Summit Fever

by Andrew Greig

  Night comes suddenly, rising up from the valley below us. The stars are astonishingly bright, the Mustagh ridge glimmers by their light. It looks bigger than ever. It’s wonderful to be here. I feel so tiny, yet full of strength.

  Faint rustle of wind and water, the distant clatter of rockfall. Up here I always have a sense of stillness and silence, of the utmost gravity. And behind that these pale mountains offer and conceal a stillness and a silence yet more complete, the utter white and calm of death.

  But we’re alive. Bring us tomorrow! Take me to Camp 2!

  Haven’t I learned yet? Never assume.

  Up at 4.30 in the half-light. Porridge, cocoa, munchies, lying in our bags. Cold up here, but wide awake. I packed carefully, a good way of calming nerves and establishing the kind of concentration needed all day. Gearing up is always quiet as we check and gather ourselves inside and out. Prussik loops, ice screw, spare gloves … Steady breathing, calm and steady … ‘OΚ, let’s go and mess with that mother.’

  Our packs are huge, so high I can’t tilt back my head to look up. A sharp pain in my lower back after 50 yards.

  That was our first mistake of the day.

  Then Alex’s crampon came away. Something wrong with the straps. That was to recur at frequent intervals. As he bent over to fix it, I noticed how pale and sunken his face had become in the last week. He’d lost weight off his arms and legs too – in fact he looked like a human spider. I couldn’t see muscle anywhere; he was running on willpower.

  Still, we wound our way on up to the Icefall just as it started to wake up with the sun. ‘The bitch is all scrambled since last week,’ Alex muttered, and after a couple of false starts set off in a fresh direction. I followed on, as trusting as a conscripted peasant in a medieval army. ‘Oh man …’ Further muttering from up front. Alex backtracked and set off sharp right over a ridge of ice like a frozen wave about to break. All round us now the Tiger bared its gleaming teeth. A deep whumph round the corner up ahead.

  Alex paused, hesitated, sniffed around like a giraffe suspecting the presence of lions. ‘That big fucking boulder’s moved fifty yards … Shit …’

  I followed with rapidly diminishing confidence.

  Twenty minutes later, after a series of moves that would be hard to reverse, we came to a complete standstill. We’d somehow got boxed into a narrow glacier ravine. In front was a 100-foot-long wall of ice, overhanging and peeling away from the main body of ice behind it. Behind us was a snow bank full of holes, topped with rocks from under which water was dripping on our heads. The left led deeper into country that made this seem tame, and the exit right, by which we’d come in, involved a front-pointing traverse for 30 yards around a wall studded with boulders that suddenly ended over a crevasse.

  At this point Alex lost his presence of mind.

  We spent forty minutes stuck in one of the most dangerous parts of the Icefall as he cast fitfully this way and that, changing his mind and changing it again. I resigned myself to luck. We were so completely hemmed in that if the overhang fell, or one of the rocks above our heads came out, there would be no way of avoiding it.

  I tried to stand and say nothing like a good second. By now he’d thoroughly lost the place and was savagely cursing the weight on his back, the Icefall, the lads for sending him up here with a beginner, and, when I finally offered a suggestion, me. I was being led by someone who was not even pretending to be in control. It was scary as hell.

  I saw leadership was not forthcoming and longed briefly for Malcolm’s phlegmatic calm. Come back, Duff, all is forgiven! I felt at once resigned and anxious, had both resentment and sympathy for Alex who in turn was very worried, embarrassed and angry. Water was running down the slope hanging over us, a couple of rocks slithered and crunched into the ravine 30 feet away. The glacier was creaking and shifting all around us.

  Finally Alex said, ‘Well, you can see the options.’ I could. I said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here’, John Wayne stylee. Alex looked relieved. With considerable difficulty we retraced our steps and made it back to the Brew Tent. Dropped the sodding packs. Sat down. There was an awkward silence, neither of us looked at the other.

  Then he looked up and said, ‘I’m really sorry. I fucked up.’

  ‘No sweat, Alex.’ He went and got a brew going, staring moodily into the billy.

  That was big of him. I respected and appreciated his apology. But the truth was, yes he had fucked up. He’d got out of his depth and endangered both of us. My faith in him as a leader was shaken.

