Читать книгу 8000 metres - Alan Hinkes - Страница 11

INTRODUCTION

I have always been adventurous. As a child I was outside at every opportunity, ‘raking about’ as they say in Yorkshire, exploring the becks, woods and fields near where I lived in Northallerton. On family drives into the Yorkshire Dales or the North York Moors I felt attracted to the wild, rugged hilly landscape. In my teens, when the chance came to take up climbing on trips with Northallerton Grammar School, the seed was well and truly sown and it very quickly germinated into a passion, eventually becoming a way of life. I knew from the first time that I went out on the moors and fells that it was where I wanted to be. It was a kind of ‘calling’.

Going out into the hills of Northern England was an exciting adventure, especially in bad weather. It often seemed to be wet and windy and I quickly learned to cope with and enjoy inclement conditions. In real terms it was more committing than today if only because, in those days before GPS and mobile phones, you had to be more self-reliant. I relished the physical exertion as well as learning the skills of survival and navigation using an Ordnance Survey map and compass. Geography was my favourite subject and to this day I find maps interesting; you could say that I enjoy a good map read. I had a natural talent and quickly became competent at finding my way in the hills, even in poor visibility. I delighted in the challenge of navigating in bad weather and would often go out on the North York Moors in thick hill fog and rain just for fun, to practise map, compass and navigation skills. The vagaries of dense cloud, rain and wind out on the hills and fells did not put me off. I enjoyed the battle against the elements.

Sometimes, just for fun, I would go out onto the moors for a survival experience and spend a night in a ‘bivvy bag’ – a heavy-duty plastic bag, about the size of a sleeping bag. I learned about exhaustion, exposure and hypothermia, and developed an innate resilience that has served me well.

Tents on Everest’s North Col 7000m in 1996. To the right is the slope that drops to the East Rongbuk Glacier and Advance Base Camp 6400m.

You might have an uncomfortable night, you might be shivering, but as long as you can protect yourself from the wind you will at least survive. Later, I practised bivouacking on small ledges, 25 metres up cliff faces. Cramped on such rocky eyries, I had to be tied on all night. Although I was then still at school, I knew that this would be good practice for the bigger mountain faces I would one day climb. Even then, I saw myself ascending Alpine peaks and difficult big walls, such as the North Face of the Eiger, although the Himalaya seemed an unattainable dream.

Progressing from hill walking on the North York Moors, my first mountain was Helvellyn in the Lake District, which I ascended along the rocky knife-edged ridge known as Striding Edge. The topography was a revelation. The

peak was like a giant page out of my Physical Geography textbook. In a corrie below the steep summit slopes of Helvellyn there is a small lake called Red Tarn, the last remnant of a melted glacier. Rocky arêtes cradle Red Tarn, Striding Edge to the south and Swirral Edge to the north. Helvellyn remains one of my favourite hills and the climb via Striding Edge above Red Tarn and descent by Swirral Edge is a classic mountain scramble.

On this first scramble it was a wet, windy day, the rock was slippery and I was nearly blown off the ridge by crosswinds. I did not have a waterproof mountain jacket and instead wore a voluminous plastic cycle cape that acted like a parachute, catching the wind and trying to drag me off the mountainside. The experience did not put me off. My passion for the hills and mountains only grew stronger and I wanted more. I yearned for bigger, more testing challenges.

Spindrift spills from above as we climb the 600m big wall on the South Face of Manaslu.

My first rock climbing forays were on sandstone outcrops such as Scugdale and the Wainstones on the North York Moors. I joined the local Cleveland Mountaineering Club, which gave me access to the wisdom of older more experienced climbers as well as lifts to the crags and weekends away. I was fortunate to live close enough to these outcrops to start my climbing outdoors, on real rock. Nowadays many climbers get their first taste of the sport on indoor walls. After learning in relative safety, climbing outside can come as a shock, especially on a cold or wet day.

