by Sandy Allan
Once on the snow we roped up again. I went to the back with the bulk of the rope stowed away in my sack and let Rick climb down in front of me. My hallucinations had ended as the air thickened. My deep exhaustion had eased with liquid and a little food inside me. I felt euphoric but knew this feeling wouldn’t last long. I wanted to keep pushing on down. Rick was still very weak and I could tell from the way he moved and kicked in his feet that his toes were frozen hard. He simply didn’t have the energy to move any faster.
We were at the top of a broad couloir pitched at about forty or fifty degrees. This had not been a big deal the last time we were here when it was fixed with lots of rope and had footsteps up it. This time there was none of that. It consisted of a thin layer of snow with dark grey ice underneath that was as hard as rock. If we kicked hard with our crampon points they simply bounced off. We had to climb it very carefully and delicately. My old Czech ice axe was by this time totally blunt after all the mixed climbing we had done and I felt very precarious down-climbing it for myself, let alone trying to offer a tight rope to a battle-weary Rick.
After we’d gone about a hundred metres, Rick said: ‘Sandy, I just have to stop, I am exhausted.’ For Rick to say this out loud was exceptional; even in the middle of our trials higher up the mountain he hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. Normally he never admitted to any sort of weakness. We stopped for about ten minutes and as we rested I reminded us both that if we could get down this couloir in an hour then we should be back at camp before darkness. We continued our descent. The route took a curving arc to the other side of the couloir and then went straight down, with me climbing directly above Rick. The snow fell intermittently and in a way we were lucky we were not exposed to hot sunshine. Even so, the avalanche risk from above preyed on our minds and we knew that the faster we got down the couloir the faster we’d be out of the line of fire.
We had probably six metres of rope out between us, but I kept some coils in one hand as we climbed down, facing into the slope. Rick at least had two ice tools. Our toes were frozen, Rick’s worse than mine. His hands were also cold as his mittens had frozen solid. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the Czech team saved us from death, but the water they gave us and the packet of glucose sweets – as well as a Snickers bar Marek handed us – meant we had the strength to climb more safely. It was also good that we could move together rather than having to pitch the whole thing. I felt much more secure protecting my buddy when I was directly above him, but knew at the same time that if he fell off, it would be hard for me to stop any kind of fall. I was also aware that I simply could not afford to make a mistake, despite the pain in my feet. If I fell, that would be it for both of us.
Rick kept asking for more and more stops, and to protect my friend I wasn’t going to say no. But each time I would count the seconds as they turned into minutes. On several occasions Rick fell completely asleep as he climbed and I had to be ready to hold a fall. It became quite unnerving, although the hours passed in a flash. Darkness came, and we were still only three-quarters of the way down the couloir. I could not believe how long it was taking, but I dug deep inside myself and said a prayer asking God to give me the patience to stay cool, and to give us both the strength to keep on keeping on. I don’t think I would have travelled much faster if we had decided to down-climb unroped. My feet had become progressively more painful and I had to stifle little gasps of pain each time I kicked my front points in slightly too hard. I didn’t want Rick to feel less than totally secure; if I just stayed calm and patient and continued acting as a reliable companion then he would not get frustrated with his own exhaustion. We were slow, but we kept a steady rhythm and that helped.
A very loud voice shouted up at us from below. I assumed this roaring from the depths must be one of our Pakistani porters. I hoped beyond hope it was, and that, although they were unskilled at climbing, they had maybe come up to Camp 1. I hadn’t expected any help above this point. They would need crampons and ice axes and it was unlikely they had those. I saw a flash of light dance briefly across the slope. ‘Hey, there is at least one person below us around the site of Camp 1,’ I said to Rick.
He agreed and we decided it was probably Ali’s porters, but could not quite work out how they had managed to get to Camp 1 so quickly. It was only a couple of days or so since we’d called Ali. All went silent again. There was no more shouting or flashing of lights and we continued on our downward climb. Whoever was below had gone quiet and I think we both wondered if we were imagining the voice and the light. Were we hallucinating again?