  On the radio, we discussed our situation with Jon and Sandy. They suggested we come down to Base and go up to Camp 1 with them tomorrow. That sounded fine to me, but Alex opted to stay at the Brew Tent. He seemed depressed, angry at himself and withdrawn. So I said fine and set off down.

  Wonderful to hit the Ibex Trail again, see the wind stir grass and flowers and smell warm earth. I romped down it in good spirits, looking forward to the usual chapati and mutton lunch. Base is wonderful; it’s Shangri-La with flies. Here you can eat and drink and know the ground isn’t going to open up beneath you.

  Mal: Camp 2 is definite squalor after Camp 1. Ironic that just when you could do with maximum ease and comfort as you go higher, the reverse occurs. A four-man tent with loads of food, then a two-man tent with the unappetizing crumbs left by the scavengers, then a snow hole or bivvy tent with hardly anything. The average man’s ambitions in reverse!

  I’m neither put off nor desperately disappointed by today’s abortive attempt. If that’s the worst of the Icefall, I’m up to it mentally and technically. It doesn’t freak me out and that’s a good knowledge. I’m quite confident about going through it with Jon or Sandy. They’ve had a day of complete rest and are revved up to get back on the hill. This time they intend to stay up till they succeed or fail. The ropes are up, Mal and Tony should erect Camp 3. All they have to do is bring up more food, climbing gear and go for it.

  Question is, will Mal and Tony stay up and try for the summit this time? That would inevitably put them ahead of the others. Does that matter? Is it fair?

  And will the weather hold to give them all a chance at it?

  Chatting with them tonight, I see the Expedition is accelerating. ‘Summit’ is a word we suddenly use. All the plans being formulated now are summit plans, after weeks of stocking and establishing this camp and that. This is where things get serious. They’re now pushing altitude and pushing their luck.

  Alex said it: ‘It’s like they’ve been playing checkers for a month, and suddenly today it’s chess.’ Chess in a hurry – against the weather, each other, dwindling food supplies, and the time they’ve set aside for Gasherbrum 2.

  They’re loving it.

  So am I.

  Sleep now prowling outside my tent. I’m tired, at peace, open to tomorrow. I blow out the candles and let it come in.

  First things first – stuck my head out to check the weather. Cold and clear, high grey sky slowly turning blue as the light swells. We’re on, then. The familiar pulse of adrenalin hits me as I push into the Mess Tent past ‘Brew Me Crazy’, and nod to Jhaved. I make myself a triple porridge which is like eating glue, wallpaper paste and a hint of sawdust, and think about the coming day.

  Sandy (25 July): Entering the Mess Tent I expressed good morning to the lads with my normal good feeling. No real reply, Jon and Andrew sat there frowning over mugs of chai. Oh well. ‘Hi, Jhaved, any chapatis?’ ‘Lunch only,’ he said. I thought, that’s no good. Jhaved handed me the chapati bag and I took one for breakfast. I felt that Jon was staring holes in me like the ones I fell down on the Col.

  But still felt hungry, so asked Jhaved to make me an omelette. ‘Omelette, no climb. Climb, no omelette.’ But I took a firm line because I needed protein right then. Jon mentioned some immature thought about ‘time’. I did my utmost to ignore this and asked in as open a way as possible if they would care for some also. After very little deliberation, they accepted …

  It was a tiny
incident, typical of a hundred others. The fact that we react to them and remember them may seem very petty but is indicative of the frame of mind one gets into up here: ultrasensitive to the slightest nuance of phrase or gesture, magnifying the smallest selfishness or generosity. So with Sandy’s omelette, so with Mal’s anger at the missing spoon at Camp 1.

  That’s why Jon listed tolerance as his third essential Himalayan quality. Without it, expeditions fall apart.

  At the Cave we gear up in silence. The three of us tie on the same rope. I sit down to put on my crampons with great care. Don’t want them falling off halfway and making a fool of myself. I tighten the straps to the last notch and stand up. Sandy looks at me.

  ‘Ah, Andy, maybe you’d be better with the buckles on the outside.’

  I feel a total pillock. I’ve put the crampons on the wrong feet. Today of all days, climbing with these Aces for the first time. What a bumblie.

