Summit 8000

by Andrew Lock

  The disappointing aspect of this expedition was that I’d once again found myself with a climber whom I didn’t really know, and whose company I really didn’t enjoy. It didn’t put me off climbing any more than the death of the Japanese climber had, but it would have been nice to have shared the experience with a mate, someone who valued the spirituality and sanctity of the big hills. The camaraderie of sharing and overcoming significant challenges with a friend is incredibly powerful. The mountains were my escape from jerks. I certainly didn’t go there to be partnered with them. I’d rather climb solo than team up with someone whose motivation and ethics are diametrically opposed to mine.

  The frustration for me was that there simply weren’t any Australian mountaineers who wanted to climb either as regularly as I did, or on the tougher 8000ers such as Nanga Parbat. I’d become the most active 8000-metre climber in the country, despite not yet having climbed Mount Everest. On the plus side, I’d met one of the Himalayan greats in Kurt Diemberger, and he’d invited me to climb with him in Europe. I felt I was coming of age as a high-altitude mountaineer.

  *

  After returning home from Pakistan, I took up the offer to spend seven months on Macquarie Island in the Subantarctic. I worked as a field training officer, using my alpine skills to teach the research scientists and support staff how to stay alive in that harsh and wild environment. I was still on leave without pay from the police force, but ultimately I would never return to work with them, an agreement that I believe suited us both.

  I came home from Antarctica in April 1999 and was immediately keen to make a fresh expedition to the Himalaya. I’d missed the start of the pre-monsoon climbing season in Nepal so decided to head back to Pakistan. I’d climbed three of the five 8000ers in Pakistan and I wanted to finish them off, particularly as the remaining two peaks—Gasherbrum 1 and Gasherbrum 2—were right beside each other.

  Once again, my agent in Pakistan found an expedition that was willing to have an outsider on its permit, so I joined a Latin group comprising Brazilian Waldemar Niclevicz, Italians Abele Blanc and Christian Kuntner, and Pepe Garcés from Spain. They were a highly experienced team. Blanc and Kuntner had previously summitted seven 8000ers each, while Niclevicz and Garcés had three apiece. My agent assured me that they were a great bunch of people, so I took a chance and accepted the invitation. Waldemar was heavily sponsored and had hired Abele to guide him on G1 and G2. If all went well, they hoped to move up the glacier and finish off with an ascent of K2. It was a very ambitious plan. I had no desire to climb K2 again, so I joined the team only for the first two hills.

  While resting in our hotel in Skardu, after another death-defying journey up the Karakorum Highway, the hotel owner gave me a letter that had been posted from Japan. It asked that expeditions going to Gasherbrum 1 look out for any sign of four Japanese climbers who’d disappeared there without trace the year before. Clearly, G1 would not be a pushover.

  The Gasherbrum group of mountains lies in the Karakorum ranges immediately beside Broad Peak and within sight of K2, at the head of the Baltoro Glacier on the border of Gilgit–Baltistan province, Pakistan, and Xinjiang, China. They are also just a few kilometres from Pakistan’s disputed border with India. There are six peaks in the group, but only G1 and G2 rise above 8000 metres. At 8068 metres’ elevation, Gasherbrum 1 is the eleventh highest peak in the world and was first summitted by an American team in 1958. Gasherbrum 2, being the thirteenth highest at 8035 metres, saw its first ascent in 1956, by Austrians Fritz Moravec, Josef Larch and Hans Willenpart. All the peaks except Gasherbrum 1 are easily sighted from the Baltoro Glacier, up which you need to trek in order to access them. For this reason G1 is often referred to as Hidden Peak.

  Our trek to the mountains followed the same route as the one for K2, past isolated villages amid barren hills, then onto the Baltoro Glacier and past the sheer rock spires of the Cathedral, Trango Towers and Lobsang Spire. At many points the track is forced onto the sunbaked cliffs above by the wild torrent of the Shigas River. Bereft of vegetation, the rock is so sheer that in many places, logs and branches have been jammed into small fizzures, providing a platform for yet more branches and then flat rocks. All of these pile up to form a teetering pathway that constantly threatens to tip porters and climbers alike into the icy river below. Numerous tributaries flow into the river from side glaciers and we were frequently obliged to wade through waist-deep water that was barely above freezing or to pick our way over newly erected but highly suspect bamboo bridges. At least they were better than the flying foxes they had replaced!

