[Note: this is the last of an 11-part post the chronicles our expedition. If you're just coming across this for the first time, I would suggest starting with #1 so the events go in chronological order. Enjoy, Mike]
The reunion was short but sweet, stories flying in both directions. Chris, Matt, and I stayed up all night with Dan, helping him get his luggage into the airport-bound taxi at 4:00 a.m. We then promptly crashed, but couldn’t sleep for too long as we had business to take care of with ITMC in the morning.
Matt and I got up early, checking the internet and grabbing a delicious breakfast before heading to ITMC where Asel was happy to see us. We settled our debts, having to pay for the horse and ITMC’s equipment that we had to leave behind. We ran a bit over our budget thanks to all the money we spent on horses, but at the end of the day, we had an incredible trip. We can’t thank our sponsors enough for making it possible.
Returning to civilization is a blessing and a curse, and I think we all had somewhat different feelings. Personally, at times I felt like I’d never left Bishkek – the rest of the trip just seemed like a blur. At others, the lingering aches and pains were stark reminders of the experience while the little irritants of society made me want to run away again.
We spent the afternoon souvenir shopping then shared a fabulous dinner with Arianna and her sister, learning of some upcoming changes to the Alpine Fund. We hope it will remain a strong organization and pledged to continue supporting their efforts.
Chris and I left the next day, August 4. My return trip would take 43 hours, the worst of which would be 15 hours in the oppressively hot Moscow airport. I finally made it to my apartment at 11:00 p.m. EST on August 5. The scale in my bathroom only confirmed what I could see in the mirror: 139 pounds, 15 less than when I left on June 28.
The questions you get when you return from an expedition always seem so mundane. ‘Did you have a good time?’ ‘What was it like?’ There’s really no way to fully explain what it’s like to people who weren’t there. Only Matt, Dan, and I really know what it was like to toil in the unforgiving, indiscriminate mountains of the Djangart. The experience is uniquely ours.
I’ve been asked several times, ‘Would you do it again?’ I think it’s a rather frivolous question, but I always get the impression people expect me to say no. I’ll admit that on the surface climbing is a rather frivolous sport. We travelled half way around the world to thrash our bodies, risking our lives to climb to the top of a chunk of rock. Oftentimes, those who don’t climb can’t see past this. They can’t see the personal growth that comes from testing physical and mental limits. They can’t see the bonds built between ropemates. They can’t see the essence of distilling life to a singular focus amidst an awe-inspiring landscape. I’m alright with that though, for I can see the value of these things. It’s what keeps me going back again and again.
Mike
Monday, 9 August 2010
10. Will Walk for Food
After returning from our climb of Pt 5048, we had two days of anxious waiting before the pre-arranged horses were to arrive. Asel ensured us that the nomads would show up; there was just too much money at stake. The money they made off us - about $350/person (there were two of them) – is far greater than average yearly income in Kyrgyzstan (~$268). Maybe we overpaid, but we were in no position to bargain. We were still nervous wondering if they’d show up.
On the positive side, there were cleanup tasks to keep us marginally busier than regular days in basecamp: cleaning the stove, bleeding excess fuel, packing up trash, sorting gear. The rainy days continued as we waited impatiently for a chance to shower and wash clothes.
As Matt and I sat hunched over next to the river trying to clean a month’s worth of greasy grime off our pots and stove, four horses strolled down the hillside. We had asked for five since we’d only be taking one trip this time, but hey, they showed up. We were happy. We gestured to confirm that we’d head back over the pass the next morning since it was already 5:00 p.m. I hurried to prepare dinner – rice, potatoes, and cashews cooked in a chicken broth and topped with a tasty mixed spice that we were never able to identify. It had been a big hit among us before the last climbing foray, but the nomads barely touched it. Oh well.
We spent a few awkward hours lounging around, mostly unable to communicate with one another. The horsemen, this time a father and son, enjoyed our photos and video. We crawled into bed around 8:00 p.m. as it began to rain, the nomads sharing the communal tent with Chris. We loaned a sleeping bag and belay jacket to the son, who didn’t seem as comfortable in the cold. It rained and rained. I was up for long stretches of the night and was hopeful when the rain stopped around 2:30 a.m. The respite was short-lived, however, as the rain picked up again 15 minutes later. We had hoped to leave around 6:00 a.m. to meet Sasha at our pickup location at 10:00 a.m. I was up at 5:00 a.m. to finish packing what I still had laying about and Matt was up shortly thereafter. It continued to rain but we were hopeful the hearty nomads would still give it a go. We knew our Gore-Tex suits would keep us dry, so we didn’t mind yet another rainy walk.
By 6:30 or 7:00 we hadn’t seen the horsemen leave the tent. They called us in and told us to sit; we weren’t going anywhere soon. All five of us sat in the communal tent and sipped chai as the rain held steady and the minutes ticked by alarmingly slow. At one point I grabbed a bowl that we’d left outside the night before and found it filled with an inch of water. Around 9:30 we phoned Asel to inform her we’d be drastically late. She confirmed that the truck would be waiting for us whenever we got there.
By 10:30 everyone was fed up. A brief slow-down in the rain was enough to get us up and moving. It took another hour and a half to finish packing the bags and get the horses loaded. After a last-minute inspection for any remaining trash, we departed at 12:07, heading home at last. The walk back over the pass was tortuously dull. Low clouds fogged everything in as a light drizzle continued to dampen the mood. Not helping was my upset stomach, my constant companion for much of the expedition. We moved slow, worn by our previous labor, unable to keep up with the horses as we had on our arrival. After the 3.5-hour climb, we shuffled through the snow that had accumulated on the pass and then bolted down the other side as the rain and clouds began to clear.
Chris saw it first, Matt and I a few minutes later as we straggled over the hill above the pickup location: no truck. I’d used every last ounce of my energy on the presupposition that a truck would be waiting at the end. Now we just had one more twist in the journey.
We phoned Asel who said that the truck had been held up in deep mud about 40 km from our location. Fortunately, it was moving again and would get to us that evening or the next morning. We were told to stay put. So, we paid the horsemen their exorbitant asking price (20,000 som or $435) using all of our remaining som and dollars, spare 500 som we saved for a meal on the ride home, and sent them on their way back down the Kaichi. Luckily we had gone to the ATM before departing Bishkek.
Seeing no signs of Sasha, we settled in for the night, frantically pitching a tent as a severe wind and rain storm blasted camp. Because of the delay the nomads had wanted food earlier in the day, so we were down to about one dinners-worth of ramen and a few bags of nuts (we’d dumped and buried most everything else, besides a few things the nomad’s wanted for themselves). We hadn’t eaten more than a handful of nuts all day, but with no truck we couldn’t use up our last meal. We went to bed hungry. Wet, cold, and famished, I was in the most pessimistic state I’d been in all trip.
Throughout the night, the mix of the gentle rush of the Kaichi River and pervasive wind kept sounding like the rumbling of a truck engine, but as we awoke to sunny skies, nobody was there. I told Matt I didn’t think Sasha was coming, speculating that the bridge at Uch-Koshkon might be out. After all, when we’d crossed it on our way in, the dirt embankment leading off the bridge was partially washed out, remaining just a few inches wider than the truck needed. Matt chided me for being so pessimistic.
We waited until about 8:30 before phoning Asel. She managed to convey that, as I had suspected, the truck couldn’t get across the bridge, but Sasha was looking for horses. We informed Asel the horsemen from the previous day had taken all our money, but asked if Sasha could loan us money that we’d repay in Bishkek. In a complicated tangle of phone calls between Asel, Sasha, and us over the next few hours, we had horses, then no horses and would have to walk, then one horse, then potentially no horse and would have to get a helicopter! It was like a perverse game of telephone.
Matt and I remained calm, formulating a plan to haul as much of our gear as possible using Jamie’s bouldering mat as a sled and hoping to figure out any obstacles along the way as we got to them. We were confident that Asel and Sasha were doing everything they could (which they were) to remedy the unfortunate but faultless circumstance. Chris was a bit more frantic, unwilling to walk because we’d have to cross the Kaichi River. Despite our admonitions, he phoned Global Rescue and the US embassy multiple times, but neither was in a position to do anything other than arrange a helicopter that we’d pay for. By early afternoon, Chris relented and joined Matt and I in preparing to drag our gear out. We made a pile of all the non-essentials: propane tanks, stove, pots and pans, books, toiletries, radio, rope, Jamie’s spare harness, a large base camp tent, binoculars, and a duffel bag full of trash. Unwilling to part with our personal gear (climbing gear is expensive – it would have been more economical to pay $2000 for a helicopter), we were still laden with probably 400 lbs of stuff (we also had a large bag that Dan had left when he was evacuated). I was extremely unhappy leaving any trace of ourselves in the wilderness, even if there was already loads of trash lying around. In the end, we had no choice. With little food remaining, we needed to get out fast.
Around 1:00 p.m. we set off. There was a chance a single horse would be coming, but we couldn’t stand waiting around any longer. The going was SLOW. Within five minutes the rough road had trashed the bottom of Dan’s bag that I was trying to haul. Matt and I talked things over; there was no way we’d get out this way, it’d take days. Matt dropped his backpack and ran to get Chris who’d wandered off ahead. Begrudgingly, we concluded that a helicopter might be the only choice.
We phoned Asel again who told us we should call Global Rescue if we needed a helicopter, but that we should wait a few more hours to see if the horse would make it. Chris went back down the road to retrieve his bag. Instead of Chris returning, however, it was a horse! Matt let out a scream of joy and pumped his fists in the air - he was the most ardently opposed to relying on a helicopter. The horse, carrying Chris’ gear, came up to where we were standing. It was a sturdy military horse with a soldier from Uch-Koshkon. Not knowing our knowledge of the situation, he scribbled on a piece of paper to explain the bridge collapse. I saved the scribble as a nice memento of the occasion.
