As a precaution against strong winds, I invested a lot of time digging a wide depression in the snow to shelter my tent. I fixed a late dinner and prepared for the morning by melting a good quantity of snow into water. Feeling good, I climbed into my sleeping bag about 9 P.M. and slept well during my first night at that altitude. About three in the morning, my Polish campmate could be heard putting on crampons, followed by the clanking of equipment and the crunch of snow as he left for the summit. For another hour, I dozed in the warmth of my sleeping bag, then began to make my own preparations. Instant oatmeal and a huge mug of instant coffee sufficed for breakfast. Dried fruit, a chocolate bar, a thermos of tea, and a thermos of water were stashed in the roomy pockets of my old down suit. About 5 A.M. with the beam from my headlamp illuminating the slope, I started up, digging my crampons in the snow, balancing with my ice ax and a ski pole.
The tents of Camp III were deserted when I arrived at 7 A.M. Away off ahead, I saw bobbing lights and dark silhouettes ascending a steep belt of rock at 7,500 meters. The stars were dying into the fantastic colors that illuminated the morning sky. At my pace, I would quickly overtake the group of backed-up climbers who were taking turns negotiating that dangerous section of steep snow and rock. It seemed like a stupid idea to push ahead only to wait in the cold behind them. A lack of sleep and the new elevation made me drowsy. The best way out of the situation seemed to be to wait in the Russian tent. Protected from the wind and warm in my down suit, immediately I was asleep. When I awoke at 9 A.M. restored, it validated a good conditioning program.
The twenty meters of steep rocks were put behind easily. With no one to be seen ahead, I continued at a deliberate pace, taking no more breaks for rest. About 11 A.M., two figures appeared in a halo of sun rays. My altimeter recorded 7,800 meters. Men from St. Petersburg were returning from the summit; we stopped to talk. In the past I knew them as high-altitude mountaineers. Now they are examples of a new generation of entrepreneurs in Russia: men who tear themselves away from the tenacious grip of business for a month and pay their way to the Himalayas. They estimated that I had four hours of climbing ahead of me to the peak. The route became less steep, crossing a long plain. My pace was slow and steady and I encountered a few people descending, mainly Russians. Just before the top I caught up with Vinogradski. A team of Koreans going down breathing bottled oxygen passed us. Their Sherpas followed, loaded, down with equipment, food, and water. Without much strain or effort, Zhenya and I arrived at our goal at 1 P.M.
Suddenly the weather changed; snow started to fall and thick clouds swirled in from all sides, reducing visibility. Denied the majestic views of Everest and Lhotse, our neighbors to the east, after a few summit photos we moved down into the fog. I caught up with a large group of climbers negotiating the section of steep slope above Camp III. Past that obstacle, I continued down to the security of my tent below.
I slept that night delighting in the fatigue that comes after such hard physical work. In the morning after a leisurely breakfast, I packed up and moved carefully down the crest, my balance secured by crampons and ski poles. At Camp I, I met the Kazakh climbers who had arrived at that elevation for their first night of acclimatization. Astonishment and disbelief registered in their eyes when I told them I had been on the summit the day before.
After that, we had several days before the yaks would arrive to transport our gear down to the waiting Jeeps. During that interval, I rested and poured out my open heart to my Russian friends. For a long time I had missed their presence in the high mountains. The Kazakh climbers were acting as guides for five Japanese men who had prepared for Cho Oyu by climbing in the Tien Shan. To my surprise these Japanese men were open and sociable; we celebrated the birthday of the strongest one in their group. He planned to summit without the use of bottled oxygen. After a festive dinner, we listened as a harmonious choir from the Land of the Rising Sun sang songs about their homeland.
On the twenty-seventh the weather deteriorated: the temperature dropped, heavy snow fell. The following day the clouds were dissipated by gusts of wind and the sun broke through. Happily, I handed over my barrels of equipment to the yak drivers. Toward dinnertime, I left advanced Base Camp burdened only with a small pack. Five hours later I was at the trailhead. The Jeeps that would take us across the Tibetan plateau arrived the next evening.
