In the Shadow of Gongga Shan

published in Bivmail and NZ Alpine Journal 2004

“Thus it will remain one of the last places to be brought close to civilisation. Its scenary is unsurpassed and awaits the lover of nature, but he must pay the price”
Joseph Rock 1923

Somewhere high above us the gods take aim. A dark, glowering sky bursts at the seams and simultaneously my body crackles with disgruntled electrons. As the lightening hits, it’s as if every cell in my body is hooked up to some torturous generator. There’s a delay that seems to hang in the air and then I yowl like a scalded cat, while along the ridge Jo is hopping from foot to foot, curses pouring from a mouth that describes a perfect circle beneath his very wide eyes. He’s been hit too. Like mice scurrying from a spot light, we scamper along the ridge, stripping everything metal off our packs as we go, before diving into the tent to huddle, unhurt but terrified in our sleeping bags. We pray that a few microns of nylon might protect us from natures fury.

Cowering on the west ridge of Longemain, a unclimbed 6294m peak in the Daxue Shan range in western China, we muttered darkly about beauruacratic authorities and illegal climbers. We weren’t even supposed to be here. The expedition we had planned and dreamt about for the last twelve months should have seen us in the unexplored valleys of the Nyainqentanghla East region of Tibet, hundreds of kilometres to our west. Instead, as we were about to board the plane to Lhasa we had received the dreaded phone call, informing us merrily that our hard won permits had been cancelled. We sat amongst our piles of equipment in Chengdu, stunned. Some wailing and gnashing of teeth was called for but it didn’t seem to do much good and after a few days, we realised that Chinese footpaths weren’t the most hygienic of places to be dragging our bottom lips. A new plan had been called for and now here we were, getting charged up on a mountain we’d never heard of, in a range we hadn’t known existed. We started giggling.

The Daxue Shan range lies in the Ganzi Tibetan Autonomous Region of Sichuan. The range defines the eastern edge of the enormous Tibetan Plateau, a final, grandiose upheaval before the plateau drops down into the lowland, cloud-filled basins to the east. This is truly incredible country born of the colossal geological forces unleashed as the Indian subcontinent ploughed into the rest of Asia. Parallel ranges of 7000m mountains separate four of the worlds greatest rivers which have carved deep canyons amongst the giants. This formidable topography ensured that the area remained unknown to the rest of the world until the early 1900’s when intrepid botanists Frank Kingdon-Ward and Joseph Rock made several forays into this remote corner of the globe. The terrain was not the only thing that these early explorers had to contend with. The Khampa tribes that populate the region were known for their ferocity and these proud Tibetans still inhabit the entire region including the valleys that surround the Daxue Shan. Braving torrential rivers, enormous mountains and the fierce tribesmen Joesph Rock finally clapped his tired eyes on the monarch of this range, the aloof, awe-inspiring massif of Gongga Shan (Minya Konka 7756m). Unknown even to Chinese authorities during the preceeding centuries, Rock declared this peak to be the highest in the world. Although this claim was quickly refuted, the Buddists holy mountain has dominated climbers attentions in the area ever since and many of its surrounding peaks including Longemain and the neighbouring Daddomain (6380m) remained unclimbed.

Only a few days before Thor had given us a light toasting, we had gained our first glimpses of these enigmatic peaks we had come to attempt. With no images and only a photocopied map of dubious accuracy we had arrived at our new basecamp in a pea-soup fog, praying that the stream next to which our cheerful but doubtful horsemen dumped the mounds of equipment, did indeed drain the right mountains. With no idea what the peaks even looked like we headed off into the next frost sparkling morning to try and find ‘our mountains’, like excited kids unwrapping a new bike. Cresting the ridge above camp we were stopped in our tracks. Brilliantly white in the rarified air, Longemain hung at the head of the valley, suspended amongst the dancing cumulus that billowed around her flanks. Silence gathered pace for several minutes and then was shattered by a dam-burst of excited babble as we picked out lines, probable and improbable, through the icecliffs that seemed to guard most of the mountain. Daddomain remained a mystery, hidden for now behind a beautiful subsidary peak that swept upwards from a stunning, Aoraki-like summit ridge. Longemain batted her eye-lids and whispered suggestively.