  A Korean expedition joined us at the campsite of Paiju. Actually, they overwhelmed us, as its twenty-five members were accompanied by 340 porters! Rather than take the usual rest day there, we pushed on for a kilometre to get away from the masses.

  Four days later, Concordia, the wide-open expanse surrounded by mighty peaks where the head of the Baltoro intersects with the Godwin-Austen Glacier, became the site for our penultimate camp before we reached Base Camp. With K2 and Broad Peak just up the glacier to the left, Concordia sits under the shadow of one of the most beautiful mountains in the region, Gasherbrum 4. Just shy of 8000 metres, it has the classic pyramid shape of the perfect mountain.

  I was reminded of a funny story that Voytek Kurtyka, the outstanding Polish mountaineer from my 1995 Mazeno Ridge expedition, told me about his own climb on Gasherbrum 4. He and his climbing partner had trekked along the same path that we’d just taken. One of their porters had been tasked with carrying the eggs for the whole expedition. Hundreds of eggs were stacked in layers of twenty, within a rough metal frame, which the porter carried on his back. At every stop, Voytek rushed over to the porter to help him set down his load, fearful of losing the lot, while all the time berating the unfortunate porter: ‘Careful, careful, be gentle!’ When they finally reached the base camp of Gasherbrum 4, Voytek again rushed over to the porter as he gently took off his load. No doubt both the porter and Voytek were equally glad that the trip was over, and the porter walked away. Voytek then picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, in the process knocking the egg load over and breaking every single one.

  I came close to similar disaster while walking towards Base Camp. Recent snow had disguised the safe route over the glacier, and as I took a step forward I suddenly found myself falling through the snow. I immediately flung my arms out to the sides. Together with my bulky backpack, they stopped me at chest level. I’d punched through a snow bridge over a crevasse. After using my ice axe to pull myself out, I slid across the snow to firmer ground. When I widened the hole so it was clear to the group following me, I saw that it descended more than 15 metres.

  I survived the trek, as did our eggs and some other delicacies. These Latin types eat well and my muesli bars paled in comparison to their cryovacked pork knuckles, some seriously stinky cheese and even fresh coffee. It became an afternoon ritual to gather in the dining tent while one of the coffee aficionados used an empty oxygen bottle to pound what looked like a kilogram of coffee into the tiny coffee basket, then brewed it over the gas stove, producing such a thick syrup that just a single centimetre in the bottom of my cup would make me buzz around the camp until dinner, looking for things to fix. Perhaps it was their cunning way of ensuring that our equipment was maintained.

  When not drinking coffee or hand sewing torn tents faster than a Singer, I found it an absolute delight to walk about the South Gasherbrum Glacier. We were surrounded by the six Gasherbrum peaks and across the glacier sat the Golden Throne, which earned its title in the evening glow of sunset. Next to it was Chogolisa, which had claimed the life of Herman Buhl, the legendary alpine master who’d soloed the first ascent of Nanga Parbat in 1953, backing that up with the first ascent of Broad Peak just a couple of weeks before his death on this peak in 1957. Perhaps that tragic outcome added to the surreal but savage beauty of these mighty peaks. Despite the perpetual threat, which simmered just below their austere surfaces, occasionally these gra
nd and majestic monoliths would lift their veils briefly and treat the lucky few to tantalising glimpses of their beauty. Our cameras clicked like machine guns.

  As did actual machine guns, it turned out.

  Our Base Camp was just a few kilometres from Conway Saddle, the highest permanently occupied outpost in the world. Every few weeks, an unlucky contingent of Pakistani soldiers dutifully trudged up the Baltoro Glacier to occupy this tiny frozen garrison, from which they could look down upon the Siachen Glacier in India, the scene of many years of bloody conflict between the two countries. So brilliant were the strategists in this useless battle of egos that over 2000 young men, probably quite a few women and certainly a lot of unlucky donkeys have perished in the contest for this strategically worthless lump of ice. The majority died from the inhospitable environment, rather than actual fighting, yet we frequently listened to their best efforts to add to those statistics. Big guns sent shells across to each side and I just hoped their aim was better than that of their ibex-hunting compatriots at Nanga Parbat.