We loaded five large duffel bags onto the horse, making a run back up to our leftover pile to grab a few more items, although we still had to leave a fair bit. [Note: We arranged for and paid the soldier to return to get the remaining stuff, which we offered as a gift. We’ll never know if he actually went back, which will always bug me. I really hope he did because I don’t want another expedition to be put off by our mess.] The horse was heavily burdened and we each carried a heavy backpack. It wouldn’t be an easy 12 miles, but we’d make it. The soldier was extremely friendly and we chatted along the way as best we could. When we reached the Kaichi River, he ferried us across one-by-one on the horse. The water would have been chest deep; there’s no way we could have crossed it on foot that day and even in the morning it would have been a challenge. It took us six and a half hours to get back, but the soldier seemed impressed that we could keep pace with no breaks.
We strolled up to the gates of Uch-Koshkon, grinning, at 7:45 p.m. We gestured and talked with Sasha in the strange form of communication we had developed, learning that the embankment of the bridge had collapsed that morning as he was going over, the truck had been stuck, and the military had helped him free it. The commander of the base came out. In a good mood, he offered that we shoot his AK-47; he smiled and told me I was a good shot. Matt on the other hand, had never touched a gun and fired into the ground. We offered the soldiers the extra half rope from the pair that had been cut and Jamie’s bouldering mat, in which they seemed keenly interested. Chris gave the soldier who came for us his wristwatch and I gave him my binoculars. They were all smiles. Perhaps they were surprised by our generosity, but they’ll never know how happy we were to get help on the way out.
The entire walk back all we’d wanted to do was get in the truck and start the drive to Bishkek; we desperately wanted food and a bed. We wouldn’t have to wait until Bishkek though, as the commander offered us to dine with the soldiers and stay the night. On the menu, Marco Polo, fresh kill of the day’s hunt. We grabbed a few things and went inside the gates, likely a place where few westerners have ever set foot. Sasha, former military himself, stayed with the commander while we got a tour from the soldier who’d helped us (the 2nd in command of the 12 man post – I can’t remember his name, but the commander referred to him as a ranger so that’s what I’ll use here). Eventually, we made our way to the ranger’s private quarters. We sat in his living room while his wife presented us with an absolute feast: Marco Polo, bread, bread pudding, lard balls, milk, chai. Having had no meat for three weeks and little food in the last two days, it was disturbing how gluttonous we were. We couldn’t help it. As we ate, we were entertained by the ranger’s two young daughters, age 2 and 3, the proud owners of a new couch, a.k.a. Jamie’s bouldering mat. The ranger threw in the only English language DVD he had, some strange concert from the 1980s that was held in Moscow. It was paradise.
We finished dinner and the ranger had the other soldiers fix beds for us. We had a small taste of the comfort before the commander came in and offered us another meal! This time we went to the main kitchen and a huge mound of Marco Polo was presented on a platter in front of us. We ate as much as our already full stomachs would allow before calling it quits and heading to bed. A marginally comfortable bed never felt so good. All three of us lay there awake, caffeinated to our limits from the dozens of cups of chai we had sucked down. Off and on throughout the night I lay staring at the ceiling, unable to fully grasp the reality of our situation.
We were up at first light the next morning, Sasha anxious to get moving. We had another plate of Marco Polo with the ranger and commander. As we were leaving, we dug through our gear and gave them a balaclava, sunglasses, and a pair of gloves. They seemed a bit taken aback by our continued generosity, but the meal and bed were worth much more at that moment. We wanted to send them a package in the mail, but learned that the only way they can get things is to go to Bishkek or Karakol. We settled for giving the commander, who offered to take us hunting if we returned, our email addresses. Hopefully we hear from him.
We sped away, making fast progress in a slightly smaller truck than we’d ridden in before. Shocks were a welcome bonus, resulting in a much more peaceful trip. A broken hose delayed us for 20 minutes, but again it was no problem for Sasha. Reaching the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul by 2:00 p.m., we happily realized we’d make it back to Bishkek that night. After feasting on a plate of Manti, we took a dip in the warm lake while we waited for a van to meet us. Sasha had to turn right around and head back to pick up another group. Packed to the max, the van sped away. So close. At the Kyrgyz version of a highway rest stop, we phoned Jamie only to learn that Dan had moved his flight up - he had to get back to work - and would be leaving early the next morning. Our long awaited reunion would be short-lived.
We rolled into the courtyard of the apartment bloc at 7:45 p.m., ‘home’ at last. After unloading and a round of, we made the first quick attempt at showering away the grime before heading out for pizza and a beer. Delicious. We never got to eat our last four packs of ramen, but I’m certainly not complaining.
Mike
On the positive side, there were cleanup tasks to keep us marginally busier than regular days in basecamp: cleaning the stove, bleeding excess fuel, packing up trash, sorting gear. The rainy days continued as we waited impatiently for a chance to shower and wash clothes.
As Matt and I sat hunched over next to the river trying to clean a month’s worth of greasy grime off our pots and stove, four horses strolled down the hillside. We had asked for five since we’d only be taking one trip this time, but hey, they showed up. We were happy. We gestured to confirm that we’d head back over the pass the next morning since it was already 5:00 p.m. I hurried to prepare dinner – rice, potatoes, and cashews cooked in a chicken broth and topped with a tasty mixed spice that we were never able to identify. It had been a big hit among us before the last climbing foray, but the nomads barely touched it. Oh well.
We spent a few awkward hours lounging around, mostly unable to communicate with one another. The horsemen, this time a father and son, enjoyed our photos and video. We crawled into bed around 8:00 p.m. as it began to rain, the nomads sharing the communal tent with Chris. We loaned a sleeping bag and belay jacket to the son, who didn’t seem as comfortable in the cold. It rained and rained. I was up for long stretches of the night and was hopeful when the rain stopped around 2:30 a.m. The respite was short-lived, however, as the rain picked up again 15 minutes later. We had hoped to leave around 6:00 a.m. to meet Sasha at our pickup location at 10:00 a.m. I was up at 5:00 a.m. to finish packing what I still had laying about and Matt was up shortly thereafter. It continued to rain but we were hopeful the hearty nomads would still give it a go. We knew our Gore-Tex suits would keep us dry, so we didn’t mind yet another rainy walk.
 |
| The rain closed in shortly after the horses arrived. |
By 10:30 everyone was fed up. A brief slow-down in the rain was enough to get us up and moving. It took another hour and a half to finish packing the bags and get the horses loaded. After a last-minute inspection for any remaining trash, we departed at 12:07, heading home at last. The walk back over the pass was tortuously dull. Low clouds fogged everything in as a light drizzle continued to dampen the mood. Not helping was my upset stomach, my constant companion for much of the expedition. We moved slow, worn by our previous labor, unable to keep up with the horses as we had on our arrival. After the 3.5-hour climb, we shuffled through the snow that had accumulated on the pass and then bolted down the other side as the rain and clouds began to clear.
Chris saw it first, Matt and I a few minutes later as we straggled over the hill above the pickup location: no truck. I’d used every last ounce of my energy on the presupposition that a truck would be waiting at the end. Now we just had one more twist in the journey.
We phoned Asel who said that the truck had been held up in deep mud about 40 km from our location. Fortunately, it was moving again and would get to us that evening or the next morning. We were told to stay put. So, we paid the horsemen their exorbitant asking price (20,000 som or $435) using all of our remaining som and dollars, spare 500 som we saved for a meal on the ride home, and sent them on their way back down the Kaichi. Luckily we had gone to the ATM before departing Bishkek.
Seeing no signs of Sasha, we settled in for the night, frantically pitching a tent as a severe wind and rain storm blasted camp. Because of the delay the nomads had wanted food earlier in the day, so we were down to about one dinners-worth of ramen and a few bags of nuts (we’d dumped and buried most everything else, besides a few things the nomad’s wanted for themselves). We hadn’t eaten more than a handful of nuts all day, but with no truck we couldn’t use up our last meal. We went to bed hungry. Wet, cold, and famished, I was in the most pessimistic state I’d been in all trip.
Throughout the night, the mix of the gentle rush of the Kaichi River and pervasive wind kept sounding like the rumbling of a truck engine, but as we awoke to sunny skies, nobody was there. I told Matt I didn’t think Sasha was coming, speculating that the bridge at Uch-Koshkon might be out. After all, when we’d crossed it on our way in, the dirt embankment leading off the bridge was partially washed out, remaining just a few inches wider than the truck needed. Matt chided me for being so pessimistic.
We waited until about 8:30 before phoning Asel. She managed to convey that, as I had suspected, the truck couldn’t get across the bridge, but Sasha was looking for horses. We informed Asel the horsemen from the previous day had taken all our money, but asked if Sasha could loan us money that we’d repay in Bishkek. In a complicated tangle of phone calls between Asel, Sasha, and us over the next few hours, we had horses, then no horses and would have to walk, then one horse, then potentially no horse and would have to get a helicopter! It was like a perverse game of telephone.
Matt and I remained calm, formulating a plan to haul as much of our gear as possible using Jamie’s bouldering mat as a sled and hoping to figure out any obstacles along the way as we got to them. We were confident that Asel and Sasha were doing everything they could (which they were) to remedy the unfortunate but faultless circumstance. Chris was a bit more frantic, unwilling to walk because we’d have to cross the Kaichi River. Despite our admonitions, he phoned Global Rescue and the US embassy multiple times, but neither was in a position to do anything other than arrange a helicopter that we’d pay for. By early afternoon, Chris relented and joined Matt and I in preparing to drag our gear out. We made a pile of all the non-essentials: propane tanks, stove, pots and pans, books, toiletries, radio, rope, Jamie’s spare harness, a large base camp tent, binoculars, and a duffel bag full of trash. Unwilling to part with our personal gear (climbing gear is expensive – it would have been more economical to pay $2000 for a helicopter), we were still laden with probably 400 lbs of stuff (we also had a large bag that Dan had left when he was evacuated). I was extremely unhappy leaving any trace of ourselves in the wilderness, even if there was already loads of trash lying around. In the end, we had no choice. With little food remaining, we needed to get out fast.
