by Sandy Allan
Down the other side we went, a little awkwardly and not wanting to fall or slip. At the foot of the rib we were back on an easy snow slope, which meant we had to break trail again. We’d already had enough of slogging and became a bit despondent; walking for both of us is just a necessary evil to reach the bottom of a climb. Yet there was no getting around it. We had to grind on, slumping frequently over our ice axes, exhausted from the effort, hauling in each breath, resentful of the repetition and tedium. I tried to encourage myself with the thought that no one had been here before.
Up ahead we saw some couloirs which could offer climbing and excitement. Swapping leads, each of us taking turns out in front for several hundred metres at a time, we traversed around some small séracs and then climbed steeply up. I had the notion that this was the way Reinhold Messner had taken on his solo 1978 ascent but I didn’t know for sure; there were varying reports about the route he had taken. A few snow showers pushed across; it was like traversing from the Arête du Midi above Chamonix round to the Cosmiques hut in bad weather – only with a fraction of the oxygen.
Large snowflakes fell heavily and stuck to our clothing, freezing any exposed skin. I became terribly cold and we had to pay close attention to our route finding. We huddled together at the top of the first steep section, discussing the concern that if this bad weather continued there would be no chance of continuing. We adjusted our clothing and decided it would be best to get away from this steep couloir; the snow seemed to be building fast and could start avalanching at any time.
Rather anxiously I took over the lead from Rick and, with a new sense of urgency, swarmed up the couloir until the rope stretched out and we continued together, hidden from one another by the falling snow. Then the snow stopped as suddenly as it had begun and we were once again climbing under blue skies. I felt my body relax as the snowfall diminished. Letting out some coils of rope from around my shoulders, I re-tied them securely at my waist and suggested that Rick kick himself a comfortable stance in the snow while I climbed up further. Eventually pulling over the top of an overhanging cornice, I felt a rush of gratitude as the pick of my axe sank securely into the hard-packed snow above. I was acutely aware that my flailing feet could dislodge snow debris large enough to knock Rick off his feet. It was exhausting work. With my lungs burning, I struggled on slowly, trying to control my frantic gasping for air.
Surmounting this couloir bought us close to the Diamir Face. I scanned the line of the Kinshofer route for activity – tents, climbers, anything that signalled human activity – but to my shock and amazement I realised the mountain was deserted. There was no life at all. I had absolutely expected to see climbers on the face; they were always there at the height of the season. Not this year. I gazed across blank acres of rolling white snow, séracs, dark rocks and shattered ridges. There were no climbers at all, not so much as a half-filled boot print or an abandoned tent. I wondered why no one was climbing the normal route, but at the same time was rather pleased that we had the place to ourselves. Even so, the lack of other humans told me the Diamir Face must be plastered with deep snow and the avalanche potential must consequently be high; there was nothing else that could deter people from the climb.
We realised then that we were on our own. This was getting a bit more serious. Rick and I discussed it for mere seconds. We reasoned that the climbers were simply running late and perhaps had so far only reached the lower camps, which would be mostly out of sight to us. I actually thought we must have done well and were simply ahead of the game, getting so high so early in the climbing season. I decided that even with our acclimatisation and the long crawl along the Mazeno we had made such good progress that we might be ahead of the teams trying the normal route.
We had now been climbing solidly for thirteen days, whereas they would have been going up and down their route fixing ropes and camps. Giving myself a silent congratulatory pat on the back, I convinced myself that we must simply be ahead of the game. How could there be no-one else on the mountain? The whole idea was preposterous. We dismissed it. We simply took pleasure in the idea that we had the upper mountain to ourselves and that the summit was still unvisited this year. It would simply be up to us to find the route to the summit.
The distance we had already covered was much further than expected, but the distance still to travel was immense. Now, of course, because we would be the first to the summit, we had to break trail and this section would take much longer than we had expected. We pushed on, taking turns to plough through the snow, until eventually I began to recognise some of the gargoyle-like boulders that decorate the upper part of the Kinshofer route. The terrain was not so steep, about thirty or forty degrees, but it was hard going in the snow.
