A miraculous invitation from an old friend, San Francisco architect Jack Robbins, liberated me from the problems in Almaty. Magnanimously he offered to pay my expenses to America if I would join him in a May climb up Mount McKinley. He suggested I make plans to arrive in April so that we could train together to prepare for the expedition. Jack and I had shared our love of travel, training, and climbing on other occasions. I had met him on the slopes of Mount Shasta in 1990; at that time we were both preparing for McKinley. In the summer of 1992 I had worked as his guide and coach on the 4,000-meter peaks near Talgar and on 7,000-meter-high Khan-Tengri. I well knew that for Jack a successful ascent of McKinley was as important as succeeding on Everest had been to me. It would fulfill a dream of personal achievement; as a coach, his goal inspired me. K2 was pushed into the background.
Thanks to him, I found myself in Berkeley, and I could escape the worldly problems that had distracted me from training in Almaty. Together we ran for hours through the eucalyptus forest or along the seashore. We climbed Mount Shasta and spent the night out at four thousand meters to begin our acclimatization for McKinley. His strength and endurance improved. Because of Jack and our training, I recovered the psychological stability and inner peace that had eluded me at home. Over our three-year relationship I had come to value his calmness and good sense. Age and a unique personality make him wiser about many things. In the spring of 1993, during a disturbing time for me emotionally, he helped me cope with the way my world was changing.
In America, my efforts to find commercial sponsors for the K2 expedition were futile. There, big companies commit their support well in advance of any project. April was too late to ask for funding for a summer expedition. The day before my departure for Alaska, I called to advise Reinmar of my situation. He said my participation in the expedition had become critical. One of his team had dropped out due to a serious respiratory illness, and another for personal reasons. Without me the team was not strong enough to take on K2. Reinmar offered to pay for my share of the expedition cost. He said I should meet him at his home in Bremen, Germany, before the middle of June. Jack and I flew to Anchorage the next day. My financial relief regarding K2 was not complete. There would be other expenses. As things stood, I did not have enough money to get to Islamabad and back to Almaty.
Two weeks passed as we worked our way to the summit of McKinley up the the West Buttress route. That adventure is another story; I will say things went remarkably well. The park rangers remembered me as “No Problem.” It was satisfying work. At seventy, I think Jack is the oldest man to climb the highest peak in North America. Celebrating our success with dinner in an Anchorage restaurant that offered a big salad bar, I had enough experience by then with American buffets not to leave the restaurant hungry. Warmly saying good-bye, Jack headed to his home in the fairy-tale woodlands of northern California. I boarded the plane to Moscow satisfied that I was prepared to face an 8,000-meter peak. Ahead of me there was still time for a good rest before the K2 expedition began.
4
CHOGORI, THE SIREN’S SONG, SUMMER 1993
I arrived in Moscow on May 28. The cumbersomely ineffective bureaucracy seemed to be the only thing left operating normally from the Soviet era. After spending a week resolving the numerous problems associated with my passport and obtaining visas for the trip, I took a train to Bremen. The ticket cost a little more than $100. That was a relief. I had $500 in my pocket. I changed trains in Warsaw, and leaving behind the last outlines of hills or mountains, I watched perfectly flat North Sea coastland fly past the window for hours. On June 13, I arrived in a charming German town. Crowded, spotlessly clean streets were full of people going about their business on bicycles. The monument in the Bremen town square honored fabled animal musicians, not war heroes.
The time that had passed since our previous meeting had not changed Reinmar Joswig. Though fifty years old, his physique would have caused envy in someone thirty. In Bremen he religiously avoided any kind of motorized transportation, preferring to ride his bike from place to place. A dedication to fitness had allowed him to make it to the top of several 8,000-meter peaks: Gasherbrum I, Broad Peak, and Nanga Parbat. Many of our expedition’s logistical details fell on Reinmar’s shoulders. He managed them all with typical German precision. In the final days before our departure, I helped pack the equipment that had not been shipped earlier with our main baggage. Undisturbed by a thousand last-minute details that would have driven me crazy, Reinmar found the time to train every day.
