by Andrew Lock
Louise wasn’t a climber at all, and I had strong reservations about her coming along. Girlfriends could be a distraction when the going was good, but if the relationship became strained for any reason it could mean the end of an expedition. And that was unacceptable to me, because I was there to climb the mountain and finish what had become a 16-year project. Only the mountain was permitted to stop me. As it turned out, though, Lou was good fun and a great support to Neil. I was relieved and happy to eat humble pie.
On this expedition, we were climbing the ‘wrong’ side of the mountain. During the post-monsoon season the steep South Face is usually the better side because it is clad with sufficient snow to make it climbable, while the easier-angled North Face often has too much snow on it, making it more avalanche-prone. My own previous attempts on the North Face in the pre-monsoon had been stopped for that very reason. The post-monsoon is even worse. But the South Face is very tough and has killed some of the world’s best, so only the strongest teams should attempt it. Although Neil and I had climbed with each other previously, we hadn’t done anything really technical together, so we hadn’t yet developed a smooth and efficient climbing style. The South Face of Shishapangma wasn’t the place to develop that efficiency. With Kinga in the team, the problem was compounded.
There were other considerations too. Work demands at home prevented me from undertaking my usual acclimatisation trek before the expedition, meaning we’d have to acclimatise on the mountain. We’d need to make multiple trips up and down to achieve that. The South Face was too steep to do that safely—really, you had to be fully acclimatised before setting foot on it. Despite the avalanche danger, the North Face seemed a better choice this time.
Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, I obeyed my gut instinct. I had an inexplicable but clear uneasy feeling about the south side that year. Listening to that inner voice had saved my life on several earlier expeditions and I wasn’t about to ignore it this time. We would climb the North Face.
There were several other expeditions at Base Camp when we arrived in mid September. While they all planned to climb the usual route to the false Central Summit on the North Ridge, Neil and I wanted to attempt the route we’d planned to climb in 2007, before Neil had become sick. We knew that almost every expedition that had climbed to the Central Summit, including my own previous attempts, had judged the jagged ridge from there to the real summit to be beyond their ability. Our plan was to avoid the Central Summit altogether, by crossing the North Face’s lower slopes, away from the ridge that led to the Central Summit, and much lower than the Chinese traverse route on the upper slopes, and then to climb a direct line up the North Face, which would take us straight to the real summit. While this seemed an obvious route, it wasn’t that simple.
To get to that direct line, we would have to traverse the broad North Face, at a height of 7500 metres, which was both undercut by crevasses and threatened from above by massive ice cliffs that could collapse on to us at any moment. Above the ice cliffs was an enormous and steep slope, heavily laden with snow, which could also release without warning and avalanche down the face. This was the slope that I’d tried to cross on previous expeditions and which, on each occasion, had fractured and avalanched.
If we survived our traverse without being wiped off the mountain, we’d then have some steep climbing over terrain about which we knew nothing. At the very least, it would be double the distance of the normal summit day, forcing us to spend way more time at extreme altitude than we’d have preferred. Our chances of success were low. Our chances of survival were a lot less than if we were climbing the normal route. But we were there to succeed and if taking additional risk was necessary, then so be it. We just had to ensure the cost of that risk didn’t become too high.
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After our arrival at Base Camp, we spent a few days sorting our equipment and studying the mountain to get a feel for the weather patterns and the snow conditions. The 2009 post-monsoon season was a good one—dry and clear, with snow on the upper slopes that appeared, through our binoculars, to be consolidated. That meant the risk of avalanche was decreased. We were hopeful but not overconfident about our chances.
Over the next week Neil, Kinga and I hauled tents, ropes, food, fuel and all the other essential climbing equipment up the lower slopes of the mountain, establishing our Camp 1 at 6250 metres, then Camp 2 at 6750 metres. Our lack of acclimatisation hurt us and we suffered terrible altitude headaches each time we slept at a higher camp. But we were pushing ourselves up the mountain more quickly than recommended, so headaches such as these, while uncomfortable, were to be expected. Acclimatisation demands time and patience and we had neither, as we’d arrived relatively late in the season.
