by Simpson, Joe
Yossi lowered the binoculars and squinted at the bright glare of the afternoon sun on the south face.
‘The seracs don’t look too bad to me,’ he said. ‘It’s the way it was climbed before.’
‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the right way.’
‘They look a bit nasty on the right side but once you have moved over to those screes you should be OK.’ He handed me the binoculars. ‘There would only be small stuff coming off them anyway.’
‘Small is a relative term, Yossi, when you are talking ice cliffs. It doesn’t take much “small stuff” to kill you.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ He turned and strode back towards the stoves. ‘I’ve got the tea to make. Sort it out with Pira.’ He seemed remarkably blasé about my worries. Then again, he had just announced that his impending fever had ruled him out of guiding on the summit attempt.
I turned and studied the seracs again. Maybe he’s right? Maybe it’s just me? I thought. I’m getting too cautious for this game. Most often you simply have to accept a degree of objective danger in the mountains. You can try and minimise it by being fast, or climbing at night when it is freezing and the loose rocks are bonded safely together by ice and the seracs are not subject to the expanding heat of the midday sun. But the danger can never be eliminated and if you are unlucky there is nothing you can do about it.
Only three years before, two friends, Paul Nunn and Geoff Tier, had been killed on Haramosh in the Karakoram when a seemingly stable serac had collapsed. Their two companions, who had reached their high camp on the glacier before them, heard their voices chatting in the distance. As they prepared a brew of tea the heavy rumble of the ice avalanche broke the afternoon calm and the voices fell silent. Paul and Geoff had disappeared.
Paul Nunn was a big man in so many ways, not simply in stature and legendary physical strength, but in the breadth of his climbing experiences. He had climbed in an era when the accident and fatality rates were frighteningly high. Paul had come through it all unscathed with a wealth of experience, close shaves and dramatic tales to tell. At the time of his death he was the President of the British Mountaineering Council and the former Vice President of the Alpine Club. Widely respected and admired throughout the sport, he was just as happy in the company of young and ambitious climbers as he was with grizzled old-timers. I counted him as a friend but he was also a man I admired and respected immensely. The combination of experience and sheer physical presence made him seem indestructible. A dangerous notion, I know, but it felt true of Paul. I remember thinking that of another friend and wondering whether it might be tempting fate to think in such terms. Then he was killed in a plane crash in the hills surrounding Kathmandu.
The news of Paul’s death was starkly sudden and incomprehensible. It left a lasting impression on me and I wondered at the time that if someone like Paul, who deserved to live into a long and disgracefully happy old age, could be killed so easily, then what of the rest of us? I remember Geoff Birtles, the editor of High Mountain Sports magazine, saying, ‘White stuff kills, end of story,’ and he was right. It comes down to probability in the end. If you keep putting your head in the lion’s mouth one day he’s going to shut it and it won’t matter how good or strong or lucky you think you are. It was the way that Paul could be wiped from the face of the earth without leaving a trace after climbing a relatively safe mountain that shook me to the core. Once that thought had wormed its way into my mind I began to find it increasingly difficult to psych myself up for this climbing game. The news of Alison Hargreaves’s death in a sudden violent storm high on K2 a week later was another blow.
I was no stranger to the random dangers of rock-fall and avalanches but I had always felt that good judgement and experience could hugely minimise the risk. Even after Roger Baxter Jones was killed with his client on the north face of the Triolet when the serac bands avalanched, I still reasoned it was a risk that could be accepted. When I triggered an avalanche in 1981 near the summit of Les Courtes in the French Alps the experience had been terrifying but had left me convinced that it was my fault. I had been tired, dehydrated and consequently not paying sufficient attention to the potential danger of the snow conditions. After falling nearly 2000 feet to the glacier below, probably the fastest descent of the Courtes to date, I knew that the uncomfortable truth was that I had been a damn fool and very, very lucky to survive. The positive side of the experience is that I had developed a healthy, almost paranoid suspicion of anything with avalanche potential.
