The Everest Years

by Chris Bonington

  The next day we walked up to Base Camp, following the lateral moraines of the Baintha Brakk Glacier to a shoulder from where we had our first close-up view of the Ogre. Its bulk was hidden by intervening peaks, but its triple heads peered at us over their tops, even more impressively than the pictures had indicated. We were on the western edge of the confluence of two glaciers, the Baintha Lukpar that led up to the south side of the Latok range, and the Uzun Brakk Glacier, which pointed to the Ogre. We scrambled across the tumbled rocks, climbed a high moraine and suddenly we were on the brink of a gentle haven, cradled in the arms of the lateral moraines of the two glaciers. The hollow held a shallow lake, was carpeted with lush grass, sprinkled with alpine flowers, and was dotted with big boulders, as if designed to be shelters for itinerant climbers. A few tents were already clustered round one of the boulders. We knew we would have neighbours for another small British expedition was attempting Latok I, a peak slightly smaller but no less challenging than the Ogre.

  It was a little like arriving at the Chamonix campsite. They gave us a wave and carried on with what they were doing while we pitched our tents. Later on Paul Nunn and Tony Riley wandered over to chat, and Nick picked up a conversation with Paul that had begun a fortnight before in the Moon, the Peak District pub much used by climbers. Their team was very similar to our own, six in number and all of them from the Sheffield area. They had arrived a week earlier, but had been delayed by the bad weather we had experienced on the walk in. For us the rain had merely been an inconvenience but they had had snowfalls of up to half a metre. They had established an Advance Base Camp but only had food and fuel for three weeks, which put a strict limit on the time they could spend in the area.

  That afternoon Clive and I set off across the glacier to try to find a dump left by their expedition in 1975. Doug has little caches of gear scattered all over the Himalaya, in friends’ houses in Delhi and Kathmandu, in porters’ huts in the Karakoram and under boulders at the head of obscure valleys like the Uzun Brakk Glacier. We went from one pile of boulders to the next, all of them looking alike, as Clive tried to remember where they had left the dump. After an hour’s search, to my amazement, we found the remains of the gear, but unfortunately a crevasse had opened up immediately beneath it. We managed to salvage a tunnel tent, some rope, gas canisters and a pair of tweezers, before wandering back to Base Camp under the late afternoon sun.

  We talked long into the night – gossiping about the climbing scene back in Britain, laughing at outrageous stories from Mo, and getting into hand-hold by hand-hold discussions of gritstone problems under a star-studded sky with the peaks flanking the Ogre silhouetted like stark black fingers against the night.

  – CHAPTER 5 –

  Nearly, But Not Quite

  The Ogre, foreshortened by proximity, towered above us. Its first defence was the sheer granite nose which Doug and Tut were planning to climb, but the rest of us were going to outflank its obvious difficulties by tackling the broken wall of rocky buttresses and snow gullies that led to a broad col to the west of the mountain. Nick and I had come up the previous day (15 June) to what was to be our Advance Base and were now its sole occupants.

  It was a good feeling to be in the heart of the mountains immediately below our objective and an even better one now to be out in front as a pair. We had spent the last four days ferrying up supplies. To do this we had kept on six of the better equipped and more determined porters and had carried heavy loads ourselves. We were working well together, and Nick had made up a selection of foods to last a month up at Advance Base. At this stage we were all in accord over what we were doing, though on our western route we would be operating as two pairs with separate approach tactics.

  The wives of Mo and Clive were due to arrive at Base Camp around this time. Steph Rowland and Jackie Anthoine both climbed and were hoping to attempt some of the neighbouring smaller peaks whilst their menfolk climbed the Ogre. This was one reason why Mo and Clive had stayed behind while Nick and I had been keen to get up to Advance Base.

  Sitting outside our tent in the setting sun, I could savour the quiet of the early evening. Down the glacier a wall of jagged minor peaks separated us from the Biafo Glacier. Base Camp was a thousand metres below and about three miles away round the corner. It was as if we had the mountain to ourselves and we both relished the prospect of being the first of our team to set foot on it. The previous year a Japanese expedition had attempted the Ogre by the same line that we were trying but they had only got a short way above the col to the west of it.