Most teams had commenced a month or so before ours. We had only three to four weeks, at most, to complete what would normally be a two-month expedition. Early October would see the arrival of such violent high-altitude winds that tents on the mountain would be shredded and unprepared climbers severely frostbitten. Or worse. As if to confirm our concerns, just a few days after our arrival the Spanish climber Juanito Oiarzabal, one of the most experienced high-altitude mountaineers in the world, left for home after a failed summit attempt.
‘You are too late,’ he told us. ‘The weather is finished.’
I disagreed. The conditions to that point had been extraordinarily good for the time of the year, with day after day of low wind and clear skies. Forecasts for the region indicated that we still had a few more good days. My own assessment of the local conditions agreed. But we knew the good weather couldn’t last. A strong storm front was due to hit the area on 3 October and it would bring hurricane-force winds, brutal cold and heavy snow. It would likely spell the end of the climbing season. We were keen to have a crack at the summit before the inevitable change.
Mountaineering is a high-risk game, and rarely is it simple. To succeed, or at least to survive, careful risk management is vital. We needed to start our summit attempt as late as possible to ensure the best acclimatisation but not so late as to be caught by the approaching gale. We therefore decided to begin our summit climb from Base Camp on 29 September. If the predicted bad weather came early, we’d abort the attempt and descend. If all went well, we’d reach the top on 2 October, one day before the storm front was forecast to hit. If possible, we’d continue our descent from the summit through Camp 3 and down to Camp 2 on the same day so that, if the blizzard trapped us there, we’d at least be at a safer altitude. After a night of rest at that camp, we could climb down to Base Camp in the storm, with every descending step bringing the benefit of warmer, more oxygen-saturated air. If we had to stay at Camp 3, then so be it, but descent from that altitude would be riskier in a storm.
Weather issues can generally be managed, even if it means abandoning a summit attempt to retreat to safety. The real threat was severe altitude sickness, as we would be beginning our summit push just thirteen days after reaching Base Camp. Normally, I would reel at the thought of going for the top of an 8000-metre mountain so quickly, particularly as my advice to others has always been to spend a minimum of one month above 4000 metres before attempting the summit of one of these giants. But the approaching jet stream forced us to go sooner than we’d have preferred. If any of us succumbed to the effects of the altitude, the others would abandon the climb to get the victim down to safety.
Overall, it was a good plan but not infallible. This was high-altitude mountaineering, after all. And so it began.
Having spent a week on the mountain, we rested for several days at Base Camp, sleeping, eating and fanatically studying our planned route and the climate. I was tense. The next few days could see the conclusion of my 16-year quest to climb all of the world’s highest mountains. The night before we began the climb, I started a frank discussion with Kinga about the need for us to better share the work of making the trail and carrying the equipment. It deteriorated into an argument and she withdrew from the summit attempt. That was not my intention
, but secretly I was relieved, as I felt our planned route would be too long and difficult for her.
The next morning Neil and I set out from Base Camp, and over three days we climbed the 2.5 vertical kilometres to Camp 3 at 7450 metres. Still feeling strong after setting up our camp, we climbed another hundred metres higher—one hour of climbing at that altitude—so that we could inspect our intended route across the mountain’s massive and highly avalanche-prone North Face. We would be climbing ‘off the beaten track’, and we knew that our best chance for success and survival was to climb fast and light and to be precise with our route finding. We would have to reach the summit by midday if we were to have enough time to race back down to the relative safety of Camp 3 by nightfall, and ideally, continue down to Camp 2.
As we gazed across the face, we spotted a gap in the line of distant ice cliffs that we would have to penetrate, a chink in the mountain’s armour that, just conceivably, might allow us access onto the upper slopes and an almost direct line to the summit ridge. It would be steep and highly exposed, but the snow appeared firm. We had great hopes that it would mean fast climbing and reduced avalanche danger.
