No Place to Fall: Superalpinism in the High Himalaya

NO PLACE TO FALL

NO PLACE TO FALL

Superalpinism in the High Himalaya

Victor Saunders

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www.v-publishing.co.uk

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Part One Makalu 1989

Chapter One In the Beginning

Chapter Two Monkey Business

Chapter Three To the Barun Valley

Chapter Four To the Makalu La and Dreams

Chapter Five Kangchungtse

Chapter Six Back to Kathmandu

Chapter Seven London, Spring 1990

Part Two Ultar 1991

Chapter Eight Keeping Your Feet on the Ceiling

Chapter Nine You May Go to Your Mountain

Chapter Ten Hunza Days

Chapter Eleven Into the Hidden Valley

Chapter Twelve First Ascent of Hunza Peak

Chapter Thirteen What Goes Up

Chapter Fourteen In the Shimshal Pamirs

Part Three Panch Chuli 1992

Chapter Fifteen Bombay Fever

Chapter Sixteen Steaming to Madkot

Chapter Seventeen Under the Dribbling Snout

Chapter Eighteen Rajrambha

Chapter Nineteen Dancing Through the Deodars

Chapter Twenty Panch Chuli V

Chapter Twenty-One Beer

Author’s Acknowledgments

I should like to thank all those who helped set up these expeditions, travelled with me to the mountains and shared the exploration and the climbing, especially Steve Sustad who endured my company on all three trips.

I should also like to thank Harish Kapadia and his team from the Himalayan Club of Bombay for easing our passage in India and for their good company, and Mr S. P. Godrej for sponsoring our Panch Chuli expedition.

My thanks are due to my editor Maggie Body for frayed patience and, most of all, to my family for everything.

VS

PART ONE

MAKALU, 1989

The Makalu Himal is situated in the Khumbakarna Himal, Nepal, about twelve miles east of Everest. Makalu (8481m) itself is the fifth highest peak after Everest (8848m), K2 (8611m), Kangchenjunga (8598m) and Lhotse (8511m). The main summit is sometimes referred to as Makalu I. Subsidiary peaks of the massif include the South-East Peak (8010m), Chomo Lonzo (7815m), Kangchungtse (Makalu II) (7640m), and Chago (6885m). According to Louis Baume the most probable origin for the name is Maha-kala, meaning in Tibetan ‘The Great Black One’.

Chapter One

In the Beginning

It might have started in the pub. Most expeditions do. Maybe a chance mention of the mountain led to a beery response. Perhaps this led in turn to increasing enthusiasm, or a position difficult to back down from. One never remembers the details. Suddenly there is an expedition. Expeditions are like the full frontal storms of recent years, no one really knows how or where they start. On a South Pacific island a butterfly flaps its wings in a particular way. And a month later the entire south coast of England is devastated. If the insect had slept two minutes longer, we would have had perfectly clear cold winters, and the best ice climbing this century. There is a theory going the rounds of the popular science magazines that describes this sort of thing. It is all about instability, apparently. The theory calls itself Chaos Theory, and its proponents are known as chaologists. I find this highly descriptive of our expedition … Instability … Chaos.

And then again it might have started with a phone call.

‘Blackspur? Never heard of them.’

‘Sell printers,’ said Andy Fanshawe, Fanny to his friends. ‘Big ones, they buy them second hand, do ‘em up and sell them for mega millions. They’re based here, in Manchester.’

‘And you think they might sponsor us?’

‘Absolutely. We are going to meet the Marketing Director in the morning. You are coming up, aren’t you? See you in Stockport.’

Clunk. Brrrrr. I was still looking at the handset. Speaking with Fanny was sometimes like being run over by a friendly locomotive.

The expedition was originally Mike Woolridge’s idea. The team would not be one team, but four or five pairs of climbers. Base Camp was to be a shared facility. Snell’s Field under Makalu. Should be cheap and cheerful, and the climbers would book enough routes on Makalu to keep everyone occupied without getting in each other’s way. The climbing team consisted of (in no discernible order, of course): Expedition Doctor - Gill Irvine, Hamish Irvine, Ulric Jessop, Andy Fanshawe, Rob Collister, Lindsay Griffin, Mike Woolridge, Calvin Torrans, Stephen Sustad, and myself.