  It was a glorious morning without a cloud in the sky as Nick and I, roped together, picked our way across the snow-covered glacier. He was breaking trail, whilst I carried a heavy load of rope and pitons so that we could start fixing the route. About halfway across he suddenly sank down to his shoulders in the snow; he had stepped into a hidden crevasse. I heaved back on the rope and he was able to struggle out unaided. Gazing into the dark hole he had left I could see a rope stretched across the void about three metres below, the first evidence of our predecessors.

  We reached the foot of the face and kicked up a snow gully until we could escape from it by a horizontal break. This led towards a rocky spur that would give us some protection from the threat of avalanche. It was still in shadow as Nick started climbing a steep slab, his head haloed by the sun as he breasted the top. This was real climbing. He fixed the rope and I jumared up into the sun. It was only ten in the morning but already it was getting oppressively hot – time to return. We could see two tiny figures slogging up towards Advance Base, Doug and Tut probably. But where were Clive and Mo? Could they still be lolling about at Base waiting for their wives? Later we learnt Steph and Jackie had in fact reached Base Camp that morning but, assuming they were part of the expedition, had not bothered to get trekking permits and consequently had had to talk their way through the police posts at Dasso and Askole. An armed police posse had caught them up as they reached Base Camp and it was only through the good offices of Aleem, who insisted that they should stay until he sorted it out by letter, that they weren’t hauled off back down the mountain. Their late arrival had triggered two all too human responses: the way individual groups on a mountain automatically assume that they alone are doing all the work, and the problems that almost inevitably arise when some, but not all, team members have their wives or girlfriends at Base Camp.

  But our group was now complete with everyone keen to start climbing. In the next few days both teams began pushing the routes up their respective lines. Then on 18 June we had a near disaster. Doug and Tut were ferrying gear up the gully leading to the foot of the Nose when a rock the size of a football came hurtling down. Tut tried to dodge but it hit his thigh a glancing blow. If it had hit him on the head he would probably have been killed. As it was, he was badly bruised and had difficulty in limping back to Base Camp. He was certainly going to be out of action for at least a few days. I was very impressed by Doug’s acceptance of what had happened. He was full of concern for Tut and showed no signs of impatience, though he must have realised that the accident had seriously prejudiced his chance of completing their route.

  On 20 June, Nick and I moved up to a camp we had sited about halfway up the face. It was a magnificent eyrie on the crest of a little rock spur, making it safe from avalanche. The previous day we had carried up about forty kilos of food while Mo and Clive had pushed the route on up towards the col. We were making good progress but some rifts in our team were beginning to show. Mo and Clive were altogether more relaxed in their approach and did not have the same sense of urgency that Nick and I shared. We believed that we should grab the good weather and make as much progress as possible, get ourselves established on the col, and then go Alpine-style for the summit. Mo and Clive, on the other hand, seemed to favour a more deliberate approach and preferred the idea of going for the West Ridge of the mountain.

  Next day while pushing the route out ourselves, Nick and I saw three figures carrying loads to our camp
and on returning we were indignant to find only a few gas cylinders, three ropes and a few pegs. We assumed that the third man had been Doug. Surely, if they were serious about the climb, they would have carried more up. It was around this time that we began discussing the option of going for the summit by ourselves as a twosome. We were already operating as two self-contained pairs, each party responsible for its own food and fuel.

  The following afternoon we found Mo and Clive ensconced in a Denali tent on the very tip of the rock arête. It was good seeing them, and, as so often happens, all our resentment evaporated with explanations. They told us that Jackie had been with them the previous day and that this was why they didn’t carry more up. She had now returned to Base Camp to attempt a rock peak on the other side of the valley with Doug. Tut’s leg was still giving him trouble and he was resting at Base. Mo and Clive agreed to go out the next day to complete the route to the col, while Nick and I had what we felt was a well-earned rest. They got back just after midday to tell us they had run out of rope a metre or so below the crest. Nick and I therefore planned to move up to the col the following morning. With the dump of food we had over half-way up we reckoned we had around a week’s food and fuel, just enough to go for the summit.

