In Some Lost Place

by Sandy Allan

  I wondered if I had enough strength left to face up to all this. I recalled the first aid ABC motto – airway, breathing, circulation – that I’d adapted years ago: ALWAYS – BE – COOL. I knew my own body was deteriorating too; the lack of drinking water and the strength needed to plough a trail through the deep snow compounded the time at high altitude. Digging a snow shelter with the tiny head of my ice axe required massive amounts of energy. If Rick was going down I must be too. It was simply a matter of time before we were both in an unavoidable decline and ground to a halt. I wondered how long that would take, but then realised I was seeing it already.

  Then again, perhaps reflecting on this persistent uncertainty would destabilise my morale. The constant recycling of potential threats in my mind could lead to a mental state that stopped me from making sound decisions. Perhaps this was what had happened to Rick? I began to wonder if the decisions I had already made were sensible after all.

  Darkness was on its way, it was chilly and I had only dug about three-quarters of our cave. I braced myself mentally and walked back round to my entrance, taking care to place my feet carefully. I watched the snowflakes fall and found myself mentally assessing the impact the current weather would have on the snowpack. I marvelled at the incredible dendritic shapes of the flakes as they lay on the fabric of my sleeve. I felt the wind on my skin. I noticed that I noticed myself, a magnified me, reading these signs. It was like being back on the hill above Sheffield with my pal Mark Miller, watching dawn strike the city, our minds stretched to the horizon.

  Everything simply stopped for a moment and I saw nature at its wildest and best. I felt a realisation that something profound was happening. God stocktaking, I thought, ticking a list, two humans on the side of the mountain. I felt suddenly lifted up spiritually, encouraged and reassured. I felt totally at home in this wild environment. I was acutely aware of our exposure and my deep fear, but I felt I was now receiving some positive energy too, nature reassuring me that I was aware and had the skills and experience to handle all that was happening. I felt strong and absolutely convinced I could do what I needed to. I don’t know where it came from, but I knew I had the strength to continue.

  – Chapter 9 –

  The Edge of Extinction

  I half crawled through the small entrance tunnel of our rudimentary shelter and suggested Rick reverse out and get our rucksacks while I enlarged the cave a bit more. I dug away for a bit, cleared the loose snow from the floor and called out to him, ‘this’ll be great.’ Then I crawled out and suggested he go back inside so I could pass him the sacks. It was dark now and the sweat on my body from digging was starting to freeze in the bitter night air. I passed in the rucksacks and squeezed in beside him.

  Rick managed to climb into his sleeping bag and at last I got into mine. His body and legs were inside the cave, while my torso was sheltered from the worst of the wind but my legs stuck out; we would also benefit from the cave ceiling above us retaining any heat. The roof was also big enough to deflect any spindrift that might otherwise cover our bodies. I was still feeling positive and, while concerned for our precarious position, happy enough. I remembered the words of Scottish mountaineer Tom Patey, who was famous for soloing technically hard winter climbs and had a reputation as a party animal. He wrote many famous songs and poems about the climbing world. There was always a good craic in Highland pubs and mountain bothies when Tom played his harmonica. One of his songs, The Last of the Grand Old Masters, describing my hero Joe Brown, came to mind: ‘I am the last of the grand old masters/But now I am old and grey/When the sweat on my neck turns to verglas/You will find I have passed away.’

  I mumbled the words out loud and relaxed a little as the verglas on my neck started to melt. I did my sock-change routine and tried to get the stove going again. Rick had tucked the cylinder inside his sleeping bag in the hope the gas would warm up slightly. While excavating the snow cave I had collected some small dry stones and had them warming in the inside pocket of my down parka. Holding them in my hand and sheltering my hand with my body to block out the spindrift, I prepared to light the stove, now reassembled. I tried to spark my storm matches off the small dry stones but they refused to spark. Sometimes I got a hopeful sulphur-like smell and a lick of smoke curling up from the match, but even with the gas turned on and almost choking us there was never enough of a spark to ignite a flame.