Early in 1989 Mike and Lindsay were climbing in the Karakoram; they spent more time together that winter than they did with their respective spouses, so Fanny and I were left co-ordinating the fund-raising for the expedition.

Though we had booked no less than five different lines on the Makalu massif, the prime objective was the obvious one, the traverse of Makalu, and Stephen Sustad would be our Secret Weapon; he had already climbed to within metres of the summit by the nightmarish South-East Ridge with Doug Scott and Jean Afanassieff. Their version of the South-East Ridge involved dropping into the world’s highest hanging valley, and on retreat, trying to climb out of it again.

‘It’s like having to climb an 8000-metre peak just to get down,’ Steve had said with evident distaste. I had had the greatest difficulty persuading Steve to join the team but he agreed at least to look at the possibility of a traverse in the opposite direction, from north to south. Providing it was just the two of us climbing together. Providing the weather held out. And providing we felt sufficiently acclimatised. A tall order.

Part of the sponsorship package involved taking the media with us. There was a Video Team, Kees t’Hooft and Annette Carmichael.

Kees was one of my oldest friends, a Dutchman who’d settled in Clapham. I don’t need to give a physical description: just think of Tintin, that’s him, only no Snowy. Kees had a good track record for small-scale climbing documentaries, and was at the time at work editing adventure films in Soho. Annette worked for BBC Radio. They planned to shoot video footage of the climbing, with Annette doing the sound as well as Radio pieces. Kees took a copy of his latest video to Blackspur, who were impressed, and said they’d like to have one too. In addition to the video unit we had also acquired a film crew, Peter and Harriet Getzels, a combination guaranteed to increase the potential for entropy.

Fanny had been contacted by Peter Getzels who wanted to make an anthropological film about Sherpas and was looking for a convenient vehicle for this, and our expedition seemed to fit the bill. We explained about Kees and Annette.

‘There will be no conflict,’ Peter had said. ‘They will be living with you; we will be living with the Sherpas.’

‘Also,’ I added, ‘you understand that we are climbing alpine-style, we won’t be using Sherpas as such. Only porters to base. Above Base Camp we’ll be on our own. You won’t be able to show Sherpas climbing with us.’

‘That’s no problem.’

Peter seemed very pleasant, humorous, and well informed on South American subjects. He was keen on the magico-realism of Marquez and Borges. Their South American documentary had won a prize. Good, I thought. We might have intelligent conversation on this expedition after all. Peter had lined up a production company called Passion Pictures who had a guaranteed fifty-minute slot on Channel Four. Our sponsor was ecstatic and everything was hunky-dory. Or so I thought.

Chapter Two

Monkey Business

In Kathmandu we picked up our Base Camp staff, two cooks, two assistant cooks, a sirdar, Nati, and our Liaison Officer, Mr Khanal of Interpol. All a normal part of the Nepalese conditions of permission. In addition to this the Getzels brought their daughter, Rachel, who in turn brought much joy to our Base Camp, and two nursery assistants, Annie the Nanny, and Tsering the Sherpani. So now there were the ten climbers, the seven media persons, a nutritionist, five Nepalese staff and a Liaison Officer. Already we were feeling the gale from the butterfly wings. We needed food and supplies for two months at base, and then there was the fortnight walk-in each way, three months’ total food. That made about 120 porter loads, but the porters themselves needed food, and the porters carrying the porters’ food needed food too, and so on ad infinitum. Actually not ad infinitum, otherwise Zeno would have been right. But our final porter-load tally was almost as large … 180, though we never had more than 140 porters. Round one to Chaology.