Finally, at around 5 p.m., it became obvious that we were not going to reach the summit in daylight; the top was still many hours away. We debated whether we should keep going and try to find the summit in the dark, but better sense prevailed and we decided to use whatever daylight was left to make a snow cave. It was quite possible we would need shelter for a second night, especially if a storm came. So a plan began to hatch. We would dig a cave and make it a good one; it didn’t matter how long it took. We could have a long lie-in tomorrow, get to the summit and then maybe return to the cave; our digging efforts wouldn’t be wasted.
At the same time as we discussed what to do, I realised that spending two nights in a rudimentary shelter at such altitudes was a very risky business. I hoped dearly that we would dig the cave, have a great night’s sleep, then get up early, reach the summit and descend to much lower altitudes. I was horribly aware that we were committing to even more time on the mountain, and at even higher altitudes. I’m used to dreaming of good food and green grass while high in the mountains. Now I was fantasising about thicker air nourishing my depleted body.
With the decision made, Rick led on for another section and then stopped at 7,720 metres to point out a good spot for digging. This was actually a daunting prospect: in our desire to sacrifice weight we hadn’t brought our lightweight shovel. The thought of having to dig a snow cave with the tiny adzes of our ice axes was rather dismaying; it was like trying to empty a bath with a teaspoon. I am an optimist though and it was a fine bank of snow. I felt certain it would be adequate for a snow shelter.
I suppose one could ask why we bothered digging in instead of just clearing a ledge and sleeping in the open. Rick and I are experienced snow-cave dwellers. We had used them on Pumori, when we had climbed a hard and technical new route on the steep unclimbed south face back in the 1980s. On that expedition we had lost our bivouac tent but, rather than abandon the climb, we simply dug long tubular snow-cave shelters – like coffins – behind the steep ice we were climbing and the rock beneath it. They were warm, out of the wind, and spindrift avalanches just passed over us while we were cocooned inside. We had also used snow caves high on Everest and of course at home in the arctic conditions of the Scottish Cairngorms in winter.
Rick and I made our rucksacks safe by carving a small shelf in the snow for them, adjusted our clothing so we wouldn’t get too soaked with perspiration and set to work with the adzes of our ice tools. It was quite an intense effort and we had a sense of urgency as darkness fell and the temperature dropped further below zero. It was at least minus twenty-five degrees Celsius. We worked in silence, each in his own cave. It was quiet work, surrounded by the insulating snow. I found the quietness comforting, the cave itself womb-like. My pressing thought was to keep burrowing, to get it finished, lie down, get the stove on and start rehydrating. There was really nothing else to think about; we were animals, intent on survival. We wanted to be comfortable, to be able to lay flat in our sleeping bags. With proper shelter came security and the possibility of sleep – and recovery. Hopefully we would be in good condition to perform the following day.
Finally our two tiny tunnels broke through into one another and we both scraped away, enlarging the cave and pushing the
last of the excavated snow between our legs and out of the entrance into the void beyond. Soon we had a good area where we were both able to lay full length. Sweeping out the last of the powder with our gloved hands, we sighed with relief. Now we could climb into our sleeping bags, light the stove and settle down to the chore of melting snow and quenching our never-ending thirst.
We drank tea and ate the remaining biscuits, and then positioned our rucksacks as pillows and closed off the opening. I pulled my damp socks off and arranged them in my armpits to dry overnight while wearing my cleaner pair to sleep. I also pulled my wet gloves inside my sleeping bag, so that perhaps they might dry a little too. It was quiet and peaceful; we chatted a bit, mainly about how we had not realised it would still be so far to the top, and how we had not really anticipated a bivouac before we reached the summit, rather than after it, on the way down.
