Summit 8000

by Andrew Lock

  WHILE 1997 WAS the turning point in my climbing career, 1998 was a pivotal moment in my working life. I’d been operating for a number of years in covert police taskforces between expeditions, investigating highly organised crime. Suddenly I found myself, together with a number of the best detectives in the police force, the subject of an aggressive investigation by our own agency due to an accusation of corruption. It came as a terrible shock to all of us—not so much that we were accused, because many people accuse police of wrongdoing in attempts to undermine criminal cases against them, but because the police hierarchy treated us as though we were guilty before we’d had a chance to prove otherwise. We felt terribly betrayed. We fought hard to clear our names and subsequently were fully exonerated—we were even awarded medals for our work. But I’d seen the organisation that I’d faithfully served for nearly twenty years turn on me, and I lost all confidence in its leadership.

  I’d also been pursuing a new love interest in Australia for a while, but just as things were getting interesting, Lynda was injured in a motorcycle accident. By the time she’d recovered, her ardour had cooled and I was flying solo again.

  I decided the best thing to do was to take an extended leave of absence—a sabbatical, if you like—from the police force to think about my future. I enrolled in a part-time disaster-management degree at university and applied for a position as a training officer with the Australian Antarctic Division, which ran scientific research expeditions in the deep white south. I also thought about big hills.

  The call of the mountains was stronger than ever. While I needed a break from the recent stresses in my life, more than anything I just wanted to re-experience the savage yet intensely honest existence of high altitude. With the successes of 1997 and my newfound understanding of managing risk, I was keen to return to my adversary of recent years, Nanga Parbat. Coincidentally, British climber Alan Hinkes called me early in 1998 to ask if I’d like to climb it with him that year. At the time, Hinkes had climbed more 8000ers than me, so I hoped we’d work well together.

  The day before I left Australia was frenetic. I had a university exam—in psychology, ironically enough—then I went to town to buy duty-free and foreign currency and rushed home to pack my belongings, which were going into storage because as soon as I returned from the expedition I’d be heading to Antarctica for seven months. I moved boxes until midnight and started again the next morning, not finishing until midday. I then headed for the shops for some last-minute purchases for the expedition, before driving to the airport and getting on the plane.

  We trekked into the Diamir Valley, on the same side of the mountain as I’d been with the mad Polish expedition when we’d attempted the Kinshofer Route in 1996. The Base Camp there is truly lovely, with grass underfoot, marmots all around and wild ibex in the surrounding hills. At 4000 metres in altitude, it is one of the lowest of any 8000-metre base camps, and you can recover much more effectively at this altitude than at, say, Everest’s Base Camp at 5300 metres. It wouldn’t be right if there wasn’t a downside, though. On Everest, one has to gain approximately 3.5 vertical kilometres from Base Camp to the summit. On Nanga Parbat, it is over 4 vertical kilometres.

  There were two other drawbacks. First, there’s a large rock cliff on one side of the valley, from which truck-sized boulders regularly crash down onto the valley floor, before rolling around randomly, much like the trucks on the KKH. And second, the frisky little ibex, lithely bounding across the rock slabs above us, were good eating, which inspired the base camp staff, liaison officers and locals to prove their manhood. They also proved the worthlessness of AK-47s as hunting rifles, and how well military ammunition ricochets around valley floors and through nylon tents. Insha’Allah.

  Ours wasn’t the only expedition on the Diamir side of the mountain that year. I was excited to learn that Kurt Diemberger, one of the world’s most famous 8000-metre pioneers, was there to do some filming. It was an incredible thrill for me to meet the German because he had been a member of two expeditions in the 1950s that made the first ascents of Broad Peak and Dhaulagiri, and I’d just climbed the very same two peaks in 1997. He was totally supportive of me as one of the ‘next generation’ of climbers having my own go on the 8000ers.

