by Sandy Allan
Often on these grand summits in the Himalaya you get everything thrown at you, as though the spirits or mountain gods want to test you just one more time. It’s vital to stay calm and do things right, to have the inner confidence to keep following the rules. When that peace of mind leaves you, when you panic or cut corners, that’s when you lose it. So far I have been lucky. I have too many friends who have not had such luck. Now I felt like we’d escaped with moments to spare.
Inside our cave it was relatively calm; the anxiety and turmoil of struggling through the dark became a memory. The thick white walls of our home muffled the sound of the wind. Inside our sleeping bags, the cave entrance half-closed with our rucksacks, Rick went to light the stove. Nothing doing. He tried again. His lighter wasn’t working. It didn’t offer a single spark. He searched his pockets for a spare but there was none. My lighter, I knew, had gone down the mountain with Cathy.
I remembered my storm matches and found them in the deepest corner seams of my down clothing, but the box was ruined and the little emery strip gone. I thought of the summit and could see in my mind’s eye an action replay of that flick of my frozen handkerchief throwing out the dilapidated cardboard matchbox. Bugger, I thought. Surely we can strike these matches on something? We considered the abrasive surfaces available. Nothing doing. Our food had completely gone the night before. We had finished our water during the climb to the summit and were now unable to melt snow for more.
We decided sleep was more important and we would address the problem again in the morning. It would only be one more day. We should be able to get down to Base Camp by the following night. We’d sleep and try harder to light the stove in the morning. I changed my socks and then jammed my rucksack more carefully into the cave entrance to prevent too much spindrift from blowing in, while still allowing a breath of air to enter so we didn’t suffocate. From inside his sleeping bag Rick sent a text to Samandar using the satellite phone to say that we had summited, were okay and would be heading down the Kinshofer route in the morning. To save the battery, he kept the message short and quickly turned the phone off again. Both satisfied we had done enough, we settled down to sleep. I was comatose in minutes.
The next morning the usual ritual started: reach out of the sleeping bag, light the stove and put on a pan of snow. Only we still couldn’t get the lighter to spark. We tried again and again. Nothing doing. Rick’s lighter seemed completely dead. In the cold light of day, our situation became frighteningly clear. We were already dehydrated from our climb, and now there was no prospect of water. It was a disaster. Dehydration at these altitudes can soon debilitate the body. Blood thickens to treacle. The risk of stroke or some other dangerous condition was very real.
Rather than let these fears overwhelm us, we decided it was simply best to get our boots on and start moving down the mountain. I thought about our descent in 2009. Two or three hours would get us down to the site of Camp 4. It was then another two hours to Camp 3, and another two to Camp 2 at around 6,300 metres. The air would be thicker there. The afternoon sun would be shining there. We would be able to take our gloves off and fiddle with the stove. I thought too that we would likely meet climbers attempting the Kinshofer route. There would be tent platforms dug out in the snow and people with stoves and masses of food. The priority was to keep moving down; we had to escape this death zone.
In the freezing cold it took us a while to get ready. It felt as though the air was scalding my face as I squeezed out of the narrow entrance of the snow cave. I breathed cautiously through the fabric of my neck scarf, filling my lungs. It felt refreshing, like an advert for spearmint gum. The sky was overcast and I assessed the weather for a moment: not great. I discussed it with Rick as I stood first on one leg and then the other to clip on my crampons. I felt okay but was desperate to get moving.
Rick’s mittens were frozen and it took ages for us both to do the simplest things. I struggled to fasten my parka zip, and threading the buckle of my lightweight climbing harness was causing havoc with my fingernails; it was always desperately difficult to tease the faded orange belt through the double buckle. I had to hold it apart with my fingers, and in the cold tore the top off my nail. Blood seeped up from the wound and I cursed in pain. Harnesses on, I shouldered my rucksack. All these simple tasks had become an exhausting hassle in our state of hypoxic exhaustion. It’s now you really find out just how well designed climbing gear is. I am not a fan of fiddly zips or hoods with trendy pull-cord adjusters. Fiddling with these at extreme altitude can mean setting your fingers up for amputation.
