by Sandy Allan
We still had not seen any other mountaineers on the normal route, but this did at least mean we didn’t have to worry about people triggering the slopes above us. Yet I felt immense pressure. As each hour ticked by our physical condition got worse. The irony was obvious – we were surrounded by water, millions of tons of water, all of it frozen. We were still burning calories with every step, but food was now a distant memory. All we had left was the endless process of ploughing through the snow, every step an immense effort we could no longer afford.
Eventually we reached the brow of the gently curving slopes by Camp 3, and as we moved down them I realised I was hallucinating. Nothing was making sense. I couldn’t really understand what was happening, but it wasn’t at all distressing – quite the opposite. In the rocks way below us, Snoopy, Charlie Brown’s cartoon dog from the Schulz comic strip Peanuts, was sitting upright and alert on a narrow rock ledge. I thought at first that I was simply looking at a naturally occurring design where ice had frozen into cracks in the rock. But when I looked harder, it was clear as day. There was Snoopy. I found it immensely comforting to know he was there.
The snowpack was slightly less deep here, and there were exposed sections where the snow had been blown clean off, revealing hard, glass-like ice the colour of chromium. Crossing this we had to focus hard so we didn’t slip, stabbing in the front points of our crampons to climb down the bottle-smooth surface. Normally there are old fixed ropes here, but we couldn’t find any. I remembered from our ascent in 2009 that the fixed ropes had to be moved higher up the mountain to assist climbers on the mountain that year.
One of them was a lovely South Korean lady called Go Mi-Sun, who we nicknamed Miss Go. She had climbed eleven of the 8,000-metre peaks, mostly with supplementary oxygen, and was trying to become the first Korean woman to complete the list. Go Mi-Sun and others from her Korean and Sherpa team had made the summit late in the evening, several hours behind Rick and me. The winds had been terribly strong. While Rick and I lay resting in our tent at Camp 4, we got word that Miss Go’s summit team, including the Sherpa and Pakistani high-altitude porters helping her, were benighted and trapped.
We sent some of Gerfried Göschl’s porters to go to their assistance, but in the stormy conditions only some of them managed to reach the distressed climbers and pass on Thermos flasks of warm water and food. The Pakistani porters then helped guide the climbers back to Camp 4 by torchlight. The Korean team was exhausted and in quite a bad way. The following morning they slept late and, as a consequence, descended in bright sunshine which only added to the debilitating effect of high altitude on their tired bodies. While traversing this section between camps 3 and 2, Miss Go slipped off the hard ice. I can imagine her frantically tring to stop her fall but gathering speed until she was lost forever, another victim of the killer mountain. Base Camp was a melancholy place after her death.
I tried hard to avoid thinking of Miss Go’s pretty smile as I climbed down the glassy ice, taking great care with my crampon placements. Snoopy was still there, on the same rock ledge, smiling at me. Eventually we came to some ridges in the snow’s surface which suggested there was something just below the surface. When we dug down with our ice axes we found what we expected, old snow anchors with lengths of frozen fixed rope. The frozen rope was stretched tight, and on easier sections it was simpler for us to climb down, but on steeper sections we tried to dig the ropes out to speed our descent. I would sit on the snow and belay myself and then lower Rick down the presumed line of old fixed ropes while Rick tried to dig them free.
It was a slow and energy-sapping process. At one point the silhouette of a witch flew by on a broomstick. She was as real to me as Rick was on the other end of the rope. I was sure I was going mad. She had a crooked nose and witch’s hat, all pointy and twisted and rather reminiscent of Chesterfield’s famous crooked church spire. I could still see Snoopy sitting on the ledge of a rock wall below. The hallucinations seemed so real that I took out my camera to take pictures of them. Rick asked me why I was taking so many shots and I did wonder whether I should tell him or not.