  I preferred a more peaceful contest: my Base-Camp ritual of getting together with the liaison officers to listen on our little radios to the cricket World Cup. None of the Koreans, Americans or Latins who shared our base camp was even vaguely interested, but for me it was a great way to establish a bond with the LOs. I enjoyed many lively discussions about famous players, past competitions and who’d win this one. Needless to say, they were quite certain that Pakistan would triumph. And throughout the tournament it seemed likely that they’d be right.

  Cricket on the subcontinent is second only in importance to religion—and sometimes that order is reversed. Every patch of grass, dirt or bitumen that you walk past in the cities has teams of ragged urchins playing the game with enormous enthusiasm. Whenever I joined them, having declared myself an Australian, the tempo of the game would pick up even further.

  One night at base camp, the BBC broadcast the final of the World Cup, with Pakistan and Australia as adversaries. Pakistan was the favourite and Australia the underdog, so the LOs were showing plenty of bravado, teasing me about the whipping Australia was about to endure. As the match progressed, however, the situation reversed and the tent went quiet. Shortly before the end of the match, I retired to my sleeping tent to hear the Australian victory in private, and I didn’t see the LOs for a couple of days. When they finally emerged from their tents, there was talk of prosecution and incarceration of their treacherous cricket team. They were really dispirited and felt their nation had been shamed.

  I often took a cricket bat to base camps on expeditions in Pakistan, in the hope of having a game with some of the locals. It seemed that the only way to break the LOs’ mood was to replay the match: the Pakistani LOs versus the Rest of the World. I conscripted a team of disinterested climbers from the four corners of Base Camp and the match began. Our LOs were talented to a man, and within a short time they’d destroyed the international team. Relations were revived and their honour restored. The climbs could continue.

  *

  Initially, I climbed with Christian, as he was also ‘extra’ on the team. He was very competent and extremely fit and I enjoyed climbing with someone who was prepared to share the work and the risks. Waldemar, Abele and Pepe climbed as a team of three, enhanced by the assistance of two high-altitude climbing porters. Without the luxury of such assistance, Christian and I carried all our own equipment and several hundreds of metres of rope to contribute to the work of fixing a safe line up the mountain.

  This was probably the hottest expedition I’d ever been on. Despite the altitude and massive mountain peaks all around, the sun blazed down, making the snow treacherously soft, triggering avalanches and opening hundreds of crevasses. To beat the heat we often started climbing at 1 or 2 a.m., so that we could reach our destination, usually a higher camp, by mid morning. That same strong sunlight, however, often provided the most extraordinary sunrises and sunsets. Brilliant pink, purple, gold and blue hues converted harsh and icy monoliths into artistic masterpieces, almost too outlandishly colourful to be real.

  Being right beside each other, Gasherbrum 1 and 2 share both Base Camp and Camp 1. We had intended to climb Gasherbrum 2 first, using the easier peak to acclimatise before taking on the tougher challenge of Gasherbrum 1, but, as we were opening up the route on the mountain, several commercial expeditions arrived at Base Camp and set about occupying some of the lower camps. We had no desire to battle with inexperienced climbers or have our adventure overwhelmed by teams of tents, so we switched our attention to Gasherbrum 1.

  From Base Camp to Camp 1, and then on to Camp 2, the challenge was simply to find a route through the crevasse-ridden glacier. Once above Camp 2, we moved on to a steep face of ice and rock. We overcame the technical difficulties pretty easily, but as we climbed towards our intended Camp 3 location, at 7200 metres, the weather deteriorated and we were forced to drop our loads on a tiny ledge at 7000 metres. Waldemar and Pepe descended straight away, but by the time they were off the rope the storm was on us, so Abele and I set up the tent and took shelter for the night. Christian also stayed there.

