McLean

Lowe

Anker

Andrew McLean
Well, it's dumping snow at BC. We had a 20-hour load carrying, step-kicking, high-altitude, turn-making day yesterday, so today is a rest day.

We began by tanking up on coffffeeeeeee (at least 4-5 cups/mugs per person) for two hours and discussing movies, religion and WWII. Around 10am (Nepal time, not Beijing), we adjourned to the Clubhouse and switched over to the yang, of the ying-yang combination, of coffee and scotch.

Yesterday was a huge adventure gone astray because of the weather. All of us headed up towards the same area — the "ridge" right below the South Face of Shishapangma. Five of us, Hans, Kris, Mark, Dave and myself, contoured around endless talus slopes in the dark and then ended up at the toe of a glacier right as the sun came up. From here, we skinned through undulating debris and crevasses until we reached the base of a classic-looking ski shot, dubbed "The Saddle Shot," as it ended in a beautiful little col on the ridge line. The conditions varied from frozen avy debris for the first third to a nice dusting of firm snow in the middle.

"The Saddle Shot"

The weather here has been very frustrating, as it's neither here nor there; it's often just intermediate mixed clouds that allow you to move, but not clear enough to see where you are going. This was the case on The Saddle Shot — we made it about two-thirds of the way up before being consumed by a whiteout, at roughly 6,400m. We decided to hang out for 15 minutes before clipping into our skis and heading back down. (Of course, it started to clear just as we did this.) The skiing was pretty good — about 1,500ft of 45-degree snow that was fairly smooth and easy turning, with the exception of a notable lack of oxygen.

We continued all the way back down to the toe of the glacier where we skinned and booted our way back up to ABC and dropped off all of our ski gear — in anticipation of moving up there in the next few days. Mark and Hans decided to stay there for the night, whereas Kris, David and I headed back down. As I was moving slowly and was unfamiliar with the terrain, I took a slight two-hour detour and arrived back in camp about an hour after dark, and about 10 minutes after a flashlight search had been initiated for me. Fortunately, all of the Sherpas thought it was good fun and came back after about 20 minutes. Oops!

The Coffee Bar

Alex Lowe and Conrad Anker
Ten minutes before midnight I whistle over to Alex — his tent about 10 feet from mine. The reply comes quick and in synch. It's time for coffee. We set up the high-altitude coffee bar in our cook tent and begin the day with two rounds of very strong lattes. In my typically stupid, big-American-thought mentality of 'more is better,' I decide to fill my water bottle with coffee instead of water. The beginning of a fun and funky day high in the Himalaya.

We set out to the gear cache at the base of the Feather Duster. The route to our objective, Punga Ri, is shorter, as the gorak trolls over the glaciers. What we hadn't figured on was the convoluted nature of glaciers and the maze-like skills required to traverse them in the dark.

Route to Punga Ri

Up along the moraine ridges, as the moon comes and goes through desultory gaps in the mist, a moon bow tosses itself out on the mist layer emanating unequivocally from our feet into the vast darkness of the valley below. Evanescent and opaque, its ghostly prescience tracks our progress upward, toward we know not what. Consciousness exists in the insular ring of light thrown emphatically on the ground by our meager headlamp beams. I like this existance. It's simple; it allows focus on particular, personal thoughts. Conversation is frivolous — there's little to share in this personal space that preceded dawn. Anticipation of a day filled with experiences we cannot know, but relish in advance, pulls me on. And sharing all this with a friend — whose companionship requires no words — yields peace. Finally, as we stumble through ice hummocks on a glacier tongue, dawn begins to grace the eastern sky. My isolation fades as grey reality returns.

After a few hours of sidehilling on loose moraine, we reach the glacier and switch over to our skis. Sneakering is a fine art — one best practiced on boulders covered with a couple of inches of snow. Many an approach has left their collective marks on our shins and ankles, but the reward is the climb. But not yet, we have to navigate the lower part of the glacier before we start up the slope. The risk of popping into a crevasse is just enough adventure to be sure.

We arrive at the Castle camp, a turret of metamorphosed granite at the base of the climb. We set about cooking a batch of Top Ramen only to realize we've forgotten our utensils. In a pinch a piton works — we find that the titanium blades are better than chrome-molly angles. Happily, we slurp down this simple concoction, backtracking in our minds to the last time we had a tetanus shot. At this point, I realize the coffee in my jug is not ideal — it's turning my belly into an acid bath. In attempt to make things better, I fill the remainder with Top Ramen broth. Now, I ask you, would you drink this potion? Rad would, and does. So, time to go up.

Piton Noodles

We follow German tracks a whopping 100m into old avalanche debris then begin kicking our very own steps upwards. Perfect carvable foam provides effortless booting until the snow surface firms up enough to suggest crampons. I love the crispness of waking in crampons on frozen neve — walking with authority. We proceed up a 60-degree couloir, with blue-gray seracs on the left and a rock buttress on the right. I'm saying to Conrad that I can sideslip this section when I spot an old rappel pin in the rock. Obviously others had different feelings about getting down this section.

As we gain the upper bowl leading to the summit, the mist envelopes us again effectively placing us inside a Ping-Pong-ball vertigo, seeking a hold in the recesses of our brains. Thoughts of descent on skis become as vaporous as the mists swirling about us. Old crown lines above, huge big-wave terrain and a life-loving, self-preservation instinct prevail, and we decide to head down. Partner synchronicity with Conrad transcends the need to debate a turn around. We water up, down some calories and down-climb the narrow couloir until turns seem reasonable. Spastic turns through 45-degree, bowling ball-avalanche debris elicit howls of pleasure, as we descend back to the Castle.

Turning back is an important part of alpinism. One gains knowledge with each attempt on the mountain. We were feeling fit, with 3,000ft to the summit. Yet the conditions were telling us — not today! The first factor that cemented this decision was the visibility: we had no idea what loomed above and only vague recollections of old crown lines and slope changes. The other factor was the time of the day. Our approach had taken five hours in the dark and we were later on the slope than we had hoped for. The wonderful neve Alex describes can turn into a saturated mess of Slurpee consistency, avalanche-prone snow, with a bit of intense, high-altitude radiation. Two factors we were able to key in on — points that come with experience.

It's Becky's birthday today, the 2nd of October. Epic-ing is not what she would have in mind, which makes turning back the right thing to do. Just because we have the sense to turn back on the ascent doesn't mean we'll nail every decision. We drop our packs and ski down the rolling glacier in sweeping GS turns. Funny how the mind selectively forgets the climb back up — the joy of fast turns blocks out all other reason.

When we arrived at the bottom the sun broke out for the first time. The clouds parted and the sun beat down on us. Wearing more clothes than needed, we began skinning back up the slope, finding conversational excuses to stop and catch our breath.

A long, long day ended with a knee-jarring descent to our little domicile, at ABC, and a two-hour walk back to Base Camp where "Smiling Boudda" greeted us with hot lemon drinks and boiled new potatoes to be dipped in flaming chili sauce. Sixteen hours of go end in blissful sleep and universal desire for a rest day, today. And this morning, softly falling snow affirms the rest day.

Thinking back to yesterday, I appreciate why I come to the mountains: not to conquer them but to immerse myself in their incomprehensible immensity — so much bigger than us; to better comprehend humility and patience balanced in harmony, with the desire to push hard; to share what the hills offer, and to share it in the long-term with good friends and ultimately with my own sons. Berg Heil.

— Andrew McLean, Alex Lowe and Conrad Anker, MountainZone.com Correspondents

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