In Some Lost Place

by Sandy Allan

  From the bottom of the wall there was then a long ice slope to down-climb, which would take us to the gaping bergschrund half concealed with avalanche debris. Once we crossed that we could traverse around to the buttress that sheltered Camp 1 from the séracs and avalanches that often fell from high above. Three to five hours after that we would arrive at Base Camp – easy really, except that in 2009 the route was fixed and we were well watered and fed. I tried to convince myself it would be okay, but I knew full well that in these circumstances it would be extremely hard labour. I wondered whether I would be dragging Rick or if he would be dragging me. Would our bodies simply run out of time?

  From our bivouac I climbed down through some rocks, taking monumental care with each front-point placement. I fixed a thread anchor, abseiled, and then held the ends of the rope as Rick followed me and we roped up again. We were now on the ridge leading to Camp 2 at 6,200 metres and when we got there I felt we’d passed an important milestone. There were no tents at all, but by now we were not surprised or disappointed to discover this. We were pleased to see the remains of some tent platforms, an indication that people had at least been there in the last few weeks. At one of the tent platforms we took off our rucksacks and sat on them for a rest. The sun was shining intensely and it was incredibly warm. All of a sudden my mind seemed to shift up a gear. I felt more alert and lucid than I had for days.

  This was the first warm sunshine we’d experienced since the lighter failed. We could put snow in our water bottles and use the sun’s warmth to melt it. I was amazed I hadn’t thought of this before, but the temperatures had been so low it just hadn’t occurred to me. We had very occasionally put snow in our mouths to moisten them a little, but it was ultimately no answer to the harsh thirst in our throats. I half-filled my clear plastic bottle with snow, lay it in the sun and joined Rick who was already fast asleep. I slept for maybe ten minutes, woke up with a start and felt slightly rejuvenated but still debilitated. Then I drank a mouthful of slushy snowmelt from the bottle. The sensation of fluid in my throat was delicious. Never had a drink of water tasted so good. I refilled the bottle with snow and while it was melting took off my down clothing, pulled on my Power Stretch underwear and repacked my rucksack. Then I simply sat in the sun.

  I felt incredibly grateful and content, sitting on that remote eagle’s nest high above the valley. Life couldn’t have been more simple or pure. I thought of my daughters. Sometimes I would ask them: ‘Hey girls, what are you doing?’ They would reply: ‘Oh, we’re just sitting Dad. Sometimes we just like to sit.’ Their answer confused me a little, but then I realised I could learn from them. We are born pure and empty, the emptiness of being new. During our lives we are filled with experience but the purity gets lost. It’s inevitable I suppose. Some of us, perhaps many of us, find it again. Experiences such as this climb bring us back to that emptiness, but it takes discipline to step beyond what we know and to leave the past behind. It’s a form of enlightenment. I was just sitting there, waiting for the sun to transform snow into water. The paradise of my early youth was being regained. Reborn. I was alive and approaching some sort of Nirvana. I thought about life: how it all seems just to happen, how it was born out of chaos, from some greenish primordial gloop that surged through a fissure in the earth’s crust to bubble to the surface. There is – must be – a spirit that sparked this chaos off. I remembered sitting by our month-old baby Hannah’s cot. She had smiled at me as she woke, seeming to know full well that I had been looking into her relaxed face as she slept. Now, I was awake too and truly aware. These wonderings left me inspired. I realised that I was bursting to move and it was time to go.

  I woke Rick, who was weak and rather lethargic. I encouraged him to change out of his clothes, reminding him that as we were much lower now and would probably be in the sun all day we could afford to shed some layers. At first he said he couldn’t be bothered, but eventually found the energy to remove his harness and outer layers and then put his harness on again. While he was doing this, I heard movement somewhere below us, although we couldn’t see anyone. I wondered if the porters Ali had sent around to the Diamir side had managed to climb up and meet us. But there was no sign of anyone and we decided that there must be people below us, probably climbing the fixed ropes on the Kinshofer Wall. I told Rick that I had managed to melt snow in our water bottles, and we shared a tiny sip of meltwater. It seemed to revive him.