  Rick suggested breaking apart the lighter to get to the fuel inside. It seemed like a good idea but we both realised doing so would be a final desperate throw of the dice. When I broke it open I saw that the flint had completely worn away. So that’s why it wouldn’t work. I sprinkled the remaining lighter fluid on the stove’s burner and tried to get the matches to spark on to it but even this failed. It was typical of us to have brought a half-used lighter. We’d used it on a previous expedition and found it in our gear cache. I decided to keep my views on thrift quiet since I hadn’t carried a spare lighter myself, leaving that to Cathy. Such was our fate and there was no option but to accept it.

  So that was it. Our attempts to light the stove were over. We had to accept that melting snow for water was not going to happen, dehydration was inevitable and rather than focus our energies on negative thoughts, we had to combat our emotions and not let it frustrate us. People asked me afterwards what my throat was like after so long without water. To be honest, I didn’t think about it. I couldn’t allow myself to. There was nothing to be done except put all the discomfort to the back of my mind. It served no purpose to dwell on it. We huddled together inside our respective sleeping bags, switched off our head torches to save the batteries and simply lay there in the spindrift and the darkness.

  Rick seemed calmer and more at ease. We acknowledged we had made incredibly slow progress that day. Neither of us had experienced such deep and difficult snow for such long stretches in all our years of climbing; the descent had simply eaten up time. We could not have done any better.

  There was no hint of negativity between us. We accepted that the situation dominated us rather than us being in control but, despite this, we buoyed each other up with positive plans for the morning. We fostered the hope that tomorrow we would get down to Camp 1 or maybe even Base Camp and all would be fine. I rearranged our sleeping bags and placed our rucksacks over our legs, trying to prevent the spindrift from building up over our chests, and wished Rick a good night. I cracked a joke about achieving the ultimate in eco-friendly aspirations; no one could criticise us for using up resources and causing pollution. We had nothing to exploit.

  It took a while to sleep and my thoughts drifted to my daughters Hannah and Cara. I wondered what they were up to, what adventures were occurring in their lives. I felt a responsibility to get home to them, not that they needed me from a material sense. I wondered what state we would be in by daylight tomorrow. I recalled the words of my ex-wife Janis during our divorce so many years ago. Once our divorce came through, that wildly expensive piece of paper confirming our marriage was over, Jan reminded me how she used to drive me to the station or airport with the kids in the back at the start of yet another expedition with my pals. I would be happy, jolly and waving at them, blowing kisses. Then, as she watched me leaving, holding the small hands of our two beautiful young daughters in her own, she told me she always had the same thought: ‘I wonder if he will live through this climb. I wonder if I will see him again?’

  I had no idea that she had these thoughts. I wondered whether many Himalayan climbers heading out to try new hard climbs at extreme altitude did. We feel the projects we have in mind are possible and that accidents are unlikely as our skills are adequate. I personally seemed to make good decisions and would not do anything overambitious or silly; and if things got too serious or difficult then I had the skills to retreat. I also knew for certain that if I had even the slightest thought that I could die I would not leave home. I have always been aware that climbing is serious; I often used to say that we climbed
serious routes but we were serious people. But while we enjoyed and even relished attempts on these seemingly impossible faces and ridges, the people we left behind had to endure their own incredible internal expeditions and I do not think I truly realised the mental hardship that they went through in my absence.

  Now, on Nanga Parbat in the most intense experience of my mountain life, I felt the seriousness of what was happening. The failure to light the stove once more made me acutely aware of our precarious state. I had never seen Rick so weak, so slow-witted. We had climbed the north face of the Eiger together, between seasons, late in October; it was the only time we could get off work. On seeing the snowed-up face we thought we would race up it in a couple of days, so I insisted we lighten our sacks and not take much food or spare clothing. I even left a small pile of food and gas at the foot of the climb.