  Alan and I coveted a route on the mountain known as the Mummery Rib, named after the British climber Alfred Mummery, who was immortalised in 1895 on this very hill. Infamous for the frequent avalanches it experiences, the route forces its way up an improbable looking line below, between and around some enormous cliffs of ice. Shortly after we arrived at Base Camp, one of the cliffs released what we would learn were daily examples of why people don’t successfully climb the Mummery Rib. Including Mummery. The avalanche, which was a couple of kilometres away from us, was of such epic proportions that it shook the ground we stood on as it crashed down the mountain, sweeping everything before it. It thundered into the glacier below for several minutes, sending a billowing cloud of ice particles over our camp. We watched until the avalanche debris cleared, then agreed to climb the Kinshofer Route instead.

  This season was much warmer than in 1996, and on the steep mountain face between our Camp 1 and Camp 2 we were under constant threat from rocks that melted out of the ice above us and fell. As we ‘front-pointed’—using the front spikes of our crampons—up the steep ice face, hundreds of metres above the glacier, rocks came screaming past us, often missing us narrowly. It was Russian roulette. The high temperatures that were melting out the rocks caused us other problems as well. It’s easy to dehydrate in the very dry air of altitude and the heat compounded the effect. On one load carry up to the lower camps, I began suffering from painful kidneys and strong headaches and I suspected dehydration. I drank four litres of water that evening, but by morning I’d peed only about 200 millilitres.

  The climb progressed well enough, but I soon learned that Alan wouldn’t break trail—he preferred to follow. That meant I had to do the hard work of kicking fresh steps whenever we were on new ground. While I had always enjoyed being out in front, as the altitude increased I knew I was taking the risks and sacrificing my own fitness while Alan preserved his. He knew it too. Nonetheless, we overcame the major technical obstacles of the route to place our Camp 2 on a rock rib above the steep Kinshofer Face.

  While resting there and waiting for a bit of bad weather to clear, I saw something buried in the ice underneath my feet. I hacked at the ice for hours, and eventually uncovered a large object that seemed to be wrapped in a tarpaulin or old tent. Tied to the outside of the object were several old bamboo ski poles. I was able to recover three of them, and assumed that the object was a stash of climbing equipment or rubbish left over by an early expedition. I didn’t attempt to open the frozen tarpaulin. After I returned home, I learned that the German expedition that completed the first ascent of the Kinshofer Route in 1962—which was named after one of the team, Toni Kinshofer—had lost one of its members on the mountain. The leather handles of the old bamboo ski poles were stamped clearly with a German manufacturers’ mark, Desgleffs, suggesting that they were probably from Kinshofer’s expedition. To this day, I’ve wondered if I disturbed the last resting place of the lost member from that expedition. I certainly hope not, but I still have those ski poles.

  Our cook on this expedition, Sher Raman, was an engaging and friendly young man whose English skills far surpassed my basic grasp of Urdu. One cool night, he appeared in the dining tent wearing a most extraordinary coat. It was knitted from undyed handspun wool, full-length, with oversized sleeves and colourful embroidered patterns. It had been made by an elderly couple in his village and the task had taken them three months. They’d sold it to him for 3800 rupees (approximately US$70 at the time). It was quite the fashion statement, and the other local men eyed it off enviously. For people who owned virtually nothing, this was a most-prized possession.

  After two and a half weeks we’d established our way up to Camp 3. Following a few days’ rest at Base Camp, we climbed back up and o
pened the route up to Camp 4 at 7200 metres, from which we could make our summit attempt. Also going for the summit were five other climbers: two teams of two Koreans, one of which had a Pakistani high-altitude porter named Rosi Ali. One of the Koreans was Park Young-Seok, a highly accomplished 8000-metre veteran who was well on his way to climbing all fourteen peaks of that height.

  We set out at first light from the high camp, around 4 a.m. I led and broke the trail for the first hundred metres, then Park took a turn for 30 metres, before handing over to Hinkes who led for 20. Ali and I then alternated the lead for a few hundred metres before stopping to wait for someone else to come up, but Hinkes, Park and the other Koreans all stopped about 30 metres below us and rested. So Ali did another stint, as did I, and again we stopped and waited. Again the others stopped below us. I called out to them to come up and do their share of the work, but they stood there mute. When Ali and I started moving again, they did too.

  This would be the pattern for the entire day. Ali and I pushed out the route and broke the trail in deep snow, and at every point the others refused point-blank to do any work, even when I yelled some artistic encouragement towards them. Without their help, the going was slow, and by 1 p.m. we’d only reached about 7700 metres. Ali and I were completely shattered and could barely put one step in front of the other. We’d been going for eight hours, and those other bastards refused to do their share.