Nevertheless, it did seem unfair that years of experience and learning to climb at extreme standards on rock and ice could be wiped out in the sudden collapse of an ice tower or the random impact of a single falling stone as had happened to Alex McIntyre on the vast south face of Annapurna in 1982. Then again, mountains are not especially well versed in the notions of fairness. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t always known and willingly accepted this simple fact, but increasingly I felt unhappy about choosing such risks. The attrition of friends over the years had begun to eat away at my confidence, at my nerve, if blind disregard for unavoidable risk can be described as such. Maybe I was growing out of climbing as my father had confidently predicted over twenty years before, telling me it was time I found a proper job.
We packed our gear and settled in for a few short hours of sleep before our dawn start. I lay unsleeping, listening to the sharp reports of ice cracking as the glacier shifted uneasily beneath my tent and worrying about the seracs. You’re scaring yourself into a corner, I told myself sternly. Stop fixating on one problem – find the solution to avoid it and then tackle the next one. Stop looking at the big picture. It didn’t do me much good. I kept thinking of Paul and the avalanche on Haramosh. Do I really want to be doing this? I was no longer sure.
I watched my crampons as they bit into the hard névé of the upper glacier in the weaving beam of my head torch. The coils of rope in my right hand tightened momentarily as Alison Claxton paused in her ascent. Somewhere above me Pira was leading another client, Malcolm Minchin, across the scree band. I watched the bobbing yellow dot of his light and tried to make out which line he was taking, without success. Far above him I could just make out the faint shape of the saddle and the right-hand summit as dawn began to lighten the early morning sky. Below the summit ridge we moved cautiously in darkness. To the right of Pira’s light a black shadow revealed the looming presence of the pinnacles on the right-hand rock buttress. Up and to the left, directly in line with where I stood, lay the ice cliffs. Although I couldn’t see them, I sensed them hanging above us, biding their time.
I waited as Alison approached me. She stopped and leaned over the head of her axe to catch her breath.
‘How are you doing?’ I asked and reached around her to grab the rope connecting her to her partner Brian Mucci.
‘Oh, fine,’ she replied. ‘A bit tired, you know?’
‘Aye, well, if we just keep to this steady pace we should be OK.’
I had guided Alison and Brian on a trip to the Cordillera Blanca in Peru and they had been easily the strongest and most able of the group. They were both doctors – Brian a radiologist and Alison a microbiologist – living in the Lake District. They were keen hill walkers, skiers and low-grade rock climbers, and had completed many guided ascents in the Alps including the Matterhorn, Mont Blanc and the Eiger. Having climbed twelve 4000-metre peaks and the same number of 5000-metre peaks in Nepal and South America, as well as three of 6000 metres including Chimborazo, the highest mountain in Ecuador, their steadiness and ability gave me no concern. In Peru I had felt that they could just as easily have achieved their climbing ambitions without the aid of a guide. I suspected that their busy lives meant it was easier for them to join an organised trip than to waste time with all the normal irritating planning and logistics that they would otherwise have to deal with. Brian came up briskly, looking strong.
‘No sign of Pira and Malcolm?’ he asked.
‘Up there, on the scree ban
d. Not too far away.’ I gathered some coils of rope and turned back into the slope. ‘If we crack on now and get above the seracs before first light we should be able to take a breather at the ice slope just below the saddle.’ I didn’t wait for a reply and climbed off towards the scree slope running down into the glacier.
I don’t know why I chose to traverse left across the screes at half height. Intuition maybe, or luck. The scree was loose and awkward to move over and the ground had been better on the right. I knew that higher up we would just have to traverse all the way back again, so it didn’t make sense. I was increasingly conscious of what was hanging above us. I could feel my shoulders tensing.
When I reached the far side of the scree slopes where the ice of the glacier formed a small boundary wall against the loose rocks I stopped by a boulder. It was just big enough to stand behind and if I ducked my head forward its outward lean offered more protection. I heard the stones rattle as Alison came across towards me. Her head torch flickered erratically as she negotiated the rocks, slipping occasionally as they slid away. It was tiring ground. As she approached, I moved out to let her get in by the shelter of the ice and the boulder. Brian quickly came across and we chatted as we chewed chocolate and energy bars.
