Over the Hills and Far Away

by Rob Collister

  We were not going to be let off so easily, however. The water had not yet boiled when the first exploratory gusts came looking for us. Within minutes we had to extinguish the stoves, and thanked our stars that we had good tents and plenty of snow on the valances. All too soon this illusion of security was dispelled. In the blasts, the roof of the tent all but touched our noses as we lay in our sleeping bags anxiously eyeing the fabric. The tent began to assume a distorted shape and we guessed that a pole had bent or snapped. One corner of the flysheet started to flap wildly, and we could feel the groundsheet lifting beneath us. The tent, it seemed, was ready for take off. Crawling out into the frenzied cloud of drift, I found more by feel than sight that the valance had been completely stripped of snow and the polythene food bags had slid off. In fact, the snow all around was being eroded away by the minute, leaving each tent perched on a pedestal. There was nothing we could do now to secure them and they were not going to last indefinitely. The battering violence of the wind made it hard not only to move but even to think, but clearly something had to be done. More by luck than judgment, we were camped a few feet from a convenient bank, where snow had drifted over a moraine ridge. While Mike and Richard knelt inside the tents, holding up the hooped poles, and no doubt holding their breath as well, at times, David and I stumbled and crawled over to the bank and frantically started to dig.

  Two hours later, as it was growing dark, we had made a cave just big enough for ourselves and our belongings. Carefully, we dropped the tents, one at a time, aware that it would be only too easy to lose one. Eventually, we were all inside and the entrance blocked. After the maelstrom outside, it was miraculously still and silent. For a while, spindrift continued to pour through the chinks, but these were sealed at last. We were cramped and, when the snow in our clothing melted, very damp. Fingers throbbed as they came back to life. But we were safe from anything the elements could throw at us.

  That day was a turning point in our traverse of the Hayes range. It was as though our credentials had been accepted, our entry to the high places approved. From that time on we could do no wrong ...

  Six of us from the Eagle Ski Club had left George Parks highway at mile 229 eight days before, with Bob Crockett of Anchorage and his dog-team, the Chugach Express. The following day we were joined on the Yanert River by two other mushers with the rest of our food and gear. When the teams left us two days later we were on a shelf overlooking the snout of the Yanert glacier. Progress had not been as fast as we had hoped, but it had been interesting travelling with the dogs and infinitely more satisfying than an airlift. At this point Paddy O’Neill and Steve Thomas also turned back, to our deep regret and their bitter disappointment. Both had frostbitten fingers, the result of an incident with a petrol stove, and Steve’s toes were injured too. Fortunately neither suffered permanent damage. From the snout, three days of ferrying loads through Deep Soft, and one day of lie-up when it put down yet more snow, had brought us to the point where we could take a day off and try a climb.

  Now, after one more day in which the wind blew itself out and we recuperated, we could enjoy ourselves. The weather became perfect, the soft snow had been replaced by wind-hardened sastrugi, and we had eaten enough to be able to move food and gear in single monster loads instead of relaying. Over the next week, we slipped into a routine of both travelling and climbing every day. There was no shortage of small peaks of modest difficulty for us to attempt. Wind-slab put a curb on our ambitions and we retreated from one route after setting off a small avalanche; but between us we reached the top of six mountains of 2,500-3,000 metres. These were days full of conscious pleasure and exhilaration as we skied beneath magnificent peaks like Deborah and Hess, or thankfully dropped our heavy packs and moved fast and light to the summit of the day’s objective.

  The key to our traverse was a col west of Mount Hayes, which was short but steep on both sides. We fixed a rope to help haul ourselves up, carrying skis as well as everything else; and for the descent in failing light on the far side, two of us preferred crampons to skis. Having crossed the col we had a not unwelcome lie-up day in heavy snow. Then the weather cleared on cue to present us with a marvellous descent in feathery powder down on to the Susitna glacier. A gentle climb brought us to the watershed where we paused a day to climb Aurora Peak by its long south-west ridge. Poling and skating energetically on a hard, fast surface, we descended the Black Rapids glacier in good style and crossed the gurgling river to reach the Richardson Highway at a sign that read: ‘FOOD, PHONE, GAS – 1 MILE.’

  The Alaska Range is split in two by the George Parks Highway (and a railway line) connecting Anchorage and Fairbanks. West of the road is the McKinley National Park. East of the road lies the Hayes Range, lower and less well known, and blissfully free from rules and regulations. It is bounded in the east by another road, the Richardson Highway, 100 miles away as the crow flies. We knew the range to have been traversed at least once, from east to west by way of the Gillam glacier, north of Hess and Deborah. Indeed, near the snout of the Yanert, we met a party of two who had just completed that same journey. Our route, through the heart of the range had probably not been skied before as a traverse, but most sections must have been covered before by someone. To put our efforts in perspective, a few weeks after our return to Britain we heard that a party from the US Nordic-ski squad had traversed the range in sixty-nine hours. Nevertheless, the area is not heavily frequented. From the Yanert snout we saw not a soul until the Black Rapids glacier, when a plane landed beside Mike as he was poling along on his own. The pilot wanted to borrow a map!

