by Sandy Allan
It was a sad moment, but a realistic decision. Encouraging words from the rest of us would have made no difference. We decided to descend slightly as this seemed an easier line to the summit, but climbing down proved very awkward and much more technical than I thought it would, and more time-consuming. At times we’d have to torque our ice axes into cracks, or hook them over spikes and lower ourselves down steep overhanging walls while the wind blew updrafts of loose snow into our faces. We balanced our crampons on tiny ledges in the rock. The climbing was all determined and rather ungraceful. In a few places it was easier just to let ourselves drop.
After descending like this for a couple of hundred metres, we came to a place where it seemed that Cathy and Nuru could traverse back on easier snow ramps, with relative ease, to our bivvy at 7,160 metres. We, aiming for the summit, would be faced with a very steep wall leading to a small snow band with the summit pyramid beyond. We said our goodbyes, but didn’t take long about it. Time was pressing and the wind was as strong as ever. ‘Take care then, mind how you go,’ I said. ‘Catch you later.’ And then we were off in opposite directions.
The climbing was technical, Scottish III or IV, with much loose rock. It was pointless putting in protection since the wall was so friable and loose. Anyway, Zarok and Rangdu had our few pitons and nuts with them. Rick and I were happy moving together on this type of terrain. I tried where possible to flick the rope over spikes and that offered some sense of security, but we knew that falling off was not an option. Soloing on this kind of ground is a necessary part of climbing new Himalayan routes in alpine style. The climbing was absorbing and the absolute focus required seemed to relax my mind. I thought of little else but the moves in front of me. Time flowed past; I focused on my breathing, filling my lungs, keeping the rhythm. I controlled my mind, kept it tight on a leash, so that I didn’t raise my expectations that the worst was over. I needed to keep within my limits so we could keep going for hour after hour. There would be more ahead, the altitude would be higher, and the air thinner. I needed to accept that.
Rangdu was in front and Zarok followed on the other end of their rope, taking a curving line up the face. I saw how much slack they had between them and insisted that Rick and I stop to coil our rope, putting the spare into the top of my sack. Now with twenty-five metres of rope between myself and Rick, I followed the approximate line Rangdu had taken, but a little more directly to avoid any stones they might accidentally send down. There was some soft snow, but the wind had blown much of it from the steep rock and, as a consequence, our route diverged some more as we followed a route parallel to that of the Sherpas.
I was enjoying myself, overcoming this obstacle with my good pal on the other end of the rope, but was concerned that we still had a long way to go. I was also kicking myself that we hadn’t researched this upper section of Nanga Parbat more thoroughly. We’d been thinking so hard about the Mazeno that we rather thought the rest would take care of itself. Not many people had been this way: the Messner brothers of course, on their famous descent from the Rupal Face; Hans Schell’s team in 1976; and a handful of Spanish, Polish and Czech climbers. The problem was that I don’t speak much German and the other languages even less, so I had hardly read any of their reports. I had scanned some pictures of this part of the mountain, but had to admit that I didn’t absorb all the detail.
Back then I had been planning on taking the ridge between the Diamir and Rupal faces. I had assumed it would be technically difficult, but that we would cope with it. A climb that felt like a pipe dream had turned suddenly into reality – like being a teenager and knowing that you’ll probably end up buying a house, but not caring too much about what kind of kitchen you want.
Despite the gaps in our knowledge, we were enjoying ourselves and closing in on 8,000 metres. We had reached easier ground and I now looked behind us to see how Cathy and Nuru were getting on traversing back to camp. I had thought the Sherpas might stop to have a drink once they reached the snow, but they were still bashing on. I felt a surge of frustration; they knew they should be looking after their bodies at this altitude. They weren’t far ahead and I called out to them, but the wind was strong and there was no sign they had heard me.