Hamish, Sue and I had flown out a week early to deal with the bureaucracy. Hamish was from Edinburgh. His maths degree had prepared him well for his current job, breeding trout near Aviemore. Hamish had been with Ulric Jessop and Fanny on the traverse of Chogolisa, and like them he was over six foot, full of muscle and horribly fit. Sue Hill made me feel tall, which is some accomplishment. Sue had written to Fanny during the winter. As a student of nutrition, she wanted to see how much food we ate and how much weight we lost during the trip. The result would be her final thesis. We didn’t realise when we agreed to her joining our trip that we’d be filling in food diaries and weighing our intake every day. For although she was small, she was fierce and strict, and it was not in our interests to be caught faking the data.

I said we went out early to battle with the bureaucrats, but we didn’t realise that we were in fact to be battling with the elemental forces of nature. The universal slow-down, after the big bang, was starting in Kathmandu. Entropy was leaking out from the government buildings and slowly spreading across the town. Yes, entropy, the tendency to chaos, state of minimum potential energy. Events happened, if at all, in spasms; with long pauses in between; and had a tendency to unfold very, very slowly.

One by one the other team members arrived in town. We needed help to take on the enemy. Rob Collister, the most patient of the team, delegated himself to the freight clearance. Rob was a leading mountain guide. Patient and persistent, Rob was ideally suited to the task.

I knew that his father, a civil servant, had written a book about the British in Bhutan, and assumed that the Collister children had had a Himalayan childhood, but in fact they grew up in Kenya and Rhodesia. Rob had taken a long time to settle in the Principality of Wales. He stood a little taller than me, and was endowed with a large intelligent head, which became increasingly bearded. I supposed that in the colonial days Rob might have been one of those academic District Commissioners who spoke a dozen local languages and made elegant jokes in Latin and Greek.

Rob had one remaining ambition, to ascend an 8000m peak before growing too old. This was interesting, because his reputation was that of the consummate master of exploratory expeditions to lesser peaks. Rob was a latter-day Shipton; in an interview with the Observer newspaper, for the ‘Mountaineer’s Mountaineer’, Steve Venables had named Rob as his choice for that title. It had been a good choice, I thought.

To get expedition freight out of Customs was bureaucratic trench warfare. If the Indian subcontinent had learned their bureaucracy from the British, they applied it like Russian aparatchiks. Rob had to obtain letters and forms in nineteen-plicate, return them to the Ministry of Tourism, then to the Ministry of Culture, then back to Customs where the forms originated, and then round the circuit again. The Ministry of Culture was an apparently unfinished construction. Offices lined the corridors like monastic cells, cells which contained rickety school desks and piles and piles of paper.

‘Oh no!’ moaned Rob. ‘They’ve sent us back to desk number one again.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Well, I got as far as desk four yesterday.’

It was hot and airless. The functionaries dripped sweat as they laboriously read and reread every scrap of paper we placed before them. Lunch time went by. We would be pushed to make it to Customs the same day.

‘You can enjoy the climbing … ’ – Rob continued an earlier conversation – ‘often in retrospect only, but if you don’t reach the summit it lessens the pleasure. This must be true for all of us.’

‘Well, I think,’ I said, reaching deep into my memories, trying to reconstruct those moments I treasured, ‘I got more pleasure failing to climb Rimo I than topping out on Jitchu Drake.’

Rob looked unconvinced. I went on.

‘Mick Fowler once said that the best climbs are those where you either ‘just’ fail or ‘just’ succeed. It is the struggle that counts. I agree with him; I don’t really have to stand on the top. When I climbed the Eiger, I realised my only climbing ambition. I had wanted to climb that face since I was thirteen years old, probably took up climbing in order to do it. It took me sixteen years. But the moment of elation was immediately followed by a tremendous sense of loss, loss of ambition, loss of direction, loss of … ’

‘Yes, I’ve heard other people say that, but I’ve never felt that myself.’

Sometimes I feel that I am trying to run in thigh-deep treacle. I gave up the attempt, and we fell silent.

At three o’clock we were summoned to see the Acting Assistant Deputy Commissioner, who had a disconcertingly wide squint. Eyeing us both, one with each eye, he said that just as soon as we could produce a letter from Customs, we could receive our import licence.

