Summit 8000

by Andrew Lock

  João, Berndt and I were keen to have another go at the summit, so we were very frustrated at having to wait at Base Camp while the Poles wasted days trying to find their way up the mountain. They occupied the tent that we had carried up to Camp 4, along with our sleeping bags and stoves. We’d agreed to let them use our equipment to save having to carry their own gear up the mountain, but only for as long as we rested at Base Camp. After a few days, we decided to go up. Berbeka had been sounding more and more confused on the radio, and we suspected the onset of oedema.

  Setting out at midnight, we climbed directly from Base Camp to Camp 2, then the following day climbed through Camp 3 and up to Camp 4—a gain of 3000 vertical metres in two days, which indicated that by then we were very well acclimatised. On our way up we met the Poles descending to Base Camp. They were virtually dead on their feet with exhaustion and we were glad to see them go down.

  The next morning we set out for the summit. After all the bad weather, the snow on the face seemed endlessly deep and we progressed only 150 metres in five hours. It was demoralising climbing. We tried to tiptoe over a very thin layer of windblown crust but constantly broke through to the bottomless snow beneath and then slid backwards down the hill. There was no way we could climb the 1000 metres to the summit at that rate, so we returned to Camp 4.

  Tired but still determined to climb the mountain, João and I agreed to try again the next morning, but Berndt was too exhausted and descended to Base Camp. We were hit with yet another snowstorm that night, which buried the tent again. Worse still, it also buried our hard-won tracks of the day before.

  Nevertheless, we set out in the middle of the night. Soon the wind picked up considerably. We were at serious risk of frostbite in the freezing temperature, so reluctantly we decided to turn around. It was the right decision, and we hoped that we might still have time for another attempt when the weather cleared. When we arrived at Base Camp, however, we found only Berndt there to meet us. The Poles had already left, he said, and were travelling back to Islamabad. They’d left us no food or fuel that might allow us another summit attempt.

  Appreciative of another lesson learned about team spirit, we packed up the camp and started the trek out to civilisation. By the time we passed through the narrow rock gorges up which we’d trekked on the way in, it was blisteringly hot. It was the middle of summer and the polished rock escarpments that towered hundreds of metres above us reflected the heat even more. I measured the temperature at 50 degrees Celsius, meaning that we’d gone from minus 20 to plus 50 in just a couple of days. Our bodies simply couldn’t cope, and João and I suffered severe heatstroke.

  We staggered and searched for shade but could find none, and we eventually collapsed at the side of a canyon, unable to coordinate our limbs. I was conscious but unable to stand up, and just lay there for several hours, my ears ringing, barely able to breathe. Thankfully, with sunset the heat subsided and we recovered sufficiently to move. We lurched down the valley until we reached a river, where we plunged ourselves into the ice-cold glacier-fed torrent. Later, we heard that a member of a Japanese trekking group that was trying to get through the same gorge that day had died from heatstroke. Having come from such cold temperatures just the day before, we were extremely lucky not to have suffered the same fate.

  The delay, however, meant that by the time we reached Islamabad the Poles had left the country just a few hours earlier. While it would have been nice to catch up with them and administer a little summary justice, in retrospect I realised that we should have stayed on the mountain and finished the climb, even without food. Not summitting simply meant that I’d have to return all over again. I’d allowed myself to be distracted from my goal, and so had wasted an opportunity. I resolved not to let it happen again.

  Postscript

  Goran Kropp was killed in a fall while rock climbing in the United States in 2002.

  In 1999, João Garcia suffered severe frostbite during his descent from the summit of Mount Everest. He lost many fingers and toes, his nose and other parts of his face.

  5

  TURNING THE KEY

  On this proud and beautiful mountain we have lived hours of fraternal, warm and exalting nobility. Here for a few days we have ceased to be slaves and have really been men. It is hard to return to servitude.