Rick and I stopped for a quick drink from our water bottles and adjusted the rope so that we were now no more than twelve metres apart before moving off again. We were heading for a steep rock band above the Merkl Notch. As we reached it we met Rangdu and Zarok descending rather despondently toward us. I could see their footprints leading uphill and the point at which they had turned around. Why had they not waited for us? I felt a flash of anger that they’d made the decision for us. They seemed surprised that we were so close behind. Maybe they’d pushed on just to satisfy us that it really couldn’t be done?
I scanned the steep wall ahead and, beyond that, the snow and rock slopes that led to the summit. There was still a long way to go, a good part of it above 8,000 metres. We stood together, the wind stinging our faces. The Lhakpas seemed really dejected. ‘It’s very steep up ahead and we are too late,’ Rangdu said. It was now 11 a.m. or so. I looked up again, tracing a line past the wall and up systems of couloirs leading to the top. My friend Robert Schauer had been up there somewhere as part of Hans Schell’s expedition. I knew I could climb it, but it was a long way. How long would it take us? My mind wound slowly through the calculations.
‘We have to go, Mr Sandy.’ Rangdu said. Zarok nodded in agreement. Rick was silent. I thought, it’s seven hours to the top if the climbing doesn’t get much harder. We would get to the top at around five or six o’clock. I knew I was probably being optimistic. Then, of course, we would have to get down. We had head torches and perhaps half a litre of water each left in our bottles. Rick and I would probably have an open bivouac somewhere around the Merkl Notch. The Messners had done that, so it wasn’t impossible. Then again, Günther had been in a ragged state and fallen to his death next day. And the Messner brothers were amazing.
The wind was now very strong, so if anything went wrong or my estimate was out we would get benighted and our bodies would be right on the limit – dehydrated, exhausted and exposed to the elements. I kicked myself: why did we not bring a stove? I sensed Rick running the same equations through his head. We have climbed together at these high altitudes for most of our lives. Our ambitions are often beyond what other people think is wise or possible, but we know our limits.
Rangdu was insistent. He is my friend too, I thought. With Zarok we have endured tough times together. It is too late and too windy. We don’t really know how much climbing is left. I looked at them, deep into their eyes. I looked at Rick, who was, I assumed, as keen as me to keep going but also aware that without a stove or sleeping bags it was a risk too far. I wondered if he was also kicking himself?
‘You’re quite right Rangdu,’ I said. ‘We have to go down. It’s still early but we have been on the move since 1 a.m.’
‘We want to go home,’ Rangdu said. ‘It’s too much. There is no food left and it’s too technical. We’ll need a long time to climb this.’ I’d been climbing long enough with Sherpas to know that once they’ve made their mind up, that’s it. ‘We are going down tomorrow,’ he added. Really he was telling me that we all had to go down, that our attempts at the summit were over. It was obvious to me that both Rangdu and Zarok were done.
I looked at Rick, wondering what he would do. Like me, he could happily cut loose and solo to the top. We’d done similar things before and I wondered if we were about to do it again. I felt as though I was in the middle of a game of mental chess. I felt calm and relaxed. In my notebook at home is a quotation from the industrialist Andrew Carnegie, born in Dunfermline: ‘The man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’
I felt sympathy for Zarok and Rangdu but sensed also that Rick and I were keen to climb. I tried to take emotion out of it. I
wanted to make sure that these two friends got back to camp. Their contribution to the expedition had been immense. They had been the key that unlocked this upper section to us. We had done what we had set out to do, and reached the Mazeno Gap with energy and supplies to spare and we’d done it as a team. I was aware that the wrong words from me now could unravel this strong team spirit. We had successfully traversed the Mazeno Ridge. Was that not enough?
I knew I had the strength to keep going, but the wind was too strong and we did not have a stove. Okay, I told myself, today is not the day.
‘Right. Let’s go down.’
Rangdu said, ‘We are finished Sandy, down tomorrow!’ Then he and Zarok turned and walked away. Rick and I took another look at the wall above and then turned after them, following the tracks back the way we had come. Within seconds I knew I had made the correct decision; I felt certain it was the correct call. Rick was with me.