His climbing partner on Nanga Parbat and longtime friend Peter Metzger was our expedition coleader. After meeting Peter, I was confident that our leadership was strong and wholesome. The personalities of these two good men complemented each other: Metzger was charismatic and possessed boundless energy, while Reinmar had a quiet strength and calmness that was reassuring.
On June 18 we took a train to the Frankfurt airport. There we were joined by the fourth member of our group. Though lacking his friends’ depth of experience on 8,000-meter peaks, fifty-four-year-old Ernst Eberhardt’s success on a hard, high peak in India’s Himachal Pradesh had inspired him to try K2. I found Ernst easy to talk with; he had a wonderful full beard that gave him a genial look. His mild manner and patience proved to be blessings, helping to solve the many problems that confronted us during our sojourn in Pakistan.
After a six-hour flight, the four of us stepped off the plane into the sweltering heat of the Islamabad night. Foul-smelling city air fell on us like a blanket. When we claimed our baggage, Ernst’s pack containing all his climbing gear was missing. Mishaps would not end there; they were only beginning.
We settled into the Holiday, a pretty good hotel in Rawalpindi, the old city next to Islamabad. The next morning our expedition agent, Ashrif Aman, welcomed us with more bad news. He had been unable to notify our government liaison officer that Reinmar had changed our arrival date. We were stuck. Foreign expeditions are forbidden to travel in the sensitive border regions around K2 without an army officer to report on expedition progress and assist in solving problems with the local citizens. Peter and Reinmar spent the next four days at the Ministry of Tourism lobbying for a new officer.
I laid out my financial situation for Ashrif. Being a mountaineer (he was the first Pakistani to summit K2), he was sympathetic. He convinced me the most interesting way for me to return to Almaty was overland through the Hunza region and Sinkiang. Land transportation was cheap. The Chinese controlled Sinkiang, so I spent my time in their consulate trying to obtain a transit visa for my trip home to Kazakhstan. Ernst made daily visits to the airport until he recovered his backpack and equipment.
Andy Locke, the last member of our expedition, joined us. At the last moment Reinmar had included this pleasant, muscular Australian policeman on our permit. At thirty, he was the youngest person on the team. I had become acquainted with Andy during my time at Everest Base Camp in 1991. He arrived in Rawalpindi straight from his second unsuccessful attempt to climb Mount Everest. Though he was tired, several nights at the South Col had given him the advantage of excellent acclimatization. As events unfolded, we had plenty of time to rest before there was any work to do.
After five days in Rawalpindi, we breathed a sigh of relief when an official at the Ministry of Tourism assigned us a new officer, only to be disappointed that he could not arrive in the capital until June 26. With that problem partially resolved, none of us had any desire to wait in the city suffering the heat. Peter volunteered to stay to meet the officer.
His sacrifice liberated the rest our party to fly to Skardu, the last refuge of civilization on the trail to K2. There the countryside and traditional Moslem culture was reminiscent of the pleasant villages in Tajikistan in the southwestern Pamirs where I had done a lot of climbing. Eternal snows on an embrace of high peaks made the air clean and cool. Our roomy accommodations at the Sehr Motel were simple and comfortable. Peter called to confirm that he and our new officer would arrive on June 28.
W
e settled down and made the best of the delay. The next portion of the journey was by jeep over a rough dirt track to the village of Askole. There everything would be loaded on the backs of porters for the trip to Base Camp. All supplies and equipment had to be repacked into 25-kilogram loads for the porters. Thanks to Reinmar and Peter’s lists of what, where, and how much to put into each load, we finished that job quickly in Skardu.
During our stay, a helicopter arrived, evacuating from K2 Base Camp a doctor and two Slovenian climbers who had bad frostbite. Their black, shriveled feet appeared all too familiar; it was clear to me that most of their toes would have to be amputated. These men had reputations as excellent mountaineers, so their predicament increased my motivation to stay in shape. Each morning I ran for an hour along the banks of the Indus River, which flowed by the edge of town. In the evenings, I climbed to the rock ridges of the nearest mountains. Reinmar continued his training routine as well. The delay did not tell on our physical readiness, but our vacation would haunt us in other ways throughout the expedition.
