THE HIGH LIFE(published in the NZAC Alpine Journal 1999)There is always a moment when you wish fervently that you were somewhere, anywhere else. With a violent energy I haven't felt in days I lunge for the door of our smelly, cramped home, fumble clumsily with the zip until it succumbs to brute strength and vomit profusely into the vestibule. Ahh its great to be on holiday! 6000m, camp 3 and hopes of a three day summit attempt have been tidily bundled up and dropped down the gaping bergschrund behind the tent. The combined effects of altitude and the screaming lurgy have reduced me to jellylike, self-pitying heap, oblivious to everything except the persistant ache of my joints and head, and the burning question of whether or not my underwear will survive the trip. As it turns out they don't survive the day! Outside the day slowly comes to the central Tien Shan. Khan Tengri rears above us, the west ridge, its rocky bleakness softened by the dawn light, rising for the final 1000m from the col above our camp. Surrounding this beautiful, picture-book mountain, bathed in a growing alpenglow, an ocean of peaks stretch south and east into China, north into Kazakstan and east into Krygyzstan. Every grudging step upwards over the last few days has widened our world from the somewhat overpowering surrounds down on the immense Inylchek glacier. Inside though, in the blue and yellow filtered light, we are oblivious to the surreal beauty around us. We could be anywhere. Wallowing in my enormous pile of down, alternately shivering and sweating, I curse the strange magnetism that drags us to the mountains. Jo grunts, not six inches from my face, seemingly well acclimatised and sleeping like a babe. Ungracious thoughts swirl around the tent amongst the hanging gloves and fetid socks. --------------------------- Two days later the flu has been sent packing, followed with unseemly haste by the window of fine weather. When we can see the mountain, a mocking stream of wind cloud blows off the summit and new snow dusts the route, streaming down the couloirs. Frustration kicks its heels around our camp. Several parties are packing to descend having climbed in the fine weather, some successfully, some not. Spinning yarns of hard climbing on steep rock steps, high winds and dodgy fixed ropes, their smug grins tell the story. They have rolled their dice and can now go down to the fleshpots of basecamp life. The rest of us trudge back to our tents for another endless snow melting session, punctuated with the tingle of diamox and escalating attacks of breathlessness. The next two mornings are enlivened by two o'clock alarms. The usual rigmarole of moving in our nylon matchbox is punctuated by showers of rime ice. Eventually the by now vomit-free vestibule gets unzipped and blurred, early morning eyes peer out into the gloom. The mountain teases us. Wind blown clag streams across the col but reveals tantilising glimpses of the star laden heavens above. The usual slumber muffled debate follows and the alarm is reset for three o'clock, four o'clock, then turned blissfully off. Thoughts and emotions battle briefly in the sleep addled recesses of my mind; " it would be so nice to get up and off this thing", "my sleeping bag is soooo warm", "I don't have to get scared today" . A good coughing fit, a heave of breathlessness and the eyes droop shut. By the time we nibble our lunch, salami and crackers, the sun is out and the mountains wind pennet flaps and hangs limp. We cower from the heat in a tent festooned with sleeping bags and curse the fickle weather gods. Two am. The tents shakes restlessly in the wind, spindrift smatters against the side and cloud skuds across the col. This morning though, there is no debate. The size of our food bag is inversely proportional to the pile in the hole out the back and it isn't a small pile. Its time to call the weathers bluff. It's always amazing what you can accomplish from inside your pit but the moment eventually arrives, as it always does, when resolve weakening warmth must be swapped for the stunningly cold outside world. By four o'clock we find our numbed fingers fiddling with uncooperative crampons and then we're off into the darkness, headtorches picking out the windblown crystals as they scurry to fill our footsteps.
