On July 30 Reinmar and I woke up to five centimeters of hoarfrost on the inside walls of our tent, a lace of ice condensation from our breath in the night. Peter and Andy departed for the summit about 3 A.M. Reinmar and I waited for better visibility. I moved sluggishly and had a poor appetite—the negative effects of altitude. Though Reinmar said he felt okay, I believe he had the same symptoms that I experienced. He managed to eat more breakfast than I could choke down. I was only thirsty and forced myself to eat some muesli. Judging by Andy and Peter’s early departure, I thought they felt better than we did.
We packed up, and each of us put forty meters of rope into our backpacks. The Slovenian and American-Canadian groups had reported they had not used fixed line above this camp. It was later in the season, and storms had continuously swept the route. One man had fallen above us, and we wanted to avoid that. We would fix line on the infamous “bottleneck,” providing some security for our descent.
At 4 A.M. Reinmar and I left camp. Our crampons found good traction in the névé-covered slope. The cold penetrated my Gore-Tex jacket and down clothes and freshened my step. I was more energetic, though I was aware that my speed was slower than normal. With the dawn light, we could see Peter and Andy ahead of us. After moving for one hour, I noticed the distance to the summit did not appear to change. Distance in the mountains can be deceptive; the perspective from Camp IV was misleading. Ascending, I understood that the summit of K2 was a long way off.
About ten-thirty, I caught up with Peter and Andy at the bottleneck. There the slope became much steeper. Peter asked for the rope and two ice-screws, and I pulled them out of my pack. We decided to traverse to the left. The sunlight caused a stifling heat. At high altitude, nights are as cold as deep space, and the sun has an intensity that parches the skin; its heat robs one of ambition. The air was motionless. We had dressed for the morning cold, and in the blazing sun we became hot and stuffy in our clothes. On any other day that would have been perfect, but at that altitude the heat made us sluggish. Our speed was catastrophically slow. Seven hours of climbing for Reinmar and me, and eight hours for Peter and Andy, had brought us only one-third of the distance to the summit! Reinmar was two hundred meters below, but catching up to us since we had stopped.
Andy and Peter stripped off and stored their down gear. I sat on my backpack secured to the fixed line, musing on our plan while sipping tea. My throat was dry. It felt dehydrated from the effort of breathing. Periodically, I moistened my throat with small amounts of mint tea to relieve my discomfort. Ascending to the assault camp the day before had made my chest hurt, and the pain had become more noticeable. I was certain we should fix the rope on the bottleneck and descend to rest in our tents for the night. I thought we could make another attempt on the summit early the next morning.
Peter, Andy, and I discussed how to cross the insidious bottleneck. Fresh, knee-deep snow was on a steep slope, but when testing the snow, one hit a thin, brittle crust of hard ice that broke away in layers and slid down the mountain. The powder underneath did not compress into reliable steps. I suggested we wait for Reinmar. Rafael and Daniel were following close behind him. I thought it would be safer for us to negotiate the traverse together. Andy was standing secured to a well-fixed ice-screw.
Near me an abandoned ice ax lay among the rocks and ice. I picked it up. After testing the snow conditions on the section ahead of us, I thought I would need it. Ignoring my warnings, Peter moved up and across the slope, trampling down steps in the rotten snow. He fixed one section of line, moving cautiously but without protection. I thought of Phil Powers and recalled his summit-day recollections. Only a little higher on that ridge, Dan Culver had fallen while descending. More than twenty days had passed since they were in our position; the snow conditions and temperature were now different. Gazing at the section ahead of Peter, I thought that area looked quite treacherous, and I knew that we needed to fix it with rope. Late in the day the sun-melted snow would turn to solid ice. I looked at the sheer rock walls of the south face; it would be impossible to stop if you started to fall in that place.