I began to wonder whether what we were doing was humanly possible. We had climbed the Mazeno and reached the summit, but we both knew that we had wasted too much energy searching out the top in the misty conditions. In among conflicting emotions, exhaustion and elation, we both knew that our bodies could not sustain this amount of time at altitude for much longer, especially now we had no water. The slow trickle of attrition had turned into a flood; it was simply a matter of time before our bodies went into spasm and simply stopped functioning. Which one of us would succumb first? Would the other have enough energy to get both of us down to thicker air?
We roped up, more from force of habit and camaraderie than necessity, although it made carrying the rope easier. It didn’t take us long to realise the going was slow, painfully slow. For long sections of the descent the snow was a firm slab, the frustrating sort that almost supports your weight but, just as you weight it, breaks, and your leg sinks into the powder beneath, in this case up to our knees and sometimes thighs. It made it all desperately hard work. Pulling my foot up would bring a chunk of slab with it, and that would begin to slide, giving us something else to trip over.
Rick led the way but had to rest constantly; walking was awkward and exhausting. I offered to take over for a bit. It was tediously slow and hours drifted by in a kind of featureless silence. We were too tired to engage with one another and seemed to be making hardly any progress at all. The ground was quite steep and we curved our way around in a long S-shaped arc that would lead us to the site of Camp 4 on the Kinshofer. The weather deteriorated, clouds inflated powerfully in the sky above and snow began to fall. So much for my weather prediction, I thought. Rick had a compass in the top pocket of his sack so we stopped and he pulled it out. We sat on our sacks while I estimated a bearing from my rudimentary map and sketchy memory of the last time we were there. Then we shouldered our sacks again, just as the cloud enveloped us and the snow fell more heavily.
The situation felt serious. Rick started talking, but his words made no sense at all. It was gibberish, language I can’t put down on the page. I wondered how exhausted he was. He seemed to have become deranged and emotional. He berated himself. Was our predicament overwhelming him? Had his body been so wrung out of all its fluids that his mind was about to give in? I hoped that it couldn’t happen that quickly, but then I didn’t really know. I’d been exhausted before but I’d never been so long at altitude without food or water. I had no idea how quick our demise might be.
I remembered Doug telling me about our mutual friend Pete Thexton on Broad Peak, how during their ascent he had been doing fine and telling everyone that he was doing fine and then within minutes he had collapsed. Doug and the rest of the team had to administer first aid and begin sledging him down in the hope that thicker air might revive him. It was no good. Pete died, and the aftermath of his loss rippled outwards through the community and down the years. I knew really that our bodies could give up very quickly at altitude. I was intensely aware that we had both pulled out all the stops reaching the summit. From somewhere, Rick had found the extra energy to lead us back up to the summit a second time, but doing so must have burnt up every last ounce of his willpower and energy. Since then we had had nothing to eat or drink.
I forced myself to think methodically about our situation and how to bring Rick safely down the mountain. We had been running on empty, surviving on adren
aline and hope, and now all we had to do to reach safety was slog down a relatively straightforward descent route. We had climbed together so much over the years that I felt confident there was not a single part of Rick that would easily surrender, give up or let me down. But I had never heard him talking so unintelligibly in the past. Rick’s mind was running away from him and not making any sense. Then I wondered if I was at fault. Was I misconstruing his words? We were both after all in the same predicament, running on the same nothingness. Maybe my brain was the one that was losing it? Maybe, but I didn’t think so.