We feel strong across the col and it's wonderful to have left indecision skulking in the tent. The inky blackness of the fog sheathed night, having wrapped us in its fond embrace, sheltering us from the full realities of the weather, begins to slip away as we start rising above the col. From here the ridge averages 50 degrees to the summit and the flat spots are few and far between. To our right, glimpsed between driving clouds, the pearly white rock of the marble ridge and the south-east face hang ethereally in the pre-dawn light, In this hauntingly beautiful place we have eyes only for the next skittering crampon placement, the next hold for the fingers. The first few hundred meters are fun. Shelves of ice cemented shattered rock tempt us out over the south east face and are linked by steps of steep, solid sandstone leading back to the crest. My world narrows down as the cloud envelopes us and moving upwards becomes the only thing which is important. Where Jo is and how far we have to go recede to the point of irrelevance. Its a joy to be here and climbing. Route finding is a non-issue with a trail of fixed ropes from years of Russian expeditions leading the way into the cloud. Far from offering peace of mind and security though, these ropes are in a similar state to the Russian economy. Dodgy knots repair cuts every few meters and any remaining confidence is dispelled on the first rock step by a three meter section with no sheath and four stands of core left. At home I wouldn't trust these ropes to floss my teeth with, but with optimism being an integral part of the human condition and the thought of thousands of pitches on our single rope I duly clip my jumar in between the knots. We climb as if soloing, delicately placing crampons and obsessively testing every hold. Somewhere near the top of the initial rib, at around 6500m I realise that fun has beat a hasty retreat. The sustained climbing, horrendous ropes and heaving lungs have conspired against us and now everything is hard work. We move right across a long traverse, unconsolidated snow on loose rock, to the base of a broad couloir. Beneath our crampon points the vast sweep of the south east face emphasises gravity. Looking up, the enormous brooding headwalls of the upper mountain scowl down on us. A steep, crux rock step leads up into the couloir, wreathed in mist, draped in old ropes and running with spindrift. A wave of foreboding sweeps over me as I survey this bleak but strangely enticing scene and a lurking fear, like a monster under the bed, settles deep. We are going slow now, muscles craving an oxygen they can't have. The snow in the couloir is loose and deep and the body screams for a stop every few feet. Near the top we traverse right again, across a small ice smeared rock step and up to a sharp arete, exposed to the full force of the wind again. Slumping in the snow I try to tempt my non existent appetite with a fatty lump of salami. Another wave hits me, this time of loneliness, despite Jo sitting nearly on top of me. It's a long way to anywhere safe and with the mist swirling around us again like a silent banshee it feels 'other worldly'. The intensity of the feeling shakes me and I hurry to move off.
A delicate layback off a hooked ice axe gets us up the final step and we're through onto the summit slopes. Its so close but it takes a painful, soul destroying eternity. Irrational frustration, cursing the crusty, crudy snow, staggering with the wind and tiredness until finally we are there. This is the goal of months of planning and dreaming, hours of step plugging and pain and yet the only elation is in the knowledge that now we can go down. Satisfaction will be ours tomorrow or the day after but now the descent nags at us. There is no view and we spend five minutes on top before heading down. Its a funny old game. The descent is longer than it has any right to be. With only one rope and the prospect of dozens of abseils we end up heading down on the fixed lines. The first few are terrifying but the muttered prayers to no-one in particular are soon replaced by a torpor of background fear, resignation and tiredness. After an age of passing knots and abseiling as gently as stumbling zombies can, we reach the flat ground of the col and the paradise of the tent. ----------------------- Back at basecamp I pull the drawcord tight. Through the tunnel of sleep inducing down I watch as the light fades in the spacious cocoon of my Mineret. I could roll around in here if I was so inclined, the tent is luxuriously all mine. My stomach is full, a newly returned appetite satiated and Spearhead are weaving their musical magic in my ears. I am blissfully comfortable and content. Memories of fear and gasping for air are fading as the seductive lure of the mountains begins again to spin its web. The siren call of unclimbed peaks begins in the distance. I drift off to sleep. Jo Kippax and Sean Waters climbed Khan Tengri (6995 or7010m depending on what map you look at) over two weeks in July/August during a trip to the climbers paradise of Krygyzstan. Jo Kippax and Sean Waters would like to extend a huge vote of thanks to the following organisations without whose support the trip would never have happened;
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