It was as I was about to set off directly up the edge of the glacier that the avalanche struck. I glanced up, saw nothing, then swiftly hid behind the boulder again.
The sound of ice cliffs collapsing is unmistakable. You can do nothing. The explosive force of a large avalanche can kill you with its air blast before the snow and ice have even touched you. It is loud, violent and disorientating and you know that you are seconds from being pulverised out of existence. You are momentarily completely out of control – numb and helpless. Your fate will be determined by luck and nothing else. It is a deeply unpleasant experience.
This one came out of the darkness without warning, falling from far above us in a gathering roar. I heard a suppressed squeal of fright and realised it came from me. As the first cracking sound snapped down from the night air I was consumed with fear. The rumble stilled my senses and for a long helpless moment my mind seemed frozen into silent resignation. I had been expecting it. I had convinced myself it wouldn’t happen and I now wished I had listened to my instincts. I cursed my complacency and felt sorry for myself.
As the sound of crashing ice blocks rose to a furiously discordant crescendo I ducked in against a boulder and braced myself for the impact. A small weak voice quailed inside asking plaintively. Will it hurt? I knew that it would.
Tiny charges seemed to pulse through my limbs and my mind was as empty and as shockingly aware as if I had been plunged into icy water. I was unbearably tense, filled with dread. Yet it was not unpleasant. As the avalanche swept down I felt frozen – a chilled numbness – yet I was recoiling at sounds, mouth tightening, staring wide-eyed through huge pupils, searching for death in the darkness. I was suspended in an insensate limbo, oblivious of my body as if detached from my senses. I had the unnerving sensation of looking down watching my body about to die.
Time seemed to extend as the avalanche rushed past, expanding as the ice blocks exploded into crystals and bloomed down the rocky couloir. It took only seconds from explosive start to the random knocking thumps as the last chunks tumbled slowly to a halt. I never took a breath. I simply stood in the dark waiting to die. It was a very long wait.
Then I rose up unsteadily as if from a sleep, from a panicky dark clenching fear that held me in thrall. Only then did time begin to move again. I peered around dazed, reprieved, uncomprehending. I was alive. That was all I knew: alive.
There was for a moment an immense simple self-satisfied pleasure at being there. The stars moved. I could hear again. I listened to my heart beating. It was a wonderful comfort, a balm soothing the ebbing terror. Breathing was good. I heard my companions breathe and I felt the living warmth of their backs as I released the protective pressure of my arms. The aliveness made me quiver. I realised with a start that I was never more alive than when I was almost dead. I let out a long unsteady breath and heard nervous giggles in the darkness. I felt that I was on the verge of tears and was glad of the dark.
We had pressed together listening as the ice scoured its way down through the darkness. I had stopped breathing and leaned against Brian and Alison, partly to offer them some protection but mainly to get myself under cover.
I had listened intently to the sound of the avalanche, trying to detect some hint about its size and direction. As I had crouched closer to the boulder I heard someone giggle. I didn’t know whether it was Alison or Brian but I remembered thinking What are you laughing at? This is real, for God’s sake! Maybe it was simply a nervous reaction but I remember being inordinately angry. I was deeply scared, and somehow it was annoying that someone might think it was a joke. When it was over I felt ashamed at my fear. We’re safe. It was nothing. What were you bothered about? Although I tried to convince myself that I had over-reacted it didn’t work. Adrenalin was surging through my body. I had an image in my mind of Paul and Geoff chatting as they crossed a snow field and then the obliterating violence of the ice avalanche that swept them away, never to be seen again. I knew I had every reason to be horrified. This was a lottery.
It was that endless moment, in Bolivia during the summer of 1998, as the avalanche thundered down from the darkness above me, that marked the point at which I began to realise that I no longer loved the mountains.
I glanced hurriedly to the right and searched in the darkness with my head torch, looking for signs of fresh ice. I saw nothing. The loose screes we had just crossed were untouched. The avalanche had swept down the line we had been climbing only fifteen minutes before and I knew from the proximity of the noise that it would certainly have hit us. I couldn’t judge how heavy it would have been. It may only have been the rush of ice crystals but something told me that it would have been altogether more lethal than powder snow. I had heard the hard impacts of heavy blocks coming from my right and from below.