All we had to do the following day was reach the summit and then walk downhill. But we both knew it was never that easy. We knew too that we had more or less finished our food. Our rations would be nothing more than melted snow from here on in. That did not concern us at all. We were only a few hours from the summit and, as long as we did not suffer with altitude problems during the night, and the weather stayed fair, the summit should be in the bag. I went to sleep with a quiet confidence, tucked securely inside the flanks of Nanga Parbat.
– Chapter 8 –
In Some Lost Place
Morning broke on our fourteenth day on the mountain, 15 July. It was freezing and I felt it. Two weeks in the thin air of altitude. Days since we had eaten anything substantial. No wonder I was cold. Digging a snow cave in down clothing is a bad idea; we knew that perfectly well and had tried not to overheat the night before. Even so, our jackets and trousers had become damp with perspiration as we struggled in the confined space of the snow cave. Rick’s gloves were frozen solid, mine partly so. The clothing I had hidden against my body was dry enough, and my gloves were at least usable, but Rick’s were like two frozen fish. He pulled them on to his hands but I could see from his expression that they were not insulating him very well.
Now we were on the edge of things, feeling apathetic but encouraging each other to keep going. Fighting the frustration of trying to adjust the sliders on our zips with frozen gloves. Endeavouring to be brave. Fourteen days now, much of it spent at 7,000 metres and above, climbing the Mazeno, that amazing knife-edge ridge in the sky. How wonderful it felt; our commute to work was enviably free of traffic. It was satisfying to know that we had it all to ourselves. But I was still plagued by doubts from yesterday. Why could we not see any signs of other climbers on the Kinshofer?
We had no intention of letting these minor frustrations stop us from stomping on to the summit. And thanks to the efficiency of the Sumo stoves we only had a short wait to get some warm water to drink. Then we were stuffing all our gear into the sacks and crawling out of the cave into another bright blue day at altitude. From our experience in 2009 we knew the way was not easy; we had some boulders to surmount and lots of rock to scramble over. I thought I could remember the gist of it.
We cleared the snow cave and took everything we had with us in our sacks. In those first hours it was tough going, up steep snow where we had to kick our feet in hard. We came to the point where the steeper slopes rounded off and the terrain became rockier, but in this season of heavy snow I still had to break trail between the bigger boulders. We would sink in and get our feet caught between rocks, so we tried to step from boulder to boulder. Often the protruding stones were too far apart and we would sink through the snow’s crust. The mist came down and visibility was poor; occasionally we would stop and check to see if we both thought we were going in the right direction. Conversation was minimal; we just wanted to reach the top.
At every step we had to lift each foot high out of our boot prints and then sink them down again, each one an immense effort, like dragging your foot out of treacle. We swapped leads but only occasionally. We’d each do long periods in front. Time seemed to speed up, the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other taking an age. The morning slipped past. We found ourselves on more awkward ground, and there was a cool breeze now. It was still misty, so we couldn’t see much ahead. At 2 p.m. we were on a rounded summit. I felt certain we were in the right place, but there was no sign of the discarded odds and ends I had seen in 2009, a piece of aluminium T-bar and a length of wire, which mark the summit. I searched around, scuffing at the summit with my foot, but the markers eluded me. I also knew the rock features were not quite what I remembered.
Through the mist we could see vaguely a series of bumps, a kind of castellated ridge and so we walked over that way and kept going, but knew that we were moving lower and our efforts were being wasted. We were close but not close enough. There was a brief window in the cloud, and we saw a higher point and made for it. Then the mist closed in again. We wanted to dump our rucksacks but knew that in the mist we might not find them again.
We worked our way along, losing height and then climbing up to small summits. Eventually we had stood on several. It reminded me of searching for the Ordnance Survey’s trig point on Lochnagar in the mist. Time just drained away and somehow it was 5 p.m. The day was gone. We had been above 8,000 metres for hours and I was exhausted. Eventually I suggested to Rick just to take photos of us on one of the mini-summits.
