My travel diaries
Friday 11 May, 2007 - Lhakpa Ri, Tibet
At long last, after days of waiting around doing very little, it's time for some hard physical exercise. We're woken up with bed tea at 4.30am, but it takes me nearly an hour of faffing before I'm ready to depart. I put on several warm layers, my salopettes, which prove impossible to put on inside the tent, double-layered mountaineering boots, gaiters, down jacket, windproof outer, harness with abseil device, jumar and safety carabiner attached, balaclava, sunglasses, neck buff and warm hat, and warm gloves after getting my fingers icy cold putting everything else on with just inner gloves. Finally I grab my ice axe and have just my crampons left to fit to my boots down on the glacier just before we set off. After swallowing a quick breakfast we're eventually ready to leave at 5.50.
It's now light, which makes things a little easier. We start by crossing an ice fall onto the main East Rongbuk Glacier. The ice fall seems to be very short but, as things often are, it is certainly much longer when we return through it later in the day. The ice is dry with no fresh snow, so any crevasses can be easily spotted.
Once through the ice fall we rope up. I share a rope with Ian, Mark and Tim, with Tim at the front and me at the back. But for Tim we should be the quicker group, though as we ascend none of us complain about the slowness of the ascent. To begin with it's one long snow slog. There's been a lot of fresh snow, which makes for hard work. After 3 to 4 hours of ascent up a snow bowl we reach a col above 150m of fixed rope which we don't bother using, and take a rest. My altimeter is reading 6700m, which means we've completed about half of our ascent. Just below us on the same crest of snow is the Lhakpa La, the high pass Mallory crossed in 1921 looking for a way to the North Col after failing to spot the more obvious approach up the East Rongbuk Glacier. It was when he stood on top of the Lhakpa La that he got his first view of the slopes up to the North Col, and confirmed that the route we hope to climb in two days' time was a feasible approach to the summit.
Beyond this point it becomes physically exhausting. We climb through an area of crevasses without too much mishap, Mic leading the way and breaking trail. There's the odd lost leg into a crevasse, but nothing too worrying. The snow slope becomes steeper and steeper the closer we get to the summit, and our two ropes are only travelling 20 or 30 paces at a time before stopping for a rest. Chris and Petr often sit in the snow to get their breath back. I'm looking up at the steepening snow slope converging to ridges on either side of us, and finding it a depressing prospect, mainly because although the point of convergence appears to mark the summit, I had noted earlier, before we reached the col, that there is a higher summit behind this. We climb straight up the middle of the snow slope rather than head toward one of the ridges, and progress is painfully slow. But the determination is there to keep plodding, and there is never any thought of turning back. Remarkably, none of my companions seem inclined to, either, and some of them are very very tired indeed.
At one point Mic asks if someone else can take over from him breaking trail, and is greeted by silence. Eventually one of the two sherpas reluctantly volunteer, Nima, I think. This is the first time I become aware of the fact that we may not have the best sherpas available on this trip - normally you would expect the sherpas to be falling over themselves to take this opportunity of demonstrating their physical prowess!
A little above this there is a long delay when Mic decides the steepening snow slope warrants the setting up of fixed ropes. The fresh snow has made the terrain difficult because a layer of rock beneath the surface is completely hidden, and we can't see what we're treading on. The tiredness of some of my companions is now apparent as some of them struggle to ascend a short rock slab, swinging away and dangling with their jumars attached to the fixed rope. By the time Mark and I at the back come to climb this section, we have waited a long time and pass across it easily.
There is now a very short easy scramble to the top of the ridge which marks the north summit, but now some of the party are struggling a great deal and progress is ridiculously slow. Petr falls over next to me, which I attribute to tiredness, make some friendly comment and move on. But Bunter, below him on the rope, is shouting at him, telling him to tighten the rope and stay where he is while he scrambles up to him. Then when he reaches him, he asks him who Klara is. "Klara - why my daughter of course," replies Petr. I find it all a bit patronising and over the top, treating Petr like a small child and almost bullying him to get moving, but Bunter is concerned that rather than simply being tired, Petr may be exhibiting some of the effects of altitude sickness. Later on I hear both Petr and Chris express their gratitude to Bunter for the help he renders them during the climb, so I guess different people like different amounts of assistance. I'm reminded of Seren and Annette, two of my companions when I climbed in the Rwenzori mountains last Christmas. Our Ugandan guides were eager to please their western clients, and often stood in our way proffering a helping hand across a difficult section. It was worse for the women in the group, and while Annette appreciated the attention and was grateful to the guides for their assistance, Seren found it annoying and was constantly having to bark at the guides to move out of her way.
