The men honored by the expedition, Grigori Luniakov and Zinur Halitov, had been my teachers. We had accomplished many excellent climbs together in the Pamirs and Tien Shan in the 1980s; our last effort together had been Kanchenjunga. I had learned much about mountaineering from them. I hope that our club can dedicate future ascents to the great ones from our club who have died while climbing, men like the accomplished Vadim Smirnov and Valeri Khrichtchatyi, as well as the younger, less well-known Marat Galiev, who in his short life lived and breathed the mountains.
Yuri Moiseev and Vladimir Suviga, veterans of West Dhaulagiri and Kanchenjunga, were the only members of the assault team who had experience above eight thousand meters. Since 1991, only I had been able to pursue mountaineering actively without any breaks in training. During that four-year period immense changes had taken place in our country: in economics, in politics, and ultimately in the lives of each person. But individuals do not change much, especially men who climb mountains. What endures is the spirit that drives a human to choose the most difficult and dangerous roads: unexplored paths that are not accessible simply because one has the money to afford them. There are ways to achieve earthly happiness that do not depend on money, and they should not be discounted throughout the civilized world. I was tired physically and psychologically, yet without hesitation I said yes to Kazbec’s invitation.
Final preparations kept us in Kathmandu a few days. My friends and I passed our time relaxing, browsing among the craft stalls, and examining the colorful goods on display in the shops in Thamel. One afternoon I was pleasantly surprised to recognize the hooded figure of Scott Fischer leisurely absorbed in his own window-shopping along the busy streets. His appearance was unchanged; only his hair was a bit longer, now pulled back in a ponytail.
Slapping him on the back, I asked, “Scott Fischer, what is new in America? How are you?”
His blue eyes lit up as he said, “Hi, Anatoli! It’s good to see a familiar face.”
We ducked into the small Tibetan restaurant at the Sherpa Guesthouse, drank a little beer, and caught up on the events in our lives. While I’d worked in the Tien Shan that summer, Scott had climbed Broad Peak (an 8,000-meter peak in Pakistan) and had successfully led several clients to the summit. He said that now there were enough mountaineers to warrant commercial expeditions to the 8,000-meter peaks. Business was picking up for his new company, Mountain Madness. In fact he had flown in from America to purchase a permit for Mount Everest for the spring season of 1996; Neal Beidleman had agreed to be one of his guides.
We spoke about Balyberdin, who had died, shot by someone in St. Petersburg for the money he made driving his car as a cab. A national hero had lain in the morgue for a week before anyone had realized who he was. I told Scott about my work for Himalayan Guides on Everest the previous spring and that I had just finished a sports ascent on Dhaulagiri. He knew I had climbed the peak for the second time, and with a note of surprise Scott remarked that he thought I worked for money; he didn’t know I climbed for entertainment.
“Dhaulagiri was so enjoyable that in a week I intend to double my pleasure by attempting Manaslu in winter,” I replied.
Scott’s laughter stopped when he realized I wasn’t joking. He paused, then said that he envied me.
“What are the problems, Scott?” I asked. “Join our team, it is very strong, I am sure we will succeed.”
The idea of an ascent on Manaslu appealed to him; it was one of his dreams: no American had ever summited that peak. In all seriousness I encouraged him to come with me. He said he would have to think about it. His decisions about climbing were based on many considerations: his family, business, and money. He was not free, as I was, to do as he pleased. He was in Kathmandu on business and needed to focus on that. Earnestly, Scott spoke about how he enjoyed his work, how he liked interacting with people and opportunities to take them climbing. That way he combined two of the things he loved in life. From that conversation I developed a new level of respect for him. Though I doubted he could say yes to my invitation, I was pleased to offer him the opportunity. We sat for a time enjoying one another’s company, then he said that he had a business appointment and asked if we could meet for breakfast the next morning.