  Once on the face we realised the snow was new and hadn’t yet morphed into névé to take an ice axe or crampon points. This made the climbing incredibly awkward. The fresh snow also seemed to worsen the steady showers of stone-fall for which the Eiger is so famous. We climbed the route in fine enough style for the era but ended up having three bivouacs without much food. On the descent Rick had dwindled away, becoming a shadow of his former strength. The same was happening here but more dramatically and in much more arduous circumstances. If he collapsed there would likely be only one outcome. I knew I had to stay strong and give him the impression that all was well and that I could look after him. I wondered if I really had the strength. Even if I didn’t, I still had to try.

  I pulled the sleeping bag hood over my head and rustled around inside my sleeping bag to shift my clothing so that I had some additional insulation between my hip and the sleeping bag on the frozen snow; my sleeping mat having been abandoned for our push to the summit. My thoughts were warm and happy, and I whispered my nightly prayers. We are just human, overflowing with faults and frailties. I wondered if Rick would wake up or pass away by the morning. I wondered if I would wake up impotent in the face of this relentless high-altitude drama. I reminded myself that it was not a tragedy yet and that I would work as hard as I could to avoid such an event. I wondered about my own faith, acknowledging that I was probably less devout than I should be, but I still carried the feeling of something good watching over me from my spiritual moment earlier.

  I dug deep within myself, trying to engage in a serious conversation with myself so that I would hang in, get the job done and see my mate safely off the mountain. I had warm memories of my Sunday school days, the source of my Calvinistic inheritance. Would I be like Jonah, swallowed by the whale but keeping faith, and so eventually be released? Maybe the whale just belched him up. Maybe that sense of mystery was all in my head. I’m used to the intellectual rejection by others of religious feeling. It’s easy to justify disbelief, to say there is in fact nothing out there in the dark. I still retained a hunger for Christian expression, a solid connection to the faith I’d experienced as a child. These days, I float somewhere between Buddhism and Christianity, sitting in the middle of life’s proverbial rocky road. Rick and I were the human connection here, the fragility of our existence tangible in this inhospitable place. The altitude, the freezing air and the snows of the killer mountain could easily snuff us out. We were in this together, huddling in this hopeless shelter as a warm glow suffused my weary body and I drifted into a sound sleep.

  The night was cold and cramped. Occasionally I would wake, glancing over to see Rick rustling in his sleeping bag. But we made it through and in the morning I thought I had done well for sleep. I lay there wondering if Rick was okay or whether I would have to drag him all the way to Base Camp. Would he kill us both by not being able to move? I thought of lowering him, of making a mistake and letting him fall, or else being pulled from my stance and joining him in a final horrifying plunge down the mountain. I was awoken from my morbid thoughts by Rick’s voice and instantly realised I had nothing to fear. He sounded almost chirpy. Thank goodness, he seemed to be doing well, he seemed re-charged. I was not going to be alone. We both had a common purpose: to get up, get ourselves moving and make a quick exit.

  I peered around and discovered we were both covered in spindrift, our feet and legs buried in about half a metre of fine snow that had accumulated during the night. We eased ourselves out with caution, trying our best not to let the powder get inside our sleeping bags or unzipped clothing. At least we didn’t have to waste time making a brew or eating breakfast. In what seemed like an instant we had everything packed. Outside, it was cold but clear with a faint breeze and I revelled in our good fortune. I felt a simple connection with this awesome environment.

  Looking around us, I could see we were indeed where I thought. The snow slopes above us revealed small avalanches of snow which had crept towards the site of Camp 4. Compared to the last snow cave at 7,720 metres, it felt so much easier to pull on our gloves, tighten our bootlaces and adjust the Velcro closures on our gaiters and wrists. Our path from yesterday, perhaps better described as a trench, was now almost completely obliterated. I could just see the occasional trace of it, but it had more or less been totally filled with falling snow. Clearly there had been quite a dump of snow last night; we would have to be even more aware of avalanches.