  When the storm eased the next morning, Abele and Christian decided to make a summit push, which was a bit of a surprise to me as the weather was still unsettled and our acclimatisation was barely sufficient. I wasn’t keen to go for the summit so soon in the expedition and in questionable weather conditions. When they set off in the wee hours of the morning, I climbed a little way to recce the route for later and then returned. In the morning light I descended from Camp 3 all the way to Base Camp, having left in the tent my down suit, warm overboots and high-altitude mittens for my summit attempt. Abele and Christian reached the summit that day and descended to Base Camp over the next couple of days.

  On 8 July the weather indicated a fine spell of just two days. That was not enough time to climb Gasherbrum 1, I knew, but mountaineering demands flexibility. Sticking doggedly to your original plan is a great way to fail. Or die. Pepe and I felt that the patch of good weather would be sufficient for us to climb the much easier mountain, Gasherbrum 2, even though it would be difficult because much of our climbing equipment and clothing was now at the higher camp on Gasherbrum 1. We decided we could make do with some spare clothing but had to climb as fast as possible, leap-frogging camps in order to expose ourselves to the extreme cold for as little time as possible.

  We set off immediately and climbed up to Camp 1, where we stopped for a few hours to rehydrate before continuing through Camp 2 to Camp 3, where we again stopped for a few hours in the evening. Setting off again at midnight, we climbed straight through Camp 4 at 7300 metres and pushed on for the summit.

  Not surprisingly, after such a fast ascent of more than two and a half vertical kilometres, Pepe was a bit slow, but I couldn’t wait for him as I was absolutely freezing. I was climbing in only lightweight fleece pants with a wind shell over the top, my base-camp down jacket, which was about half the warmth of my climbing suit, basic boots, and gloves with plastic bags over them to block the wind. It was still bloody freezing, and I had to stop every ten minutes and swing my arms and legs wildly to try and force some blood into my extremities.

  Despite the cold, though, I thoroughly enjoyed the day. The mountain was well within my abilities and I felt strong and in control. With Pepe lagging behind, I was essentially on my own and I loved that. I was unencumbered by responsibilities to others. I was free to enjoy the climbing purely for the fun of it. I established a rhythm that let me climb as hard as I could without actually exhausting myself, a feeling that I’d come to crave. I was in the zone and, as the day dawned, I saw that nearby peaks were dropping well below me.

  I climbed so fast that I caught up with British climber David Hamilton, who’d left his high camp some hours before I passed through it. I overtook him and kept going for the summit ridge, making good height as the horizon began to lighten. Once I was on the ridge I had to slow down due to deep snow, but I pushed on and eventually reach
ed the top at 8.40 a.m. on 9 July. I waited up there for about half an hour until David arrived, and we took a few photographs before descending.

  On the way down I passed Pepe, who was still coming up, and promised to wait for him at Camp 3 while he went to the summit. We then descended together all the way to Base Camp. The entire climb from Base Camp and back had taken us just three days, a pretty quick ascent of an 8000-metre peak.

  We spent the next few days resting and socialising at Base Camp. At one point I visited the American commercial expedition that was climbing on Gasherbrum 2. Its leader, Christine Boskoff, was the new owner of Mountain Madness, an expedition guiding company that had been founded by Scott Fisher, who’d died in the big disaster on Everest three years before. Christine was good fun and happy to share her bourbon with a stray Aussie. She was a keen climber and was hoping to climb other 8000ers after Gasherbrum 2. Our paths would cross again.

  One afternoon, as I lay dozing in my base-camp tent, I heard an ominous rumble from the other side of the glacier. It didn’t sound like the usual afternoon exchange of pleasantries and artillery fire between our hosts, so I poked my head out of the tent. A massive avalanche was thundering down the Golden Throne. Although it was a kilometre or two away, I knew it was big enough to cause a strong wind blast.

  I yelled a warning and zipped up my tent door, but even before I finished I was hit by an enormous wind gust that flattened my tent and knocked me sideways. As I lay there holding onto the sides of the tent, looking out through the partially open door, I saw the blast sweep through base camp like a tornado, flattening tents and blowing clothes into the air as it went. Much to my amusement, a toilet tent was ripped from its anchors and flung across the glacier, its startled occupant getting more than a little wind chill while clutching at his trousers.