  As we lay down to rest, a strong but brief blizzard blew in. We hunkered down for about 30 minutes until it passed, and as it eased the others finally climbed up to us. Ali and I shouted at them to take the lead, but they all averted their eyes. I then declared that I wouldn’t break another step, as did Ali, who was sobbing on his knees at that point, exhausted confusion on his face. The Koreans’ response was that if we wouldn’t break the trail, they’d go back down to Camp 4 and give up the summit. That suited me fine. Hinkes remained in the background and waited to see what would happen.

  Despite my exhaustion, I had a sudden rush of blood to the head, and in a fit of anger I grabbed Ali and told him we could make it to the top ourselves. If I had to do the work alone, so be it. I would summit this mountain anyway. Fuck the others!

  We jumped up and almost forced marched ourselves up the final slopes. Luckily for us, the face had turned from deep snow to mixed ground—rock and snow—and we were able to get a better purchase. At 5.50 p.m. we staggered onto the summit. Needless to say, the others all followed us to the top, at which point they hugged each other and celebrated like they’d actually earned it. Hinkes actually asked me to take photos of him, and then to hold the video camera while he narrated what a great climb it had been and how hard it was.

  In later years, I reflected on what motivated these people to come to a mountain like Nanga Parbat if they didn’t want to participate fully in the climb. Where was the fun in just following? I came to appreciate the difference between them and me. I climbed for the love of it and to challenge myself, to see if I could do it. It was their loss, I decided, because I had become part of that mountain. I felt it, knew it. But this was just the start of the drama on Nanga Parbat in 1998.

  *

  We’d arrived at the top shortly before dusk, so we needed to descend as quickly as possible. At 7 p.m. we started down, but I was so tired from the climb that I had to stop and rest every couple of steps. Before I knew it, Hinkes took off down the mountain, leaving me behind in the growing darkness. Both pairs of Koreans also passed me by, with Ali in tow. Good riddance, I thought. I’m better off without them. Alone and with only my headlamp for light at the top of this mighty and remote Himalayan massif, I started a slow plod down the slopes, following the tracks to safety.

  I took my time, because my headlamp was quite dim and there was absolutely no moon. I didn’t expect to see the others until I reached the tents but after just an hour, I caught up to them all again. They’d stopped at the point where the blizzard had hit us on the climb up, at around 7700 metres. Below that point, our tracks had been buried by fresh snow. They were unsure of the way and were also concerned about avalanche danger. Hinkes wanted me to lead. I didn’t say a word, just pushed past them and kept climbing down, followed immediately by Hinkes, and behind him, the Koreans. I was able to find the way down the mountain reasonably well, but was very slow as I’d burned all my reserves on the ascent. When we reached safer ground I told Hinkes to go ahead and he led until we were in the vicinity of Camp 4 around midnight.

  When we’d sited the camp the day before, we’d placed it below a serac, in the hope that it would provide some protection should an avalanche sweep down, as was common in that area. But that meant our tent was hidden from our view as we descended. All we could see were lots of seracs spread across the face, to both sides and below us.

  Hinkes lay in the snow and waited while I descended about 80 metres to look below some seracs that I could just make out in the gloom. Two of the Koreans and Ali arrived at Hinkes’ position, and in the stillness of the night I could hear them talking. From my position, further down the face, they appeared to disperse.

  It was about 1 a.m. when I got to the seracs below me, but the tents weren’t there. I looked up and could see headlamps spread out across the face, and it appeared the others were searching for the camp. Not long after, the lamps disappeared and I assumed they had bivouacked. I searched a little longer but without success. I called out a number of times but received no response. At 2 a.m., I decided to bivouac also. I climbed to a safe spot and hacked out a small ledge with my ice axe, then settled there to await the dawn. I was frozen, exhausted and dehydrated, and I knew that I was in for another brutal night, as I recorded in my journal:

  Was feeling exhausted but okay and figured it was only until first light at four a.m. Sat for a while then lay but too cold. Almost immediately all my warmth was sapped out. Knew I should take off my crampons to prevent heat drainage, and also had my down vest still on my harness which I could put on, but both were too much effort. Bad sign.