Around 1:00 p.m. we set off. There was a chance a single horse would be coming, but we couldn’t stand waiting around any longer. The going was SLOW. Within five minutes the rough road had trashed the bottom of Dan’s bag that I was trying to haul. Matt and I talked things over; there was no way we’d get out this way, it’d take days. Matt dropped his backpack and ran to get Chris who’d wandered off ahead. Begrudgingly, we concluded that a helicopter might be the only choice.
We phoned Asel again who told us we should call Global Rescue if we needed a helicopter, but that we should wait a few more hours to see if the horse would make it. Chris went back down the road to retrieve his bag. Instead of Chris returning, however, it was a horse! Matt let out a scream of joy and pumped his fists in the air - he was the most ardently opposed to relying on a helicopter. The horse, carrying Chris’ gear, came up to where we were standing. It was a sturdy military horse with a soldier from Uch-Koshkon. Not knowing our knowledge of the situation, he scribbled on a piece of paper to explain the bridge collapse. I saved the scribble as a nice memento of the occasion.
We loaded five large duffel bags onto the horse, making a run back up to our leftover pile to grab a few more items, although we still had to leave a fair bit. [Note: We arranged for and paid the soldier to return to get the remaining stuff, which we offered as a gift. We’ll never know if he actually went back, which will always bug me. I really hope he did because I don’t want another expedition to be put off by our mess.] The horse was heavily burdened and we each carried a heavy backpack. It wouldn’t be an easy 12 miles, but we’d make it. The soldier was extremely friendly and we chatted along the way as best we could. When we reached the Kaichi River, he ferried us across one-by-one on the horse. The water would have been chest deep; there’s no way we could have crossed it on foot that day and even in the morning it would have been a challenge. It took us six and a half hours to get back, but the soldier seemed impressed that we could keep pace with no breaks.
We strolled up to the gates of Uch-Koshkon, grinning, at 7:45 p.m. We gestured and talked with Sasha in the strange form of communication we had developed, learning that the embankment of the bridge had collapsed that morning as he was going over, the truck had been stuck, and the military had helped him free it. The commander of the base came out. In a good mood, he offered that we shoot his AK-47; he smiled and told me I was a good shot. Matt on the other hand, had never touched a gun and fired into the ground. We offered the soldiers the extra half rope from the pair that had been cut and Jamie’s bouldering mat, in which they seemed keenly interested. Chris gave the soldier who came for us his wristwatch and I gave him my binoculars. They were all smiles. Perhaps they were surprised by our generosity, but they’ll never know how happy we were to get help on the way out.
 |
| Matt and Chris sharing at lighter moment with the Ranger. |
We finished dinner and the ranger had the other soldiers fix beds for us. We had a small taste of the comfort before the commander came in and offered us another meal! This time we went to the main kitchen and a huge mound of Marco Polo was presented on a platter in front of us. We ate as much as our already full stomachs would allow before calling it quits and heading to bed. A marginally comfortable bed never felt so good. All three of us lay there awake, caffeinated to our limits from the dozens of cups of chai we had sucked down. Off and on throughout the night I lay staring at the ceiling, unable to fully grasp the reality of our situation.
We were up at first light the next morning, Sasha anxious to get moving. We had another plate of Marco Polo with the ranger and commander. As we were leaving, we dug through our gear and gave them a balaclava, sunglasses, and a pair of gloves. They seemed a bit taken aback by our continued generosity, but the meal and bed were worth much more at that moment. We wanted to send them a package in the mail, but learned that the only way they can get things is to go to Bishkek or Karakol. We settled for giving the commander, who offered to take us hunting if we returned, our email addresses. Hopefully we hear from him.
We sped away, making fast progress in a slightly smaller truck than we’d ridden in before. Shocks were a welcome bonus, resulting in a much more peaceful trip. A broken hose delayed us for 20 minutes, but again it was no problem for Sasha. Reaching the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul by 2:00 p.m., we happily realized we’d make it back to Bishkek that night. After feasting on a plate of Manti, we took a dip in the warm lake while we waited for a van to meet us. Sasha had to turn right around and head back to pick up another group. Packed to the max, the van sped away. So close. At the Kyrgyz version of a highway rest stop, we phoned Jamie only to learn that Dan had moved his flight up - he had to get back to work - and would be leaving early the next morning. Our long awaited reunion would be short-lived.
We rolled into the courtyard of the apartment bloc at 7:45 p.m., ‘home’ at last. After unloading and a round of, we made the first quick attempt at showering away the grime before heading out for pizza and a beer. Delicious. We never got to eat our last four packs of ramen, but I’m certainly not complaining.
Mike
Sunday, 8 August 2010
9. Rain Shadow
After Dan and Jamie left, it rained for the next day and a half. Fitting. Finally, on the morning of July 23, it was clear enough to wash both body and clothes in the river. The next day, Chris, Matt, and I would set out for some unfinished business: Pt 5048. It was the one objective that could leave us disappointed if we didn’t at least give it a go.
Both to get some extra recovery time and to break up the approach, we used our typical strategy and left camp late in the afternoon, heading for the Djangartynbashi Glacier. Still feeling the malaise of basecamp and lingering effects of the divided team, I didn’t try to move too fast. Thanks to the knowledge gained on our previous trip, we took an alternate approach route, using a snow patch to cross the river and gaining a grassy hill on the east side of the valley. Just as I crested the hill, I startled a large herd of ibex that quickly scrambled 500 m up the adjacent scree slope. Oh, to be able to ascend with such ease. We set up our camp just in time to jump in our tents as rain fell. It relented briefly and we sat staring at 5048, shrouded mysteriously in a cloud. As we went to sleep, the rain began again. It wouldn’t stop for 18 hours.
Sitting, or rather laying, in Matt’s tiny two-man (probably more of a 1.5 man) tent isn’t fun; there’s not really enough room to sit up. Chris didn’t have it much better in his bivy. We let out sighs of frustration as the patter of rain on the tent held steady. At 2:00 p.m., it finally subsided and we crawled out to stretch our legs. Estimating the rest of the approach to be about six hours, we decided to stay put for the day and continue in the morning. If we had gone, it would have made an alpine start unfeasible.
Matt and I played some rock jenga while Chris laid in his bivy and read. It remained clear until dinner, but as soon as we started cooking, another storm rolled in. Luckily it was short lived and we went to bed with relatively stable weather and high hopes for the next day. By morning, it was back to overcast. Go figure.
We were out of camp around 9:00 a.m., quickly reaching the toe of the glacier and making rapid progress up the dry glacier under a light rain/sleet. Unlike the N2, the lower reaches of the Djangartynbashi are crevasse free, allowing easy access. By noon we had reached our previous campsite and were optimistic we could make it to the base of the route we had scoped out on 5048 in just another hour or two. That turned out to be just a bit off. Six and a half hours of vicious, oftentimes waist-deep postholing later, and we finally reached camp. During that effort, both Chris and I had splashed into streams under the snow that filled our boots with water. As we cooked, we desperately tried to dry our boots. Up until that night I hadn’t been wholeheartedly into the climb, but seeing 5048 bask in the post-storm alpenglow lit my fire.
It was a chilly night with my boots drying on my feet. Already having dropped any excess body fat during the previous two excursions, I could do little to keep myself warm even with my nice sleeping bag. I didn’t even need the alarm to go off at 2:00 a.m., I’d been awake most of the night. Matt and I jostled about in the tiny tent, getting our clothes on and boiling a pot of water. Chris put on his boots, but decided his feet were too cold and gave up on his last chance to climb during the trip.
Matt and I packed our bags and left camp at 3:15 a.m. We made quick progress and by sunrise had gained the north ridge that projects out towards the glacier, needing only one short pitch of belayed climbing. Amazingly, after days of overcast skies and rain, it was finally clear and gentle wisps of high cirrus clouds indicated fair weather would last for some time. We swapped leads up the exposed, photogenic knife-edge ridge. To avoid pockets of deep snow that hampered progress, we escaped to the northeast face, which would lead us all the way to the summit ridge on gentle 55-degree slopes. A few battles with pockets of deep snow were the only obstacles, and we were standing on the summit by 2:15 p.m. All smiles.
The only disappointing moment of the day came when I crested the final summit ridge and saw, much to my astonishment, that a second, higher summit existed to the east. Without topos we couldn’t be sure, but we have since concluded that the higher summit is indeed in China and is unmarked as a point elevation on the Soviet map. Slightly worried about crossing the border, mentally not prepared for more climbing, but mostly just unwilling to commit to a treacherous traverse to this summit – it appeared to be dangerously difficult powder snow pockets over a very compact conglomerate rock – we dropped our gear and called our route complete. Enjoying the rare opportunity provided by the fair weather, we snapped lots of photos, took a moment to record a video thank you for our sponsors, and snacked on some dried fruit before beginning the descent.
The moderate steepness and soft snow conditions allowed me to downclimb the whole route, cleaning all the pickets that Matt used to make quick rappels. We were pleased that we didn’t leave a single piece of gear on the route. We rolled into camp around 7:45 p.m. and Chris, a new uncle, had water waiting for us. We cooked up some ramen, packed some gear, and for once had time for a full night of post-climb sleep. We had time, I didn’t say we slept well. Matt and I both had another fitful night before rising early to (hopefully) avoid some of the postholing on the glacier. As it ended up, we were still cursing while dropping thigh deep into the ice crusted snow, but we made it all the way back to basecamp by 4:45 p.m., walking the last few miles in a daze.