  We both slept badly that night. I had a cough and was restless, partly from discomfort, partly excitement. I tossed and turned, keeping Nick awake. But it was worse for him when I did drop off as I snore. I think I actually slept for most of the night while he was convinced he hadn’t had a minute’s sleep and was justifiably exasperated in the early hours of the morning when he woke me to make breakfast. We had a good working agreement that I cooked breakfast, as I am at my best in the mornings, while he coped with supper.

  We were ready to leave at five thirty with twenty kilos of gear each to carry up. Mo and Clive were still in their sleeping bags with the tent door firmly closed. They seemed evasive about their plans saying they were too far behind us in their food build-up and anyway that Doug might want to join us if Tut didn’t recover. Nick and I were determined to go for the summit.

  There was approximately 500 metres of fixed rope to the crest of the arête leading to the final head wall. We hadn’t enough rope to fix the arête itself, a knife-edge of fragile snow, with the route winding from side to side and dizzy drops whichever way one went. The rope started again at the head wall, a steep slope of softish snow on very hard ice. We jumared up to where it ended below a cornice which curled over above us. I dumped my heavy sack and led off round the corner, crampons barely penetrating the steel- hard ice beneath the snow. A narrow runnel led through the overhangs to the crest of the col. Suddenly it all flattened out on to a snow-covered shelf with a gentle crevassed rise restricting our view to the ground beyond. But it didn’t matter. We had climbed the wall. I anchored the rope to a couple of ice pitons and Nick jumared up behind me. Our bad temper of the early morning was forgotten in our excitement. I agreed to drop back to the dump and bring up all the food and fuel we had left there while Nick prepared a campsite.

  It was easy going down unladen, but desperate returning. The altitude was around 6,100 metres and I was carrying about twenty-five kilos of food and gas cans back up to the col. It took me nearly three hours to cross the snow arête and climb the fixed rope but there I found the tent pitched and heard the welcome purr of the stove. Nick had a brew of tea ready for me. During the day, the clouds had begun to build up threateningly but in the late afternoon they rolled away and it turned into a still cloudless evening. We could see over the minor peaks of the Ogre and across the mountains on the other side of the Biafo Glacier to the distant mass of Nanga Parbat jutting over the far horizon.

  We were now on our own, committed to the climb and content with that commitment. Our decision-making was easy since we were agreed on the basic principles, even if we differed at times on the best tactics to achieve the immediate aim. We had almost a week’s food and just about a thousand metres to climb. That night we slept well, with Nick so tired that he could sleep through my snores. We had set the alarm for two in the morning, but by unspoken consent, ignored it and had another hour’s sleep before beginning to cook. We set out at five, picking our way round the heavily crevassed slope that led up to a wide plateau that formed the col between the Ogre and its western neighbour. We were still in shadow when we reached the foot of the slope that led up to the long shelf (the Ogre’s cummerbund), leading back to its South-West Ridge. A layer of insubstantial snow lay over hard ice. Nick was out in front and suddenly let out a whoop of relief. He had stumbled on a fixed rope left by the Japanese. Handling it cautiously, for he didn’t know how it was anchored, he pulled it out of the snow as he climbed the slope. At its top we found another two coils of unused rope. It was still only ten thirty in the morning. The shelf stretched away to our right beneath a sheer wall of granite but we were tired and decided to have a short day. We were back in camp by eleven.

  We spent the rest of the day dozing and checking our supplies. Next morning we resolved to make a carry to the end of the shelf and find a good launching point for our bid on the summit. We were both tense, overpowered perhaps by the scale of the climb and our own isolation. On the way across the traverse I took a line that Nick thought was too high. He said so, and I blazed back:

  ‘You can’t see where the hell to go from back there. Can’t you trust me to pick the best line? I haven’t interfered when you’ve been out in front. Just bloody well shut up and leave me to get on with it.’