Reinmar joined me and wanted to know what our plan was. I asked for his forty meters of rope. Leaving my backpack with my down jacket, my thermos, and my extra gloves attached securely to the end of the fixed rope below the bottleneck, I went up along the line, caught up to Peter, and went ahead to secure the next section. As I suspected, under the unconsolidated snow was hard ice. My crampons scratched it. I adjusted to that condition by relying more on my ice axes. My fortuitous acquisition of the second ax now provided a measure of safety as I ascended: kicking my crampons into the ice with all my strength, driving in the two ice tools, one after the other, and moving up a step. Every ten meters I stopped to rest, breathing hard. Belayed by Peter, slowly but surely I moved up and to the left, fastening the rope along the slope with ice-screws. Finishing the job left us so short of breath we were unable to speak. We looked at one another and asked only with our eyes, “What next?” The air passed whistling and wheezing through our dry throats. My watch said 2 P.M. Reinmar and Andy were sitting on their packs at the bottom of the fixed line talking to Rafael, who in the interim of our work had caught up with us. Peter called down to tell them the route was secured.
As we rested, trying to catch our breath, I asked, “What are we going to do about the time?”
Peter replied that a little higher up the slope would flatten out and from there the summit was close. I could see he was tired but feeling well. The nearness of our goal was energizing him. I was worn-out by the effort of fixing the rope. I told him that I had left my backpack with my warm clothes at the beginning of the fixed line, and that I was tired. “It will be better to go down to the tents and try again tomorrow,” I said. “We can start earlier than we did today, and using our work on the lines, we will move faster. The summit will not take so long.”
Peter would have none of it. “Anatoli, the weather may be stormy tomorrow; today is our last chance. We must endure a little.”
True, the weather was finally in our favor, but our pace frightened me. Never on any previous ascent had I felt so weak. But I knew Peter might be right. The next day I might not feel stronger, and the weather was supposed to get worse. Some intuition told me we should not go up. I sensed danger waiting for us at the top of the mountain. It was not exactly fear, but some kind of alertness possessed me. I felt as if we were crossing the border of what is allowed and what was forbidden—as though we were going into foreign territory. Peter and I did not argue. We spoke quietly. That venerable fifty-year-old man with his beautiful black mustache went on ahead to continue up, and I was left on the snow slope leaning over my ice ax, struggling to keep my equilibrium.
I felt empty inside, probably because I was so tired. At that altitude inner emotions and moods change at a different speed: both movement and thinking slow down. I watched as Reinmar and Andy ascended the fixed line, moving in slow motion like characters in a film. I could feel the emptiness in me slowly being replaced by a feeling like anger. It was not anger at Peter, but at this whole situation, and at myself. At that moment, I was without self-esteem or pride. My brain was asking, “Why is it so important to go to the summit, what is the meaningfulness of our effort?” Perhaps some inner instinct of self-preservation was working, prevailing over my ambition. I cannot tell even now what changed in me as I watched Peter moving off. I can only recall that this jumble of emotions generated new energy in me … some force that challenged me to move.
Perhaps this energy had been passed to me from Peter, because he was a man who could inspire people in that way. First I followed after him like a robot. Then I experienced the same feeling one has during a marathon, when older people pass you by. That does not make you angry, you do not wish to get even with them in a bad way. It makes you turn inside to see what is wrong with yourself. The example that Peter set was like a push, and some internal engine that had been out of order in me started to work, producing energy.
When I caught up with him, he let me go in front without saying a word. He had probably known that his example would influence me in such a way. This man had a shining virtue and a boundless energy that were infectious. He put himself to a task honorably and inspired others by his standards. His social grace allowed him to tackle problems easily, and he knew how to influence people and lead them. If the situation was difficult for him, he never showed it. Such inner strength in a human being always generates respect.
After the fixed line, we crossed another hundred meters of steep ice and snow; then finally the slope became flatter and it was easier to move. The crust of snow was hard. Occasionally a slab would slide out from under my step, skittering toward the abyss that was the drop over the South Wall of K2. That was a warning to us not to relax too soon.
We moved that way, with Peter ten meters behind me, for two more hours. Then again, totally worn-out, I sat down in the snow. Peter approached me, took out his thermos, and poured a drink of hot tea. Without a single word he offered the cup to me. The hot drink passed down my dry throat, and the energy of that gesture slowly penetrated my tired muscles. The summit appeared to be no more than fifteen minutes away. I gathered all my energy and all my soul into one bundle and moved toward the peak. It was terribly difficult. In the late-afternoon shadow an invigorating coolness settled on the southeast slope. I was unable to think. I felt only a primitive awareness to go forward.