‘Hey Rick, I have no idea what you are on about, but you’d better pull your mind together as you are not making any sense. It’s upsetting for me too.’ I spoke quite firmly to him, trying to show Rick that while I understood his difficulties I also needed him to realise he was behaving strangely, just like you tell your ski-buddy his nose is turning white with early signs of frostbite on a freezing day. He had to fight to keep things together and regain control of his emotions so we could keep descending. It’s not easy telling your best pal, who you know to be incredibly strong, that he is talking nonsense. But Rick apologised and I hoped my message had got through to him. I told him not to worry and we carried on descending. It was quiet now, except for the snowflakes landing on our hoods and the whoosh of our footsteps in the snow. We struggled in silence, bound together by a nine-millimetre cord of hope, a team that was running on empty.
Eventually the snow was falling so heavily that visibility reduced to a whiteout. I followed my estimated bearing, feeling the angle of the terrain under my feet and trying to equate that to my memories of the mountain from four years ago. I called on myself to focus, to draw on all that knowledge, to imagine myself in the Cairngorms in a howling wind. I navigated onward, sensing Rick stepping along behind me on the occasionally taught rope. After what felt like an age of deep snow and exhausting effort, we came to the bowl just above the site of the Kinshofer’s Camp 4. Rick was with me in body but it was clear his mind had gone elsewhere. He kept wanting to stop and so I set an even slower pace, hoping he could keep going, allowing us both to continue moving. It felt obvious to me even in the limited visibility that traversing down to Camp 4 would be foolhardy in such bad snow conditions. New snow was accumulating at a fast rate and it was possible we might trigger an avalanche on this lower-angled terrain.
I opted to take a slightly higher line and maintained this, gently skirting the contour one would normally take to reach Camp 4. In my mind I was making for the edge of the unseen bowl, where I knew we would be away from any terrain traps, and where eventually the snow would thin to rock. From that very edge in 2009 we had sat on rocks and enjoyed the views together before descending. It was an idyllic spot in good weather, and while it could be exposed to the wind, that at least meant the snow would be blown clear and we could see its obvious physical features, even in this poor visibility. It would also be relatively safe to stop and rest there. So, despite the whiteout, I would be able to figure out exactly where we were when we reached it.
We both needed a break and Rick stopped when I did, half-slumping on his sack. I pulled out the satellite phone and tried to make a call. My mind was so weary, it took a while to free my fingers and work the keypad. I tried to compose myself so I didn’t sound desperate and knew what I wanted to say as quickly as possible so I didn’t waste the battery. I told Rick I would talk to Ali and tell him about the snow conditions and how concerned I was. I said I would ask him about the availability of a helicopter. I didn’t want a rescue at this stage, but I thought it would be prudent to ask if one could be available if required. Then I dialled the number and it felt like a miracle when Ali picked up. The relief on hearing his voice was intense, and I had to fight to control my emotions. I didn’t feel the need to ask him how the weather was, but he passed on his congratulations.
I asked if Cathy and the three Lhakpas were okay and he said they were back in the Shangrila in Chilas. I had a sudden image of them, washed and dressed in clean clothes, relaxing at a well-polished dining-room table, eating roast chicken and fresh vegetables. I told him the phone battery was fading and confirmed our intention to descend the Kinshofer. I asked if our approach shoes and some valley clothing could be sent to the Diamir Base Camp, perhaps with our Sherpas if they had the energy. Ali said the Sherpas were exhausted and would not be able to assist at all. But he would organise some local high-altitude porters to come with our clothing and some food. I also asked him what the helicopter situation was. Ali asked if we needed one. I said no, but that we were out of water and food and our bodies were deteriorating fast. Even if we were okay for now, I am sure he could tell from my strained voice that the situation was far from okay. He told me what I knew already, that the helicopters could not fly that high and the weather was cloudy. There was no chance just now.
I told him that if we needed a helicopter it would be later, and that if I thought that was likely I would call him. Whatever happened, we would keep going down and try to finish the climb under our own steam. I reminded him that we had paid the helicopter bond and he confirmed that. We didn’t want to spend it, but would do so if our situation became life or death. Ali said he would check about helicopter availability but would hold off committing to one just yet. Ali also confirmed that he would try to get some porters to Diamir Base Camp and maybe to Camp 1. I asked him if he knew whether other climbers were trying to climb the Kinshofer. He said he didn’t know but assumed there were.
