Summit 8000

by Andrew Lock

  The early 1980s saw the first concerted effort by individual climbers to reach the summits of all of the 8000ers. The leader of that charge was the indomitable Reinhold Messner, a truly innovative and daring climber from the Tyrol in Europe. Messner had been the first to climb Everest solo and, with Austrian Peter Habeler, the first to climb it without oxygen. Messner’s goal was threatened, however, by a supremely tough Polish climber, Jerzy Kukuczka, who started the chase several years later but attacked the peaks in rapid succession and, on all but Lhotse, climbed either a new route or in winter. The race culminated with Messner claiming his fourteenth summit in 1986, while Kukuczka claimed his just a few months later.

  A blog site called Everest Book Report, referring to the race by these extraordinary climbers, states that, ‘if Messner broke down the psychological barriers of 8000 metre climbing, then Kukuczka was the man to break down the physical ones’. That sounds about right to me. Tragically, when Kukucka returned to Lhotse in 1989 to climb it by a new route, he was killed in a fall when his rope broke.

  While Messner and Kukuczka were the first to climb ‘the fourteen’ and their race was well publicised, there were other regular climbers in that era and the years following who claimed the Holy Grail. Even so, by the time I’d climbed Everest, only half a dozen of the world’s very best climbers had achieved it. I certainly didn’t consider myself to be in their league, but I started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, a boy from the suburbs of Sydney really could do it. To me, the end of one adventure has always been the starting point for the next one, and this would certainly be a major challenge. The more I thought about it, the more excited I was by the idea. And apart from a few risks like frostbite, death, bankruptcy and permanent bachelorhood, I couldn’t come up with any reason not to try. I decided to go for it. I called the project Summit 8000.

  An important aspect of this project, though, was that it should be fun. While I lived for the challenge of climbing these mountains, I wanted the rest of the project to be as much fun as possible. No doubt, I’d have some very tough experiences and meet some unsavoury characters along the way, but as far as possible I’d seek to climb with friends—or, at the very least, with mountaineers who shared my passion for the spirit of the adventure.

  Another major decision was also forced on me at this time. I’d used up all possible sources of leave from the police force and had to either return to work or resign. My sense of betrayal at the treatment I’d received in the force had not diminished. Although I’d coped with the inevitable trauma of policing for twenty years, I’d been irreparably wounded by the organisation and I could not find it in myself to forgive. I realised I could not work there again, and so I was discharged.

  *

  I started making plans to climb Mount Manaslu in Nepal in the post-monsoon season of 2001. It is the world’s eighth-highest mountain, standing at 8156 metres tall, and it had never been climbed by an Australian. Manaslu sits wholly within Nepal, to the north of the historic fortress town of Gorkha, from where the last kings of Nepal launched their conquest of the country during the eighteenth century. Its name is derived from the Sanskrit word Manasa, meaning ‘Mountain of the Spirit’. The valleys that lead up to the mountain are inhabited by snow leopards, red pandas and the Tamang people, who are the original horse traders of Nepal.

  Manaslu’s first ascent was the goal of four unsuccessful Japanese expeditions between 1950 and 1955. The summit was finally achieved in May 1956. Like the other 8000ers, the mountain has taken a lethal toll on those who have sought to know her summit. In 1972, fifteen members of a Korean expedition were killed when an avalanche buried their camp. In 2012, eleven climbers were killed by an avalanche that swept through Camp 3, where numerous teams were sleeping. In addition, Manaslu is infamous for its terrible storms, particularly on the summit plateau, where many climbers have perished while trying to return to their High Camp after reaching the top. Even the famous Italian climber Reinhold Messner lost two climbing partners when they became lost in a high-altitude whiteout.

  In May 2001, as I was making plans to climb Manaslu in September/October of that year, I was invited to join an Australian expedition to the same mountain that was scheduled for the pre-monsoon season of 2002. I knew, or knew of, all the proposed members of the team, and since I hadn’t yet firmed up my own expedition for 2001, I agreed to join them. I cancelled my plans and had a year off from the 8000ers. I travelled to South America, where I guided a few treks and climbs and enjoyed the hospitality of the locals. Great steaks, fabulous wine, pretty girls. Very pretty girls.