During my years of training as a ski racer, and then as a mountaineer, I had learned how to wring out the last of my energy for a finish. But this is dangerous in mountaineering, because the summit is not the finish of your competition with a great mountain. To survive you must be able to get down from the forbidden zone. There is no pausing in this place, no possibility to recover. If you have spent all reserves of power, and you are required by circumstance to fight for your life, you reach into a dry well. That moment, on K2, I was in just such a condition. I could think of nothing. The summit before me became the finish line. That was bad.
Perhaps Peter, Andy, and Reinmar, and those two Swedish mountaineers, felt exactly the same way. Maybe they were not thinking beyond the finish line—about the descent. I do not know. Instead of fifteen minutes, I climbed for exactly one hour more before I reached the summit. When I crossed that imaginary line, I did not feel joy or satisfaction at my achievement. I did not care that I was standing on the summit of the second-highest mountain on earth. The only pleasant thought that came to me was that the tortured effort of placing my feet one higher than the other was over.
I could see the whole length of the glacier running from K2 to Concordia. Across the glacier, opposite me, the top of massive Broad Peak was lit by the last rays of the sun. There was no strength to admire the colors of the sunset as I half-sat, half-lay on the snowy slope in a dreamlike state. I felt like a squeezed lemon. As soon as the sun slipped beyond the ridge, the stifling warm air was replaced by a cold that instantly penetrated my gloves and boots. Like a robot I removed my camera from the chest pocket of my bib and took photos of the surrounding mountains. I was unaware of the time passing, but Peter came up sometime before 6 P.M. Andy arrived right behind him. Everyone was tired and slow. I cannot remember what we talked about while taking photos of one another on the summit. I put my camera away and became aware of the cold in my hands and feet. My old Koflach boots were the ones the Soviet team had been issued for Kanchenjunga. Looking down, thinking of the long descent ahead, I wished I were wearing the One Sport boots that had protected me on the last two expeditions. Those I had sold to pay bills.
Peter and I left the summit simultaneously. Andy waited for Rafael, who was climbing the presummit ridge. I could not see Reinmar. About two hundred meters lower, we met him moving slowly and steadily; he was two hours climbing distance from the summit. I stopped ten meters away on easy ground and asked how he was feeling. I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty, with only ten to fifteen minutes more light in the day. Reinmar did not answer my question. When Peter came up, they discussed the situation in German. I thought that Reinmar would turn back, knowing that in the dying light, it would be safer for him to negotiate the dangerous section above the bottleneck with us. Though I wanted him to descend, at that moment it would not have been right for me to intrude; only he could make the decision. Even Peter did not have the right or authority to order his friend to turn around. Now I think it most likely that he could not consider the dire possibilities hidden in his choice. He was determined to go to the summit. K2 was the goal of all his years of climbing in the Karakoram. Daniel was behind him, two hundred meters lower. Slower than Reinmar, he would need more time to reach the summit. Peter removed Ernst’s down jacket and a headlamp from his pack and gave them to Reinmar, who continued up the slope, while Peter and I went down.
I still wonder if I could have helped in that situation. My clothing for the cold was in a backpack at the end of the fixed line. As darkness was falling, I knew I had about one hour before my hands and feet would begin freezing. Descent for me would then become impossible. If I did not move and get to my clothing, I would shortly be in a fatal situation. How could I have changed the chain of events? I do not know the answer even now. I continued my descent, using the two ice tools. As on the climb to the summit, when there was only one thought in my mind, I could not contemplate the possibilities hidden in our situation. I had to focus on my every move to descend without losing my balance or misjudging the conditions of the snow under my boots. If I fell, I would not be able to stop myself. The darkness obscured our trail and made judging the relief difficult. I turned to face the slope and descended down randomly.