  We roped up again. In my mind at least I was stronger and so, since we were moving on to very steep ground, I put myself at the back to hold any falls. Rick would climb down in front. He plunged his feet and set off down as I held the rope taut with coils in my sack and a few tied off around my shoulders. I had gone into mountain guide mode; it was simply what I had done for so much of my life. In this lost place, the lyrics to Leonard Cohen’s song Teachers came to me as Rick led on down.

  Rick was okay and seemed strong, although I sensed his mind had lost focus. I felt that he was being a bit reckless, just ploughing down, no longer thinking about choosing a line, not really considering the subtleties of the terrain, the slope’s angle, the types of snow or the bonding of layers.

  Then Rick surprised me and made me question myself, made me think I was being complacent. He came to a stop and asked me which way I thought was better. The fact he did so cheered me immensely. I realised he was still alert, partly at least. He still had the ability to think and wanted the two of us to work together; he was thinking of us as a team with a sense of combined efficiency and wellbeing. There remained a balance between our individual capabilities and our mutual willpower. Before he had been simply surviving. Now, with his simple question, it was clear that his continuing silence was simply to conserve his energy and not dehydrate himself further by opening his mouth to the greedy air.

  A lot of the time it was hardly necessary for us to consult one another at all, since the ground was steep enough that any fresh snow would slide off as it fell. At times we had to face inwards towards the slope and use our front points to climb down, never needing to stop and safeguard each other, just moving together as before.

  We were on the relentless treadmill down, down, down, like prisoners of war forced to keep on digging some impossible road, simply because we had to. It was beginning to feel unfair, even though all of it – the ridge, the summit, even losing our lighter – was under our control. But we had no choice, we had to continue, not because we were being whipped by some well-fed enemy, but because we wanted to live and this was the only way. Our lives depended on us continuing until we got off the mountain.

  Not so far away now, I could see that the slope angle was shallower and the chances of us triggering an avalanche seemed far higher. I was convinced that the slope was going to slide and so I shouted to Rick to wait while I stamped my feet into a trench and uncoiled more rope, securing it again at my waist. I thrust my ice axe into the snow beside me and told Rick I was ready for him to move on.

  Sure enough, as he reached the change in angle and stepped on it in what seemed to me like semi-reckless abandon, the whole slope slid away in a massive avalanche,
cascading down over the uppermost reaches of the Mummery Rib. Rick rolled to the side and I held him tight on the rope. It was like working for the ski patrol, setting off small avalanches without explosives. I thought of my friends in British Columbia who had taught me so much about snowpacks and their layers; I thought of buddies in the Scottish Avalanche Information Service. I’d learned something.

  I’m always wary of involvement with snow; it is enigmatic stuff, a dazzling, wonderful, intriguing phenomenon. Dave McClung and Peter Schaerer’s The Avalanche Handbook, my bible on the subject, would dictate that we should have gone around this area of risk – as would common sense. Bruce Tremper’s Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain would definitely question my sanity. But the reality was that if I wanted to avoid this slope we would have needed to climb back up over the summit and descend the Schell. That wasn’t going to happen. Nor did we have the resources to dig in and wait in our sleeping bags while the slopes below consolidated. We had no option but to climb down, even if there was a risk that we might be avalanched off the slope. To continue and maybe die, or stay and definitely die – it wasn’t a hard decision.

  Rick was fine, but a bit shocked that I had used him as an avalanche trigger. I think he realised he was not quite as sharp and attentive to the snow conditions as he might have been, but good luck was on our side. Moreover, I was delighted when we neared the site of Camp 3. That meant we had traversed the very unstable snowpack and only had to worry about slopes avalanching on us from above. That too was a real risk and one we could only hope didn’t happen. Speed of travel is imperative in such situations; you know there is a serious risk from objective dangers like avalanches or hanging séracs, but all you can do is respect them and get on with it. Scurrying under such dangers I could almost hear the time bomb ticking; I tried by an act of mental will to slow it down so we could make our escape before the whole thing exploded. We were truly in the lap of the gods.