  The Big Blow was a salutary reminder that Alaska is a serious place. All our reading in back numbers of the American Alpine Journal had warned us that sudden violent winds are a feature of the mountains here. Yet on only three days in three weeks could we not travel. Although we were undoubtedly lucky to have quite such good weather, past records indicate that March, April and May are the most settled months in the year. From a skier’s point of view, May is too late. The rivers are breaking up and snow disappearing fast from tundra and moraine. In an admittedly very mild year, we found overflow a problem on the Yanert even at the beginning of April. Overflow is caused by water seeping up through the ice to form a surface layer of water several inches deep. At night this freezes to form sheets of smooth glare ice, difficult to travel on. Using skins we found it even more of a problem when the ice melted in the afternoons. The last few miles of our traverse were very bare of snow. We were only able to ski all the way thanks to a raised skidoo track. The weight of the machine had compressed the snow sufficiently to withstand the thaw that was melting the rest away. All in all, March might be a safer month than April to be sure of good snow conditions low down.

  March, however, is even more likely to be cold. Our arrival in Anchorage at the end of March 1986, coincided not only with the eruption of Mount Augustine and the first snow since November, but with a cold snap that lasted about a week. For the first few nights, the mercury in our little REI thermometers had dropped off the bottom of the scale at –30 °C by 6 p.m., and must have reached –40 °C at night. Towards the end of our journey we were skiing in shirtsleeves, but those first few days were colder than expected and our equipment, suitable for springtime in the Alps, was only just adequate. There was no room for error, as Paddy and Steve found to their cost.

  An agent or friend in Anchorage is invaluable for a trip of this nature. We were indebted to Bob Crockett. As well as providing the dogs at a very reasonable price, he organised the hire of a van, and its return to Anchorage, at the start of our journey, and he drove all the way up to Black Rapids to bring us back to Anchorage at the end. A friend indeed.

  – Chapter 17 –

  TWO’S COMPANY IN THE TIEN SHAN (1996)

  ‘I love it when the most important things in my pocket are not keys and money, but lip salve and sun cream!’

  The speaker was John Cousins, mountain guide and executive officer for the Mountain Leader Training B
oard, better known as J.C. Four of us, all from North Wales, were camped on the snows of the upper Kayindy glacier in the Tien Shan mountains of Central Asia. We were surrounded by 5,000-metre peaks, virtually all unclimbed.

  To reach that spot we had flown via Istanbul and Tashkent to Alma Ata in Kazakhstan, travelled for two days through Kyrgyzstan in the back of a truck, walked with porters for two days up stone-covered ice to a Base Camp and, after a couple of recces up side glaciers, had ferried loads for a further two days to our present camp.

  However, our situation was rather like being in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by forbidden fruit. For our objective was Kirov Peak, 6,073 metres, one of the last 6,000 metre summits still unclimbed in the Tien Shan, which is in a totally different valley … It is a remote peak, lying on the watershed of the South Inylchek and Terekty valleys with its south flank falling into China. Normally such remoteness is rendered meaningless in the Tien Shan by the use of helicopters, but, subscribing to old-fashioned values with regard to mountains, we had deliberately chosen to come out early in July, at least two weeks before the helicopters would start flying. The South Inylchek glacier is well known as the access route for Pic Pobeda, 7,439 metres and Khan Tengri, 6,995 metres, the two major peaks of the Tien Shan and much climbed over the years. However, it seemed that climbers might never have visited the Terekty valley; certainly there was no record of any of its peaks having been climbed. It was to the Terekty, therefore, that we chose to go and we duly applied for, and received, generous grants from the Mount Everest Foundation and the Welsh Sports Council.

  Why then were we camped on the Kayindy glacier, to the north of the Terekty valley? Choosing to visit little known valleys is not without hazard. Vladimir Komissarov, our likeable and efficient agent in Kyrgyzstan, had always been vague about access to the Terekty. On arrival we learned that according to information gleaned from local hunters and the military, access on foot to the Terekty was not possible. Large sections of the old road to China, which would have to be used part of the way, had been totally destroyed by landslips, and further on a narrow gorge meant crossing and recrossing the river, a hazardous undertaking for a large party at the height of glacial melt. Access would be far easier by crossing a pass from the Kayindy, Vladimir assured us. He had been up the Terekty once in a helicopter and believed that there were several passes easy enough for porters to negotiate. In the event, this proved to be totally untrue of the upper Kayindy, whither Vladimir had led us, but at the time we were in no position to argue.

  So there we were, ten days into our holiday, the porters paid off and, as yet, no sign of a route over to the Terekty or even a glimpse of Kirov Peak. It was undeniably depressing but J.C. and I were still optimistic. Unfortunately, our friends had become discouraged and, at this point, they succumbed to the temptations of the Kayindy. A few days later they returned to Britain.