Once again we couldn’t come up with a route name or a peak name, although we graded the route AD+, 650 m. Subsequently we have coined the route “Postcard for the Chief” in honor of the friendly, hospitable soldiers at Uch-Koshkon, with a slightly deeper personal meaning for me. We propose the name Peak of Illumination to commemorate the rare weather.
After a third and final successful outing, I felt a calm come over me as I slept in basecamp that night. Alpine climbing is a blast: the beauty, the intensity, the endurance, the freedom. At the same time, it is a tremendous amount of hard work. I was physically and mentally drained - it’s like running a marathon in three consecutive weeks with only a marginal diet to refuel your body. I could tell I had lost my edge physically, with only the adrenaline of the pursuit keeping me pushing forward during the last climb. Still, as I lay in the tent that night, aching all over, it somehow felt good.
Mike
Both to get some extra recovery time and to break up the approach, we used our typical strategy and left camp late in the afternoon, heading for the Djangartynbashi Glacier. Still feeling the malaise of basecamp and lingering effects of the divided team, I didn’t try to move too fast. Thanks to the knowledge gained on our previous trip, we took an alternate approach route, using a snow patch to cross the river and gaining a grassy hill on the east side of the valley. Just as I crested the hill, I startled a large herd of ibex that quickly scrambled 500 m up the adjacent scree slope. Oh, to be able to ascend with such ease. We set up our camp just in time to jump in our tents as rain fell. It relented briefly and we sat staring at 5048, shrouded mysteriously in a cloud. As we went to sleep, the rain began again. It wouldn’t stop for 18 hours.
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| We took a photo to kill some time while tentbound. |
Matt and I played some rock jenga while Chris laid in his bivy and read. It remained clear until dinner, but as soon as we started cooking, another storm rolled in. Luckily it was short lived and we went to bed with relatively stable weather and high hopes for the next day. By morning, it was back to overcast. Go figure.
We were out of camp around 9:00 a.m., quickly reaching the toe of the glacier and making rapid progress up the dry glacier under a light rain/sleet. Unlike the N2, the lower reaches of the Djangartynbashi are crevasse free, allowing easy access. By noon we had reached our previous campsite and were optimistic we could make it to the base of the route we had scoped out on 5048 in just another hour or two. That turned out to be just a bit off. Six and a half hours of vicious, oftentimes waist-deep postholing later, and we finally reached camp. During that effort, both Chris and I had splashed into streams under the snow that filled our boots with water. As we cooked, we desperately tried to dry our boots. Up until that night I hadn’t been wholeheartedly into the climb, but seeing 5048 bask in the post-storm alpenglow lit my fire.
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| Postholing our way up the glacier towards Pt 5048. |
Matt and I packed our bags and left camp at 3:15 a.m. We made quick progress and by sunrise had gained the north ridge that projects out towards the glacier, needing only one short pitch of belayed climbing. Amazingly, after days of overcast skies and rain, it was finally clear and gentle wisps of high cirrus clouds indicated fair weather would last for some time. We swapped leads up the exposed, photogenic knife-edge ridge. To avoid pockets of deep snow that hampered progress, we escaped to the northeast face, which would lead us all the way to the summit ridge on gentle 55-degree slopes. A few battles with pockets of deep snow were the only obstacles, and we were standing on the summit by 2:15 p.m. All smiles.
 |
| The north ridge of Pt 5048. |
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| Summit shot! |
Once again we couldn’t come up with a route name or a peak name, although we graded the route AD+, 650 m. Subsequently we have coined the route “Postcard for the Chief” in honor of the friendly, hospitable soldiers at Uch-Koshkon, with a slightly deeper personal meaning for me. We propose the name Peak of Illumination to commemorate the rare weather.
_small.jpg) |
| Pik Osveshchenie (5048) -- "Postcard for the Chief" |
Mike
8. Life Isn’t Fair
Matt and I got up early for one more frigid crossing of the Djangart. We practically ran back to basecamp, anxious and eager to get the full story on Dan. We dove into the shelter of the basecamp tent just as a steady rain blanketed the valley. What could have gone wrong? Four days earlier we’d parted ways all healthy and eager to climb. Now we were losing one of our team members? It couldn’t be.
In a rush of words, Jamie, Dan, and Chris spat out a complex story. Dan passed out. Moraines, cliff, lost trekking pole. Dan wanted hot dogs. Where’s Mike? Who’s Matt? Chris was swept into the river. Dan and Jamie were nearly pulled into the river. Another collapse. Truck coming. Jamie and Dan leaving today. It all melded together as I tried to piece together a story told by three observers. Once Jamie and Dan left, Chris filled in some pieces, but I still feel like the puzzle isn’t complete.
Dan, a true climber, didn’t want to go; the rest of us knew it had to happen. Even though Dan looked perfectly fine, the risk of something worse happening while in a less hospitable location was too great. There were hugs all around as Dan and Jamie made a dash for the Kaichi during an afternoon break in the rain. Matt and I sat around, a bit shocked at the quick turn of events. A pall overtook camp as the gloom of the rainy, overcast day continued. We feared the worst but hoped for the best, optimistic about a reunion in Bishkek. We had to go on, but for the remainder of the trip something would be lacking. Dan, the last minute addition to the team, had brought an energy that helped counter the doldrums of life in basecamp. Eager to get after it, it wasn’t fair that he was the one who had to go.
In the end, sometimes you have to make the hard decisions that allow you to come back and fight another day. I know getting his trip cut short has left Dan with an insatiable itch to get back out there. The doctors in Bishkek weren’t much help, only recognizing that he’d suffered a concussion during the first collapse. He did manage to wait around in Bishkek (although he collapsed again) and the team got to share a celebratory beer. Doctors in Boston are now investigating the possibility that Dan has a heart arrhythmia that causes his blood pressure to drop, resulting in the sudden collapses.
Mike
In a rush of words, Jamie, Dan, and Chris spat out a complex story. Dan passed out. Moraines, cliff, lost trekking pole. Dan wanted hot dogs. Where’s Mike? Who’s Matt? Chris was swept into the river. Dan and Jamie were nearly pulled into the river. Another collapse. Truck coming. Jamie and Dan leaving today. It all melded together as I tried to piece together a story told by three observers. Once Jamie and Dan left, Chris filled in some pieces, but I still feel like the puzzle isn’t complete.
Dan, a true climber, didn’t want to go; the rest of us knew it had to happen. Even though Dan looked perfectly fine, the risk of something worse happening while in a less hospitable location was too great. There were hugs all around as Dan and Jamie made a dash for the Kaichi during an afternoon break in the rain. Matt and I sat around, a bit shocked at the quick turn of events. A pall overtook camp as the gloom of the rainy, overcast day continued. We feared the worst but hoped for the best, optimistic about a reunion in Bishkek. We had to go on, but for the remainder of the trip something would be lacking. Dan, the last minute addition to the team, had brought an energy that helped counter the doldrums of life in basecamp. Eager to get after it, it wasn’t fair that he was the one who had to go.
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| Dan and Jamie departing for the Kaichi. |
Mike
7. Hard Work
Toes are numb.
Nope, feet are numb.
Nope, lower legs are numb.
Matt and I stumbled onto the south shore of the Djangart River, breathing sighs of relief after an early morning crossing. Even at its lowest, the thigh deep river put up a fight as we struggled across. As we put our pants, socks, and boots back on, I was at least thankful that the acute pain had taken away the nauseous feeling in my stomach to which I’d awoken an hour earlier. The night before, we walked down the Djangart Valley staying on the north side of the river, knowing we’d have to cross early the next morning. Unfortunately, I woke up dry heaving, a slightly more severe consequence than the usual diarrhea. In the alpine, that’s just something you have to push through if you want to climb.
After making it a short distance up the trail, Matt could tell I wasn’t feeling it. He stopped and waited on a large rock, but I told him to continue so I could relieve my troubled digestive system – I’ll spare any more details than that, we aren’t in basecamp anymore.
We knew the approach would be long, but I don’t think either of us quite expected the challenge we got. We’d only taken 48 hours of rest after our last climb. Perhaps it was the boredom of camp or maybe our ambition getting the better of us, but we (well, mostly me) moved pretty slowly. The terrain didn’t make it any easier. After the early morning ice bath, we were hampered by knee-high thorn bushes. At first we tried to weave our way through, but eventually just dealt with getting stuck by the thorns. We inefficiently meandered up the slopes on the west side of the glacial outflow, eventually gaining the moraine. We stayed high, choosing to deal with loose blocks and rockslides rather than navigate the ice cliffs below. Progress was painstakingly slow.
By lunch we were running parallel to the smooth, dry glacier and decided to drop down. Looking ahead, we could see a large serac barrier cascading down the slope. Our objective, Pt 5080, sat on the west side of the glacier, but there was to be no easy approach. We traversed the glacier, making our way to the east side where a less broken section allowed access to the upper glacier. As storms rolled through, we had to stop twice to take refuge under large boulders that sat like giant mushrooms with icy pedestals (the rocks shade the ice, so the ice around them melts at a faster rate). By late afternoon, we had come to the point where the glacier turned from dry to wet. We’d been jumping exposed crevasses as we progressed up the lower glacier, but now we were facing the added threat of crevasses hidden by snow bridges.
We roped up and Matt led the way, once again frustrated by knee to thigh deep postholes. Matt prodded his way along, inspecting for crevasses. We had crossed at least a dozen snowbridges when suddenly my feet were dangling in space. Luckily, the extra surface area of my arms and pack stopped me before I could even yell “crevasse!” I yelled anyway and Matt stood alert while I used my axe to extricate myself. Phew.