Shisha Pangma, Tibet
Lounging on mats at our encampment on the wide Tibetan plain on October 2, we watched as the yaks appeared out of nowhere. To the sounds of whistles, bells, and barking dogs, they were soon loaded with our equipment and supplies. Shisha Pangma is the only 8,000-meter peak located totally in Tibet. Snow and wind conditions on her slopes had forestalled the success of a number of expeditions that season. A French team quit the day we arrived. On our way into Base Camp we met them retreating. The summit of Shisha beckoned us with its beauty; it seemed harmless and accessible. The weather had been sunny and pleasant since we’d left Cho Oyu. With no difficulty we crossed a pass and arrived in camp seven hours later, right after our yaks.
Ukrainian climbers invited us to lunch. The two most experienced members of their team were at that moment on their way to Camp II at 7,000 meters. Victor Pastukh and Gennady Vasilenko had been members of the 1989 Kanchenjunga team; via radio they said hello to me and promised that we would celebrate our reunion over a bottle of beer. The last time I had seen the Ukrainians together had been in the fall of 1994 after their attempt on Dhaulagiri. Now the Soviet Union is divided into many states and sovereignties, and it is easier for us, her mountaineers, to meet on the neutral ground of Himalayan land. Over lunch, the men in camp gave us the details of climbing Shisha’s technically easy route. The main difficulties were the large accumulations of snow and the force of the wind above 6,500 meters. An Italian team had established Camp III at 7,300 meters using skis, which made the work of breaking trail through deep snow easier.
After setting up my tent between the campsites of the Russians and the Ukrainians, I sorted my equipment. My plan was to dedicate a day to rest, making only a short equipment carry across the glacier, and to begin the assault in earnest on October 4. That evening, mountaineers from the former republics gathered in the big Ukrainian tent to celebrate our reunion with drinking and talking. A climber from South Korea had joined the Russian team after their Cho Oyu ascent, and that night I noticed he was shy and seemed to be uncomfortable among our boisterous group of animated Soviets.
Seventy-year-old Vladimir Monogarov, the famous coach of the Ukrainian team, invited me to visit the banya that had been improvised next to a glacial lake near camp. So I enjoyed the luxury of bathing in a well-heated tent with hot water and a rest before packing up my equipment for the assault. The true beginning of the route up the north side of Shisha starts at about 5,900 meters, after you cross a glacier that flows down from the side slopes. It took two hours to pick my way through the rocks and arrive at the place where an ice ax and crampons were necessary to climb higher. I deposited my equipment, pleased that the next day I could cross that section quickly and unencumbered on a familiar path.
The weather took a sudden turn for the worse. Wet snow fell throughout the night. In those conditions, I had no impulse to climb out of my tent early. The Russians set out from camp after breakfast with heavy packs. The snow fell continuously with increasing intensity. There was nothing for me to do but dress more warmly and get going. In six days the yaks would arrive to take our gear back to the waiting Jeeps. There was no time to sit comfortably in camp. Perhaps the weather conditions would improve, but I was somewhat reassured because I knew that the Ukrainians who were now at Camp II were scheduled to come down. They would break the trail. Their tracks would help me avoid the danger of wandering off the route.
Blowing snow reduced visibility to a few meters ahead when I left Base Camp; it had also erased the tracks made by the Russians only two hours before. I reached my stashed equipment, but it had become impossible for me to assess the overrising slopes f
or avalanche potential. All my effort took me to just 6,000 meters, only a little higher than the previous day. I decided to set up camp in the first place that seemed reasonably safe. Hoping I had selected a secure spot, at about 5 P.M. I climbed into my tent and settled in for the night. Despite the foul weather, in the warmth of my sleeping bag I was comfortable and fell deeply asleep until morning. It snowed all night. By breakfast, the wind had calmed slightly. I peered out of the tent into a milky vapor and could only see a few meters. I cooked breakfast, then waited. The snowfall let up around lunchtime. Visibility seemed to improve.
Sometime later I heard voices … the descending Ukrainians? Victor and Gennady should be with them, I thought. I greeted the men, but my friends weren’t with them.
“Gennady and Victor wanted to make it up to Camp III before descending to rest,” I was told.
