 p.m., thirteen long hours after we’d set out from Camp 4, and six hours after I’d mistakenly thought we were near the top, the ridge flattened and we finally stood on the summit. The real summit.

  Too tired to cheer, we hugged each other carelessly. I looked around, taking in the row upon row of jagged, icy mountains in every direction, the highest of which was 600 metres lower than K2—just less than the height we’d climbed that day.

  We each took photos of the others, one of which I shall always cherish. It is of Anatoli and me, together, on the top. I’d reached the summit of my first 8000-metre mountain, and it was the one generally accepted as the hardest in the world to climb. Not only that, I’d done it with perhaps the strongest high-altitude mountaineer in history. Not a bad way to start the game.

  *

  We spent twenty minutes on the summit, in beautifully calm conditions. The sun was settling low in the sky and we were certain to be caught by nightfall. I wasn’t too fussed by that, knowing that the full moon would soon rise and that the weather was perfect. Peter and Anatoli started their descent back to Camp 4, but I decided to enjoy the view a little longer. My camera clicked away. It was so warm—perhaps only minus 15 degrees Celsius—that when my film ran out I was able to remove my mittens briefly and load a new roll.

  As the sun set, the enormous shadow of K2 stretched out for hundreds of kilometres across the Karakorum Mountains and into China. It was the most amazing vista I’d ever experienced. I was aware it was a sight that few in the world would ever see. The astounding beauty made all the pain and hardship I’d put myself through worthwhile.

  As I was preparing to begin my descent, the Norwegian, Jensen, arrived on the summit. I took some photos for him and he told me he’d wait for his friend Bidner to summit, as he was close behind. I asked whether his group had moved the rope up from the traverse and fixed it to the steep gully above but he told me no, they’d left it in place under the serac. Damn. I began making my way down. About 7 p.m., a little way above the top of the snow ramp that had caused me so much trouble on the way up, I came across Reinmar. He was clearly very tired. I asked him whether he should consider going down but he wasn’t in the mood either for the question or for a debate about it.

  It was a tough situation. I could see Reinmar would struggle to make it to the top and back to Camp 4, and by then the night was upon us. But I couldn’t force him to go down. For a start, I’d probably kill him and me if I tried to fight him down but, more than that, it was obvious he hadn’t lost the capacity to make a sound decision, so he had every right to decide to press on. I wished him the best, eased myself over the edge and started down that perilous snow ramp.

  What a nightmare. What had been an exhausting, painful ascent now became a desperate fight not to fall to my death. The snow had only softened further since I’d left the ramp that afternoon. Every downward step became an uncontrolled slide towards oblivion. My crampons and ice axe were useless in the soft snow and bounced off the hard rock underneath like it was steel.

  The only possible way I could stay on the mountain, I realised, was to face into the slope and wrap my arms around the snow in front of me, like I was hugging a giant toy. Then I’d take one tentative downward step. Immediately, I would start to slide, and I’d desperately try to clutch more snow to act as a brake. Despite my exhaustion, I was fully awake, my every sense attuned to the fact that I was a hair’s breadth away from tumbling down the slope, over the buttress below and into the void. I was fully aware that my first 8000-metre summit could well be my last. It was terrifying, but there was no other way down.

  Every step was the same: step down … slide, scrabble frantically, slide—‘Fuck … fuck, stop!’—still sliding … a slight slowing, slowing, stop. My breathing was hysterical, my heart pounding. I was drenched in sweat despite the minus-20-degree temperature. Step down …

  I kept on in this way, adrenaline pumping through my body with every barely controlled slide, until it seemed I was on the very precipice of the void. At last I
spotted my down vest hanging from the ice screw, which marked the start of the traverse back to the Bottleneck.

  I clipped a safety strap to the ice screw and hung from it, recovering, until I’d regained my breath. As I donned my vest and headlamp, I saw that the rope was still in place where we’d fixed it this morning, so I clipped to it for safety and traversed across the slope. The moonlight was as bright as I’d hoped it would be, and I could see where I was going very clearly. Once I made it through the nearly vertical chute at the top of the Bottleneck, I descended carefully but very enjoyably to Camp 4.

  I’d done it—I’d climbed K2, the hardest mountain in the world. I’d achieved something that few people—few even of the world’s best mountaineers—would ever experience. I was alive and uninjured. Life was good. What a great adventure!

  My euphoria disappeared as I approached our tent and heard Anatoli’s voice: ‘Peter, is that you?’ I knew immediately that Peter was dead. There could be no alternative.

  Clutching at hope alone, Anatoli and I scanned the slopes above and below, but Peter was nowhere to be seen. We knew now that he never would be. The only part of the route that we couldn’t see was near the summit, but Peter had been with Anatoli when they’d descended that part so he certainly wasn’t still up there. At some point, as Anatoli went ahead, Peter had fallen. There was nothing to be done.

  For the next few hours we tended the stove and rehydrated with sweet, milky tea. From time to time we’d scan the slopes above, looking for Reinmar and the Scandinavians. Around 2.30 a.m. we spotted two headlamps on the dangerous ramp. For their sakes, we hoped that the snow might have firmed up in the cold of night. We could do nothing to assist them, so we retreated into the warmth of our sleeping bags to wait.

  At 3 a.m. I looked out again but could see only one headlamp, this time on the fixed rope traverse. I assumed that, in the bright moonlight, the other climber was saving his batteries. Finally, at 4 a.m., a figure in red staggered into camp. It was Rafael Jensen. He was distraught but could not speak. He lay on the snow for ten minutes drinking the hot water we passed him before he could finally muster the energy to talk.