It was getting late but we were still progressing, albeit slowly. Our objective gradually came into view, but with darkness closing in and each laborious step sapping our energy, we set course for a somewhat protected alcove on the west side of the glacier. Night set in as I dug a platform for the tent while Matt sacrificed his dry clothes to get water from a trickle that was cascading off a nearby cliff. After cooking up a pot of ramen, it was 10:00 p.m. Settling into the warmth of our sleeping bags as the wind howled, we left our plan as ‘to be determined.’ After the 13.5 hour approach, it was too late for an alpine start. We decided we’d get some sleep and re-evaluate in the morning, potentially resting for the day.
I woke up at 5:00 a.m. as snow fell on our tent. Typical -- back to sleep. I woke up at 10:00 a.m. to the heat of brilliant sunshine.
“Should we go for it?”
“It’s a late start, but there’s no such thing as a good weather window around here.”
“Let’s do it.”
It took us some time to pack our things and get some food, so we set off around 11:00. It took at least another hour of plodding up the glacier to reach the base of the route. The east face of Pt 5080 is divided by a series of couloirs. We’d picked 5080 after seeing photos of the couloirs taken by Vadim Kodysh, leader of the 2008 Russian expedition that had trekked over a nearby pass. With the two couloirs on the right at most risk of being obliterated by falling seracs, we chose the left-most couloir. The steepest of the three, it would also provide a nice challenge.
Matt started up and we were moving efficiently under clear skies (a nice change from the last climb). Reaching the top of the couloir, the ice steepened to a vertical cascade. With only seven screws, we had to break the steep section into two shorter pitches. I’m all for running it out, but not on marginal quality vertical ice. Letting out an exclamatory yell after cresting the crux waterfall, I cruised up gentle terrain to finish out the rope length, threw in some rock gear, and belayed Matt up. Matt then took over as we simulclimbed up moderate terrain. Now late afternoon, a biting wind slowly built and chilled us with its icy wrath.
As the rope stopped moving, I grew increasingly impatient in the cold wind. Matt was around a corner, out of eyesight or earshot. Too cold to keep standing, I decided to keep moving, and eventually got to where Matt and I could communicate. He threw in a belay anchor and brought me up. The snow was chest deep on a 50-degree slope. Progress was near impossible. Frustrated, Matt allowed me to give it a go. After an intense 20-minute effort, I looked back and saw that I had made it about 10 meters. Ugh, I needed a new tactic. Trying everything, I ended up using my ice tools to create fist cracks in the top layer of snow. It wasn’t consolidated enough to take full body weight, but I found that if I jammed both my mittens into the man-made cracks, pulled up and distributed my weight over the length of my shins, I could just manage enough leverage to progress. I went on like this for a good 30-40 meters before the snow began to harden and I could move in a more traditional manner. Who knew a 50-degree snow slope could be so challenging?
We continued up, swapping leads as the angle steepened slightly. The wind built in a deafening crescendo, slamming our exposed faces with spindrift. Talking required shouting. Even donning our warm belay jackets, each belay was a test of will. Darkness fell and the wind only strengthened as we neared the summit. Matt led a pitch up to a rock band, which as best we could tell marked the summit. To get to the true summit would require traversing around the band and facing the full force of the wind. We looked at each other, hands and toes numb, and both knew it was time to descend. Standing on the true summit didn’t mean anything to us; the route was complete.
We used up all of our pickets making the first five rappels. From there, we used V-threads to anchor the 8-10 remaining rappels. It was tedious work. Thankfully, the wind abated as we made our way into the shelter of the couloir. The morning hours wore on; 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 a.m. We double-checked each knot, knowing mistakes are all too often made on the descent. All we had to do was look the other person in the eyes to see the fatigue festering in our empty bodies.
We stumbled into camp at 6:45 a.m., battered and worn out. It was light, but it would be another hour before the sun reached our camp to reheat our frozen limbs. We boiled water, eager to drink after carrying only a liter each, all of which we drank during the 20-hour ordeal. Replenished, we sunk into our sleeping bags and rested for two hours until the heat of the sun was too unbearable.
We slowly loaded up our bags and set off at 1:00 p.m., postholing our way back across the upper glacier. Reversing the treacherous approach took seven hours, even though we took a somewhat improved route to avoid some of the crevasses. Neither of us had a name for the route or the mountain, but we didn’t care. We got our second taste of success and it hadn’t lost any of its luster. Since then, the route has been dubbed Will Your Anchor Hold?, TD-, 700 m. We propose Peak Sutherland for the mountain, in honor of Matt’s recently departed Great Uncle. Will Your Anchor Hold is the name of his book.
By the late evening, the swift-flowing Djangart River was too dangerous to cross. Not interested in pitching our wet tent, we put our sleeping pads in the grass, cooked some food, and went to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come easy though. When we had reached the Djangart we’d managed to hear over a crackling radio that Dan would be getting evacuated. We didn’t get too many details, so we were left to ponder what could have gone wrong.
Mike
Nope, feet are numb.
Nope, lower legs are numb.
Matt and I stumbled onto the south shore of the Djangart River, breathing sighs of relief after an early morning crossing. Even at its lowest, the thigh deep river put up a fight as we struggled across. As we put our pants, socks, and boots back on, I was at least thankful that the acute pain had taken away the nauseous feeling in my stomach to which I’d awoken an hour earlier. The night before, we walked down the Djangart Valley staying on the north side of the river, knowing we’d have to cross early the next morning. Unfortunately, I woke up dry heaving, a slightly more severe consequence than the usual diarrhea. In the alpine, that’s just something you have to push through if you want to climb.
After making it a short distance up the trail, Matt could tell I wasn’t feeling it. He stopped and waited on a large rock, but I told him to continue so I could relieve my troubled digestive system – I’ll spare any more details than that, we aren’t in basecamp anymore.
We knew the approach would be long, but I don’t think either of us quite expected the challenge we got. We’d only taken 48 hours of rest after our last climb. Perhaps it was the boredom of camp or maybe our ambition getting the better of us, but we (well, mostly me) moved pretty slowly. The terrain didn’t make it any easier. After the early morning ice bath, we were hampered by knee-high thorn bushes. At first we tried to weave our way through, but eventually just dealt with getting stuck by the thorns. We inefficiently meandered up the slopes on the west side of the glacial outflow, eventually gaining the moraine. We stayed high, choosing to deal with loose blocks and rockslides rather than navigate the ice cliffs below. Progress was painstakingly slow.
 |
| The ugliness of the N2 glacier. |
We roped up and Matt led the way, once again frustrated by knee to thigh deep postholes. Matt prodded his way along, inspecting for crevasses. We had crossed at least a dozen snowbridges when suddenly my feet were dangling in space. Luckily, the extra surface area of my arms and pack stopped me before I could even yell “crevasse!” I yelled anyway and Matt stood alert while I used my axe to extricate myself. Phew.
 |
| Postholing our way up the crevassed ridden N2 glacier. |
I woke up at 5:00 a.m. as snow fell on our tent. Typical -- back to sleep. I woke up at 10:00 a.m. to the heat of brilliant sunshine.
“Should we go for it?”
“It’s a late start, but there’s no such thing as a good weather window around here.”
“Let’s do it.”
It took us some time to pack our things and get some food, so we set off around 11:00. It took at least another hour of plodding up the glacier to reach the base of the route. The east face of Pt 5080 is divided by a series of couloirs. We’d picked 5080 after seeing photos of the couloirs taken by Vadim Kodysh, leader of the 2008 Russian expedition that had trekked over a nearby pass. With the two couloirs on the right at most risk of being obliterated by falling seracs, we chose the left-most couloir. The steepest of the three, it would also provide a nice challenge.
Matt started up and we were moving efficiently under clear skies (a nice change from the last climb). Reaching the top of the couloir, the ice steepened to a vertical cascade. With only seven screws, we had to break the steep section into two shorter pitches. I’m all for running it out, but not on marginal quality vertical ice. Letting out an exclamatory yell after cresting the crux waterfall, I cruised up gentle terrain to finish out the rope length, threw in some rock gear, and belayed Matt up. Matt then took over as we simulclimbed up moderate terrain. Now late afternoon, a biting wind slowly built and chilled us with its icy wrath.
 |
| The crux of the route. Photo taken on rappel. |
We continued up, swapping leads as the angle steepened slightly. The wind built in a deafening crescendo, slamming our exposed faces with spindrift. Talking required shouting. Even donning our warm belay jackets, each belay was a test of will. Darkness fell and the wind only strengthened as we neared the summit. Matt led a pitch up to a rock band, which as best we could tell marked the summit. To get to the true summit would require traversing around the band and facing the full force of the wind. We looked at each other, hands and toes numb, and both knew it was time to descend. Standing on the true summit didn’t mean anything to us; the route was complete.
We used up all of our pickets making the first five rappels. From there, we used V-threads to anchor the 8-10 remaining rappels. It was tedious work. Thankfully, the wind abated as we made our way into the shelter of the couloir. The morning hours wore on; 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 a.m. We double-checked each knot, knowing mistakes are all too often made on the descent. All we had to do was look the other person in the eyes to see the fatigue festering in our empty bodies.
We stumbled into camp at 6:45 a.m., battered and worn out. It was light, but it would be another hour before the sun reached our camp to reheat our frozen limbs. We boiled water, eager to drink after carrying only a liter each, all of which we drank during the 20-hour ordeal. Replenished, we sunk into our sleeping bags and rested for two hours until the heat of the sun was too unbearable.
We slowly loaded up our bags and set off at 1:00 p.m., postholing our way back across the upper glacier. Reversing the treacherous approach took seven hours, even though we took a somewhat improved route to avoid some of the crevasses. Neither of us had a name for the route or the mountain, but we didn’t care. We got our second taste of success and it hadn’t lost any of its luster. Since then, the route has been dubbed Will Your Anchor Hold?, TD-, 700 m. We propose Peak Sutherland for the mountain, in honor of Matt’s recently departed Great Uncle. Will Your Anchor Hold is the name of his book.