  We roped up again and Rick led off, with me following behind, still feeling strong enough to catch him if he fell. Although Rick was exhausted, I knew that he was a good and capable climber and so surefooted that even in this weakened state he was unlikely to slip. I trusted him, as he did me. We certainly couldn’t afford to fall. After some awkward down-climbing and traversing we were about to climb down a steep slope that led to big rocks at the top of the Kinshofer Wall. These rocks were the anchors for the fixed ropes down it. At that moment we saw a man climbing upwards. He looked incredibly fit, clean and well-dressed in a black jacket with a huge logo printed on the arms. I called to him and he acknowledged us but kept moving a few more metres to clip himself into the top of the fixed ropes. He gave the impression of being very precise. Carefully, he attached himself to an anchor and then spoke to us. He was Czech, he said, and his English was poor. He looked amazed at seeing us, clearly wondering who we were and where we had come from. I immediately raised two fingers to my lips, as though putting a cigarette to my lips, the international symbol for: ‘Can you give me a light?’ Then I burrowed into my rucksack and dug out the Sumo stove. I held it up so he could see it and with my right hand mimed flicking a lighter with my thumb against the burner.

  He understood immediately and from his rucksack pulled out a Thermos flask, unscrewed the top and handed a cup full of liquid to Rick. Rick was suddenly quiet and still, apparently reluctant to take the cup. It occurred to me that he was thinking that drinking from someone else’s Thermos might undermine our alpine-style ascent. I said, ‘drink it Rick. We’re dying. You have to take some fluids.’ He slugged it down and immediately vomited it all back up. The Czech climber realised this was a natural reaction for someone who had been out on a limb for a while and smiled nicely, took back the cup and refilled it, returning it to us both. He said in his broken English that his partner was coming and that he spoke better English. Whilst he was speaking he handed me a small lighter.

  I made a small shelf in the snow and set the stove up. It lit first time and immediately I began melting snow. The sound of the gas turning to flame and roaring under the pot warmed my very heart and sent shivers of relief right through my body. The Czech climber was trying to tell us his name – ‘Marek!’ – and signalled that he suspected we were ‘the crazy Scottish guys on the Mazeno.’ I had a huge grin on my face and laughed: ‘Yep, that’s us, but we are not crazy!’ I didn’t tell him that twelve hours earlier I’d been worrying about an imaginary rabbit’s frozen paws.

  It wasn’t long before Marek’s climbing companion, Zdeněk, arrived. He was much less strict about tying in and simply hung from his jumar while he spoke to us in good English. They both seemed blown away by seeing us and couldn’t really believe we were descending their climb. They said things in Czech between themselves and then were rummaging inside their rucksacks before handing us a packet of glucose sweets. I tore the packet open with my teeth before passing a handful to Rick, telling him to get them down him. He was still very quiet, as though the enormity of meeting these two strangers was overwhelming him. I stuffed my share into my mouth and chewed happily. By this time the Sumo stove had melted water and I handed a mug of hot liquid to Rick. This time he sipped cautiously and managed to hold the liquid down. I took some too and then set the pot on the burner again. Marek and Zdeněk explained they were now the only team at Base Camp. The bad weather had dumped lots of snow on the mountain, making conditions hopelessly dangerous for the other teams. They told us that some of the commercially guided parties had reached Cam
p 2 but had judged conditions on the mountain so poor that they all abandoned their attempts and went home. We had, they implied, just spent three days ploughing down a gigantic avalanche zone.

  Rick and I took in all this information. We had felt at times that conditions had indeed been dangerous and had triggered small avalanches ourselves. But things hadn’t been quite that bad. Of course, there was a huge difference in commitment and difficulty between two alpinists on a new route and clients on commercial expeditions following established routes and using locals to fix a bannister of ropes up the mountain for their paying clients. It was the difference between my life as a high-altitude alpinist and my life as a mountain guide, with a duty of care to clients who want the adventure without so much of the risk. It’s the difference between breaking free and calculating a compromise. Clients want someone else to judge the weather and snow conditions – to take responsibility for them, even while they enjoy the aura of the unpredictable nature you find in the mountains. If something does go wrong then lawyers often get involved to pursue the guide. No wonder everyone had gone home. But if people thought we’d been reckless, some of the answer lay in that choice – between taking risks for yourself and being paid to do it for someone else.