Toyota jeeps loaded down with us and all our supplies left Skardu for Askole on the twenty-ninth. Bad weather had caused all the flights from Islamabad to be canceled. Peter and the new officer raced to catch up with us by car. Finally joining us in Askole, the officer assembled sixty-seven porters. Each man was assigned a load and a ration of food, and at last we set off on the trail to Base Camp. Given our earlier experiences, things went pretty smoothly on the trek. Enjoying the hot, sunny weather, our small army traveled seven days through the mystical countryside. It is impossible to do justice with words to the grandeur of the mountains along Baltoro Glacier. Nothing compares to that place; the stone towers and rocks are mysterious and wonderful. By day six we arrived where two great glacial rivers, the Godwin Austen and the Upper Baltoro, flowed together. As we camped at Concordia, the imposing pyramid of K2 dominated the view and our imaginations.
Following the Godwin Austen glacier another eight miles, we arrived at the site that would serve as home for the next six weeks. Though most of expeditions camped on the glacier had been working for several weeks before we arrived, only two groups had managed to climb higher than Camp II.
In two days of sunny weather when we were setting up camp, three members of a Canadian-American team summited. Tragedy did not pass them by; one of the Canadians fell to his death descending the slopes above the snow-burdened bottleneck couloir. The members of the Slovenian team were descending from the summit. In addition to the men who had suffered frostbite, they lost one member of their group to complications from cerebral edema. A Dutch team aided by expensive high-altitude porters and a well-equipped Swedish group had gotten no farther than camp at 6,500 meters. With satellite communication to their homeland, the Swedes had the advantage of accurate weather information for the area. Three friends from Great Britain, Victor Saunders, Julie Clyma, and Roger Payne, had established their first camp. Like us, all those expeditions were climbing K2 via the Abruzzi route. My American friend Dan Mazur was leading a big team of international climbers attempting the West Ridge. Other, smaller groups were trying harder routes. About one hundred mountaineers were camped below K2 with us. Its history had nothing to recall like that. The permit fee in 1994 was going to cost three times more than what we had paid; that was the reason for the invasion.
We spent July 6 and 7 setting up a kitchen and dining area and sorting out supplies. Separating gas, equipment, and food into high-camp loads occupied my time, but I made a special effort to locate Dan Mazur in the maze of tents around us. For almost a month in the fall of 1991, Dan and I had lived together on the Khumbu Glacier in Nepal. High-altitude mountaineers are a small group. Our friendships are formed under unusual circumstances. It seems there are no foreigners among us. Men and women are judged not for what they have or where they come from, but who they are in hard circumstances. We meet in remote camps, a community of individuals with strange, difficult ambitions and a peculiar appetite for mountaineering life. For me the opportunity to reacquaint with old friends is important. The positive emotions I experience in these encounters give me an unusual charge of strength and energy.
Eager to get started, on July 8 we were up at 2 A.M. We left camp at three-thirty after eating breakfast. On our backs were the supplies we needed to set up Camp I. We crossed the glacier in two hours, following a trail well marked by members of previous expeditions. Like the other teams on our route, we climbed to Camp I having been spared the effort of fixing line on the steep section above the glacier. We had the Slovenians and the Americans and the Canadians to thank for that.
Peter and Andy climbed ahead of me. When Peter stopped to make radio contact with our Base Camp, I went ahead, trading places with Andy. Working in the lead is slow and tiring. Every step you must kneel into the loose snow above you to compress it, so there will be some traction for your crampons when you step up. That day the snow was not too deep and we shared the work. At about nine-thirty we arrived on a flat snow-plain where the other expeditions had set up their first high-altitude camp. All the level areas were occupied. After locating a suitable gentle slope, we worked together digging out tent platforms. Ice underlay the fresh snow, and the work was tiresome. The weather steadily deteriorated until we were working in horizontally blowing snow. Julie Clyma and Roger Payne, who were acclimatizing in their tents at Camp I, decided to head down. Rapidly securing our supplies, we followed them back to Base Camp. The weather got much worse before it got better.