Then there was the rabbit. Did I not mention him? I think he was a boy rabbit. He seemed a little bit crazy, alive and alert, mostly off-white or grey in colour. I could clearly see some of the individual black strands of hair that gave him his grey tint. The rabbit seemed to be overflowing with boisterous cheekiness, rather like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. He wore a bright red waistcoat and had a silver pocket watch chain, hence the White Rabbit, which fell in a curve from a buttonhole to his pocket and sometimes glistened and sparkled as it reflected sunlight. He wore a felt hat like the one you imagine Hermann Buhl might have worn on his first ascent of the mountain, the kind of hat one often still sees Austrian mountain climbers wearing. The rabbit’s big ears stuck through holes in the rim. I was convinced he was real, until it struck me as strange that he did not wear any boots or crampons!
The rabbit scampered back and forth, criss-crossing our line of descent just behind Rick and so out of his sight. He didn’t leave any footprints and I realised that I was concerned for him. Although furry, the rabbit’s feet and toes must be freezing without the protection of footwear. As I lowered Rick I kept looking at the rabbit, kept thinking about his frozen paws. Finally my brain figured out that if the rabbit wasn’t leaving footprints in the snow then he couldn’t be real. Then I realised that the lack of water and my exhaustion were playing havoc with my mind. I was concerned about myself and focused again on the rope and on letting it run carefully through my gloved fingers.
So we went on, with me lowering Rick or both of us climbing down. At times we would thread our rope through the old tat of an anchor we’d excavated and then abseil. Our rope was only fifty metres in length, so by the time we doubled it we could only abseil twenty-five metres at a time. This made for very slow progress, with the threat of avalanches all the while poised above our heads like the Sword of Damocles. We also knew that with every extra minute that passed our starved bodies were deteriorating further. We pushed on with a renewed sense of urgency, frustrated that progress seemed so slow. We felt the time it was taking to uncover the buried frozen ropes was much too much. My toes were becoming increasingly sore and I became aware that they must have been damaged in the cold.
Our extremities were becoming colder and colder, our hands and feet turning numb as our dwindling physical strength was diverted to our cores in a last-ditch attempt to keep us alive. As I kicked my crampon points into hard ice to get a secure footing, my toes felt the pain of each and every impact. Rick was no different, suffering patiently in silence. I still felt okay, apart from worrying about the rabbit, but at the same time I knew I was half out of my mind with exhaustion, dehydration and hypoxia and that my body was struggling.
After what seemed like several hours of agonising slowness we were finally through the steep and exposed part of the descent and came to a flattish but exposed rib, which I remembered well from our 2009 expedition. The sky was darkening, working through a deepening range of blues to a light charcoal, indicating that night was on its way. My nose felt sore and I touched it, realising that it was exposed to the cold air. My neck scarf must have slipped down during the day. I touched it again and as I brought my hand back into view I could see clotted bits of blood and skin on my gloves. This is not going to look cool to my clients when I get back to guiding above Chamonix, I thought. The rabbit had gone now, although when I looked at the rocks Snoopy was still sitting there. I imagined he must have been as agile as a mountain goat to move around like that from ledge to ledge. All afternoon I looked over to check if I could see him; he was always there, sitting on a ledge. But I never saw him actually move.
A mist came down and enveloped us. I said prayers quietly to myself as I carried on down, but no windows opened in the mist this time and I felt a momentary guilt at bargaining with God in this way and then forgetting about him altogether in times of safety. On
reaching the end of the flattish rib area I was certain from my memory that at any point now we had to move rightwards to find a small arête. Then our route should take a semi-technical ridge that would lead us to a rib and eventually to the site of Camp 2. Rick said we had to go left instead, but I just knew he was wrong. It was vital that I listened to him and engaged him by asking why he thought that. I wondered if I should tell him that I was experiencing hallucinations, and felt myself a bit of a cheat for not sharing them. I was still sure in my own mind that I was performing more solidly than him; to let him know that I too was losing it might have been very bad for our confidence. Just because my body was failing and my mind was in an altered state didn’t mean I couldn’t make sound decisions. So I decided it was best to keep Snoopy, the witch and the cheery rabbit all to myself, which actually indicated to me the lunacy of my own logic.