I replied, “Yes, of course.” I wanted to tell him more about the programs I had developed for expeditions in Kazakhstan, thinking he might see some opportunity in the mountains in my homeland for his new company.
The next morning, we talked over several cups of coffee in the restaurant at the Manang Hotel. I showed him photos of Khan-Tengri (which to me is one of the most beautiful mountains on earth). I saw Scott’s eyes light up with appreciation. The Tien Shan was unknown to him and interesting. At heart Scott was an adventurer. Practically, he pointed out that going to Kazakhstan depended on whether he could find clients to pay for the cost of an expedition or trekking there. After working as a guide for American and British companies, I understood this approach to life, to work: the philosophy is to make the things you do pay for themselves.
Our conversation changed to the subject of Everest. Scott asked for my professional opinion as a guide about commercial expeditions. I clarified that I did not work as a guide with Henry Todd’s clients but as the climbing leader. I was responsible for two of the less experienced members during their climb to the top. When the other members summited, I was available to assist if a rescue or problems arose, but I did not climb with them.
Scott had heard that fifty-three people had been successful during our season, a fact some professional climbers found unbelievable. He wanted to know how that was possible on a route considered harder than the South Col way. I told him what I thought were the contributing factors. We discussed details of other expedition experiences: organizational styles and outcomes. With Rolf Dujmovits taking clients to K2 and Rob Hall getting people up Everest, I admitted that it looked as if mountaineering was moving in the direction of commercial expeditions. Scott asked me what I thought of the risk on such expeditions. He wanted my opinion as a climber experienced with high altitude.
I approached the subject of our Everest success conservatively. I said that the mountain would clearly always be difficult and dangerous. She demanded caution and respect. Risk and success on Everest depended on the quality and depth of the guides’ skills, on timing, and on the experience and physical condition of the clients. High-quality, experienced guides were no guarantee; I shared how close I had come to failing in 1995. At one moment on the spring expedition, I had found myself alone, blinded by a storm, literally crawling on my hands and knees back to Camp II. At high altitude, I pointed out, there was no insurance against abrupt changes in the weather, and no amount of guiding expertise could prevent clients from developing altitude sickness. Everest will always be Everest. In the end she decides who approaches the summit, and effectively that made it a game of chance.
“Guiding Everest is a game of Russian roulette,” I said.
Scott sobered at this remark and only echoed, “Russian roulette?”
Out of the blue, Scott offered me a job working for him in the spring of 1996. I had not anticipated this invitation. It seemed impulsive to me. We were just talking. I did not know what to say. My mind was occupied with the coming Manaslu expedition. Actually, I did not immediately understand why Scott needed me to work. It did not make sense to me. I understood well why my cooperation with Himalayan Guides was useful to Henry Todd. He no longer had the services of Richard Pawlowski. Because of that, he had to pay a highly qualified mountaineer who was capable of working above eight thousand meters. Henry is skilled at organization and managing expeditions to 8,000-meter peaks, but he is not a lead climber. As for Scott Fischer, he was as fully capable at high altitude as I was. Why did he want someone like me to work for him? America is full of mountaineers with less experience who would be honored to help him on an expedition, happy to take his orders and carry them out. Frankly, Scott’s offer flabbergasted me.
I apologized to him, saying
I had accepted a job in the spring with Himalayan Guides. We would be working together on Everest, on parallel expeditions. Scott burst out laughing. He said, “Anatoli, I want you to work only for me. I can see many possibilities for the future in our cooperation.”
I told him that while I appreciated the role I had as a lead climber, it was not as interesting or enjoyable to me as ascending peaks unencumbered in my own style. He pointed out practically that the world turned on money, and that I would need to make money guiding to finance my own projects. Scott asked me what Himalayan Guides was paying me. I told him, but I also said that other things about my cooperation with Henry Todd were important to me, such as developing some business at home in the Tien Shan. My agreement to work for Himalayan Guides was not solely based on what Henry was paying me. The work was too dangerous for what I was making. I had invested a lot of time and my own money in getting the program in the Tien Shan going, and I had some reason to think that a partnership with Henry regarding the delivery of Poisk oxygen would eventuate. Russians have a proverb, “Do not change horses in the middle of the stream.” I was thrown off-balance by Scott’s offer. I do not like to hurry or make decisions quickly, and at that moment I couldn’t decide what was right to do.