  When I climb with my buddies I feel safe, because I know they can belay properly, look after themselves and be of solid assistance in risky climbing environments. Competence reduces the risk and so we climb harder things. When climbing with buddies who are also paying clients, things are different. Sometimes they struggle to belay efficiently, or misunderstand the terrain, or else don’t move fast enough when things get difficult. These are risks too, just like avalanches or séracs, and as these risks increase, the scale of adventure gets turned down in response – there might be more fixed ropes and more porters, for example. This may come as a surprise to clients who have paid for the adventure of a lifetime on Everest or Mont Blanc, but commercial expeditions are a contradiction in terms. They’re like the idyllic Alpine village that cashes in and builds a ski resort, turning a sanctuary into a zoo. Property prices skyrocket, the locals complain and the area loses its character.

  While we sat wearily melting snow, the two Czechs introduced themselves properly as Marek Holeček and Zdeněk Hrubý. They were, they explained, on the Diamir side of Nanga Parbat to acclimatise for a new route they were hoping to climb on the Rupal Face. Like us, in our original planning at least, they had opted to climb up to Camp 2 on this side of the mountain to acclimatise and prepare themselves for their big adventure. I had read about Marek’s exploits before; he’s a well-known and very bold alpinist.

  Zdeněk then said he thought we would definitely win the Piolets d’Or, world alpinism’s equivalent to the Oscars. That amazed me. Up to that point I had never even considered any type of award for doing something I loved so much. I simply had wanted to climb the Mazeno for the love of the challenge; the idea of some golden trinket really disappointed me. But Rick agreed with them and said, ‘Oh do you think so? That would be cool.’ I realised then that I was climbing for very different reasons.

  That same realisation had happened to me before, many years ago: Mal Duff and I decided that we were going to try and climb Lhotse Middle, which at that time was the highest unclimbed 8,000-metre summit in the world. To climb it, you had either to do the normal route on Lhotse and then traverse an incredibly technical knife-edge ridge, or climb to the South Col of Everest and head south into the wilds beyond, which was the route the Russians eventually took when they made the impressive first ascent in 2001. Both these routes included a wild traverse at over 8,000 metres and to me that was an exciting proposition.

  Mal and I thought of a third way: we might be able to take a diagonal line across the south face of Lhotse, on to Lhotse Shar, and then traverse the ridge over to Lhotse Middle and continue along that sharp rocky ridge before descending via the normal route of Lhotse to Everest Base Camp. That would have been a truly cool new climb. It was without doubt terribly ambitious for the time. Of course it ended early on – about three quarters of the way up Lhotse Shar, Mal and I came to some incre-dibly difficult and steep ice up the side of unstable séracs. It was 8 a.m., we had been climbing all night and the sun was beginning to rise. Ice conditions were degrading. As Mal was leading one very steep section, some ice broke off and hit Mal, splitting his head open and causing him to fall. I held him and lowered him off the steep wall. Together we wrapped his head in a stretchy crepe bandage and then, over a few days, I got him down to Base Camp. It was a bit of an epic descent but just part of one of the adventures that Mal and I had.

  It was obvious Mal was no longer fit to climb, so with a BBC reporter, Iain Macwhirter, and our poet friend Andrew Greig, Mal walked out to Lukla and flew home. While going through Kathmandu he visited the Ministry of Tourism, which had granted us our climbing permits, and it decided that our attempt would be abandoned as only I was left on the mountain. Of course there were no easy communications in those days so I had no knowledge Mal had done this. I was fit as a fiddle and decided to hang out at Base Camp, getting in touch with my friends Jeff Lowe, Mark Twight and Alison Hargreaves. Alison and Jeff had just climbed a new route on Kantega and Jeff was about to start a new climb on Nuptse with the very young and very likable Mark.

  I spent a bit of time hanging out with them in Jeff’s famous base camp tent where he had a big inflatable armchair sat comfortably in the centre of a fine Tibetan carpet. Alison was due to go home but I convinced her to come climbing with me on Lhotse Shar. So with Jeff’s help and that of the expedition’s liaison officer, we wrote to the Ministry of Tourism asking that as Mal Duff was injured, would the Ministry consider adding Miss Alison Hargreaves to our permit so that our new team could try our climb again? We sent a Sherpa running back to Kathmandu with the letter.