Seduction is so often followed by disillusionment. Longemain’s west ridge treated us to a wonderfully long, access gully of steep snow the consistency of polystyrene balls. Every two steps up precipitated a slide down followed by altitude induced gasping for every available air molecule and excess cursing of the desire to go mountaineering. With the slow return of oxygen to the brain a sense of wonder at the beauty of the place would take over until a misplaced euphoria would tempt one of us into trying to move upwards again. Immediately the struggle began anew and in between ragged breaths we’d swear once more never to go higher than the top of a step ladder. Stop, pause, euphoria. Start again, despair.

Nine days later, after a return to basecamp and a re-ascent via two lightening-proof snowcaves, euphoria gains the upper hand. After a step by slow step tussle with ‘High Altitude Lethargic Excusaemia’, a condition diagnosed Dr Jo, we stumble onto the unsullied summit of Longemain. It’s late in the day and the harsh glare of the surrounding peaks is softened by evening shadows. The crystal clear blue sky is deepened and vivid and to the south Gongga Shan’s imposing pyramid thrusts into the atmosphere. As requested, the Buddist prayer flags flap in the cold wind, their five holy colours sending messages of goodwill to the world. The sun begins to set, burning its way down into the arid, brown Tibetan Plateau which stretches endlessly off towards Lhasa. Standing quietly on the top, it is an evening to feel small in.

Back in the valley Nima awaits us. He has come from the village of Yulong to quiz us about our forays up into the world of snow and ice above his home valley. According to legend, 70 years ago a hunter crossed the pass between the peaks of Longamain and Daddomain and discovered a hidden Shangri La valley, a paradise on earth. Racing back to his village to gather up his family, the hunter marked the pass by ramming his rifle into the ice. Upon their return, however, the mountains blocked their passage and the heavenly valley remains lost to this day. Despite being well traveled, Nima is convinced of its existence only one valley away from is home. He studied our digital photos and video with a passion born of long dreaming. However our views into the eastern valleys were blocked by the steepness of the terrain and we weren’t much help in confirming Nima’s suspicions. He left with his usual grin firmly in place and a dreamy look in his eye. Taking his place, several locals appeared at the entrance of our tent. An hour later they were still there, smiling and gazing with open, unabashed curiosity at us. Even in this ‘lightweight expedition’ we had more belongings than they will have in an entire lifetime. More belongings, but perhaps less insight. When asked if he enjoyed is time in Beijing, Nima had looked into the distance for a time before replying ‘I appreciated the convenience of things, but no-one I saw there, seemed happy in their hearts’.

Autumn came quickly to the Daxue Shan and the walk in to Daddomain took us through a valley of fiery reds and verdant yellows. It also took us to the base of another awful approach gully. Steep, powder snow over the top of wrongly slanted, loose rock conspired with frequent rock missiles from above, to keep us quietly jibbering. ‘Having fun yet’ I asked Jo as he wallowed over the top of the gully. The despaired giggling began again and we headed upwards into the rapidly deteriorating weather. It’s well past cup of tea time by the time a welcome, icicle festooned crevasse on the ridge top invited us to call it home.

Two mornings later the stoves stares belligerently up at me, unlit. Another shower of ice falls from the inside of our single skin tent and drops with unerring accuracy down my neck. I feel like crying. My fingers scream at me as they slowly warm up, buried deep in my sleeping bag-cacooned crotch. Jo snores gently at the other end of the tent and briefly I am consumed by an irrational, jealous desire to kick him awake. But it’s my turn on breakfast and instead I turn back to the stove and try again to coax it into life. Two hours later we slip out of the only warm place on the mountain and pull on our outer boots. Feet instantly turn to ice. We start front pointing the steep ground above the tent.

Moving like drunkards up the last few meters to the unsullied summit of Daddomain, the gale, which has howled about our ears for most of the day, pauses. It is bitterly cold and the cloud streams around us morphing into a thousand dark, wind-torn shapes like tortured banshees. The summit feels tenuous, as high places always do, the umbilical cord connecting us to more human-friendly climes is stretched taut. It has been a day of doubt and topping out has been far from certain until the very last, relieved moment. We’re knackered but happy and, looking across to Longemain weaving amongst the cloudscape, we realise how lucky we’ve been to spend time on the tops of these beautiful peaks. Turning to head down, the tempest resumes but as the cloud-streaked sun dips to the west, the world turns orange. A moment of pause brings a deep, ear-bashing silence as if the world is holding its breath, watching the golden glow. Then the sun is gone, swallowed into the ground and the cold crashes onto us like a dumping wave. We turn back onto front points and head for our sleeping bags. The fleshpots of basecamp beckon.