_small.jpg) |
| Peak Sutherland (5080) -- "Will Your Anchor Hold?" |
Mike
6. It’s what???
“The rope is cut!”
“What!?”
“The rope is cut, it’s about 20 m short!”
“How did that happen!?”
We still don’t know exactly what happened, but can only assume that the horsemen who helped us haul our gear also helped themselves to some of our rope. It was definitely all there when we got the ropes (multiple flakes to get the kinks out), it was definitely all there when we packed our bag (Matt flaked them into the dry bag), it was definitely not all there when we started climbing.
After a day and a half approach – we could do it faster now, but the moraine we chose to follow was a hellacious disaster, but that’s part of the peril of exploring new routes – we started up the peak just above our camp. Without a topo for that specific area (it was left in the US as we had expected to be climbing further to the east), we didn’t know what we were climbing, but it looked awesome: a perfect snow/ice couloir to very near the summit of an otherwise rocky pyramid. As we saw later, it was Pt 4766, sitting at one of the dividing points for the Djangartynbashi Glacier. We’d come up the glacier hoping to climb Pt 5048, which we had seen from the Djangart Valley, and perhaps another peak. When we arrived on scene, 4766 was calling our name and we decided it would be a worthy climb before continuing up the glacier to climb 5048.
We reached our camp on the glacier in the mid-afternoon. Some large boulders left in the medial moraine and a nearby run-off stream made for a hospitable camp. With 5048 obscured by clouds at the head of the valley, but with otherwise clear skies (relatively), we lounged around listening to music after constructing a windbreak for our small campsite. When the weather began to roll in around 5:00 or 6:00, we hurried to cook up some ramen before diving into our tent and bivy. We set the alarm for 4:00 a.m. – the route didn’t look that huge – and went to bed hoping the weather would roll through as it often did.
After hitting snooze once or twice, we got up around 4:30. It had been clear most of the night (I generally don’t sleep well in tiny tents, so I was up), but now was overcast. Overcast in the Djangart is fine weather, so we packed our bags. Just as we were leaving though, the snow started. It wouldn’t relent for a solid ten hours. Luckily, it wasn’t heavy enough to stop us, just enough to keep us wet. The route finding would be straightforward, we reasoned, and the slope steep enough that avalanche danger would not be a problem.
Matt led off, laboriously and frustratingly postholing his way up the first 200 m, which gradually steepened to 55 degrees. As we approached a large rock buttress that we had identified the previous day, snow was sloughing off the higher slopes; never enough to take us down but enough to keep us on our toes. Sloughing snow is actually a welcome sign, as it means the snow isn’t accumulating to unload as a larger avalanche.
We got the second rope out of our bag and roped up to begin belayed climbing. Dan led the first pitch, but didn’t get very far before the green rope ran out. It seemed a bit odd, but maybe the scale of the face was screwing with our perception of distance, a common issue. Often two half ropes aren’t exactly the same length, so with little concern I just ran off to the next belay (Matt saw how much was left on his rope, the brown rope – a lot – but I was already in move-fast-its-an-alpine-climb mode). We gathered at Dan’s belay station and Matt took the next pitch. There were a few words, but we went on. As he was climbing, I was restacking the ropes so Dan could have an easier belay. I got to the end of the green rope, but there was A LOT of brown left. I flaked the excess out – about 20 m! WHAT IS GOING ON?! I looked up at Matt, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I looked at the ropes again. The tail at the end of Dan’s knot didn’t have the factory seal. That’s weird. Where the heck was the rest of our rope? I shouted up to Matt to inform him of the problem.
Matt made an anchor at the end of the 40 m pitch and Dan and I climbed up. We speculated that the horsemen had cut our rope, but that didn’t help solve our predicament. What to do, what to do? We already weren’t moving extremely fast; we were un-acclimated and inefficient on our first climb together. 40 m pitches would take ages. I proposed that we throw the 40 m rope in a bag and simulclimb on the remaining 60m rope. To me, the terrain was well within my comfort level. Matt was a bit more hesitant whereas Dan would go along with just about anything. I offered to lead to whole thing and Matt agreed to the idea. (I know, I know, when simulclimbing the climber less likely to fall should second. In this case, I wasn’t worried about Matt falling and psychologically it was easier for him, always the more cautious, to second.)
We kept chugging along; now simulclimbing, we moved a bit faster. I placed a screw every 20-30 m, enabling us to get in at least 120 m before having to set up an anchor and re-shuffle gear. The ‘hero’ ice was soft and sticky, gradually increasing from 55 to 70 or 75 degrees. After a few segments, the falling snow began to taper off. I grabbed my camera from my bag and snapped a few photos of Matt and Dan on the face. We got into a beautiful rhythm and progressed smoothly up the face. The climbing was just challenging enough to keep things interesting while not raising my nerves. Bliss.
Leading the rope team after an extended segment of simulclimbing, I placed my last screw and yelled down that I was going to gun it for the ridge, about 60 m above. After Matt expressed his concern, I relented and traversed to the other side of the couloir. I threw in a sketchy nut, pounded in a marginal piton, and shoved my shoulder into a corner of the wall that arched over the couloir, reminding me of Pinnacle Gully on Mt. Washington. I belayed Matt and Dan up to the frigid stance.
With a refreshed rack of gear, I set off for the top. After a half rope of 70 degree ice, the slope relented just before the ridge. I plowed my way through two-foot deep powder, desperately trying to reach the line of sun just above me. The last few meters to the knife-edge ridge involved some tricky climbing on steep, 80-degree snow-plastered ice. Not helping was the tug on the rope I received to inform me I had reached the end. I kept going, pulling my way onto the ridge after Matt had started climbing. I gazed around at a magnificent display: the fresh snow frosted the surrounding landscape of 5,000 m virgin peaks. I took a few steps down to the other side of the sharp ridge, pounded in two pickets, and belayed Matt and Dan the rest of the way to the top.
Unfortunately, just as they reached the ridge, the clouds closed in and we were engulfed in another white-out snowstorm. I collected the gear and headed up the ridge towards the summit, postholing along the way and groveling over some mixed rock-and-powder terrain. Almost there, Matt started moving again as we continued simulclimbing. As I scrambled over the final few meters, I threw my arms up and let up a shout. My first unclimbed summit. Success never felt so sweet.
I belayed Matt and Dan up as the snow and wind intensified. Together on the summit, we sat there for about three minutes before heading back down in reverse order. It’s a shame the weather couldn’t have held out for just 30 minutes longer.
Now, you’d think the story was over; after all, we’d made the summit. Not so fast. Earlier when we had reached the ridge, we peered down the backside and saw a downclimbable snow slope. It looked like a faster descent than the alternative of making 40 m rappels down the face we had just climbed. Let’s go for it, we agreed.
As we began to downclimb, belayed from anchors, the visibility became almost zero. We chose to keep descending in the treacherous conditions. At one point, I had downclimbed the full 60 m ropelength, but was completely unable to make an anchor – fresh snow over choss, nasty stuff. I stayed in place while Matt and Dan connected the 40 m rope, hoping to get me far enough down to find a suitable anchor. I didn’t find much better and belayed Dan and Matt down on one of the crappiest pairs of stubby screws I’ve ever placed. I took the lead again, searching for a way down in the low visibility. On top of the white-out, darkness was now setting in. I traversed the slope, growing increasingly nervous about avalanche conditions. No dice, I came to a steep ravine. I opted for the more direct route straight down, spotting a gully that cut diagonally back across the face. The terrain below didn’t look hospitable, but maybe, just maybe, there was a shot this gully could lead us all the way down.
After the others reached me, I set of, using our joined ropes to travel 100 m through deep powder. At the end of the rope, things looked promising, but I couldn’t see too far around a corner. I belayed Matt and Dan down before setting off again. After another 100 m, our luck ran out. Cliff. Waterfall flowing over cliff. Hey, at least the snow had stopped.
With no other options, we had to begin rappelling using our shortened rope. Matt made his way over to a rock wall that flanked the gully and cleared some cracks of ice and dirt, building an anchor with two nuts. And so it began. We had no idea where the steepening gully would lead us and no idea how many rappels we’d have to make. Would we get stuck above a blank cliff face? The poor rock quality wasn’t exactly conducive to confidence-inspiring anchors. Matt rappelled off into the pitch black. As we watched his headlamp fade away, Dan and I shared our concerns.
In the end, it only took four raps, but in our exhaustion-induced stupor it seemed like a dozen. The whole time, Matt remained positive: “One way or another, we’re getting down.” For our last rappel, we used two Abolokovs to edge over the final half-frozen waterfall. Reaching the snow cone at the bottom and shinning my headlamp into the space below, I realized we could walk the rest of the way down the slope to the glacier. Relief.
It was after 3:00 a.m. as we wandered back down the glacier to the refuge of our tent. Cold and exhausted from 22+ hours on the go, we dropped our packs. It’s a strange feeling that you get after completing such an arduous and lengthy climb. As tired as you are, you can’t just crawl in your sleeping bag and fall asleep. It takes a while to decompress from the high tension of living on the sharp end.
We brewed some warm water to restore our comfort. I think Matt, always the hungry one, even cooked up some food. I barely had enough energy for the warm water and was the first one in the tent, which we had to shovel out from the foot plus of snow that fell during our climb. The bivy, used by Matt the previous night, was buried and soaked, so all three of us crammed into the smallest two-man tent I’ve ever been in. Yeah, it was like three sardines, but I still slept surprisingly well. A sleep of satisfaction.