Ali also told me that we were making big news back home and that people were thinking we were having an epic. He had spoken to my sister Eunice. I said we were doing fine and when speaking to people it was probably best simply to say we were making our way down and that communication was difficult as there was little battery power for our phone. I told Ali we were tired and Rick had been a little bit out of it. I said I would try and phone at 5 p.m. to let him know if we wanted a helicopter, but otherwise all was fine. Then we hung up and I was back on the mountain, beyond outside help.
Rick had heard most of this conversation and we discussed it. Now he understood that I was really concerned for him. Prior to the call, he had wanted to stop all the time. He was still periodically speaking gibberish. His walking was ungainly; he’d lost that neat sense of purpose he usually has on a mountain. Rick’s body was often slumped over his axe, his sack hanging to one side on his shoulders, his coiled rope a tangle of spaghetti. I was aware that I was probably becoming a little bedraggled too. But I thought I was doing well enough and it did seem that my awareness of our situation was higher. While I was finding it desperately hard, I felt I still had my act together and if I could maintain it then Rick could do too.
It was now about 3 p.m. and within an hour I had broken trail to the edge of the rim. I told Rick I thought we should bivouac here. We had used up nearly all the day just getting to this point and given the avalanche risk below it made more sense to tackle what lay beneath in the morning when we may be able to see something. At least we would be safe here. If the weather cleared, with luck we would get a long way down the next day. Rick agreed and we wandered about a bit until we found a mound of snow in which we could dig a shelter for the night. Despite being on the move all day, we had only descended to about 7,400 metres.
We started digging into the snow mound, again with the adzes of our ice axes, burrowing from opposite sides of the mound with the aim of meeting in the middle. We would then carve out more snow and close up one of the entrances. Eventually we would have a fine cave to shelter in and lie down, a proverbial pocket of paradise. I set to work and after about two hours I was well inside, having carved out a big cave. I kept expecting to see Rick’s ice axe appearing through the snow from his side, but it didn’t happen. I was just starting to think that I had better go and see what he was up to when I heard Rick’s desperately pleading voice: ‘Sandy, Sandy, can I please get into your cave. It’s hopeless, really hopeless.’ His voice was high a
nd coming from behind me, rather than from the direction of his tunnel. I stopped and turned around. I could just see his legs and boots outside the entrance of my tunnel. I reversed out of the cave and stood up, looking into his face. He looked fragile and exhausted, his head wrapped tightly in the hood of his down jacket.
‘It’s okay Rick, of course you can, no worries.’ I wondered why he said it was my cave and not ours. ‘Tell me what’s wrong?’ I felt my heart quicken as I saw the distress in his eyes. ‘It’s hopeless, just hopeless. I was digging for ages. The snow is hopeless, it’s all collapsed in and I have got nothing done.’ I felt incredibly anxious that my climbing pal was losing his marbles. ‘We can both squeeze into the side I’ve dug, no problem. I’ll go around and see if I can do anything where you’ve been working.’ I showed him where he could dig on my side, and he got on to his knees, crawled forward and began to burrow.
When I looked at his side of the snow-hump I could see only a few trivial scrapes on the very surface of the snow. He had dug nothing at all. Rick had been standing there in the open for two hours, just waving his ice axe around in the air, occasionally catching the top surface of the snow bank. His frustration at the collapsing snow hole was probably just the fantasy of a mind on the edge of collapse. It all felt so serious to me; I felt very alone and isolated and the real vulnerability of our position filled my thoughts. Dealing with such things on a pre-planned winter snow-caving expedition to the Cairngorm plateau at 3,000 feet is tough enough. But here we were, still above 7,000 metres, out of food for days and water for thirty-six hours.