‘But we’ve already got the forms filled out and signed from the Customs Office. I thought we had finished.’ Rob looked like a man who had just watched his horse come in last.

‘Just a two-line letter, requesting us to issue a licence.’ The Acting Assistant Deputy Commissioner dismissed us with a wave.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘that’s fine, we’ll go to Customs and get another form.’

‘No!’ said the Acting Assistant Deputy Commissioner, his eyes looking both sides of me. ‘You must get a letter!’

This was very interesting. We asked for a letter to Customs to explain to them what sort of letter they should write back to the Acting Assistant Deputy Commissioner. The bureaucratic machine ground to a halt. The Acting Assistant Deputy Commissioner looked distinctly unhappy, something very like exasperation clouded his face. An hour later we were taken to an office Rob had not seen before and presented with several pieces of paper which declared themselves to be Import Licences.

Stephen Sustad arrived in Kathmandu fresh, or I should say, worn out, from Doug Scott’s trip to Rimo, where Steve and Nick Kekus had made the first ascent of Rimo II, and immediately took to bed with some indefinite lurgy. Kees flew in from London still hassling over the film contracts.

Our Liaison Officer arrived at the hotel. Although we were to call him Mister Khanal, he was an Inspector, in the employ of Interpol. Sustad looked up from his copy of Viz.

‘It says here, Every day make a list of all the things you do and hand it in to the police station, then you will be eliminated easily from their inquiries in the event of a crime. What about that, Mr Khanal, will that work for us?’ Mr Khanal smiled sadly at Stephen’s sense of humour.

‘So you like to catch criminals?’ I asked, trying to add dignity to the conversation.

‘Oh no! I like to sit behind my desk. I do not like to catch criminals, I send other men to catch criminals. I am a bureaucrat. I have a desk job.’ Mr Khanal grinned happily. He was always smiling, and the world smiled with him. We were to find our Liaison Officer had a heart of pure solid gold.

Peter and Harriet hired their Sherpani. Tsering was in effect an assistant nanny; her job was to carry Rachel during the trek. She was also very pretty, as our sirdar Nati had obviously noticed. Nati was young and smart, with straight black hair, new jeans and dazzling sunglasses, and he always lolled in a slightly more nonchalant way when Tsering appeared.

That summer Kathmandu was a wonderful place to be. Between the expedition jobs, buying, packing and extracting goods from Customs, we found time to enjoy the city. Stephen and I often ate at the Kushi Fuji, a real Japanese restaurant where it was difficult to break the two-pound-a-head barrier. The flavours of Japanese food were as thin and delicious as rarefied mountain air. I sat cross legged on the tatami enjoying a full belly while the monsoon rain drummed on the restaurant roof. Stephen picked over his remaining vegetarian Tempura.

‘Yup,’ he said munching contentedly. ‘Kathmandu. You’re right. It is one of the Great Flesh Pots of the world.’

There was the Old Vienna run by a Swiss and an Austrian. Marco Polo provided Mediterranean fare, Pumpernickel’s had Teutonic breads. There were countless ‘veggie’ restaurants (best avoided), and an equal number of pizza places (avoid like the plague), Korean, Chinese and no less than five Japanese restaurants. There were Indian restaurants, Nepali restaurants, coffee places, safe ice-cream parlours, American breakfast places – in a sentence, everything except English food. Sustad, an expatriate Scandinavian American, claimed there were no English restaurants abroad, anywhere.

I was puzzled. Why had all these immigrants settled here? Some were easy to understand, such as those who remained in Nepal after their military careers, eking out a living on pension and trek organising. But what about the owners of the Old Vienna? They were more Austrian than the Austrians. And what about the legendary Liz Hawley? She was said to be encyclopaedic about Himalayan history. Originating from Chicago, and a former researcher for Fortune magazine, she had been in Nepal twenty years, first as a Reuters stringer, then, when the Nepali government removed her accreditation, working with Mountain Travel.

I had visited her with Kees. Her business card declared her to be a correspondent for a clutch of climbing magazines and journals. Liz was no