That night, in our tiny summit tent, it was impossible to sleep. We were crammed together with all our equipment and had room only to lie head to foot. We nibbled biscuits and a little cheese and washed it down with lukewarm tea but had no real appetite. We were nauseated from the altitude and buzzing with nervousness and excitement for the following day’s climb.
Occasionally we dozed, but the night passed slowly. From time to time I poked my head out to look at the sky. It remained clear. At 2.30 a.m. I lit the stove and started the laborious process of melting snow for a hot drink and to fill our water bottles. Every movement coated us in a miserable frosting of frozen condensation as it fell from the tent walls.
We dressed in our clumsy, oversized boots, put new batteries into our headlamps and checked our equipment. I took a GPS reading of our location in case we had to return at night or in bad weather. The breeze was light and the temperature surprisingly warm, perhaps minus 10 degrees Celsius.
I debated how much clothing to wear. Too few layers and the extreme cold we might experience near the summit could kill me, but too many and the heat build-up could be debilitating enough to stop me from reaching the summit. That was unacceptable. It would be at least twelve hours of nonstop extreme physical exertion to get to the summit, I knew, so I opted for one less layer.
I would like to have set out for the summit around midnight, but we were attempting an unfamiliar route and didn’t know the terrain. We needed the light of dawn to see the way, so we departed at 4 a.m., just as the first hint of colour touched the eastern sky. We started across the mountain face but very quickly found ourselves in depressingly deep and unstable snow. It was impossible to progress, and after thirty minutes we reversed back to our tent.
We decided to try again from higher up the ridge, so we reascended to our viewing point of the evening before. Thankfully, the snow was firmer there. We moved towards an area of crevasses, the rope between us a lifeline. A few years earlier, a Russian had climbed into this area alone, never to be seen again. His memorial plaque now sits at Base Camp.
Once past the crevasses, we edged onto steeper terrain under the main face. The threat here was that the face might avalanche. If it did, we’d be swept down the mountain to certain death, buried beneath tonnes of ice. We climbed fast to get to the far side and out from underneath that hazard. After two hours we were across, and we found the vital weakness through the ice cliffs above, a zigzagging path that opened onto the uppermost slopes of the mountain.
We knew that our survival would depend on finding the same route back through the ice cliffs as we descended from the summit. I attempted to mark the point with my GPS, but the cliffs and the massive mountain face above us interfered with reception. After ten minutes I still couldn’t get a reading, so we placed a bamboo marker wand in the snow instead.
The snow was much softer than we’d hoped for, and the climb became an exhausting struggle against gravity. We alternated leads every hour, taking turns to kick, plough and thrash our way up the steep slope until we could go no further, collapsing face forward, gasping for air, dizzy with altitude and faint from fatigue. Hour after hour our trail breaking continued. The ridge above seemed to taunt us but never come closer as we marked our apparently endless trail with bamboo wands every hundred metres or so. We lost track of time and just climbed mechanically, without talk or food or rest, our bodies begging us to stop and end the agony.
We’d hoped to reach the summit by midday, but already it was mid afternoon and we still had hours of climbing ahead of us. At best, we’d have a night-time descent—and that was if we reached the summit at all. Worse, the wind was increasing. Soon our fear of an early deterioration in the weather was realised. Thin cloud whipped over the ridge above us and the sky started to whiten.
Christ, I thought. If this is tomorrow’s storm arrived early, we’re finished. It’ll blow us off the hill. Another failure on this bastard of a mountain. I willed the gods to hold back the storm and clawed more desperately at the snow slope above me. Don’t give up.
Finally, at 4 p.m. we reached the top of the face at 7950 metres, where we rolled exhaustedly onto the ridge. We treated ourselves to an energy gel and a sip of water—my first since leaving the tent twelve hours earlier. Lunch over, we marked the point with another bamboo wand and pressed on.