  The weather was good in the mountains so Alison and I teamed up and headed back up to my own simple base camp. We got back up to our previous high point, where we established ourselves in a snow cave at around 6,800 metres. That night a big storm came in and we were stuck in the snow cave for a few days. Once the weather cleared Alison and I decided to push on up the mountain, but the slopes above were so loaded with unstable snow that the avalanche risk was simply too great. We decided to go down and give the snow a few days to settle. I remember feeling very at ease with Alison, thinking she was cool, capable and together. As we abseiled down, still several hundred metres above our base camp, we could see below, in the far distance, lots of people milling around and we wondered what was going on down there. We actually thought that a trekking group must be passing by and we looked forward to sharing tea with them and hoped that we would get some up-to-date news and banter.

  As we got closer we realised the people were in military uniforms and when we arrived in camp, knackered and exhausted after our climb, they told us we were climbing without permission and arrested me. I could not believe it. But I had to pack up my gear and was escorted in military fashion all the way to Namche Bazaar, where I had to spend the night in their rudimentary police lock-up drinking copious amounts of tea with the friendly policeman. I was accompanied by military police on the flight to Kathmandu and then taken to the Ministry. There I was interviewed by men in uniforms and I explained everything with all my best Scottish Highland charm; I could not really understand why I was in such dreadful trouble. I had climbed in Nepal for many years and over that time had established a good reputation as an honest enough fellow. I was told that I had to stay in a hotel in Kathmandu and that a military presence was to be posted at the hotel. I was under a form of house arrest. I had to give the military time to discuss my situation.

  I had of course apologised profusely and continued to explain my side of the story and my innocence. Thanks to Jeff Lowe, his Sherpas and my own Nepali agent who all played their part, I was finally cleared. I remain grateful for their assistance. Eventually the Ministry escorted me back

  to their offices a
nd they explained that Mal had visited and told them to close the expedition. Even with a head injury I thought he had more sense than to hand back a climbing permit with someone still on the mountain. Once I got back to Scotland I telephoned him but he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation and admitted he only wanted to try Lhotse Middle to enhance his guiding reputation.

  I was so upset and disappointed that we just drifted apart and I did not climb with him again. Eventually, after ten years or so, we became friends again as we bumped into each other while guiding clients on winter climbs on Ben Nevis. I ended up guiding for Mal on Cho Oyu and while I was there we received the terrible news that he had suffered a fatal heart attack at Everest Base Camp. I was so sad hearing of Mal’s death; I realised we had been incredibly good friends for an important phase of our lives and had shared some good climbing. Thanks to Mal I had been able to live out some amazing dreams and adventures. He was a rough diamond indeed.

  We said our goodbyes to the Czech team, thanking them profusely. They continued upwards, as they were heading to Camp 2 where they planned to bivvy for the night. Sleeping at that altitude would aid their acclimatisation in preparation for their planned new route on the Rupal Face. As he went, Marek shouted back down to us to help ourselves to their tent and food at Camp 1. I shouted my thanks and handed Rick the pot of warmed snow melt. We shared the remaining liquid and then I packed the stove carefully into my sack and we set off down to the top of the fixed ropes.

  – Chapter 11 –

  Return

  Once I’d clipped into the tangle of old fixed ropes leading down the Kinshofer Wall I belayed Rick as he abseiled down. When he was down fifty metres, I followed behind. I soon realised that the old ropes were just too worn and tight to allow a safe and efficient descent. With little discussion we decided to abseil using our own rope. It was back to the hassle of short abseils. I threaded the rope through the best anchors I could find and abseiled down first. Once I was clipped in, I held the ends of our rope as Rick followed. I watched him painfully clip and unclip from the ropes, his fingers still half-frozen and his mind exhausted. Once he was off the abseil ropes, I quickly pulled them through, re-threaded them and set the next abseil while Rick caught his breath. Once I was down, I shouted up and we repeated the process, again and again, until finally we reached the bottom. Here we found a mass of old ropes, twisted pitons and abandoned electron ladders. The standard routes on 8,000-metre peaks are filling up with this detritus.