Rick called for another stop and this time I said no, trying to reason with him: ‘Let’s get going, Rick. We have to get off here; it’s getting really dark. If we stop we’ll need more clothes and it’s just too precarious on this slope.’ He ignored me and came to a halt. ‘I have to stop.’ So I thumped in the dulled pick of my ice axe and clove-hitched the rope to it while keeping the rope between us tight. I tried to ease my feet into some sort of restful state, one at a time, to take the pressure off my semi-frozen toes. I mentioned my pain to Rick, who replied that I was lucky: ‘Mine have been dead for days.’
Then he fell soundly asleep again and I decided I should simply let it happen.
I counted ten minutes, silently ticking off the seconds, all the way to sixty, ten times, bending one finger at a time inside my mittens to keep count as I reached the end of each estimated minute. After that I gently called to him to wake up.
‘Did I nod off?’ he asked.
‘Oh just a bit.’
I told him I was cooling down and put on another layer. ‘How about you?’ He simply stood up and continued on downwards. As we approached the apron at the foot of the couloir we were able to turn outwards and walk, albeit carefully and on a very steep slope. I stopped and suggested we got our head torches out, which took a while. Moving on again, I noted that Rick was moving faster now. He seemed to sense where we were and was making a concerted dash for Camp 1, which was still some distance away. It lay hidden from above, tucked into the lee of a rock spur which protected the camp from the regular avalanches that slid most days down the couloir we had just descended.
In the dark I could see the bergschrund, which didn’t seem too bad; a tumble of avalanche debris had filled the gap and frozen over, leaving only the occasional deep black hole. Soon afterwards we crossed it and came to Camp 1. As soon as we saw it we shouted. Soon figures were rushing out of a small cluster of tents – it was the porters Ali had sent, switching their head torches on to give each one a bright shining eye, like the Cyclops. We climbed up the gentle slope towards them and shook their hands, greeting one another like long-lost friends. They were genuinely pleased to see us. The Pakistani people from these areas are renowned for their wildness, but these men had an amazing respect for us and were delighted to help in any way they could. I loved these guys, had known some of them since my early days climbing Muztagh Tower and had an understanding of their tough, no-nonsense approach to life. They’ve endured shattering earthquakes and flooding, while competing Shi’ite and Sunni Muslims have been fighting for centuries, taking pot shots at each other across their rough fields. Men who had portered for us in the 1980s were now village elders and had told stories to their sons and grandsons who now stood before us.
There is no doubt that many of these mountain people are sometimes exploited by some of the larger trekking-company bosses who sit in offices in Islamabad and Rawalpindi. Even though Western climbers pay high fees for porter wages, it doesn’t always all get passed on to them. Happily, thanks to our excellent agent, our guys weren’t in that position and when we needed them they were truly loyal to the core. Our plight crossed all boundaries; we were all of us mountain people. I have found this to be true across the mountain regions of the world. A dam burst inside me, and I was engulfed by a flood of relief as the tension of the past weeks lifted for the first time. I wondered how the porters had managed to get
all the way to Camp 1 from Skardu in such a short time and we let them tell their story as we drank the hot soup they had prepared for us. They had, they said, driven overnight and marched up here in a continuous forty-eight-hour push from Skardu. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart.
They rushed around and fed us more hot soup. There were water biscuits with local cheese and lots of sweet biscuits. Rick and I gobbled up the food; it didn’t touch the sides as I swallowed it all. The porters were amazed at the speed we ate and drank and realised they had to get more snow melted, apologising that they had no more food for us. They had rushed up here very quickly and only brought a small amount. They were glad to see us alive and it slowly dawned on me that they half-expected to be ferrying our corpses to the roadhead.
