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.

The view as we ascended the Djangartynbashi glacier.  Pt 5048 is on the left and Pt 4766 is on the right.

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.

Enjoying some shared music at camp on the Djangartynbashi.

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.)

Matt climbing on Pt 4766.

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.

Dan and Matt climbing the northwest face of Pt 4766 with the Djangartynbashi glacier far below.

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.

Pik Howard-Bury and "Horseman's Horror"

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