Intense sun woke us the next morning; it’s amazing how hot it can get on a glacier. Munching on some food, we chatted about the climb. We decided on the name “Horseman’s Horror,” quite descriptive of the rope-snatching and of the climb itself (well, more the descent, the climb was delightful). We coined Pt 4766 Peak Howard-Bury after an early British explorer of the Tien Shan whose diaries Jamie had read and graded the 700 m route D+. Not done with the naming, only half in jest Matt proposed calling the descent route Lenin Gully. It was probably delirious hallucinations, but he swears he saw an image of Lenin in the oppressive rock walls that bound the gully.
We discussed the possibility of climbing another route the next day. It would be a stretch on our food, but we could do it if we wanted. There were so many options luring us, but in the end, our sensible sides won out. The fresh snow would make movement slow and left the avalanche danger high. Having only one good rope would further exacerbate the issue. We spent several hours basking in the sunlight, drying our gear, and refueling for the walk out. We set off around 1:00 p.m., taking a much more efficient route back to camp, where we arrived around 5:30. We were completely exhausted, but it was the good kind of exhaustion that reminds you that you’ve just accomplished something. Welcome to climbing in the Djangart.
Mike
“What!?”
“The rope is cut, it’s about 20 m short!”
“How did that happen!?”
We still don’t know exactly what happened, but can only assume that the horsemen who helped us haul our gear also helped themselves to some of our rope. It was definitely all there when we got the ropes (multiple flakes to get the kinks out), it was definitely all there when we packed our bag (Matt flaked them into the dry bag), it was definitely not all there when we started climbing.
After a day and a half approach – we could do it faster now, but the moraine we chose to follow was a hellacious disaster, but that’s part of the peril of exploring new routes – we started up the peak just above our camp. Without a topo for that specific area (it was left in the US as we had expected to be climbing further to the east), we didn’t know what we were climbing, but it looked awesome: a perfect snow/ice couloir to very near the summit of an otherwise rocky pyramid. As we saw later, it was Pt 4766, sitting at one of the dividing points for the Djangartynbashi Glacier. We’d come up the glacier hoping to climb Pt 5048, which we had seen from the Djangart Valley, and perhaps another peak. When we arrived on scene, 4766 was calling our name and we decided it would be a worthy climb before continuing up the glacier to climb 5048.
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| The view as we ascended the Djangartynbashi glacier. Pt 5048 is on the left and Pt 4766 is on the right. |
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| Enjoying some shared music at camp on the Djangartynbashi. |
Matt led off, laboriously and frustratingly postholing his way up the first 200 m, which gradually steepened to 55 degrees. As we approached a large rock buttress that we had identified the previous day, snow was sloughing off the higher slopes; never enough to take us down but enough to keep us on our toes. Sloughing snow is actually a welcome sign, as it means the snow isn’t accumulating to unload as a larger avalanche.
We got the second rope out of our bag and roped up to begin belayed climbing. Dan led the first pitch, but didn’t get very far before the green rope ran out. It seemed a bit odd, but maybe the scale of the face was screwing with our perception of distance, a common issue. Often two half ropes aren’t exactly the same length, so with little concern I just ran off to the next belay (Matt saw how much was left on his rope, the brown rope – a lot – but I was already in move-fast-its-an-alpine-climb mode). We gathered at Dan’s belay station and Matt took the next pitch. There were a few words, but we went on. As he was climbing, I was restacking the ropes so Dan could have an easier belay. I got to the end of the green rope, but there was A LOT of brown left. I flaked the excess out – about 20 m! WHAT IS GOING ON?! I looked up at Matt, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I looked at the ropes again. The tail at the end of Dan’s knot didn’t have the factory seal. That’s weird. Where the heck was the rest of our rope? I shouted up to Matt to inform him of the problem.
Matt made an anchor at the end of the 40 m pitch and Dan and I climbed up. We speculated that the horsemen had cut our rope, but that didn’t help solve our predicament. What to do, what to do? We already weren’t moving extremely fast; we were un-acclimated and inefficient on our first climb together. 40 m pitches would take ages. I proposed that we throw the 40 m rope in a bag and simulclimb on the remaining 60m rope. To me, the terrain was well within my comfort level. Matt was a bit more hesitant whereas Dan would go along with just about anything. I offered to lead to whole thing and Matt agreed to the idea. (I know, I know, when simulclimbing the climber less likely to fall should second. In this case, I wasn’t worried about Matt falling and psychologically it was easier for him, always the more cautious, to second.)
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| Matt climbing on Pt 4766. |
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| Dan and Matt climbing the northwest face of Pt 4766 with the Djangartynbashi glacier far below. |
With a refreshed rack of gear, I set off for the top. After a half rope of 70 degree ice, the slope relented just before the ridge. I plowed my way through two-foot deep powder, desperately trying to reach the line of sun just above me. The last few meters to the knife-edge ridge involved some tricky climbing on steep, 80-degree snow-plastered ice. Not helping was the tug on the rope I received to inform me I had reached the end. I kept going, pulling my way onto the ridge after Matt had started climbing. I gazed around at a magnificent display: the fresh snow frosted the surrounding landscape of 5,000 m virgin peaks. I took a few steps down to the other side of the sharp ridge, pounded in two pickets, and belayed Matt and Dan the rest of the way to the top.
Unfortunately, just as they reached the ridge, the clouds closed in and we were engulfed in another white-out snowstorm. I collected the gear and headed up the ridge towards the summit, postholing along the way and groveling over some mixed rock-and-powder terrain. Almost there, Matt started moving again as we continued simulclimbing. As I scrambled over the final few meters, I threw my arms up and let up a shout. My first unclimbed summit. Success never felt so sweet.
I belayed Matt and Dan up as the snow and wind intensified. Together on the summit, we sat there for about three minutes before heading back down in reverse order. It’s a shame the weather couldn’t have held out for just 30 minutes longer.
Now, you’d think the story was over; after all, we’d made the summit. Not so fast. Earlier when we had reached the ridge, we peered down the backside and saw a downclimbable snow slope. It looked like a faster descent than the alternative of making 40 m rappels down the face we had just climbed. Let’s go for it, we agreed.
As we began to downclimb, belayed from anchors, the visibility became almost zero. We chose to keep descending in the treacherous conditions. At one point, I had downclimbed the full 60 m ropelength, but was completely unable to make an anchor – fresh snow over choss, nasty stuff. I stayed in place while Matt and Dan connected the 40 m rope, hoping to get me far enough down to find a suitable anchor. I didn’t find much better and belayed Dan and Matt down on one of the crappiest pairs of stubby screws I’ve ever placed. I took the lead again, searching for a way down in the low visibility. On top of the white-out, darkness was now setting in. I traversed the slope, growing increasingly nervous about avalanche conditions. No dice, I came to a steep ravine. I opted for the more direct route straight down, spotting a gully that cut diagonally back across the face. The terrain below didn’t look hospitable, but maybe, just maybe, there was a shot this gully could lead us all the way down.
After the others reached me, I set of, using our joined ropes to travel 100 m through deep powder. At the end of the rope, things looked promising, but I couldn’t see too far around a corner. I belayed Matt and Dan down before setting off again. After another 100 m, our luck ran out. Cliff. Waterfall flowing over cliff. Hey, at least the snow had stopped.
With no other options, we had to begin rappelling using our shortened rope. Matt made his way over to a rock wall that flanked the gully and cleared some cracks of ice and dirt, building an anchor with two nuts. And so it began. We had no idea where the steepening gully would lead us and no idea how many rappels we’d have to make. Would we get stuck above a blank cliff face? The poor rock quality wasn’t exactly conducive to confidence-inspiring anchors. Matt rappelled off into the pitch black. As we watched his headlamp fade away, Dan and I shared our concerns.
In the end, it only took four raps, but in our exhaustion-induced stupor it seemed like a dozen. The whole time, Matt remained positive: “One way or another, we’re getting down.” For our last rappel, we used two Abolokovs to edge over the final half-frozen waterfall. Reaching the snow cone at the bottom and shinning my headlamp into the space below, I realized we could walk the rest of the way down the slope to the glacier. Relief.
It was after 3:00 a.m. as we wandered back down the glacier to the refuge of our tent. Cold and exhausted from 22+ hours on the go, we dropped our packs. It’s a strange feeling that you get after completing such an arduous and lengthy climb. As tired as you are, you can’t just crawl in your sleeping bag and fall asleep. It takes a while to decompress from the high tension of living on the sharp end.
We brewed some warm water to restore our comfort. I think Matt, always the hungry one, even cooked up some food. I barely had enough energy for the warm water and was the first one in the tent, which we had to shovel out from the foot plus of snow that fell during our climb. The bivy, used by Matt the previous night, was buried and soaked, so all three of us crammed into the smallest two-man tent I’ve ever been in. Yeah, it was like three sardines, but I still slept surprisingly well. A sleep of satisfaction.
Intense sun woke us the next morning; it’s amazing how hot it can get on a glacier. Munching on some food, we chatted about the climb. We decided on the name “Horseman’s Horror,” quite descriptive of the rope-snatching and of the climb itself (well, more the descent, the climb was delightful). We coined Pt 4766 Peak Howard-Bury after an early British explorer of the Tien Shan whose diaries Jamie had read and graded the 700 m route D+. Not done with the naming, only half in jest Matt proposed calling the descent route Lenin Gully. It was probably delirious hallucinations, but he swears he saw an image of Lenin in the oppressive rock walls that bound the gully.