We were all tired, but Rick and I needed to sleep immediately. I let them then know that Marek the Czech climber said we could use their tent, so with lots of good nights and expressions of deep gratitude, we bid each and every one a good night. Rick crawled into his own tent and I into Marek’s. Within minutes I had to crawl out again to pass a tiny amount of urine; it was greenish and stung me as the liquid came out but I was delighted and relieved to know I could still pee. I went down to where the porters were camped and asked through their partly zipped tent door if there was any water. They selflessly poured some of theirs into my water bottle. I appreciated everything they did; their presence was vital to me and I no longer felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I stumbled to the tent, taking one last look around camp in the darkness. It was hauntingly beautiful and I felt so alive. I ducked into the tent, pulled my sleeping bag from my sack, noting that it felt damp. Then I saw a yellow sleeping bag. It must have been Marek’s and seemed enticingly dry and fluffed up, so, thanking him very much under my breath, I sat on it, undid the Velcro of my gaiters and kicked off my boots. My feet were finally free of their prison. Even now, after everything I’d been through, I found myself fastidiously knocking the dirt off the soles and storing them carefully inside the tent. I half zipped the tent flap, slipped off my socks and climbed into Marek’s wonderfully dry bag.
Sleep engulfed me.
When I was woken by the noise of the porters moving around outside, it was still dark. Oh bugger, I thought, what are they are up to? All I wanted to do was lie there. There was a clattering of pots and as I unzipped the tent to investigate I saw Rick was already dressed and up.
‘Come on Sandy,’ he said, ‘we have to go. They’re worried about the glacier and séracs; we should get out of here while it’s still frozen.’ One of the porters thrust a jug of tea into my hand. I drank the tea and munched on a handful of biscuits before tidying up the tent. We left for Base Camp wearing crampons but soon came to bare glacier ice that was smothered in small moraine grit and pebbles, so after weaving through an area of exposed crevasses we were able to take them off and walk more freely. We did not need or use the rope.
I took photos looking up at the Mummery Rib and felt suddenly a huge sadness. The mist was down and the Mazeno was hidden from view. I remembered looking at old black and white photos of Fred Mummery and his Gurkhas. We had finally fulfilled his dream and put a British route up Nanga Parbat, more than a hundred years after he died trying. I thought too of Günther Messner and said a quick prayer, thanking God for our good luck and his protection, our lives, our skills and our porters, Cathy and the three Lhakpas. As we walked on I said to Rick: ‘We’ve done it you know.’ He punched me in the friendly way that men often do, acknowledging our luck and achievement. I think there were tears welling in his eyes but he said nothing. My feet were sore and Rick hobbled along.
As we came to the edge of the glacier, Samandar, Muhammad Hussain and the cook boys met us. I felt myself grinning from ear to ear. They stopped in front of me and ceremoniously placed a garland of flowers over my head and rested it gently on my neck and shoulders. We shook hands, I said my thanks and immediately apologised for being such a softie. ‘It’s fantastic to see you all, I cannot thank you enough.’ Rick had garlands of flowers too and we posed for photographs. They shook our hands and rubbed my hatted head, patted my shoulders and were so delighted to be part of this amazing expedition. Samandar said he thought we might have died but he always knew in his heart of hearts that Rick and I would not die in the mountains. He said: ‘You are the strongest climbers, maybe the strongest of all.’ A wave of humility caught me; I loved these Pakistani high-mountain people but could say nothing, overwhelmed with emotion. Seeking some form of composure I buried my face in his shoulder thanking him and his team for all their help.
We moved on, the Pakistani team insisting on taking our rucksacks. I did not wish to relinquish mine but eventually, with all their pleading, I succumbed and let them help; they wished to be involved. The glacier ended and after just a short section of moraine the path climbed steeply up to the grassy plain and moraine ridges which brought us to Base Camp. A vast carpet of colourful wild flowers greeted us and we walked on slowly, soon coming to the Czech base camp. Two big mess tents, one for cooking and the other for dining, were surrounded with various smaller tents for the climbers and Pakistani support team to sleep in.