  I was also approached to work with a small adventure-tourism company that was hoping to expand its operations around the world. Unfortunately, as I found out later, it would be in direct competition with the business of one of the other members of the proposed 2002 Manaslu expedition. At the very first planning meeting for the 2002 expedition, held at the Oaks Hotel in Neutral Bay, Sydney, that person made it clear to me that he took the business issue as a personal attack. I was left with no doubt that it would create significant animosity during the climb. Expeditions can be tense enough without pre-existing troubles, so I immediately withdrew from the team. By then, though, it was too late for me to revive my own expedition to Manaslu in 2001 and it seemed that I’d missed my chance to be the first Australian to ascend it.

  In February 2002, with the pre-monsoon climbing season fast approaching, I was sitting at home feeling rather sorry for myself when Alex, my old mate from Everest 1993, called me up. As we chatted, he asked what my climbing plans were, so I told him about the Manaslu debacle. Alex knew Manaslu well, as he’d been a member of a 1984 Yugoslavian expedition that had achieved a new route up the mountain’s towering South Face to the plateau at 7500 metres. Bad weather had prevented them from completing the final few hundred metres to the summit, so he still had unfinished business there. In his inimitable way, he said, ‘Ah, Andrew, mate, this is bullshit, mate. I’ll go with you. Can you organise?’

  I could and I did. Within a few short weeks we were at Sydney airport, preparing to board a plane to Kathmandu.

  *

  After years of climbing, I’d established a fairly large store of equipment in Kathmandu, which I’d either leave at a hotel or with a friend so I could use it again the next time I was there. This helped me avoid hefty excess-baggage costs on flights to and from Nepal. My luggage from Australia usually comprised a little special food for high altitude, some Vegemite, cheese and replacement equipment for whatever I’d destroyed on the previous trip. This expedition, however, was different—it had the ‘Alex’ element. I knew how much he loved his food and drink, so I wasn’t surprised when he suggested that we bring a few ‘essential’ items. Knowing the horrendous cost of excess baggage, I advised him to keep it to a bare minimum.

  ‘Andrew, don’t worry, mate,’ he replied. ‘Just the basics, mate.’

  When we met at the airport and pooled our gear, I was stunned to see that we were 200 kilograms overweight! Most of that was cured meat and tins of sheep’s cheese, not to mention Alex’s father’s special homemade spirit—‘Macedonian firewater’, as I called it. With some frantic repacking, and Alex’s roguish charm working overtime on the lady at the check-in counter, we managed to get away with being charged for only 20 extra kilograms. Short in stature but larger than life, Alex has a gregarious nature that wins the heart of anyone who meets him.

  Part of our repacking, though, involved stuffing as much meat, cheese and alcohol as we could into our carry-on luggage. By the time we’d finished, they must have weighed 25 kilograms apiece. In the time-honoured tradition of climbers attempting to sneak massively overweight carry-on baggage onto the plane, we sauntered through the departure lounge as lightly as we could, trying to mask the pain caused by the loads we were carrying. We headed down the ramp towards the plane and I was just starting to think we’d got away with it, when a voice called out, ‘Excuse me, sir …’

  Alex had been pinged, possibly becaus
e the daypack he was carrying was starting to burst its seams, or perhaps the bewitched girl at the check-in counter had snapped out of her Alex crush and advised the attendants to look out for a stocky man with a daypack of similar dimensions. The attendant asked Alex what was in the pack.

  ‘Camera gear, mate,’ Alex replied without a second’s hesitation.

  The attendant politely asked if he might just check the camera gear, so Alex unshouldered his pack, which crashed to the floor with such force that the tunnel bounced a little. As he started to unload the contents, a pile of food and alcohol suitable for a small corner store grew, much to the amusement of our fellow passengers—and to the amazement of the attendant. With each contribution to the pile, the attendant shook his head and muttered, ‘Camera gear, huh?’