To our left the mist-enshrouded mountainside looked even steeper and more uninviting. I was certain Rick was wrong. To argue with him was also wrong, so I tried to reason with him, saying that I was pretty sure my memory was correct. He admitted he was not so sure. I said that the side he was proposing dropped off steeply into quite wild, incredibly steep and avalanche-prone terrain. I was filled with a sense of foreboding, and became even more certain that my way was correct. After the snow-cave digging I felt that I could no longer trust his decisions, but knew I couldn’t say as much; a hurtful choice of words from me and we could find ourselves in a spiral of disenchantment that would only undermine us further. I felt so guilty not telling him about my hallucinations; I wasn’t being very fair. How could I be sure that my usual disciplined approach was holding while my brain was doing such strange things?
Visibility was almost zero. We could now only see perhaps a metre or so in front of us and the terrain was very steep, so I suggested that rather than argue we should bivouac and make the decision when we could see again. Rick agreed even though we were on steep, exposed ground and the site for Camp 2 must have been only two or three hundred metres below us. We also knew that if there was anyone else on the mountain they would quite likely have camped there already. That would have been a blessing, to find a well-stocked tent. I would have had no qualms in borrowing a shelter and melting some snow on their stove. There might even be food. As it was, we were right on the crest of a steep slope. If the wind got up during the night we would be very exposed. Not to continue, to instead face the night without any shelter or anything to drink, was a bleak decision to have to make. It would be our third night without liquid.
Worse, this time, to our mutual disappointment, there was no plump bank of snow in which to dig a cave. Instead we dug a shelf from the powder snow and soon hit glassy, tungsten-hard ice. We placed our single ice screw and tied the centre of the rope into it so we could each have an end. The rest of the rope we coiled as insulation between us and our sleeping bags and the snow. Eventually we got ourselves reasonably comfortable. Rick got into his sleeping bag in a sitting position and I into mine. But I soon realised I wouldn’t be able to remain upright all night. So I packed my bag away again and remodelled my side of the snow ledge. Once I’d struggled back into my bag I was able to lay down, at least partially. When the time came to at least try to sleep I could actually elevate my feet and legs.
It was an exposed spot, but the mist obscured the view so that hardly mattered. At least there was more oxygen now, as we were at around 6,300 metres. We were very tired, wholly exhausted, and I knew that my body would drift away to sleep – I have an incredible knack of sleeping anywhere. Yet this time I really did wonder if I would wake up in the morning. My religious nature gave me confidence that I would, but at one point in the night I found myself in a spiritual fairyland, dreaming that I floated on cotton-wool clouds that seemed like heaven. Even when I woke with frozen legs, I wasn’t alarmed. I sensed I would be okay whatever happened. I felt there was nothing to fear, just a peaceful calm that would endure forever. While I massaged some warmth back into my cold thighs I reflected on my life, my disciplined childhood, my years of climbing. We chose to do this. I was glad I wasn’t here for any other reason – like fame or to please a sponsor. When Rick and I pushed on to the summit we knew full well that once we had chosen to take that path then anything could happen. It was part of why we chose to continue rather than descend with the Sherpas and Cathy. It was what Rick and I had signed up for. Despite the hardships – the bone-aching cold, the terrible thirst – I wanted to be here, whatever the price might be. I was glad I had spent my life free in the mountains.
These thoughts, that my life was ending, sparked something inside me. I pushed them away and concentrated on gently slapping either side of my freezing legs inside my sleeping bag and willing heat to return to my frozen toes. We had to get lower. We were almost out of time.
– Chapter 10 –
Descent
A semblance of warmth began to enter my legs and some even returned to my toes. Cheered by this, I looked over at Rick, who I sensed was also awake. He sat quiet and upright, his sleeping bag’s hood shrouding his face. There was absolutely no movement from him. I was concerned, but there was little I could do except think positively and try to ignore the strangeness in my head and the aching cold. Before settling in for the night, I’d had enough discipline to repeat my sock routine and put my outer boots in a big grey refuse sack that I used inside my rucksack to keep things dry. Rucksacks are never waterproof, whatever manufacturers say. Then I’d taken off my inner boots and flattened them so I could slide them under my backside as insulation against the ice. When my toes got too cold, I’d put them back on to warm my feet.