  Lionel Terray

  BY THE END of 1996, I’d been on six 8000-metre expeditions in five years but had only succeeded in reaching the summit of K2 in 1993. While I’d developed a lot of experience, I’d not had the success I craved. As the 1997 climbing season approached, I forced myself to consider whether I should continue in the game or do something else altogether. I loved climbing at high altitude, but it was costing me a huge amount—financially, professionally and personally.

  Genuine introspection was not one of my strong points, but it seemed that on my last few expeditions, while there had been a good reason to turn around below each summit, I could have pushed harder, really stretched myself. I had either allowed myself to become distracted or agreed for the sake of team harmony with decisions that I didn’t support. I’d lost my focus.

  I reminded myself that summitting Everest was my main aim. In order to gain the experience to do that, I needed to succeed in my shorter-term goals on other mountains. I made a conscious decision that I would start succeeding—start summitting—or else give up high-altitude climbing. To be clear, I wasn’t advocating ‘summit fever’—going for the summit at all costs—but rather that I would not give up unless I had no possible alternative. I knew I could push myself harder while still staying within my limits, especially as I gained more and more high-altitude experience.

  With that newfound focus, I joined another Australian Army Alpine Association expedition in March 1997 to Mount Dhaulagiri in Nepal, the seventh-highest peak on Earth at 8167 metres. The AAA had attempted Dhaulagiri in 1993 without success, and by 1997 the mountain still hadn’t seen an Australian ascent.

  Like all 8000ers, Dhaulagiri has a fascinating history. Its Sanskrit name means ‘White Mountain’, but it is more frequently referred to as ‘Mountain of Storms’, due to the ferocious weather that constantly lashes its slopes. In the early 1800s it was believed to be the highest mountain in the world, probably because it stands isolated from the rest of the Himalaya and rises a full 7000 metres above the Kali Gandaki gorge. Reconnoitred in 1950 by a French expedition, the mountain was deemed to be impossible to summit. A few weeks later, that same team famously achieved the first ascent of any 8000er by climbing Annapurna. Dhaulagiri would wait another ten years for its first ascent.

  Four members of a Swiss–Austrian team, together with two Sherpas, reached its summit on 12 May 1960. One of the team, Kurt Diemberger, had already completed the first ascent of another 8000-metre mountain, Broad Peak. Diemberger said after the expedition, ‘It was technically challenging, it was difficult, but the main challenge was the weather. Storm after storm came in.’ The expedition differed from all other first ascents of the 8000ers in that it used a lightweight ski-equipped aircraft, nicknamed the ‘Yeti’, to ferry supplies up the lower parts of the mountain. Ultimately, the Yeti crashed during the expedition. There were no injuries, but its wreckage remains on the mountain, buried by snow.

  In 1969 a US expedition attempted Dhaulagiri’s unclimbed south-east ridge. While the climbers were still very low on the mountain, a massive avalanche swept down, killing seven of the team. At that time, it was the worst disaster in Nepalese climbing history.

  After several months of intense military-style planning, and the packing of several tonnes of food and equipment, our team flew to Kathmandu. We had ten members and were led by a longtime member of the AAA, Major Zac Zaharias, whom I’d known for some years. Since the expedition was being partly funded by the Australian Defence Force as an adventurous training exercise, we were required to include members with little Himalayan or no high-altitude experience. Adventurous training is a well-proven concept for teaching leaders to manage stressfu
l situations in unfamiliar environments, but the risk of failure was certainly increased by the mixed experience of the team. The benefit of being an army team, however, was that we were well catered for. We had better rations on that expedition than any other I have ever been on.

  Dhaulagiri lived up to its nickname of Mountain of Storms throughout our expedition and the tranquillity of our beautiful ten-day approach trek through numerous rhododendron forests in the Myagdi Kola Valley was quickly dispelled. Our final day to Base Camp consisted of a dash through a gorge on the flank of the mountain, whose snow-laden slopes teetered menacingly a couple of thousand metres above us. When we reached Base Camp, we could hear a deep, vibrating rumble coming from above. A permanent torrent of windblown snow arched across the sky from the mountaintop, signalling the gale-force winds that pounded the mountain’s upper reaches. Those winds and the regular avalanches that swept Dhaulagiri’s steep slopes had claimed many climbers’ lives and been the cause of the failure of the previous Australian attempt.