  So I sit down again and restrap them. Sandy very kindly tries to make me feel better by telling a story about how Mal climbed on Thamaserku for an entire day before discovering he’d had his boots on the wrong feet. I appreciated that – and was very aware of Jon’s impatience beside me.

  We set off and make the Brew Tent in good time. The crevasses have widened and some of the jumps are getting near our limit. The Rock House has collapsed completely. We found Alex packed and ready and in a slightly happier frame of mind. Still, I felt our relationship had been affected by yesterday’s fiasco. He was reserved towards me, and certainly noticed my evident pleasure and relief when Sandy suggested I went through to Camp 1 with him, and Alex with Jon. And I found myself interrupting him a lot. I suppose I’ve ceased deferring to his experience, I no longer assume he’s right and knows what he’s doing.

  I take on the extra food bags Alex has set aside to be carried up for the others, and find I can scarcely lift my pack. ‘Let me feel that,’ Sandy says. ‘That’s ridiculous, youth – you’ll have to junk some of that. No wonder you had problems yesterday.’

  So Alex and I junk some clothes and food. That feels better. Sandy looks at me, smiles. I nod. We set off.

  It feels quite different being behind Sandy. He is so solid and confident, it scarcely occurs to me anything could go wrong in his company. But I work at it just the same as we wind our way up to the Icefall.

  We enter the Icefall lower and to the right of yesterday’s line. I need four pairs of eyes for this, to watch what Sandy’s doing and the rope between us, concentrate on crampon and axe placements, look around and above for ice and Rocks Most Likely To. Into the danger area now. I’m gasping painfully, but there’s no question of stopping here. Up, across, through, over another tottering heap of shit. We come to the bottom of a steep ice pitch, and arced across the top of it is a perfect tunnel of ice, blue sky showing under it, curved like the wing of an immense bird.

  ‘Do you need to be belayed on this, Andy?’

  ‘Don’t … think so,’ I gasp. He heads up, at once casual and careful, making it look easy and graceful. He crawls under the wing of snow and waits on the far side, grinning.

  You know how to do this. Axe, bang in front points, next axe, step up, axe … Lovely ice this, slightly soft on top, firm underneath. I can do this, it’s good … oops that placement isn’t solid, slow down, look for it … Right …

  I crawl under the wondrous wing and slump back. Can’t get my breath at all. This really hurts. Sandy nods, a wide grin creases his face. ‘OΚ, youth?’ It’s part question and part statement. It helps. I take a picture of Jon through the arc of snow which gives me an extra thirty seconds’ breather, then we hurry on.

  More front-pointing, a traverse that demands concentration – sudden flash of my first traverse with Mal in Glencoe, in the Lost Valley – skirting past glowering boulders. I’m really starting to suffer now, simply can’t keep up this pace. ‘Not much further, Andy.’ I grunt. I feel sick with exertion. I gulp air, but there’s not enough there.

  Finally Sandy comes to a halt, leans back on a rock. ‘Hey, that’s the worst of it done.’ I’ve heard that before. I sling down my pack and lean over coughing and gasping like an athlete after the race. Jon and Alex come up. Jon looks at me and smiles warmly. ‘You’ve cracked it.’

  I shake my head, but feel better. Nice lad, Jon. I look around. Yes, we’re at the top of the Icefall, just the long incline up to Camp 1 still to do. Top of the world, Ma!

  We take a quick breather, drink some juice and munch a munchy. It’s getting hot now, the reflected ultraviolet starts to grill us from all sides. Sandy and Jon take some six to eight pounds each from Alex and me. That feels good.

  So it’s off again. In two minutes I’m more shattered than before we stopped. Pain in the chest, sick in the stomach, legs leaden with lactic-acid build-up. It’s crevasse after crevasse; many of them are too wide to jump so we must skirt round them or cross by snow bridges we can only guess are safe, uphill all the way. I’m definitely lagging behind. Only the hollow sound beneath my feet and Sandy’s ‘Don’t hang around here, Andy’ keep me hurrying on.

  Sultans of pain, that’s what these guys are, to keep doing it over and over and over. Because pain is what it is, nothing exciting about it at all. Just … pain. This is the persistence Jon wrote of, the ability to keep going when you simply cannot keep going.