In the night, a heavy accumulation of new snow and the force of the gusting wind collapsed the roof of our kitchen. From 5 until 10 A.M. we worked rebuilding it. Snow fell continuously for four more days. That delay weighed heavily on Peter’s and Reinmar’s nerves. The clock was ticking; we had a limited time to accomplish our goal. Reinmar was scheduled to leave for Germany on August 18. Because of his work, that date could not be changed. Confined to our tents, we passed days restlessly inactive. Occasionally, the monotony was broken by a visit from climbers on other expeditions. Hospitality would prompt us to move to more comfortable surroundings in the mess tent. For a time the delay would be forgotten in the diversion of our stories and conversations.
At eleven in the morning on the thirteenth, the weather improved. Carrying a load of supplies, we decided to forge a new trail to the beginning of the fixed rope. The glacier was covered in deep new snow that lay like icing on a treacherous cake. No trace of the many crevasses marked the smooth surface; our progress had to be slow and deliberate. I worked first, testing the snow, cautiously probing with my ski poles to reassure myself that the next weighted step would not be into a frozen abyss.
We returned to camp about dinnertime and accepted an invitation to dinner from the Canadian-American team. Though three members of their expedition, Phil Powers, Dan Culver, and Jim Haberl, had summited, there was no mood of victory or celebration in their tents. Dan Culver had paid for the summit with his life. He was remembered fondly by Phil Powers and his other teammates. In conversations that night we listened to the questions mountaineers ask in such times: “Do we need to return to the summits above the clouds?” “Is this risk of life necessary?” We said good-night to those companionable men. A jar of honey and a part of the grief over the death of their friend were the gifts we took back to our tents. Each of us had new feelings and a clear awareness that danger awaited us as well, somewhere at the top.
At 3:30 A.M. we were at the breakfast table, after which we shouldered heavy loads of supplies for our high camps and crossed the glacier on our newly broken trail. Ascending the next steep section where before we enjoyed the fixed rope was difficult. Sinking with a heavy pack through waist-deep snow, the leader had to wade forward, compress a new step, liberate the frozen, buried rope, and pull it up to the surface. By noon we had made it up to Camp I and set up two tents. The weather was excellent, clear and calm, and our spirits were high.
After lunch and a short rest, I asked Peter and Reinmar if I could carry a
n eight-kilogram load with two tents up to 6,700 meters. They gave me permission, though they were mystified why after such a long, hard day I wanted to go higher. I was aware that my capacity for work would drop dramatically for the next two days while my body adjusted to a higher elevation. My rationale was that if I could accomplish the work in good spirits that afternoon, I should not delay until the next day when the same job would feel much more difficult. Thanks to the time on McKinley, carrying a regular load to 6,500 meters had not bothered me. Our many days of forced inactivity left me feeling I had rested enough for a month.
I set out from camp at four o’clock, enjoying a hard crust on the névé snow that made climbing easy. In two hours I reached a band of steep, yellow rocks. Phil Powers had advised me that above those yellow rocks at 6,800 meters we would find the best location for Camp II. I secured my load in a protected place, and one-half hour later I was back in camp. My teammates had eaten and were comfortably resting in their sleeping bags. I drank some tea and ate a little food. Sleep came quickly without problem.
After years of self-analysis, I know that the ability to fall asleep after hard work is an indication that my body is properly adjusting to the altitude. Difficulty falling asleep indicates that I must reduce the stress on my body and slow down the rate of my ascent. In general, I am so accustomed to exercise that I cannot sleep if I do not work hard enough during the day. Though the process is different for each individual, I think that if you maintain a normal pulse rate and can rehabilitate by sleeping well, you should work until you feel a pleasant tiredness, even at high altitude. Then the body accepts rest as a joy.
Above the Clouds Page 9