  ‘Yes, mate,’ Alex replied each time.

  When Alex finally reached the bottom of his pack, by which time the path to the plane was all but blocked by a small delicatessen, he produced a tiny disposable plastic camera, worth about $10. With the greatest sincerity, he patted the nearly hysterical attendant on the shoulder and said, ‘See, mate, I told you it was camera gear!’

  Luckily for us, the plane was ready to depart. It would have been more expensive to argue about the cost of the excess than to simply let us go. With a look of stunned disbelief, the attendant offered some no doubt wise counsel and told Alex to repack and board the plane. I confess that I felt a little sorry for the official—he’d just been ‘Alex’d’.

  *

  Joining us for the trek to base camp were two of Alex’s friends from Macedonia, Alexander and Stoly. They weren’t serious climbers but were keen to experience the Himalaya with their expat mate. The walk to Manaslu is one of the most scenic in the Himalaya, but at the time it was seriously affected by the Maoist insurgency against the Nepali monarchy. The conflict had escalated significantly since 2001, with armed attacks against police and military garrisons throughout Nepal. All outposts had been abandoned in the isolated Manaslu region as they were small and easily overrun by the Maoists, who were ruthless in their treatment of prisoners. As a result, very few trekkers ventured there.

  Other institutions were closed too. Our plan to change our dollars into rupees at a bank in one of the small towns en route to Base Camp, so we could pay our porters, was thwarted. The bank had closed four months earlier, in order to prevent the Maoists from robbing it. The Nepalese are nothing if not entrepreneurial, though, and we found a pharmacist who was prepared to make the exchange at a surprisingly reasonable rate.

  We passed the entire 10-day trek along the old salt-trading route between Nepal and Tibet without seeing another foreigner, but we did see firsthand the barbarity of the civil war. As we walked through one village, we came across a particularly brutal scene: a local village mayor had been beheaded by the Maoists, simply because he was a figure of authority. Not only had they murdered him in cold blood, they had also ordered the villagers not to move his body from the path where it lay, so that all who passed would see it.

  At the last village before we reached the mountain, Sama Goan, we paid off our lowland porters and engaged some local men to carry our gear up to the Base Camp of the mountain. It was a tough trek and would involve pushing through deep snow, which the lowland porters were not equipped for. It was also the policy of the villagers at Sama Goan to deny other porters permission to carry loads to Manaslu’s Base Camp. There were no laws as such, but there would have been violence if we’d tried to use our lowland porters all the way. In any case, we were happy to share the employment among different villages.

  We took a couple of rest days in Sama Goan to acclimatise and repack our loads before heading up to the mountain. This also gave us time to explore the village and its surrounds, which I was keen to do. In centuries past, Sama Goan was a part of Tibet, but in an effort to crack down on illegal trade between the two countries, Nepal had annexed this valley. The locals had retained their traditional customs, though, so the village provided us with a wonderful insight into Tibetan life before the Chinese occupation. Inside their houses, the villagers maintained a strict hierarchy around the fireplace, with the matriarch of the household in prime position, and the remaining members positioned according to their place in the family.

  We ate with the family in whose house we stayed. Dhal baht was the main meal, but I couldn’t stomach the accompanying beverage. Each day the lady of the house prepared traditional yak-butter tea—literally, tea with butter in it—in a long wooden cylinder, stained dark with age, smoke and rancid butter. Living with the family in such close quarters was enlightening and very personal, and I felt very blessed by the experience.

  Ours was the first expedition into Manaslu that season, and the route from Sama Goan to base camp was still buried in snow. We decided to do a reconnaissance the next day, before taking all the equipment up with our porters. Wary of the avalanches that had thundered throughout the night, we plugged our way up a steep track. After some hours, and nearing the top of the hill, we had to cross a shallow gully. Alex and I both recognised the gully as an obvious chute for avalanches and yelled back at the others not to dawdle, just in case.