Scott laughed. He said he was ready to pay someone with my qualifications twice what Himalayan Guides was paying. He said he wanted our “cooperation” to work out. I liked Scott, and more than that, I respected his skill as a climber. Although I was looking for someone of his caliber to be my climbing partner, someone as capable of sports ascents as I was, I felt that I needed time to think about what he offered and about my relationship with Himalayan Guides. I said that if Scott could pay me $5,000 more than his offer, I would probably say yes. Scott was clearly taken back by that: he had already offered me more than most guides make for working on Everest.
Actually, I found it hard to focus on this proposition. My mind was on Manaslu, and the way the conversation had changed had taken me by surprise. Though I could easily see the benefits of working for Scott, and the idea of our climbing together as partners on sports ascents was appealing, I thought changing companies would put me in a difficult situation with Henry Todd. I didn’t so much want extra money from Scott as I wanted a way to explain to Henry Todd why I had suddenly given up our relationship. Henry is above all a clever businessman. This was the same situation I had been in when he had offered me more money than Thor Kieser was able to pay. I figured Henry would understand, as Thor had, if I elected to take advantage of an opportunity that was so much better.
As Scott had another meeting at the Ministry of Tourism about his Everest permit, he left the table saying he was ready to pay me what he had offered and that I should think about it. We agreed to meet the next morning at Mike’s Breakfast.
The rest of that day I organized gear and supplies for the Manaslu expedition. I went over Scott’s invitation in my mind. It began to make sense to me that he wanted the best-quality guides possible for the spring expedition. I knew from our conversation that he understood my level of experience and that he respected my point of view. I thought of what sort of organization I wanted to work for and about the opportunities I hoped to create for myself by doing such dangerous work. Running a smooth mountaineering expedition takes special skill. I felt Scott had the kind of strong, positive personality that experienced mountaineers, clients, and Sherpas could follow. He could provide good leadership on commercial undertakings, and the opportunity to climb purely for sports objectives with someone of his caliber was appealing.
My Almaty friends joined me for breakfast in the garden at Mike’s the next morning. After weighing the pros and cons, I decided to accept Scott’s offer as it stood. He was late and I surmised that he had decided not to pursue our conversation because of my initial reaction. I felt regret regarding the lost opportunity. About 10 A.M. he arrived, entering the garden, talking and gesturing to his trekking agent, P. B. Thapa. After “Good morning,” the first words from Scott’s mouth were that he would agree to pay me what I’d asked for to work. Since I had already decided to work for him, the issue was closed. Immediately we began discussing organizational details.
We met several times that day and outlined my responsibilities. Scott wanted to buy lightweight, Kevlar-wrapped oxygen canisters made in Russia for the coming expedition. We agreed I would make those arrangements. He ordered two of the prototype Russian tents we were field-testing on Manaslu, and I was to be responsible for their delivery. We signed a contract. I would be able to explain to Henry Todd why I had left his company for another.
Scott was unable to secure his Everest permit. P. B. Thapa was left to work on those details for him. Scott gave me a deposit for my work in case the expedition was canceled. He had to leave urgently because of other business commitments. We agreed I was to contact him through P. B. Thapa’s office as soon as I returned from Manaslu. I said good-bye to him, truly regretting he was not coming with me.
The Winter Ascent of Manaslu
Winter climbing adds a dangerous rigor and hardship to the alpine challenge. This expedition account was prepared for the American Alpine Journal. Anatoli’s writing had a military terseness that he felt was appropriate to the distinctly “Soviet” climbing style. Clearly ringing though this matter-of-fact retelling is his sense of relief and pride. Irvand Illinski reminisced, “Nineteen ninety-five was the year that Anatoli came home.”