‘Really, who cares anyway?’ I felt completely dejected and wholly demoralised; I no longer cared about the actual summit. We took out our cameras but locating the little shutter buttons was freezing our hands. We knew we had walked some distance from the real summit, probably hundreds of metres, so we turned around and headed back, thinking it was all over and all we could do was descend unrewarded.
At that point the mist suddenly lifted, the air cleared and it felt as though the last of the sun was about to break through. We could see higher ground now and climbed up towards it. As the mist finally dissipated we recognised the summit. I was exhausted and almost at the end of my tether. Rick was too, but with all my energy drained from my body, I had to ask him to go in front. Somehow he found the energy to break trail.
Sometimes we found traces of our earlier progress in the snow, and then we would be on virgin ground again until eventually we stood in brilliant evening sunlight on the true summit. The sky was now azure, with hardly a breath of wind. We were being blessed! It was an extraordinary turn of events – because I had given up my summit ambition, I was being granted it. Our persistent seeking had turned our fortunes. On the snow beside the summit rocks lay the aluminium bar; its length of wire somehow stuck to the rocks. Recognition dawned in my foggy mind and my face slowly creased into a smile. We were both intensely happy.
I set my camera on some rocks and, carefully lining it up, pressed the shutter and shuffled quickly back to crouch beside Rick. We had our summit shot but took some more. Rick tried to get a few of me but, exhausted from the climb to the summit and with his frozen gloves, the results were forgivably poor. He didn’t much care about such things anyway. Rick and I have climbed for years together and there are almost zero photos of me. I persevered and took as many photos as I could, trying to frame the shot as well as I was able. We had climbed the Mazeno Ridge all the way to the top. We had climbed a new line on Nanga Parbat, a British line. Or should we call it the Scottish route?
I felt deeply emotional. I was thinking of my daughters at home. I was thinking of Doug Scott who had first introduced me and Rick to this ridge, and of Voytek Kurtyka, who I always thought would be with us when we did it. I thought of Cathy and the three Lhakpas; there was no way our success was just ours. Generations of climbers had got us here. I thought that Fred Mummery would be delighted, his ambitious Victorian plan vindicated. From my pocket I pulled out a snotty frozen handkerchief and with it came some spare storm matches and their little cardboard box, now in pieces. They fell on to the main summit block and I thought I should pick them up
. But the matchbox was so broken and damp that it fell to pieces in my gloves. I only managed to recover a few matches and some fragments of the box and left the rest. ‘That’s a silly thing to do,’ I thought.
I wanted to stay and take more photos but Rick was pushing to leave. We probably spent fifteen minutes on the summit and then made our way down. It was obvious then that we had to get back to the snow cave. It was now after 6 p.m. and all of a sudden the wind was blowing and night was falling; the benign summit was changing into one of the most hostile places on Earth. We tried to delay putting on our head torches but eventually darkness forced us to stop and dig them out. It began to snow as I was looking for our line of tracks coming up, and I found a trace of them eventually. I tried to follow them with the beam of my head torch. Then I peered behind me to make sure Rick was following.
We were still roped up, but the place felt isolated and imposing. I felt as though death was following in our steps, lurking just out of sight. It frightened me, and so I looked around, checking my friend was still there. We were the only two people in the world, alone in this hellish place of windblown snow and darkness. I dug deep inside myself, thinking how it was only as bad as the Cairngorm plateau in a whiteout on a freezing January night. I could feel energy from Rick, willing me to stay on course and find the snow cave. I kept moving, sometimes steeply downhill, plunging my boots into the snow, searching frantically for a hint of our upward track. Like an albatross on the Southern Ocean, I simply followed my natural navigational instincts over the wide expanse of snow and finally came to the cave. Relief washed over me. Finally we could escape the wind and driving snow. Soon we would be inside our sleeping bags and, with luck, the temperature inside would be closer to zero and we would be fine.