  Sure enough, there was an almighty roar from above us, followed by an avalanche crashing down. Without the need for words, Alex and I instinctively darted forward a hundred metres to escape the fall zone, then looked behind. To our horror, we saw that both Alexander and Stoly were in the path of the avalanche. This was not a massive powder avalanche, such as you see in Europe, but an avalanche caused by the collapse of a major ice cliff. It was more like a river of ice blocks, and most definitely fatal.

  The two Macedonians had just seconds to react. Although neither had any rock-climbing experience to speak of, they threw themselves at the cliff beside them and scampered up the vertical rock face as if it was a set of stairs. The river of ice crashed down and roared past for another thirty seconds, before slowing and finally coming to rest. Thousands of tonnes of ice had poured down.

  Shaken and well stirred, Alexander and Stoly scrambled down the backside of the cliff because they couldn’t down-climb what they’d just ascended. In fact, none of us was able to climb that cliff, as it was a near-blank vertical wall. Fear is a great motivator, apparently.

  After identifying the rest of the route to Base Camp, we returned to the village. We’d have liked to have started the trek again the next day with a full team of porters but were concerned about further avalanches, having set off several more on our return to the village, so we decided to wait to let them clear from our route. It was a wise decision. The next afternoon we heard an enormous avalanche near the base of Manaslu, and shortly afterwards the Buri Gandaki River, which passed Sama Goan, became a flooding torrent. A huge ice cliff, which had overhung a great glacial lake that fed the river, had collapsed into the lake, causing it to flood its banks.

  We’d likely escaped death had we set off on the route, but all the bridges over the river had been washed away, and we were told that we might be stuck in Sama Goan for a couple of weeks until a new bridge could be built. We were dismayed at that prospect, but there was little we could do. The next morning, however, we awoke to find that the ice-cliff collapse had been so enormous that it had blasted all the water out of the lake. Once the flood had passed, the river dried up, so we simply walked across the dry riverbed and trekked up to Base Camp. We could only imagine how many thousands of tonnes that ice cliff must have weighed. Once we were at the mountain, Alexander and Stoly trekked out, leaving just Alex, me, our base-camp cook and a local villager as a base-camp assistant. We had the whole mountain to ourselves.

  Manaslu’s reputation as one of the most beautiful peaks in the Himalaya was well deserved. Its two pointed peaks, reminiscent of a bull’s horns, soared into the clouds above. Climbing alone with Alex on this striking mountain was a real joy, as was having such an extraordinary wilderness to ourselves. Quite deliberately, we’d not brought a map, so we were obliged to find a way up the mountain
using our alpine skills and experience. It was a great adventure.

  After two weeks we’d forced a route up the glacier, around crevasses and through some big ice cliffs to establish Camp 1 at 5300 metres and Camp 2 at 6800 metres, despite the regular snowfalls that buried our tracks. It was sustained work, with just the two of us having to kick new steps each time we carried a load. Alex had been suffering considerable back pain throughout the climb and at this point decided that he was unable to continue—he was later diagnosed as having kidney stones. I was willing to carry on but knew it would be extremely challenging trying to open the route up the steep ice cliffs to Camp 3 on my own.

  Just as Alex had to withdraw, two Norwegian brothers turned up at the mountain with their own expedition. Sven and Jon Gangdal, both of whom had completed a number of Himalayan expeditions over the years, were climbing with two support Sherpas, Dawa Tshering and Kili, and they invited me to climb with them. I preferred to climb alone, but we shared much of the work of opening up the route to Camp 3 and fixing ropes where they were needed. Several more expeditions also arrived at the mountain over the next couple of weeks, although the other Australian expedition, from which I’d withdrawn at the first planning meeting, was not one of them.

  While I continued the climb, Alex waited at Base Camp. He refused to leave, having committed to wait until I was finished. This was really magnanimous of him because he was in serious pain. Luckily, all the excess baggage we’d brought with us was able to sustain him, and he spent several weeks working his way through the portable delicatessen, repeating his own special mantra: ‘Eat, drink, relax.’ I’d have loved to have done that too, but I wanted this summit and needed to keep pushing hard on the mountain.