Two hours before, during a radio contact, they had reported they were on the way down, at about the level of Camp II. They said that they would try to catch up with their teammates.
When asked about my immediate plans, I said that I was going to wait a couple more hours and let the weather suggest what I should do. I could not see the side slopes of the mountain, and by that time avalanche danger was severe. Obviously I did not want to ascend without being able to judge that hazard, but going all the way back to camp meant losing precious time. After our encounter, I began to pack. I felt ambivalent about going up, but neither did I desire to stay where I was, waiting. Without the weight of my pack and supplies to carry, Base Camp was two hours away. Something was nagging me; the day before I had chosen my campsite in a dense fog. I wasn’t at all certain I was in a secure spot. Seventy to eighty centimeters of fresh snow now burdened the slopes above me. Even gentle slopes will avalanche in such conditions, and that had become a big risk. I waited an hour in the tent; the snowfall was light, but did not totally stop. Stepping outside the tent, I tried to judge the conditions on the side slopes of the huge icy, snow-filled couloir above me. It was 4 P.M. I remember thinking that apparently Victor and Gennady were not in much of a hurry to catch up with the rest of their team. Through the breaks in the low clouds and fog, I searched the mountainside for the trail left by the descending climbers. The oncoming cold of evening improved visibility significantly. The contours of the side slopes rose above me. I made out the fresh tracks bisecting the couloir. No one was on the slope. Judging by the elapsed time, if Victor and Gennady were coming down, they should have been visible on the face, descending toward my tent.
Surveying the relief, searching for the approximate location of Camp I, I watched as a huge snow slab collapsed off the right wall. It gained speed and strength, crossed the ascent route, and was headed straight toward my tent. The dull boom of the snow layer tearing off the mountain hit me; the front line of the avalanche was a kilometer away in a direct line. Though I had taken the precaution of placing my tent behind a three-meter-high ice wall, I understood instantly that I was in danger. An avalanche this size would blanket the base of the couloir with a layer of snow many meters thick. This analysis took place as I ran away from the approaching cloud in giant leaps. My thoughts separated from my body, as though my consciousness were objectively observing the outcome of my situation from a distance. The blast of air preceding the avalanche hit my back. It propelled me forward. Immediately a squalling wind, dense with suspended snow dust, plastered my back, head to foot. I pulled myself together, covered my face and mouth with my light anorak, and prepared to receive the main blow of snow. It did not follow. One hundred and fifty meters separated me from my camp and equipment. One hundred meters beyond my tent was a completely new relief. I estimated the depth of the avalanche snow. It took away my appetite for risk that day. Leaving behind my tent, my equipment, and my backpack, I ran away from that place, hoping to reach Base Camp before sunset.
An hour outside of camp, I caught up with the Ukrainians. They had no news from Gennady and Victor. I shared an optimistic assessment; maybe their radio batteries had died, which often happens on long trips; or after appraising the snow conditions, they might have decided to stay at Camp I with Russian friends for the night. At that moment, the possibility that my predictions were wrong did not occur to me.
The next morning, the day was beautiful; not a cloud was in the sky. Normally when the weather is excellent, it puts everyone in a good mood, but not this day for members of the Ukrainian team or for me. As the day progressed, our worries about our friends increased. The slopes of the mountain were clearly visible, with no sign of anyone descending from Camps I or II. Our alarm intensified when about lunchtime we could see a group of eight people (definitely the Russian team) climbing along the snowy rise between the two campsites. The groups had not arranged a way to contact one another in the event of unforeseen circumstances.
There was no way to find out if they had seen Victor and Gennady’s tracks. Had they perished in the avalanche I’d witnessed, or in another? Perhaps descending in the fog, they had ventured into a zone of ice faults and fallen into some crevasse overladen with unconsolidated snow. The day before I had come close to making the wrong decision myself. I could easily have gotten lost or ended up in the avalanche if I had tried to ascend that fateful day. What had made me hesitate to climb along that slope just one hour before the avalanche? Perhaps it was intuition, perhaps it was just too much effort to go up. It was easier to climb down to the warmth of Base Camp. Did that inviting prospect entice my friends as well? They had survived many situations far more dangerous than the conditions we had been in the day before. It was difficult to accept that men who had completed numerous dangerous routes, who had a huge bank of mountaineering experience behind them, had disappeared into an abyss.