After a few hundred metres I shouted to the Sherpas against the roar of the wind to stop. They waited and we grouped together. I explained I had seen a traverse ledge that cut the corner we’d made after we left Cathy and Nuru. It may be possible to descend more quickly and maybe come back up it next time. I noticed Zarok and Rangdu both ignored my comment about another attempt. But they were happy to descend another way if it saved time. Abandoning our tracks, we all walked directly down the slope. It was much easier walking straight downhill as the snow became shallower, but we had to take care not to trip on the loose rock beneath and fall down the cliff we were traversing above. Disappointment and exhaustion were creeping over us.
Despite this, the sun was shining and the wind had dropped now that we were in the lee of the summit slopes. We stopped for a drink and bite to eat, and I opened my zips to cool down a little. Then came an awkward traverse along a rock bench and I tore the front of my down trousers, inhaling a mouthful of expensive duck feathers which almost choked me. I continued down, placing my pick on the rock and easing my weight precariously down with the Sherpas following, grumbling about my route.
We came to some old fixed hawser rope, blanched white by the sun and degraded by exposure to the elements. Some big old pitons swung freely on a steep wall, high above us out of reach. The snow must have been deeper when the climbers who left them came through. They had secured fixed ropes, a line of safety back to base camp. We didn’t have that luxury.
The traverse was tedious and scary, protection was minimal, so we occasionally hitched the rope over a spike. If one of us fell, our rope-mate would probably get pulled off too. Then we were past the traverse’s difficulties and heading towards a snow ramp, which we hoped would lead easily to a rock buttress. Below this, easy climbing and a few abseils should take us back to camp. Cathy and Nuru should be there by now. I hoped they had the energy to melt some snow for us.
We were now quite exhausted, but by 2.30 p.m. had almost managed to traverse off the steep section. Two awkward abseils had brought us to an easy snow traverse that led to the ramp. The ground was steep and the snow softer. Now was the moment Zarok tripped on his crampon and fell. He tried to get his ice axe in to stop himself, but to no avail. I watched Rangdu kick himself into the soft snow, trying to get a good, solid stance in preparation for the rope going tight. Once again there was too much slack rope so the impact was high; as soon as Zarok’s weight came on the rope, Rangdu was catapulted off his feet and fell after Zarok, passing him in a matter of seconds.
All Rick and I could do was watch helplessly. The two Sherpas continued to fall past each other; as one recovered the other would shoot past and drag him off his feet and down the slope again. I really thought they were going to go all the way down the Diamir Face. Then, by chance, just as they approached the edge of a band of ice cliffs, their direction of fall took them to a point where a huge sérac had lifted slightly. This change in angle was just enough to bring them to a halt, right on the edge of the cliff. I could hardly believe their good luck. They had stopped.
After a small delay both stood up, apparently uninjured. I waved and shouted but I am sure they heard nothing, my voice carried away in the light wind. Rick and I wanted to help, but it was obvious the two Lhakpas were well enough to extricate themselves. Rangdu was looking up at me. I wondered what he was thinking. Although they’d survived a terrifying fall, and were mentally celebrating a narrow escape, they had probably just realised that they now had the hard work of breaking a new trail back to the top of the ramp.
I made some hand signals to Rangdu, telling him that we would traverse downwards to come closer to them. If they took an easy rising traverse we would meet them halfway and could continue breaking trail more directly to the upper reaches of the snow ramp. Then it would be a short climb down to camp. We seemed to understand each other and I watched them untangle their rope and move upwards on a low-angled rising traverse. I set off with Rick and it was easier now we were traversing downhill. Soon we were reunited with Zarok and Rangdu.
The four of us sat and chatted, Rick and I consoling the Sherpas. They were shattered, blown away by their near-miss. It had been incredibly good luck to come to a halt where they did. Zarok and Rangdu had clearly had enough of Nanga Parbat and spoke emotionally about their experience. There was no way they’d be coming back for another go. We encouraged them to keep moving and get back to the tents, sharing the dregs of our water with them before continuing uphill, desperate work in the softening snow.