_small.jpg) |
| Pik Howard-Bury and "Horseman's Horror" |
Mike
5. Living in the Djangart
Life in basecamp is an exercise in patience and managing boredom. The first few days aren’t bad, there are general set-up tasks that take some time: gathering stones for a fire pit and cooking area, making sure the tents are pitched taught, organizing food. There are daily chores like making a water run and cleaning the dishes. But for the most part it’s all about waiting: waiting to acclimate, waiting for better weather, waiting for your body to recover…
In all, Matt and I spent the least amount of time in basecamp, but it was still tedious. We’d spend days reading, playing chess (mostly Jamie and I), occasionally joining Jamie on a bouldering foray, listening to music, or just joking around. It’s fascinating to see group dynamics developing in such a closed system. What’s probably more strange to anyone who hasn’t been there though is the recurrent discussion themes: bodily functions, food, toilet humor…well, you get the idea.
Our basecamp was situated on a flat grassy area about 300 m from the Djangart River and about 500 m from a small side stream that provided better water, at least early in the morning when the flow was lower. We lived in harmony with several marmots and at least one family of weasels. Luckily, neither decided to investigate our food supply. There were loads of flies, both the regular kind and large, biting horse flies. There were a few mosquitoes, but they weren’t a major problem, nor were the handful of spiders that enjoyed the refuge of my tent. Jamie got the worst of the insects, especially early in the trip, when he had some huge welts from being bitten. We didn’t see anything larger than a marmot until our last climbing foray, when I stumbled up a herd of ibex. There are, apparently, wolves and bears that live in the area. We didn’t come across any, but were asked by the horsemen and soldiers if we had seen anything.
The Djangart Valley was not the pristine wilderness we expected. We knew the lower valleys had long been a hunting ground and were possibly explored in the 1970s as a source for tin. Unfortunately, we found copious evidence of human despoliation. Rusting metal littered the valley: an empty trailer, sledges, tables, drop toilets, a bicycle, large fuel drums, loads of wire, tools, a stool, buckets, dishes. We found a lot. It was also clear that telephone or electricity had been run into the valley a long time ago, though by the time of our visit all that remained were remnants of collapsed poles. I guess the only upside is that the poles provided us with some fuel in the treeless alpine environment. Perhaps more egregiously, the Kaichi was also strewn with trash.
Without Abdybek, we took turns cooking, although Dan liked to do the most experimenting, seeing what he could create with our limited resources. Nobody really complained about cooking, it was a nice diversion to eat some time (pun intended, sorry). We soon realized that some things that had tasted good in the market were in fact nearly inedible, whereas other things (e.g. sugar/salt) we had completely mixed up. We survived. Typical meals included pasta, ramen, macaroni and cheese (thanks Dan for brining the powdered cheese from the US!), potatoes and rice, and calzones, among other less edible concoctions. Bread quickly became a staple; we’d make a fresh batch from scratch almost daily. Matt was especially fond of bread making. Later in the trip, fries and/or potato chips were a daily treat.
For protein, we had brought a handful of sausages but they didn’t seem to last too long (and were possibly horsemeat…hmm). So, after the first few days, we were left with mostly nuts and dried fruit. Most of the dried fruit ended up tasting less inviting than advertised, so in reality, we were left with loads and loads of nuts: peanuts, cashews, pistachios, walnuts, nuts I’ve never seen before. You name it, we had them all. I don’t think any of us will eat another nut for a year. I cringed at the jars of mixed nuts when I went to the grocery store yesterday.
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of life in basecamp – and in the mountains - was the weather. It rained. Often.
For the first ten or twelve days, the weather was pretty consistent. That is, it was consistently changing. Showers would roll in and out in hourly intervals. The sun would come and go. This meant that we’d constantly have to jump into the communal tent (a large 6 person REI tent where we stored all the food and did the cooking – it’s not a fancy mountaineering basecamp tent, but it worked quite well) to avoid the showers. When the sun wasn’t out it would get chilly, and we generally lounged around in belay jackets and insulated pants. When the sun did shine, it could be excessively warm, requiring only shorts and a t-shirt if desired. And so it went, in and out of the tent, in and out of clothes. All day, every day. Thankfully the storms weren’t severe – we rarely heard a roll of thunder – but they became increasingly frustrating as the trip wore on.
Surprisingly, the nighttime temperatures never got too severe. In basecamp at 3250 m we rarely saw frost and it never snowed. It snowed at one camp at about 3600 m, but just during the coldest hour of the night. In general, the snowline was at about 3800-4000 m.
About midway through our stay, the weather pattern changed – hooray!. Or not. Instead of scattered showers, we got all day soakers. Several times it rained for more than 12 straight hours. Often it was a light rain, but occasionally it built to a steady, moderate rain. On our last night in basecamp, the bowls we left outside showed it rained over an inch in a 12-hour span.
Reflecting the fickle weather, the Djangart River also had a mind of its own. On most days it would transform from a swift-flowing but fordable stream to a raging torrent of silt-laden glacial runoff. By the afternoon, a boulder-hop across the 8-10 m wide stream would be completely engulfed as the river grew to be waist to chest deep and 15-20 m wide. This proved to be a great logistical challenge for getting to the peaks. From our basecamp on the north side of the river, the only glacier we could access without crossing the river was the Djangartynbashi, although on our second trip up that glacier we used a snow patch to cross the river near its head and found the approach much easier. When the two teams set out or the N1 an N2 glaciers, we had to camp across the river for the glacial outflow, only able to cross early in the morning when the flow was at its lowest point. Even then, at the widest point in the river, the extremely fast flow of the bitterly cold, thigh deep water made crossing just barely possible. It may be advantageous for future parties to set objectives in a single glacial valley and set up a basecamp on location. Setting camp on the south side of the Djangart is possible, but traversing to the various glacial valleys is more difficult on that side of the river.
Climbing was definitely our respite from the boredom of basecamp. Although the weather didn’t get better on the routes, at least we were out there doing what we love.
Mike
In all, Matt and I spent the least amount of time in basecamp, but it was still tedious. We’d spend days reading, playing chess (mostly Jamie and I), occasionally joining Jamie on a bouldering foray, listening to music, or just joking around. It’s fascinating to see group dynamics developing in such a closed system. What’s probably more strange to anyone who hasn’t been there though is the recurrent discussion themes: bodily functions, food, toilet humor…well, you get the idea.
Our basecamp was situated on a flat grassy area about 300 m from the Djangart River and about 500 m from a small side stream that provided better water, at least early in the morning when the flow was lower. We lived in harmony with several marmots and at least one family of weasels. Luckily, neither decided to investigate our food supply. There were loads of flies, both the regular kind and large, biting horse flies. There were a few mosquitoes, but they weren’t a major problem, nor were the handful of spiders that enjoyed the refuge of my tent. Jamie got the worst of the insects, especially early in the trip, when he had some huge welts from being bitten. We didn’t see anything larger than a marmot until our last climbing foray, when I stumbled up a herd of ibex. There are, apparently, wolves and bears that live in the area. We didn’t come across any, but were asked by the horsemen and soldiers if we had seen anything.
 |
| Our basecamp near the intersection of the Djangart and Akoguz |
Without Abdybek, we took turns cooking, although Dan liked to do the most experimenting, seeing what he could create with our limited resources. Nobody really complained about cooking, it was a nice diversion to eat some time (pun intended, sorry). We soon realized that some things that had tasted good in the market were in fact nearly inedible, whereas other things (e.g. sugar/salt) we had completely mixed up. We survived. Typical meals included pasta, ramen, macaroni and cheese (thanks Dan for brining the powdered cheese from the US!), potatoes and rice, and calzones, among other less edible concoctions. Bread quickly became a staple; we’d make a fresh batch from scratch almost daily. Matt was especially fond of bread making. Later in the trip, fries and/or potato chips were a daily treat.
For protein, we had brought a handful of sausages but they didn’t seem to last too long (and were possibly horsemeat…hmm). So, after the first few days, we were left with mostly nuts and dried fruit. Most of the dried fruit ended up tasting less inviting than advertised, so in reality, we were left with loads and loads of nuts: peanuts, cashews, pistachios, walnuts, nuts I’ve never seen before. You name it, we had them all. I don’t think any of us will eat another nut for a year. I cringed at the jars of mixed nuts when I went to the grocery store yesterday.
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of life in basecamp – and in the mountains - was the weather. It rained. Often.
 |
| Typical weather conditions. |
Surprisingly, the nighttime temperatures never got too severe. In basecamp at 3250 m we rarely saw frost and it never snowed. It snowed at one camp at about 3600 m, but just during the coldest hour of the night. In general, the snowline was at about 3800-4000 m.
About midway through our stay, the weather pattern changed – hooray!. Or not. Instead of scattered showers, we got all day soakers. Several times it rained for more than 12 straight hours. Often it was a light rain, but occasionally it built to a steady, moderate rain. On our last night in basecamp, the bowls we left outside showed it rained over an inch in a 12-hour span.
Reflecting the fickle weather, the Djangart River also had a mind of its own. On most days it would transform from a swift-flowing but fordable stream to a raging torrent of silt-laden glacial runoff. By the afternoon, a boulder-hop across the 8-10 m wide stream would be completely engulfed as the river grew to be waist to chest deep and 15-20 m wide. This proved to be a great logistical challenge for getting to the peaks. From our basecamp on the north side of the river, the only glacier we could access without crossing the river was the Djangartynbashi, although on our second trip up that glacier we used a snow patch to cross the river near its head and found the approach much easier. When the two teams set out or the N1 an N2 glaciers, we had to camp across the river for the glacial outflow, only able to cross early in the morning when the flow was at its lowest point. Even then, at the widest point in the river, the extremely fast flow of the bitterly cold, thigh deep water made crossing just barely possible. It may be advantageous for future parties to set objectives in a single glacial valley and set up a basecamp on location. Setting camp on the south side of the Djangart is possible, but traversing to the various glacial valleys is more difficult on that side of the river.
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| At low flow, it was possible to ford the Djangart or hop boulders. |
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| By the afternoon, the river was a deadly torrent. |
Mike
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