‘Right, let’s get out of here,’ I said, trying to hide my shock. ‘That was much too close.’
I wanted to get moving, to put distance between myself and the others. Already a reaction was setting in and I heard the tension in my voice. I felt jittery and it annoyed me intensely. It seemed pathetic to react so childishly. I set off up the screes above the boulder, hugging the edge of the glacier on the left and trying to climb fast. I wanted to get off the screes and up level with a terrace that seemed to offer an intricate way through the ice cliffs. From there we would be safe from any further avalanches. I felt the rope tighten in my hand and then relax as first Alison and then Brian began to follow me.
As dawn spread a soft light across the glacier far below, I reached the terrace to find Pira and Malcolm sitting amidst a jumble of rocks.
‘Was that near you?’ Pira asked nodding in the direction of the seracs.
‘Near enough,’ I muttered. ‘It went down the right side … just after we had crossed over.’ Pira nodded.
Above the terrace a 300-foot ice slope of spiky penitentes barred the way up to the saddle. The penitentes, peculiar it seemed to Andean mountains, were caused by intense thawing and freezing and formed a jagged series of shark-fin spikes of ice jutting in serried ranks across the slope. When frozen hard, as these were, they made for relatively easy, if occasionally stilted, upward progress. Pira and Malcolm were soon up near the saddle but Alison seemed to have slowed down enormously. I wondered whether I had pushed the pace too hard after the avalanche and tired her out. As she struggled to the halfway point on the slope of penitentes I could see that she was breathing hard and her face was drawn from the effort. I was surprised, given that she had climbed so strongly in Peru the previous year, but when she slumped down beside me on an ice shelf she shook her head and said in a flat resigned voice that she wanted to go down. She had not had the chance to acclimatise as fully as she had in Peru.
Brian came up quickly and looked fr
esh and strong. He gave Alison a comforting hug as I tried to work out what to do.
‘Do you want to continue?’ I asked and Brian looked from me to Alison and back. I could see that he was torn by his loyalty and concern for his partner and his desire to carry on.
‘Don’t worry about Alison,’ I reassured him. ‘I’ll go down with her. It’ll be all right.’
‘Why don’t I wait here and you go on with Brian?’ Alison asked. ‘I would be safe waiting here.’ She was obviously anxious that we should all still have a go at the summit. For a moment I was tempted by the idea and then dismissed it. There was no way I would consider leaving a client waiting alone and un-roped while I continued the climb. Although I had no doubt that we could give the summit a go and come back safely there were no guarantees that something might not go wrong. I glanced up the ice slope and wondered how far the top was from the saddle. My altimeter watch showed that we were close to 5900 metres, which put the summit only 150 metres higher, but judging from what I had seen on the glacier I guessed it might well be a long way horizontally from the saddle.
‘No, it would be best if we stick together.’ Brian looked a little deflated. ‘But you could go on, Brian. Pira can drop a rope down and you go with Malcolm.’
I turned to see Pira and Malcolm close to the top of the wall and yelled to attract their attention. After a brief discussion with Pira a rope came snaking down the slope and Brian tied himself into it. I coiled the spare rope and Alison slung it around her shoulders.
‘Come on, then, we’ll take it easy on the way down.’ I watched as Brian set off confidently up the slope and felt surprised at how unconcerned I was not to be continuing. A second ascent of the biggest peak in the range would normally have been a powerful incentive.
Alison rose tiredly to her feet, slipping her hand into the wrist loop of her ice axe. I think she felt a little guilty that I was having to descend with her and I should really have told her that I was not bothered at all. We made fast progress down and across the terrace, heeling down the loose screes on the edge of the glacier until we had to traverse back over to the right-hand side. I paused and looked up towards the seracs that were now bathed in morning sunlight. They were splintered and unstable, yet they appeared remarkably innocuous. I could only imagine small chunks peeling off the ice walls and began to doubt my alarmed reaction to the avalanche. Maybe it just sounded louder because of the dark? Or did I let myself get too worked up about the threat before we set off?