At one point, intuition alone inspired me to move fifty meters to the right. There I felt a ridge of hard ice and snow. I drove my ice axes into the slope and stepped down, kicking into the snow and ice with my crampons. At times, snow fell on me from Peter’s steps above. In places of poor traction, big chunks of the névé snow slipped from under my feet, falling into the black emptiness. I arrived at the beginning of our fixed line, clipped a carabiner onto the security of the rope, and descended. I was working on autopilot; there were no thoughts. It had been fifteen hours since I’d left our camp. It would be more than an hour in total darkness before I could hope to reach the tents. I was at the end of my strength and on the brink of failure.
Ten meters before the end of the fixed rope, a crampon came off my boot. I lost balance and fell to the anchor point at the end of the rope, crashing into my backpack. Removing my gloves to replace the crampon, my fingers froze numb while I struggled with the metal. Unsuccessfully I tried to warm them against my body, then continued down the route below the bottleneck in the dark, moonless night. I had no sensation in my toes or my fingers. The cold penetrated my body, and my heart did not have the energy to pump my thickened blood into my feet and hands. Almost every ten meters the crampon came off my boot.
In one such moment I fell again and slid slowly down the slope. Automatically I turned onto my stomach and with my entire strength drove the ice tools into the snow. By some miracle I stopped. That extra ice ax, a gift from some unknown climber, had been like an invisible hand of help, assisting me all day. After that fall, I lost my orientation to the route. I was unhurt but more alert. There was no visibility. I had no headlamp. I fastened my crampon on my boot once more and moved randomly down. When the slope started to flatten, I chose a direction. Luckily it proved to be right. I fell again and again, clumsy with fatigue, but the slope near the tents was less steep, and it was not difficult to arrest my falls. At last I made out the dark silhouettes of the tents. When I could finally see them, they were fifteen meters away.
I staggered to the tent with one crampon on my boot. With effort, I liberated myself from my equipment. After falling into the tent, I found my headlamp and turned it on, so the tent would be a reference point for those who were coming down the mountain. It was 8:30 P.M. when I lit my stove and put the pot of compressed snow on the burner to melt. Th
at was all I could manage to do. I could feel nothing inside my plastic boots, but I had no strength to do anything to warm my feet. The heat of the stove raised the temperature in the tent. I dozed off cradling the pot in my hands while attempting to thaw out my frozen fingers. Hot water spilled on me; it burned my hand and startled me to my senses. I checked my watch; I had slept forty minutes.
Only after I had warmed up by drinking the hot water did my mind go beyond the primitive needs of my survival. Then I focused on the critical situation forming on the mountain. Obviously, something had happened to Peter; he should have arrived. Like me, he was not well equipped for cold or darkness. Three hours had passed since I’d last seen him two hundred meters above the beginning of the fixed line. I thought, even with the down jacket, Reinmar did not have enough warm clothing. Andy was better off with his down suit. The Swedish mountaineers were dressed really well and could survive the night out. But with what kind of aftermath? My thoughts were interrupted by steps outside the tent. It was Andy.
He had seen nothing of Peter during his descent. If Peter had made it to the fixed rope, he should have been in camp by now. If Andy had not see him, he might have fallen, as I had, on the relief below the fixed line. It would be impossible to find a person on that slope in the moonless night. I understood that brutal fact clearly. Outside events were unfolding chaotically. My mind told me to go out, to look for Peter, to help someone, but I had no strength at all. What could I have done in those hours but add one more name to the list of victims? Andy and I did not discuss going back up the mountain. Exhausted, we had no options. I did not sleep, but spent the night semiconscious, aware only of the cold.
At 4 A.M. I looked out of the tent. The relief of the slope was still unclear. I saw a slow-moving red dot. Who was it? Dressed in red, it could only be one of the Swedish climbers. When Rafael came up to the tent, tears were streaming down his cheeks. Tears of grief … his friend had been lost. Daniel had developed altitude sickness, cerebral edema; he had become disoriented and fallen while descending. Rafael had no news of Peter or Reinmar. He believed they had descended ahead of him to the safety of the tents.
Above the Clouds Page 12