Yuri Moiseev and Vladimir Suviga and the younger members of the team left Kathmandu on a bus November 3. They trekked to the village of Somongon, gaining a gradual acclimatization to 4,200 meters. November 18, Kazbec Valiev, our doctor Valentin Makarov, and I met them at the last village on the trek to Manaslu Base Camp. Expedition supplies and equipment were off-loaded from a Russian helicopter owned by Asian Airlines, and we said good-bye to pilot Serge Danilov, who was an old friend from Kazakhstan. After two more days of hiking over snow-covered trails, we set up our base of operations at 4,400 meters.
Younger team members were familiar with expedition routine. Seventy-two hours of combined effort forged the trail to Camp I at 5,500 meters. Reconnoitering the icefall that cascaded from the North Slope and pushing the route through its obstacles took a few more days. Above it on the most level spot available we carved out Camp II. After sleeping one night to gain proper acclimatization, we descended to Base Camp for two days of rest. On the twenty-ninth, our ranks split into two five-man climbing units, and together we headed back up the mountain.
The short winter days dictated an abbreviated work schedule. By 3 P.M. the sun would slip behind the northern ridge and the wind would pick up; then a terrible cold would descend on the mountain. Thin tent walls and our sleeping bags provided the only refuge from the frigid conditions. Night temperatures plunged to minus forty degrees centigrade, and even in the tents it was minus ten. Above the elevation of Camp I a steady wind blew, which was rarely dependent on the time of day. First light found us preparing food and water; by 8 A.M. we left the tents. Like one machine, the two teams worked in harmony, alternating effort on the route. Due to the inherent danger, though each work group separated to its own tent for the night, in the day we worked in close cooperation.
On December 1 on a 6,800-meter-high ridge, next to the windblown remains of a previous Japanese expedition, we pitched tents for Camp III. With us we had carried enough extra food, gas, and equipment for the summit assault. For acclimatization, we slept at that elevation one night, then returned to Base Camp for another two-day rest.
On December 5 ten members left for the final assault, climbing directly to Camp II. On the sixth we ascended to the well-stocked tents at Camp III. Though extremely cold, we had some luck with the weather when gusting winds subsided. Despite low temperatures, we climbed rapidly to a large ice plateau beneath the summit at 7,400 meters. Working together, we quickly cut a level platform into the hard névé slope. But before the barrel tents were completely secured, the wind increased, threatening to reach hurricane
force. Inside our resilient, hard-tested shelters, it was tolerable, though five men were crammed into a space designed for four. During the night the icy blast pierced the walls, penetrated the insulation of our sleeping bags, and sucked away our bodies’ warmth. The temperature inside registered minus twenty degrees centigrade; one could only imagine what it was outside.
We had agreed to try for the summit regardless of conditions. By consensus, the most experienced members worked out our plan. Departure preparations began at 4 A.M.; we wanted to leave at six, keeping the team together. Crowded conditions in the tents made a simultaneous start impossible. At the appointed time, the first two climbers headed up the gradual slope, climbing on hard ice and snow. Around 10 A.M. Yuri Moiseev and twenty-four-year-old Alexander Baimakhanov crossed the last steep, icy ramp that led onto the corniced summit ridge. Shortly behind them I came struggling with my camera, which was refusing to work in the low temperatures. The second group of summiteers, Dima Sobolev, Shafkat Gataullin, and Oleg Malikov, arrived as we abandoned the peak. Demetri Muravoyov and veteran Vladimir Suviga brought up the rear. Arriving in five-to-ten-minute intervals, eight men managed to pull their bodies to the top. During the morning’s coldest hours, the threat of frostbite had sent two of the team back to the tents.
Above the Clouds Page 16