I learned tricks like these in my days with the Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Team. Going out in the arctic Cairngorms when most climbers were coming off the hill after their day’s climbing taught me a lot. I sat on the side of Nanga Parbat thinking about my old pals from those days. I saw them now, faces muffled in hoods and woolly hats: Roger Gaff, Willie Anderson, Donnie Williamson and the others. More often than not we were heading out to frozen, inert bodies which we had to stretcher off the hill in the middle of the Cairngorm night. I dozed off thinking of those past times; how there was nothing new in any of this. I’d been here before.
I woke abruptly and struggled upright, removing my inner boots, one at a time, and wriggling my toes furiously inside my sleeping bag. I adjusted the knot on the rope holding me to the belay anchor so it was semi-tight and I could hang there safely. I flipped the hood of my sleeping bag back over my head and pulled the draw cords tight, enclosing my face. Then I tried to sleep again. I was very aware of Rick opposite me. He still sat like a zombie, wrapped in his sleeping bag and bolt upright. I knew he was fading away. I knew his feet and legs would freeze if he remained in that position; we both knew our blood would be as thick as sludge by now. There was no way his heart would have the power to pump blood around his body and down to his feet in that position. I had suggested that he try to lie down or raise his legs a bit but he mumbled he was fine. I asked if he had changed his socks and he replied no, he was keeping his boots on. I suggested he at least slacken off his bootlaces. Again he said he was fine. I knew he wasn’t but I didn’t want to lecture him.
I was amazed that I slept for quite long periods. When I woke up I was absolutely freezing and I would make small cycling movements with my legs to get some warmth back. This seemed to help and I’d drift off again until I was too cold to sleep, and then the whole process would begin once more. When I was awake I would watch Rick in the darkness, still cocooned in his upright position, having apparently not moved since the last time I’d woken. I assumed he was still conscious, wishing the time away, waiting for dawn. It was a long vigil.
Eventually morning did come. Now fully awake, I waited patiently as the light swung from indigo to blue, to the colours of morning. We started moving at the same time, struggling into the day and packing up in no time at all. We seemed to be okay. I had pains putting on my
boots; my toes were frozen, but I sensed they had not yet turned to dead wood and that if we got back to Base Camp that day I might not lose them. Rick said his toes did feel like dead wood and had done so for a while. It wasn’t surprising. We had last had a drink three days before. Seventy-two hours without fluid. We hadn’t eaten properly in almost a week. Our bodies were eating themselves, our blood, thick and viscous, had crawled into our very cores, preserving our brains and our pumping hearts. Our organs would be starved now of oxygen and energy, on the brink of collapse. Our legs and arms were being sacrificed.
I took a grip of my emotions and tried to shut out this useless mental chatter. I needed control now, not rabbits in red waistcoats. I felt I was living a very simple truth. There was just one thought in my head – that we had to get down to thicker air as soon as possible, before we were undone. There was nothing for me to do but smile and keep going. I touched my nose and flinched, remembering that the day before it had been exposed to the sun and cold. I recalled the blood on my fingers, but it was pointless to care too much about it. I pulled my scarf up and breathed through the improvised facemask.
The mist had lifted and it was a fine enough morning. In my mind I rehearsed the route. I was absorbed in the present. Diamir Base Camp was miles below. We had first to traverse the tricky ridge below to Camp 2. The hope that we might find some tents there still lingered in my mind. Beyond Camp 2 was the difficult Kinshofer Wall. We would need to abseil this, and I knew that in 2009 there had been a massive tangle of fixed ropes up it. Given our experience yesterday, those fixed ropes could well be frozen and useless, but at least we had our own fifty-metre rope with us. Even though the abseils would be short, there would be adequate anchors and we would get down it safely.