  I was all the more resentful for the sneaking feeling that Nick could be right. But Nick apologised for interfering.

  ‘I was just trying to help.’

  I also apologised for losing my temper. We continued, edging across the unconsolidated snow lying on hard ice. It all felt very insecure and went on so much further than we had expected. At last we reached the end of the shelf and could peer excitedly around the corner. A band of smooth granite slabs separated us from the steep snowfield of the South Face. Gazing up the corridor between the soaring wall of the Ogre and the jagged rock and snow peak on the other side, we could see in the distance a triangular pyramid-shaped peak that surely must be K2, our objective next year, for I already had permission for the mountain.

  On the way back down we could see two tents at our first camp halfway up the face to the col, just tiny blobs, dark against the snow. There had only been one when we had crossed the traverse early that morning.

  ‘Looks as if they’re moving up,’ Nick remarked.

  We wondered who was there.

  Back on the col we were shaken to find we only had four gas cylinders left, barely enough for three days. But we were loth to drop down to rejoin the others and get some more. There was an unspoken desire to stay out in front, to remain independent, uninvolved with whatever the others were doing.

  ‘Let’s leave the tent,’ I suggested next morning as we left to establish our final camp. ‘We’ll be able to dig a snow hole on that spur at the end of the shelf.’

  ‘What if there’s ice underneath? We really will be in trouble if we can’t snow-hole. Anyway, you agreed yesterday that we should take it just in case.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find something. It’s a hell of an extra weight. I think we’ve got as much as we can manage already. We snow-holed all the way up the North Wall of the Eiger and there wasn’t anything like as much snow there.’

  We never resolved the discussion, but neither of us picked up the tent. Our loads already felt too heavy. It was another perfect morning. From the top of the Japanese fixed rope at the start of the shelf we could gaze on to the great white expanse of Snow Lake, which marked the confluence of several glaciers. The Hispar Glacier, like a gigantic motorway, stretched to the west, while to the north of it towered the mighty snow peaks of Kanjut Sar, Kunyang Kish and Disteghil Sar. It was just eight thirty when we reached the end of the shelf. We had taken only an hour and a half, compared to the five hours of the previous day. We were slightly better acclimatised a
nd our tracks had consolidated, making it all feel much safer. Since it was so early we decided to fix our two ropes across the rock slabs barring the way to the snowfield of the South Face.

  Nick led off, front-pointing delicately up hard ice leading to the base of the slabs. The ice became progressively thinner until he was tiptoeing on his crampon points up the smooth granite slab. He managed to place a rock piton belay and anchored our first rope to it. I followed up and looked across the slabs nervously. A belt of about fifteen metres of smooth, polished granite separated us from the snow slope.

  I removed my crampons and started off. It resembled the Etive Slabs in Scotland. There were no positive holds for fingers to curl round and it was a matter of padding, frightened, up and across the slabs. I was soon ten metres or so above Nick. What if I fell? Any injury would be desperately serious in our present position. I reached a hairline crack, tapped a knife blade piton in about a centimetre, tied it off with a tape sling, clipped in the rope and tensioned off on it, edging my way across the slab, using just enough tension to keep me on the rock but not enough to pull the piton out. The slab was now covered with an inch of fresh snow that I had to clear away in order to find rugosities of rock to stand on. I managed to tap in another two pitons behind rotten flakes but I doubt whether they would have held a fall. It was nerve-racking yet enthralling. A further three moves and I reached another crack, hammered in a piton, and tensioned across a few more paces. It took me an hour and a half to traverse the slab, an hour and a half of total concentration and controlled fear, culminating in heady elation as I reached the snow on the other side and placed an ice screw in the ice underneath. We had at least turned the key that gave entry to the huge snow slope of the South Face – but close up it seemed so long and steep. There was a rock band barring our way near the top and the snow did not look, or feel, well consolidated.