  To succeed we would need grit, while to survive we’d need careful risk management and a good degree of luck. We also needed the blessing of the mountain gods. A puja ceremony was conducted at Base Camp to ask the gods for permission and safe passage on the mountain. Having now spent six years climbing in the Himalaya, I looked forward to these rituals; indeed, I became uncomfortable if we didn’t conduct them.

  With the ceremonials completed, we started the climb and spent the first couple of weeks carrying loads on the lower slopes of the mountain to stock camps 1 and 2. During rest periods at Base Camp, we practised first aid and attended to our sponsorship obligations. One of those was to send a photograph of the team to the office staff at Thai Airways, who had kindly given us a discounted rate for our thousands of kilograms of baggage. For most sponsors’ photos, we formed a ragged rabble while the cameras clicked. For the Thai Airways office ladies, however, we went the extra step. At 4000 metres and in a temperature around zero degrees, we stripped off completely, retaining only our ice axes to protect our modesty—it was very cold! The photo was duly delivered to Thai Airways and, I believe, mounted on the office wall.

  We also introduced the less-experienced members of our team to the use of our Gammow bags. These are designed as a temporary and portable treatment for altitude sickness. The victim lies inside the bag, which is then inflated and pressurised by an external foot pump. The increasing internal air pressure effectively lowers the patient’s altitude. To test the bag, one of the team jumped inside and the bag was zipped up and pressurised. The bags have a clear plastic window, so we could see the victim and he us. As luck would have it, he was quite the coffee addict, so naturally we opened a fresh packet next to the air intake on the pump, taunting him with the aroma for the next hour or so, while the rest of us stood around drinking fresh brews.

  Another brew we had on hand was a homemade beer mix. Using one of our 200-litre equipment drums, we mixed up the ingredients and for the next two months waited with great hopes for a few lagers when we returned victorious from the top of Dhaulagiri.

  The initial climbing was less fun, though, as constant storms forced us to move through deep snow and the team became very tired. To safeguard ourselves in the constant whiteout, we placed bamboo wands in the snow with compass bearings written on them, directing us to the next wand just 50 metres away. The huge precipices on both sides of the ridge we were climbing meant that keeping to the ‘path’ was essential.

  Each time we returned to a camp, we would have to dig fresh snow away, and on occasion we had to dig down just to find the tops of the tents. In some storms the snowfall was so heavy that during the night we’d take turns to get out and shovel the snow off the tents to save us from burial and asphyxiation, which had killed many climbers on this mountain. Our expedition was becoming a war of attrition and we all lost significant amounts of weight.

  My focus to succeed was not diminished by all these obstacles. In fact, it nearly caused me to have a blow-up with the leader. Zac’s plan for the climb was more tentative than I’d have preferred. We spent a lot of time at Base Camp, whereas I knew I needed to spend time at higher altitude in order to acclimatise well. He was in a difficult position, having to safely manage a team with such disparate experience.

  At one point, as we established the higher camps in preparation for a summit attempt, Zac wanted us to carry a load to Camp 3 at 7200 metres but then to return on the same day to a lower camp. That was to be the highest point we would reach before our subsequent summit push, and would complete our acclimatisation phase. While that was a safe approach, I knew that simply climbing to that height would not sufficiently acclimatise me for the summit. When I told Zac that I planned to stay at Camp 3 overnight, he wasn’t in favour of it. While he didn’t say it outright, I could tell he was concerned that I might just keep going and attempt to reach the summit by myself.

  I knew that Zac was keen to be a part of the team’s first summit attempt. Having been leader of the unsuccessful 1993 Australian expedition, he was doubly motivated to lead this expedition to success. I understood his concerns, but I also knew what I needed to do to acclimatise safely and sufficiently. I told him that I was going to spend the night at Camp 3 no matter what, but I gave him my word that I would not make an independent summit attempt. The mood was more than a little tense, but I was determined to give myself the best preparation for reaching the top.