  Another break. My legs are starting to wobble and my whole body feels poisoned by the bitter taste of altitude. In two minutes I feel fine, then exhausted after the next twenty paces. I stumble on, following Sandy’s bulk. The man’s not human. Yes he is. He’s just very strong and well acclimatized. This is new for me, it’s bound to hurt. Fragments of songs and conversations drift through my mind like birds. To distract myself, I try to calculate dates, where Kath should be now, how long have we been at Base, when might we get home …

  This is supposed to be my peak experience, and all I want is to be done with it.

  After dozens more crevasses, we come to a melt stream beside a moraine bank. I’m forced to ask for a halt. ‘Nearly there, two minutes, might as well keep going.’ Heard that so often before – but this time it’s true, there’s a brown tent pitched among the rocks. We’re here. Camp 1.

  I dropped my pack and sat on the rocks. Sandy said something, I nodded dully. I sat and dumbly existed for a few minutes.

  Then I slowly untied the rope. Bright red. Unbuckled my harness. Bright yellow. Bent forward wearily and started tugging at my crampon straps. Sandy dangled a blue bag in front of me. ‘Like to fill this with water, youth?’

  I got slowly to my feet. My legs had the weight and muscular elasticity of socks full of wet sand. I stumbled over the rocks and knelt beside the small, crystal-clear melt stream and stared into it with a mind as vacant as that water. But returning, I saw the tent and the lads sorting gear round it, the Icefall way below to the right, and straight ahead the great amphitheatre leading up to Camp 2, while above that the ridge and south face of the Mustagh Tower soared endlessly into the needle-bright morning, and a great satisfaction spread through me.

  This is it. Into the mountain at last.

  The first brew was almost orgasmic in the intensity of satisfaction it delivered. The second was nearly as good. I rolled two cigarettes, passed one to Sandy. We sprawled by the tent in the intense light, sun glinting off our shades, looking wild and dissipated on the outside and feeling relaxed and content within. It was 10.30 and we were done for the day.

  The pleasures of mountaineering, I ventured idly, are similar to those of making love. The complete vivid absorption and adrenalin during, the wonderful sense of spaciousness and ease after, the body relaxed and the mind empty as a blown egg. You’ve been in contact with something though you couldn’t now say what.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Jon, ‘but that’s too long ago for me to remember!’ Our laughter rang out over the ice.

  After a retort each, we felt much stronger. Alex and I pitched our tent on the glacier in a small area between two cre
vasses, one a couple of feet outside the front entrance, the other just behind the back. Not the kind of place you want to wander about at night. Again we unrolled our Karrimats and sleeping bags, laid out our personal gear and made our habitation in the wilderness. We were still somewhat awkward with each other. I wondered how we’d pair up for tomorrow’s climb to Camp 2.

  It was time for the noon radio call. Out of habit I began, ‘Base Camp to Mal and Tony –’ then caught myself and laughed. ‘Ah, Camp 1 to Mal and Tony, come in, please.’ We waited, huddled round the radio. Then the familiar voice, ‘Camp 3 here …’

  Camp 3! It was the first time anyone had said it. It sounded foreign and novel to our ears, like a new country. We looked at each other and smiled. After ten days of seemingly getting nowhere, we had a new camp established. We were on our way.

  Mal made his report. They’d had a hard slog up the fixed ropes, just as Jon and Sandy had the first time they went above Camp 2. At the top, they ran out the remaining 300 feet of rope in search of the tennis-court-sized platform the Brown-Patey expedition had used for Camp 3. No sign of it, and they could only assume it was somewhere under the corniced and fluted snow. They’d come across more mysterious holes of the sort Sandy had fallen down, and finally pitched the tent on a snow promontory. The site was not too good, and they’d secured the tent by tying the guys to boulders which they then lowered over opposing sides of the ridge – which gave me an idea of how sharp it must be at that point. Mal’s assessment of the summit ridge was much as Sandy’s – alarming at first sight, but on further study not as wild as Nuptse and it should go. With the extra 20 feet of snow on the ridge since 1956, the serac bands could be the major problem.

  Still, the tent was now there, and whoever used it next would be on the way to the summit. At this point Jon made a new suggestion: what did they think of waiting a day or two at Camp 2, then all going together for the top? It was a good gesture, and should make the assault both safer and easier, with four to alternate breaking trail.