As we slogged up to the snow ramp, we found an old stash of supplies, which Rick was enthusiastic to explore. The tins were labelled in German. I simply ignored it, knowing that while there was a slight chance some of the food might be of use, a good brew at camp would be much nicer. Rick found some dried fruit, offering it around as he ate some. I declined, not wanting to risk poisoning myself. While Rick dug through the tins and packets like a magpie, I whiled away the time looking at the view and reflecting on our situation. Rangdu and Zarok were desperate to get back to camp and quickly disappeared behind some steep rocks.
The view was spectacular. The Mazeno Ridge and all its 7,000-metre peaks were shrouded in a wonderful mist that reflected the dwindling sunlight. Rick and I had no need to talk but I am sure that we both understood we were approaching a crossroads in the expedition. It was simpler for Rick to occupy himself with burrowing through the decades-old stash than voice opinions. Besides, events were too fresh. I felt I needed time to let the dust settle. I looked behind me and traced the traverse line of our descent with my eyes. I was trying to etch it into my memory so that I could find it in a storm. It was a habit I had developed as a kid initially gathering sheep on the Haughs of Cromdale and then navigating my way on the featureless arctic plateau of my beloved Cairngorms.
The truth, as I saw it, was that Cathy and Nuru were despondent and knackered. I assumed they had made it back to camp, but there was as yet no sign of them. Rangdu and Zarok were most definitely at their wits’ end. Was there any human who would not be, having gone through so much? Rick and I were dealing in our own ways with the range of emotions of a failed summit attempt and the sight of the two Sherpas sliding uncontrollably towards their deaths.
I needed quietness and time to think. I was happy to be alive, happy that all the team were alive. I also knew we should not have set out in the wind early that morning. We had burned up scarce resources which we could ill afford to lose. I should have been more confident in my own assessment of the situation. I should have found the courage to tell the others that leaving at 1 a.m. in that wind was silly. Then again, I realised that they would have simply tried without me. It’s not called summit fever for nothing. Why had I fallen for such temptation?
Perhaps I should not have been so insistent about a new line to the summit – Rick and Cathy had always advocated taking the easier line to the summit if we did get through to the Mazeno Gap. I knew there was an easier snow couloir lower down that would be a good way to top out. Sitting on the rocks, waiting f
or Rick, I looked back at our descending steps and saw there was a potential line. It would lead us to the upper Kinshofer route. But by that time Rick had had enough of tinkering about in the abandoned food dump and was packing a corroded tin of something into his rucksack. I thought he was nuts but knew better than to comment.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s get out of this wind and have a cup of tea.’ Down we went. I took a nice photo of the setting sun and the mist-wreathed Mazeno. As I took the double fisherman’s knot out of one of my prusik loops and threaded the thin cord around a spike for the final abseil, I wondered if I would come back to this place again. Mentally I was preparing myself for our arrival at the tents. It would be ace to get a brew in my hand from Cathy or Nuru. But I felt that when we joined the others the mood would be bleak.
– Chapter 6 –
Splitting Up
The sun was setting and the light fading as Rick and I arrived at camp. Stoves were burning in two of the tents, while the tent I shared with Cathy was eerily quiet. Nuru was back and now sticking his head out of the door of his tent, obviously pleased to have his partner Zarok back. Cathy was half asleep inside our tent; she seemed okay but tired and disappointed. I was grateful to see she had a full pot of hot water for me.
I took my time coiling the ropes, which had been left in a jumble, and stashed them on a big stone by the tent. I slowly took off my crampons, wrapping the straps tidily around them and lacing them to the same rock. Then I went and spoke to both the other teams through the tent walls. Rick, Rangdu and Zarok did not show their faces; exhaustion ruled and it was clear that this was not a time for discussion. I imagined each of them in their sleeping bags, busy melting snow and rehydrating. I wished everyone a good night and went back to my own tent.