  Four of us, including Zac, did the load carry to Camp 3, then Zac and one of the other guys descended. Another teammate, Matt Rogerson, stayed on to acclimatise as well, which probably put Zac’s mind at ease. I wondered if he’d ordered Matt to shoot me if I headed uphill the next morning! It was a difficult night, particularly for Matt, as we struggled with headaches in the high altitude. Matt proved the point by throwing up the cordon bleu dehydrated meal I’d cooked, straight into the spare cooking pot.

  The next morning, in clear weather, we looked up at the summit, so close and beckoning, put on our crampons and descended to Base Camp. I had given my word.

  With camps and fixed rope in place, the team was now ready to have a crack at the top. Major Zac announced who’d be in the first and second summit teams—it was a military expedition, after all. I was in the first team, as was he. All had been forgiven.

  The newfound camaraderie didn’t help much, though, as successive storms had dumped metres of snow on the mountain. Once again, we had to plough a track up to Camp 1, dig out the tents and do the same as we continued up. Camp 2 was also completely buried. The next night we experienced one of the heaviest snowfalls of the season, and by morning we had no choice but to give up the attempt and return to Base Camp to await better weather. I shall never forget the image of Matt, literally waist-deep in the fresh powder, pushing a bow wave of snow ahead of him as he forced his way down the hill.

  Back at Base Camp, we sat out more storms as the days ticked by all too quickly. The pre-monsoon season in which we were climbing concluded on 31 May, and the Nepal Ministry of Tourism required us to be off the mountain by that date. It was already 19 May and the porters were scheduled to arrive in just one week to collect our equipment for the trek out to Kathmandu.

  Tensions were running high, and Zac called a meeting to discuss our options. Everyone was thoroughly worn out by the constant storms, and the incessant bloody wind was driving us all nuts. Zac asked each of us what we wanted to do. Some spoke about wanting to go home, to enjoy the trek out, while others indicated that they might be interested to stay for another summit attempt. When it came my turn, I recalled my determination before the expedition not to give up until my last ounce of energy was expended.

  ‘I don’t care if everyone goes home,’ I said. ‘I’m staying until the last gas canister, if that’s what it takes to summit.’ I meant it. I was there to climb.

  In the end, five of us decided to stay on. One man would remain at base camp, and four of us—Major Zac, Captain Matt Rogerson, Corporal Brian Laursen and the argum
entative, undisciplined civilian, me—would make a final summit attempt.

  When the weather improved, we set out and climbed over several days up to Camp 3. We’d set up this camp on our preparatory climb a couple of weeks earlier, digging a ledge into the face and erecting a small two-man tent. By now, however, one side of the tent had been buried by spindrift and was frozen into the side of the mountain. That meant there was only room for one person inside. I volunteered to sleep there, while the other three swapped war stories in a larger tent on a rocky prow about 20 metres away.

  There was a howling gale that night. As I lay in my little half-collapsed tent, I listened to the storm raging outside. Suddenly, I heard the sound of an avalanche bearing down on me. The noise of the storm had hidden the usual distinctive ‘crack, whumpf’ of an avalanche releasing, and by the time I heard the snow approaching it was almost upon me.

  I had only a split second to react, and quite instinctively jerked my knees up inside my sleeping bag. Doing this created an air pocket that would give me a few precious extra minutes of life—assuming I wasn’t carried down the mountain and killed, of course, which, I’m pleased to say, I wasn’t. The half of the tent that was frozen into the side of the mountain held it in place, but the avalanche crushed the tent poles and buried me inside.

  Being buried in snow is like being buried in sand at the beach. I couldn’t move my arms, my chest, my legs, anything. In fact, with the heavy pressure of the snow all around me, I couldn’t even tell if I was facing up, down or sideways. But, for the moment, I could breathe. More worrying was the fact that small avalanches like this one—and it must have been small, or I would certainly have been given a free ride down the hill—are often followed by larger slides. That was definitely not on my agenda.