  Felt lucid, just exhausted. Probably should have put on vest. Thought I might lose a bit of heat putting it on. In the end, just sat there wriggling my toes and rocking back and forth. Luckily, I had carried my down mitts as spares and I put them on to save my fingers. Didn’t allow myself to sleep as I would have fallen off the ledge. Used my ice axe to anchor myself but not sufficient on that slope. Kept nodding off and jerking awake. Then would work my toes and fingers again and rub my shoulders to warm up.

  At this point the most amazing thing happened: a light appeared down in the valley, 3.5 kilometres below me. Our Base Camp cook had hung a small kerosene lantern on the outside of the cook tent. That dull glimmer seemed a tangible link to life, which gave me an incredible boost. It was like someone holding out a hand to me. I focused on that lantern for the next few hours.

  Of course, the time still dragged by. It was desperately freezing—around minus 30 degrees Celsius—and I was so exposed to the elements that I should have been severely frostbitten, but somehow I made it through largely unscathed.

  At 4.45 a.m., in the grey light of dawn, I climbed back up the slope to where I’d left Hinkes. To my surprise, he wasn’t there, nor could I see any of the other climbers. I looked around and found a trail in the snow that led off to some nearby seracs. I followed the trail, and there were the tents—just 100 metres from where I’d bivouacked. I was disgusted that the others had found the camp and not let me know.

  When I reached my tent and opened the door, there was Hinkes, in the tent, wrapped up in both of our sleeping bags. I doubted that the flushed look on his face was from overheating but I was still shaking almost uncontrollably from the bitterly cold bivouac and desperately tired, so I blundered into the tent, snatched back my sleeping bag and collapsed inside it, fully dressed.

  Waking at 8 a.m. for a few much needed drinks, I wallowed in the faint warmth of the sun as it hit the tent, grateful to be alive and uninjured. We were still at 7200 metres and needed to get off the moun
tain, so after packing our equipment, we descended through Camp 3 to Camp 2, arriving about 5 p.m. In the thicker air I actually felt quite good and managed to eat a big dinner, if only to lighten the load going down.

  The next day I reached Base Camp and was delighted to receive a congratulatory garland of flowers from our cook staff. Somehow they seemed to know there’d been underhandedness on the climb and they took extra care of me in basecamp. Sher Raman was more excited than I was, as our summit maintained his record of only ever having worked for successful expeditions.

  Hinkes went on to claim all fourteen of the 8000ers, but his assertion was discredited by the main historian of 8000-metre ascents, the American journalist Elizabeth Hawley. A resident of Kathmandu since the 1960s, Ms Hawley, as she is known to one and all, has for over fifty years chronicled expeditions to the Himalaya and, in particular, to the 8000ers. She is the world’s undisputed statistical expert on the big hills, and the authority on who has and who hasn’t actually climbed the peaks they claim to have ascended. Ms Hawley recorded Hinkes’ claim to have successfully summitted Cho Oyu, one of the fourteen 8000ers as ‘disputed’. This meant that when I completed the fourteen peaks, I would actually be the first member of the British Commonwealth to do so, an achievement that Hinkes had previously claimed.

  Hinkes’ own book about climbing the 8000ers was published in 2013. In it, he wrote that he’d made a solo expedition to Nanga Parbat in 1998 and was totally independent. I wasn’t mentioned in any part of his account. I wonder if he’s forgotten that I actually survived that bivouac? He also wrote that from where he lay in the snow a short distance from Camp 4, on his descent from the summit, he’d seen the tents but had waited for two hours until some others arrived and led the way across some dangerous ground. Sure wish he’d told me that at the time.

  My ascent—and survival—of this peak were particularly satisfying, as mine was the first Australian ascent of that mountain. It was my fourth ascent of an 8000-metre peak, and my second first Australian ascent. The perpetual rockfall between camps 1 and 2 had been extraordinarily dangerous. Indeed, a day after we returned to Base Camp, a Japanese climber was hit and killed on that very face. It was almost inevitable that someone would die there. I was just lucky that it hadn’t been me.