My first climbs on those 10m faces in North Yorkshire were memorable. It was school winter term and the rock was bitterly cold, with snow lying. My fingers grew numb from touching and gripping holds, causing excruciating pain as they warmed and the blood began to flow through them again. Climbers refer to such re-warming pain as ‘heat aches’ or ‘hot aches’. I have now experienced it a lot more and sometimes the pain has been so intense that I have nearly vomited, but at least I know that I have prevented frostbite by keeping my digits warm.

Climbing fixed ropes in spindrift conditions on Broad Peak’s steep snow slopes.

Longer, more serious routes on the 35m limestone crags of Peak Scar and Whitestone Cliff caught my eye next. Here, I could stretch the rope out and experience more ‘exposure’ – the term climbers use for the drop below you as you climb. Controlling anxiety and fear when in such exposed positions, high above the ground, is an essential element of rock climbing. I extended my climbing into the Pennines and Yorkshire Dales, on gritstone crags such as Brimham Rocks and Almscliff Crag, as well as limestone faces including Malham Cove and Goredale Scar. In the Lake District I climbed on the big multi-pitch mountain crags, mostly composed of rough, volcanic rocks. As I progressed from hill walking to the steeper terrain of vertical and overhanging rock routes, I felt a frisson at the greater risk and danger. I wanted to experience more serious climbs, push my limits, flirt with that frisson.

The Scottish Highlands in winter was the next step. There I learned the techniques of snow and ice climbing, using crampons and ice axes, as well as survival skills such as snow holing, coping with bad weather and avalanche awareness. In winter the daylight hours are short in Scotland, which focuses the mind on early starts, on speed and efficiency in the hills and on being prepared for ‘benightment’ – getting caught out after dark. Often the weather can be grim, with gale-force wind, snow and thick cloud reducing visibility and increasing the risk of cold. Avalanches are a real threat in the Scottish Highlands and being able to navigate and survive in such severe conditions is an excellent apprenticeship for the Greater Ranges. Serious and committing mountaineering adventures can be experienced even on the relatively low Scottish mountains in winter. Conditions can be arctic and the hills should not be underestimated. Learning to cope with poor visibility, gale-force winds, blizzards and darkness on a 900–1000m Scottish mountain is excellent practice. Such early testing experiences – minor ‘epics’, as climbers call them – certainly stood me in good stead for what was to come. If the hill fog socked in on a Himalayan summit, as happened on Cho Oyo and Annapurna, or I ended up descending an 8000er after sunset, as on K2, Nanga Parbat and Kangchenjunga, I was not as anxious as I might have been; my mind had been conditioned, my resilience honed by such earlier mountain experiences in Britain. I still head out to battle blizzards on British hills; there is something satisfying and refreshing about tackling desperate winter weather, when hills that are easy under summer conditions become serious mountains.

To satisfy my desire for bigger hills, I progressed to the Alps, where I climbed classic big routes such as the Matterhorn, Mont Blanc and the North Face of the Eiger. In the Alps I first experienced the unpleasant effects of altitude and it slowed me down, but after a couple of weeks I found that my body acclimatised well and I could soon climb high Alpine routes at virtually full power.

Although I had climbed technically more difficult Alpine routes, the North Face of the Eiger − the Eigerwand − was the big prize for me. I had read so much about that famous, dangerous climb that I felt I was climbing a vertical mountain history book. It was like being on a giant tombstone, passing places where so many climbers had died. The whole experience on that historic north wall was exciting and pleasurable. I seemed able to keep my fear at bay and relish simply being there. I enjoyed the sustained technical mixed snow, ice and rock climbing and was neither particularly fazed nor scared by the fusillade of rocks and stones that whizzed and screeched down the face. These stones are melted out of the summit ice field when the sun reaches it in the late afternoon. Any one of them could have been as lethal as a bullet but it all just seemed part of the experience. Today I would flinch at the sound of each whining, falling rock. Satiating my desire to climb the Eigerwand was a release and the ascent was a rite of passage.

Climbing with Doug Scott on a 5000m peak in 1988. This is an acclimatisation climb above Advance Base Camp with Makalu West Face behind.