There is a bigger delay just a few short feet from the north summit. Standing in an awkward position on steep snow a hair's breadth from my first destination, waiting for the people ahead of me to get moving, I find very frustrating. Eventually, instead of moving in a line on our ropes we all move up to congregate on the crowded summit, and can immediately see what the problem is. Sangye is waiting on the narrow snow-capped north summit looking across at the marginally higher south summit. The two are connected by a narrow ridge of snow, but it is fresh snow rather than consolidated snow, and therefore much less stable. The drop each side is a few hundred metres down to crevasse-riddled glaciers. Sangye is unsure about going on, and after a brief discussion with Mic it is decided this is as far as we go, for to brave the ridge would be to risk setting off an avalanche. Although it would have been nice to make the true summit, I look at my altimeter and it's reading 7005m, and I have the consolation of climbing above 7000m for the first time in my life. It's 3pm, and it's taken us 9 hours to reach the summit, much longer than anticipated, though there is no doubt the fresh snow has made the ascent considerably harder than usual.
It continues to snow heavily for most of the descent, almost completely obliterating the tracks we made during our ascent, making navigation much harder - at times visibility is only a few metres - and making it hard work breaking trail for a second time. We descend the fixed ropes using a klemheist, a knot using a prussic cord, which can be slid easily along the rope, but immediately locks when jerked suddenly, such as by falling. We share a single rope for much of the remaining descent. Initially Chris is leading, but when he has difficulties seeing the trail, he swaps with Ian, though even Ian has one or two problems. The path through the crevasse field is gone, and he needs to make a new one. Of course, I'm the idiot who ends up falling in a couple of times. Falling into a crevasse when roped up on a glacier is no big deal really, though. You're companions on the rope dig in with their crampons and axes, holding you in position with ease, allowing you to climb out again in your own time.
When we get to the second section of fixed rope, this time Mic decides we should clip in with our safety carabiners, but at the bottom of this section he agrees we can divide into two ropes, a slow one and a quick one. By now it's snowing quite heavily and I decide to put another layer on. I put my camera bag down and it slowly starts sliding down the hill.
"Whose is that camera bag?" shouts Bunter.
"Mine," I reply, unconcerned.
"Don't worry, it'll stop rolling soon," says Ian, sharing my confidence.
"I wouldn't be too sure," replies Bunter.
He turns out to be right. The camera bag slows, and I breathe more easily, but then it picks up speed again. By now it's about 50m below and heading directly for the ominous black line of a crevasse.
"Stop! Stop, you bastard!" I shout at it, but it doesn't listen, and by now it seems clear that the bag is doomed. I start wondering how deep the crevasse is and whether it can be recovered from inside when suddenly and inexplicably, it comes to rest right in front of the crevasse, and I start laughing.
As we rope up to continue our descent, I keep my fingers crossed that it doesn't decide to move again. The fast rope of Ian, Mark, Bunter, Tim and I heads lightly for the crevasse. Ian stops short, in case of an overhang, and hooks the camera bag off the ground with his ice axe. They start passing it up the rope to me at the back, but Mark wisely decides we've had enough good fortune and slings it over his shoulder. As we move past the crevasse I note the trail left by the camera bag ends precisely one metre from the edge.
The remainder of the descent drags on as the light becomes dimmer and dimmer. At the lowest point on the glacier we are met by Kaji and Pasang with a flask of hot lemon and some mugs. Although it's a nice gesture, like the miserable old sod that I am I get frustrated by this. It means yet another delay, and I just want to get back to camp and drink hot liquid in a nice comfy chair in the mess tent.
The snow has ceased by now, and the clearing cloud affords us our first view of Everest as the evening sun touches the North Col high above us. I realise just how fantastic the view from the summit of Lhakpa Ri would have been had the weather been kinder. I wonder whether there's going to be enough light for us to cross the ice fall, our final obstacle before getting into camp. This is soon answered emphatically: no, but we give it a go anyway. We've all got head torches in our bags, but rather stupidly don't stop and put them on, believing the ice fall to be as short as it was on our way out. This is a mistake. It's now surely grown at least five times in length. I fall into three crevasses, the last of which I see quite clearly before making a running leap over it. Unfortunately I don't notice that the ground drops away a foot immediately in front of it, and catapult myself in. Then I trip over an invisible snow ridge and get cramp in my right leg. I tell the others that I need to stop and put my head torch on, but change this plan when I take my sunglasses off and realise it's a lot lighter.
If all this seems amateurish, then all I can say in defence is that better men than we are have found themselves in a similar predicament. When descending from the Northeast Spur in 1922, the Everest legends Edward Norton and George Mallory came across a similar crevasse field on their approach to the safety of their North Col camp, and struggled through it by the light of a candle lamp. At least our head torches aren't likely to get blown out by a gust of wind.
We reach camp at 7.30, after more than thirteen hours of exertion. Nobody feels like eating, and we sit in the mess tent swallowing a few mugs of tea to try and get some of the warmth back into our bodies before going to bed empty-stomached.
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