On October 7, three strong Italian alpine guides left Base Camp ahead of me, beginning their summit bid. I advised the leader of the Ukrainian team that I planned to climb directly to Camp II that day if I could. He gave me a radio with new batteries to deliver to our friends. If they were safe and sound, we had a way to reestablish communication. In the equipment in the Russian camp, I located a shortwave radio tuned to the frequency that they were using. That I handed over to Vladimir Monogarov before I left camp.
By 9 A.M. I had crossed the glacier and was close to the spot where I had left my tent and gear; there was evidence of a second avalanche. Had it buried my gear? After a moment of real concern, I could see that it, too, had stopped behind the snow wall. Looking up the couloir, just below the plateau where Camp I was located, I could see the Italians ascending, two of them using cross-country skis.
I heated up water for tea and quickly prepared some breakfast. Not wasting time, I packed up my tent and gear and headed up. I climbed out of the couloir onto the vast plateau above, only to be greeted by a bitter wind. The tents of the camp were battered and snow-burdened, but their location was completely free of avalanche danger. Hoping to find my missing friends in the Ukrainian tent, I pulled open the flap and disturbed the Italians, who were making tea. They reported they’d seen no tracks on the slope when they’d come up. I established radio contact with the Ukrainian Base Camp. To my surprise and joy, I learned that my friends were with the Russian team on the way to Camp III at 7,300 meters. Everything was okay, the guys had been found.
After eating a little I put on my down suit and decided to continue up to Camp II to spend the night. If the weather the next day was good enough for a summit assault, the Russian team would leave early from Camp III. I would be able to catch up with them. I thought how much easier it would be to break trail through this deep snow in our old group, our effort fortified by the strength of Victor and Gennady.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The only flaw was the wind. Crossing the plateau, I pressed myself low against the slope and faced the full pressure of the gusting squall. Two Italians followed me on skis; the third man climbed as I did. Midway across the plateau, the skiers passed me. Each meter was conquered with effort, every step I went up to my knees in new sn
ow. At the beginning of the rise that would take us to the next step, the third Italian, Simone Moro, caught up with me. My pace was slow, and we changed positions. He worked well and fast; we covered the trail to the lip of the rise before Camp II in about four hours. There the wind increased to hurricane force. The weight I carried reduced me to a creep. At last I arrived at the tents of Camp II in pitch darkness. Generously, the Italians offered me tea and shared their plans. If the weather was favorable, they intended to leave for the summit that night at 3 A.M. They hoped to be at the beginning of the steep, dangerous summit crest by dawn. I predicted that the Russian team would also be on the route, and our possibility of success would be much greater if we all worked together.
Saying good-night, I situated myself next to the Italians’ tent and climbed into my sleeping bag wearing my down suit. I pulled my bivouac sack up over my head, leaving only a small space for breathing. At 4 A.M. I heard my neighbors preparing for the assault. I heated up water for tea on my kerosene stove, made breakfast, and departed from camp about an hour behind the Italians. The hard crust of snow supported my steps across the plateau. In an hour and a half I reached the beginning of a ridge. When the first rays of sun hit me, I was protected from the wind in the lee of the steep ice slope, and I could move without difficulty. In an hour I had clambered to the crest and again faced a blast of hurricane force. I had to crawl. The wind was strong enough to rip me off the slope and throw me down like a piece of weightless fluff. Driving my ax deep into the snow with all my power, I moved forward by dragging my body anchored by the pick.
At Camp III there were only two Russian tents. Everyone, including the Italians, had to be in them. Without doubt, I knew that my friends had postponed their summit bid. I shouted a loud greeting, asking in which tent I could find Victor and Gennady, saying that I had their radio. Total silence was the response to my greeting. Then team leader Vladimir Bashkirov said, “Anatoli, they are not here.” The Russians had contacted Base Camp only hours before. I understood that yesterday someone in camp had given me false information. Perhaps it was too much for him to accept that the two great mountaineers were dead.
Above the Clouds Page 22