At the time I was working as a teacher and the long summer holiday allowed plenty of time for the ascent. Returning to school that autumn, I remember feeling very satisfied and somehow different from the other teachers who had probably been to the seaside. It was not a feeling of superiority, rather a growing understanding of what I wanted to do in life, a dawning realisation that my approach to life was different. My real ambition was to climb more mountains and not to be stuck in a classroom with only weekends and limited holidays in which to fulfil my passion.

In the mid-1980s I resigned from teaching, took up Himalayan climbing and qualified as a British Mountain Guide, an international accreditation coordinated by the International Federation of Mountain Guide Associations. I could now make my living in the mountains, especially the Alps. While Alpine mountaineering is more dangerous than British climbing – there are rock falls, avalanches, crevasses and dramatic electrical storms – I was not deterred; in fact, I wanted more.

Jerzy Kukuczka, the great Polish mountaineer, in Kathmandu,1987. Climbing Shisha Pangma, his final 8000m peak, made him the second person to complete all 14 after Reinhold Messner.

Camping at 8000m on the north side of K2, the exposed ‘Eagle’s Nest’ bivouac on a tiny rocky ledge below the final hanging glacier which leads to the summit. There is a 2500m drop to Base Camp.

By now, I felt that I had served my apprenticeship in the mountains. I was ready for the Greater Ranges. My first forays were to 5000m and 6000m mountains such as Mount Kenya by the Diamond Couloir, Kilimanjaro by the Heim Glacier, Denali (Mount McKinley), the Andes and many 6000m Himalayan peaks. Here I made several first ascents; I also had a few epics and experienced the effects of increasingly high altitudes on my body.

Climbing on the 8000m peaks felt like a natural progression. It just felt right. My initial attempts were on expeditions I had been invited to join – the first two were on Polish expeditions with the legendary 8000m climber Jerzy Kukuczka, Wanda Rutkiewicz and Krzysztof Wielicki, followed by expeditions with Doug Scott, Benoit Chamoux and other well-known Himalayan climbers – although I later organised my own expeditions.

How did I end up climbing 8000m peaks, on which death can come so easily? I had no plan or desire to climb all 14. It hardly seemed a realistic goal when only two people, Kukuczka and Reinhold Messner, had achieved it. I was simply interested in climbing 8000m mountains because I felt they were the ultimate test of resilience, stamina, skill and endurance.

Climbing ‘Alpine-style’ on Makalu at 7500m in a one-piece down suit and duvet jacket, in 1988. Lhotse 8516m, the South Col 7920m and Everest 8848m behind. Strapped to my rucksack is a yellow foam Karrimat to insulate me from the snow when bivvying. The ski poles are to help on easier-angled slopes, and to use as probes to check for hidden crevasses. Trekking poles were not common in 1988 and I set a precedent when I used old ski poles. Most people use purpose-made trekking poles now.

All of the 8000ers are in what is dubbed ‘the death zone’, an unforgiving environment in which your body starts to deteriorate to the point at which you actually start to die. It is not possible for a human being to survive for long beyond a couple of days above 8000m and there are no rescue teams or helicopters to rely on. A helicopter has an operational ceiling of 6500m. Simply surviving takes tremendous effort, both physically and mentally. All water, which you must drink to prevent dehydration and stay alive, is frozen as snow and ice and requires laborious effort melting it on a small stove. Breathing and movement are difficult and slow, sleep is virtually impossible and the cold, often 40 below, will freeze exposed flesh. Frostbite is a real possibility, often leading to the loss of frozen fingers, toes or even limbs.

The black frostbitten toes of a climber I rescued from K2. Subsequently these three toes were amputated.

Between 8000m peak expeditions I was usually in Britain, the Alps or climbing other 6000m and 7000m Himalayan peaks. Working as an International Mountain Guide meant that my world revolved around mountains. Climbing one 8000er, I realised, had been a privilege but I developed an urge to test myself on a few more.