  Our relatively orthodox four-person expedition had now become a two-man venture to find the mountain as much as to climb it. The next two and a half weeks were strenuous, serious and committing. Technical difficulties were never great but the potential for disaster, be it from avalanche, cornice, crevasse, rockfall or plain carelessness was ever present and most of the time we were many days from help. For those very reasons it became a unique and deeply satisfying mountain adventure, in which success or failure on the mountain seemed almost incidental.

  What follows is our diary from the time our friends decided to turn back.

  July 12

  Recce up to 5,000-metre col, steep at the top. Desperately hard work, deep soft snow all the way, six hours up, two down. Inconclusive on the feasibility of a crossing but not out of the question, and we spot a good line on P.5784, the highest peak in the Kayindy basin. Seems worth putting a camp on the col. And, at last, we can see Kirov Peak. First impression is daunting, to say the least.

  July 13

  Set out for the col with monster loads but slow progress thanks to exhausting heat and collapsing steps. Camp at 4,500 metres, but later, in the cool of the evening, carry a load of food and fuel to the top.

  July 14

  Old steps snowed-in overnight but still just visible, thank goodness! Up to the col and pitch the tent a little way to the west. Climb a small top to the east, P.5315. Feeling tired and camp early. Play Scrabble. J.C. is as interesting and entertaining in the tent as he is competent and reliable on the hill! He is also Cheyne-Stokes breathing when asleep – three deep breaths, sometimes a fourth, shallower one, over a period of ten seconds, followed by absolute silence for fifteen seconds.

  July 15

  Along the ridge carrying only day sacks for once, until we can find a way through giant cornices. Then downclimbing and traversing on ice through séracs and round bergschrunds, into a bowl beneath P.5784. Crossing the bowl we reach a spur coming down from the east ridge of the peak. It looks a safe and attractive route. Even better, below the spur a 40 ° snow/ice slope leads to a rock ridge and scree slopes dropping into the Terekty valley – for the first time, we know that a crossing is feasible. An enjoyable and rewarding day!

  July 16

  A change in the weather. Up till now we have experienced afternoon cloud and snow showers nearly every evening, but nothing serious and no wind. Last night was windy and heavy snow obliterated all our hard-won tracks. Back down to the Kayindy to pick up food and fuel sufficient for the next twelve days. Decide to make do with a single 8-millimetre rope and leave behind helmets and most of the rock gear. Hard slog back up to the col.

  July 17

  Along the ridge and into the bowl with single mega loads, lowering them down the steep, icy bits. Camp at the foot of the south spur of P.5784.

  July 18

  Climb the peak by way of the spur and along the east ridge. About alpine AD, with some mixed ground halfway up and a short but exciting ice pitch through some séracs. Otherwise, a lot of deep, loose snow lying on ice and some weaving in and out of double cornices on the final ridge. Sadly, it was cloudy all day with wind and some snowfall, so little visibility and no views at all. Moelwyn – white hill in Welsh – seems a suitable name.

  July 19

  Ten pitches downclimbing the big snow slope into the Terekty valley. The snow was the usual Tien Shan combination of a thin, breakable crust over two feet of huge, totally unconsolidated melt-freeze grains. With heavy, unwieldy packs we pitch it all, digging deep to find ice screw belays. Then horrible loose rock on or near the ridge crest and easier scree leading down to a complicated dry glacier. After much weaving about among crevasses, we finally camp at 3,800 metres, our first night off ice for a fortnight. An exhausting day, thanks to the big packs, but at least we are now in the right valley!

  July 20

  We treat ourselves to a rest day before the big effort that will be needed on Kirov Peak. We cannot see the col immediately North of Kirov and do not have the time or food for a recce in that direction. Instead, we are opting for the west spur which leads to the south-west ridge. It will be an immensely long route but appears reasonably straightforward. Success will depend on favourable snow conditions and weather, and on moving fast; but we are fit and acclimatised now and, touch wood, the weather around here never seems to become really bad.

  July 21

  Set off with five days food. A perfect morning, but the weather deteriorates from midday onwards. Descend on to the Kuyon-Kap glacier at 3,600 metres and cross it; then up loose scree and a big open ice slope to the crest of the west spur. Purple saxifrage in flower on the scree seems a good omen but higher up a rock, dislodged by John’s dangling ice axe loop on a short pitch, hits me at the bottom of my back. Painful – my involuntary gasps and groans cause John to climb rapidly back down – but no serious injury. Food for thought, nevertheless!

  Over a satellite summit at the junction of north and west spurs, and bivi not far beyond, using the Quasar flysheet and ski poles very effectively to make a bivi tent.

  July 22

  Fresh snow overnight and m
uch rumbling of thunder in the distance. Up to the junction with the main south-west ridge via a couple of ice pitches and a lot of exhausting, unconsolidated snow. Brief view of enormous cornices leading to Kirov and wide easy-angled glaciers on the Chinese side before the weather closes in. Along the ridge in wind, snow and poor visibility; at first on hard ice for several rope lengths on the Chinese side, moving together with ice screw runners; then on the West, or Kyrghiz side, to stay on top of the cornices. Pitch the fly on a flat section at about 5,300 metres.