Someone rushed over two plastic chairs for Rick and me to sit in. I suddenly couldn’t cope with this, and weaved away to sit on a big rock adjacent to the cook tent. I had sat on this rock many times in the past, chatting to various climbing friends from all over the world. Now I had it to myself. Someone brought me a big mug of tea as I kicked my boots off and peeled off my filthy socks to reveal my feet. My toes were white, but a delicate off-white that wasn’t too alarming. Every nail was numb but looked okay, apart from my big toe on my right foot, which was numb and pearly white. I sensed that while damaged it would eventually be okay.
I sat against the rock, looking over to Rick in his plastic chair and watching the Czech climbers and our porters as they sat outside the cook tent drinking tea and talking about events. It was a special moment. The Pakistani people were saying how amazing it was that we were here, alive. It was unbelievable to them that we had been at such altitudes for so long. That we had traversed the Mazeno to the summit and come back alive. I drank the rest of my tea and enjoyed the sensation of walking on the grass in my bare feet to join Rick in the chairs.
A friendly Czech wanted to administer an injection to Rick to kick-start his circulation and prevent further cold injury to his fingers and feet. They offered me some and pointing to my toes I said I would be fine. I asked them if they had any antibiotics and they came back with a blister pack. Then Rick and I sat there while they took photos and we drank our tea on the grassy terrace facing the Diamir Face of Nanga Parbat. The sun shone brightly, dazzlingly white against the snow, and I wondered how it was that this killer mountain had let us off after such a protracted ordeal. There was a crashing sound as the first sérac of the day fell from the mountain. Nanga Parbat was waking up. Soon the noise of thundering avalanches would echo around the valley. Miles below the plastic chair I rested on, tectonic plates shifted slowly, as they have for millions of years, thrusting Nanga Parbat higher into the air, letting the summit scratch the belly of the clouds above. The hanging glaciers and séracs cracked and groaned as the mountain heaved and flexed, pulsing like a living thing. The world turned. And in all this movement I could not feel the slightest breath of wind upon my face.
Seventeen years since we first attempted the Mazeno Ridge with Doug Scott, Voytek Kurtyka and Andrew Lock, for some inexplicable reason, my buddy Rick and I had been permitted to make this first ascent. The rest of our team, Cathy, Rangdu, Zarok and Nuru were waiting for us at the hotel in Chilas. It had been eighteen days since we left Base Camp on the Rupal side to attempt the monstrous, inescapable ridge. We had shared some amazing climbing along this knife-edged, corniced ridge on the ninth-highest summit in the world. We had committed to the impossible, breathed the rarest air and shared bonds of unlimited human effort. We had been blessed with kin
dness.
I swallowed my cup of tea, exchanging ideas with Samandar about how we could thank the Czechs for their wonderful camaraderie. He rushed away to share our ideas with the expedition cooks. A runner was immediately dispatched with a handful of currency to buy supplies. He headed down the valley towards a nearby village where local people farmed in isolated simplicity, herding flocks of goats and sheep and nurturing crops in the thin soil.
Rick and I hung our sleeping bags over a tent and took a short nap, but I soon woke again and just sat there, drinking tea and eating, eating, eating. In the middle of the afternoon Marek and Zdeněk returned from their acclimatisation trip to Camp 2. By evening we had all washed and were sharing a Czech beer or three. The cook brought us plates of newly purchased goat meat cooked in a variety of simple but tasty curried sauces with vegetables pulled straight from the soil, deliciously fresh as a spring morning. The evening passed away in the briefest flash, hours reduced to mere minutes.
Semi-inebriated and overflowing with food I staggered to my tent in the small hours. The cooks and staff had all gone to their respective sleeping places. Surrounded by silence, Marek and I snuffed out the last candles. Above our heads the diamond stars studded the heavens, lighting the proud summit of Nanga Parbat. Forcing myself to turn away from its majestic, gigantic splendour, I crawled into my sleeping bag and lay my head to sleep.