My first sighting of K2 from Concordia in the Karakoram made a great impression on me. I knew that I had to climb that stark, dramatic steep-sided peak, known as the Savage Mountain. My quest for its summit extended over three expeditions; I dedicated, or possibly donated, three years of my life to that mountain. And after filming on the summit of K2, proving I could handle a camera at 8000m, I was then invited on Everest as a cameraman.

Eventually, in 1996, I realised that I had climbed eight 8000ers including the hardest, K2, and the highest, Everest. The following year I decided that, as I was more than half way, I might as well attempt the remaining six. The decision was not as casual as that makes it sound; it was more a gradual dawning that, with tremendous effort and determination, ascending them all would be a worthy and achievable goal.

It is a quantifiable challenge in mountaineering, just as the four-minute mile is a quantifiable challenge in athletics.

From then on I generally organised my own lightweight, Alpine-style expeditions, including several solo climbs. It took me another eight years to summit all 14 of the 8000m peaks. Some I climbed on my first attempt; on others I backed off and tried another year. Just surviving an attempt on an 8000m peak is a success and my view has always been that there is no failure in retreat as the mountain will always be there. I can always return. Geoffrey Winthrop Young wrote in his classic 1920s book Mountain Craft: ‘In climbing mountains, danger is a constant element, not remote as in other sports: it is always with us behind the veil of pleasant circumstances, and it can be upon us before we are aware.’

In the end it took 27 expeditions before I had climbed all 14 and I class them all as successes. Pushing on regardless and getting killed, or suffering severe frostbite that results in amputation, is failure. No mountain is worth a digit and I have so far kept all mine. Many high-altitude mountaineers and 8000m summiteers have had toes or fingers amputated after frostbite. I learnt a lot from Polish climbing friends on some of my early expeditions. Quite a few had toes missing and they encouraged me to look after mine as they wished they had done theirs. It was poignant and salutary advice. Attention to detail is very important when climbing any mountain, rock or ice face, especially if you are to stay alive and avoid frostbite.

At that time, much of my life was spent away on expeditions. An 8000m peak attempt can last three months UK-to-UK; one trip to the remote north side of K2 took five months. Usually I would spend a week in Kathmandu or Islamabad obtaining a permit from the Ministry of Tourism, clearing the expedition cargo through customs, organising equipment, food, porters and generally planning the next several weeks. The trek in to Base Camp often lasts between 10 and 12 days, after which it’s best to spend three weeks acclimatising by climbing higher on the mountain and returning to Base Camp to recover. Once you have acclimatised it may still be two or more weeks’ wait for a clear weather window in which to climb safely. The summit climb itself might only take between one and four days, depending on difficulty, with another day or two to descend. Then, when you leave Base Camp, the trek out could take five days, unless you can afford a helicopter.

Finding British mountaineers willing to commit the time necessary for an 8000m expedition became difficult. On my final 8000m climbs I was joined by one of my Nepalese friends, Pasang Gelu, a great character with the kind of relaxed personality that is essential for coping with the strains of extreme altitude. Pasang had a genuine desire to climb big Himalayan peaks, was easy to get along with and we made a good team.

Climbing is a way of life for me; I am addicted. If you were to cut me in half, you would find ‘mountain climber’ written all the way through. I love being in the hills and the biggest hills of the Himalaya and Karakoram, being the most dangerous, offer the greatest challenge. But I do not climb to die. I climb to live – and climbing enhances my life.

Over my 18-year quest to climb the 8000m peaks, I have always stuck to my motto: ‘No mountain is worth a life, coming back is a success and the summit is only a bonus.’

Early morning, setting off from the Shoulder at over 8000m on K2. A Dutch climber follows me up towards the Bottleneck.

A Twin Otter and a Russian Mi-17 heli at Lukla airstrip, the start of the Everest and Lhotse Base Camp treks through Nepal’s Khumbu region. It is an exciting landing and take-off; the airstrip is not much bigger than an aircraft carrier, perched on the mountainside.