The broad ridge on which we were standing sharpened as it rose, but it led directly to the top. Howling wind and swirling cloud afforded only glimpses of that elusive summit, just 80 metres above us. We tiptoed our way up the ridge, the mighty South Face sweeping precipitously down into dark cloud on our left.
I’d chosen to climb the North Face this expedition because it allowed us to acclimatise safely, even though the South Face offered a better chance of success in the post-monsoon season. It had been a risky decision because the North Face was more avalanche-prone, but my inner voice had warned me off the South Face this time. In this deteriorating weather, the technical South Face would have been agonisingly slow to descend. Deathly slow. Once again, my inner voice had saved me and, on this occasion, Neil also.
Just 20 metres below the summit, we met an obstacle: a long cornice of windblown ice that stood 2 metres high and ran along the ridge for more than 50 metres. It overhung both sides of the mountain and blocked our path completely. We couldn’t climb onto it for fear of it collapsing—cornices are notoriously unstable. There was no way to traverse under it, either, on the vertical South Face. Our only chance was the North Face, which at that spot was almost as steep as the South Face, but at least it wasn’t vertical. Neil, who’d adeptly led the way up the ridge, hesitated at this final hazard, quite understandably. But after five expeditions trying for this summit, I wasn’t about to stop.
I pushed past, and crept delicately underneath the cornice. With each step the snow cracked and slid, with just the faintest whoosh, into the white void below. Neil followed carefully. If the whole face had slipped, we’d have gone with it. If the cornice above our heads had fractured, it would have buckled over and shoved us off the hill. Gently, now, gently, I told myself. We were so close.
I continued slowly, treading as lightly as I could. Then we were out from underneath it, and all that remained before us was the little summit block. I waited for Neil and we climbed onto it together. It was five minutes past five. The mountain dropped away from us on all sides. We’d done it!
What a relief. We knelt down against the wind and shook hands, then snapped a few quick photos and a little video. I wanted a photo of the ridge back to the Central Summit, but the cloud allowed only glimpses, so I took a GPS reading as well. Party over, we started down.
With this summit, I knew that I’d finished my 8000er project. I’d become one of the few people on Earth—just over a dozen—to have climbed each of the fourteen highest peaks in the world. But that was a distant
thought and seemed barely relevant at the time. Neil and I were on the summit of a remote 8000-metre mountain. We had a long battle ahead of us to get back to our tent that night. As far as I knew, we were the only people on the hill. All other climbers were at Base Camp, which was days away. I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted by egotistical self-congratulations. That could wait. The job was only half-done. With the summit under our belts, the only thing on my mind was survival.
The wind was strong and cold, and the daylight had started to fade. We had to get down fast. No matter what, we knew that we were going to be caught by darkness; it was just a matter of where. Being stuck high on a mountain in good weather was serious enough, but this wasn’t good weather. It could have been the start of the next day’s predicted blizzard. If we could find that zigzagging path back through the ice cliffs at the bottom of the face, we’d still have a chance of getting back to the tent that night by the light of our headlamps. If not, we’d be trapped above the cliffs without equipment.
In the cloud and the evening gloom, we climbed quickly but delicately down the ridge to the bamboo wand that indicated where we should drop back onto the face. Here the deep snow was forgiving. I knew that I could descend reasonably safely, so I plunged down as quickly as possible. The race was on.
I shoved my way down through the thigh-deep snow, the resistance tiring but manageable. The windblown snow had buried our tracks, and the increasing murkiness made it difficult to identify the mountain’s features. Soon I couldn’t see which way to go. The bamboo markers we’d placed throughout the climb should have been visible against the white background. We switched on our headlamps but the driving snow reflected the light back, blinding us.
Unlike on Kanchenjunga, where I’d been caught on the descent without any navigational markers, this time I was prepared. If we couldn’t see the wands, we still had my GPS. I remembered having used it at the gap in the seracs on the climb up, earlier that day, so I was confident that it would show us the way home. For some reason, though, the GPS pointed sideways, across the face. I couldn’t understand it. To get us through the seracs, it should have been pointing towards them.