CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Return to Nanga Parbat
I stood on the summit of Nanga Parbat a few minutes before 6 pm on September 6, 2005. I had first seen this mountain while riding the roof of a bus in 1990. I was 19 years old on June 30, 1990, when I wrote, “The road becomes smoother and I become more tired, all but Henrik and I have gone below. I fall asleep, but a jolt in the road makes me realize how uncomfortable I really am. I get up to shift my position. Before me is a big mountain. At first I see only the base. Then I look up. I quake and shiver with excitement, happiness, and relief. Before me is Nanga Parbat. I am awake now and I am fixed upon Nanga Parbat. Rising out of the barren, dusty Himalayan foothills. Here is a mountain! I first dreamed of trying to climb it over two years ago. Now it is real. I am here. It is already a part of me. I fear it and respect it. I desperately want to stand on its summit. Not to conquer it, but to experience it. I am quite determined to experience it. I will experience as much of this mountain as I can.” VINCE ANDERSON
Approximately 26,000 feet on Nanga Parbat, Pakistan: September 6, 2005
SINCE WE LEFT THE SUMMIT I feel like I could cry. Turning sideways to the slope, I lean back on my uphill leg to lever my downhill crampon out of the snow. I tip forward, my downhill foot plunging ahead, my crampons screech across the rock, catch and settle in place. I hold the skinny six-millimeter rope coiled sloppily around one hand. Vince is tied to the other end; we move down together.
He stops, twisting to look over his shoulder. “Did you see that?” he asks. “It’s like,” Vince breathes, “another guy.”
“Oh yeah. I know.” I gasp for four breaths. “The ghosts. Hallucinations.”
“Yeah, like someone is following us.” One, two, three breaths. Vince is breathing hard too. “I see them.” Two breaths. “Then they’re gone.”
“Hallucinations.” I tell him. “I’ve seen that. Before. Up this high. Keep going.”
I gulp for air and force my uphill leg to follow lamely, dragging a little. I lean back again and plunge my foot weakly down the slope. To my right the sun is setting, but I can’t see it; we’ve come off the ridge and the western horizon is no longer visible. Emotion continues to well up in my throat. It tastes like lemonade. After the 1990 expedition, then last year’s attempt with Bruce, I have finally climbed Nanga Parbat.
“Let’s stop,” I say. A step in the rocks offers respite from the exposure. Vince stops and kneels, coughing. He takes noisy, sloppy breaths.
“Put on. DAS parkas. And puff-pants,” I gasp and stop for more breaths. I kneel, and lean against the back of my mittened hand. My fingers quickly chill gainst the freezing rock. My head falls forward, and I see two snowflakes, tiny perfect snowflakes on the toe of my boot. Each one is thin and frail – a cold, bluish-white brazed to the black of my boot.
“And headlamps,” I continue. “Will be. Dark soon.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Neither of us moves except to heave breaths in and out. I take the pack off, awkwardly setting it in front of me. Breathing. In and out. The pack’s fabric cracks noisily, stiff from the cold. I clumsily work the plastic toggle, too afraid to take off my mittens. I hand Vince his parka and pants. I loosen the buckle of my harness. With great effort I stand, the harness drops to my ankles. I zip on my insulated pants, take my parka out of the pack, and put it on too. More breaths. In and out.
Bending to pick up the harness, I have to stop and catch my breath again. I rebuckle the harness over my clothes. I have to take a mitten off to thread the webbing through the steel buckle. The pads of my fingers quickly go numb where they touch the steel and I ball my fingers into a fist and shove them quickly back into the mitten. I work the fingers, flexing them against my palm until the feeling comes back. I hyperventilate through pursed lips as the pain from the cold surges up my arm. I swing the hand a few times and the pain retreats, leaving plain, cold flesh.
I have six inches of clothing on all over my body making me feel fat and clumsy. Drunk on altitude. I’m light-headed and dizzy, but oddly in control.
It’s almost dark. I kneel to rub the snowflakes off the toe of my boot. I feel them burning into my toe. I brush them away with my blunt mitten, but they stay. I slap at them with the back of the mitten. Still they remain. I take out my headlamp and put the battery pack inside my jacket and stretch the headband over my hat. My chest heaves in and out.
The Pool Wall, Ouray, Colorado: January 10, 2005, (eight months before)
It’s a cold, clear day. Vince Anderson and I are taking a day off from climbing ice near his home to climb bare rock, to feel the stone with our bare fingertips.
“Did we meet in Alaska the first time? Or on that rock-guide exam in New Hampshire in 1997?” I ask.
“I think it was in Alaska, ‘93 or ‘94. I remember seeing you there for sure in ‘95. You and Eli were about to do your route on the Father and Sons Wall.”
“Hmmm. I remember seeing you with Rodrigo guiding on the West Buttress. But I have no idea which year that was,” I say as I start climbing. The rock is coarse and clean to the touch.
I climb the pitch and lower back to the ledge. Then he asks, “You and Bruce going back to Nanga Parbat?” Vince has known Bruce since his own college days in Boulder.
I unlace my rock shoes. “I want to go back, but Bruce and Michelle want to have a baby. I’m not sure we’re the best team for that route anyway.”
“What about Marko?” Vince asks, handing me my shoes and socks.
“It’s interesting, there is another Slovenian guy going to try the Rupal Face this year. Tomaž Humar.”
“Oh, that guy? That guy sounds like a kook.” My eyes follow Vince’s gaze across the valley to where buffalo are grazing in a field, fenced in and raised like cattle.
“Yeah. He is. But he’s huge in Slovenia, a regular celebrity. His recent expeditions have been more reality-TV than alpinism.” Vince laughs, obviously familiar with Humar’s heavily-reported attempt on Dhauligiri’s South Face in 1999. “Anyway, Marko doesn’t want to be on the same mountain as Tomaž. He thinks the media will turn it into a competition.”
I stand and put on my jacket as Vince ties in to take a turn on the climb. “I’ve thought about going by myself, but the logistics are immense. I don’t know how I could get my pack as light as I had it for K7. It’s really big, almost 14,000 feet of relief and ends really high, 26,600.”
Vince tightens the laces of his rock shoes and stands up. “You’d need a rope to rappel the face and all the anchors for that.” I continue, “It’d be heavy, thirty pounds. Probably too heavy to carry alone.”
A wind comes up. I look back over at the buffalo. They are facing away from the wind and nuzzling through the snow to get the new shoots of grass starting to come up. Vince prepares to climb.
As he’s about to step off the ledge, I look at him. “What about you? You interested in something like that?”
“Me? Well yeah. I’m interested. I don’t have as much experience as you do. But…” he trails off, leaving the thought on the ground as he steps onto the vertical rock face.
I pull in the rope to give him a safe belay. “Think about it. Maybe Nanga Parbat isn’t the best place to start, but I’ve had a real hard time finding good partners lately. People who want to do the same things. You know?”
He doesn’t answer, he has climbed above me already. When he lowers to the ledge, the invitation, though neither accepted or rejected, remains open.
Grenoble, France: February 25, 2005
Six weeks later I stand on a broad stage with 15 climbers from six countries and try not to squint at the bright hot lights. Heavy in my hands is a three-inch square crystal trophy. On it is engraved: Prix du Public 2005, Montagnes Magazine, 25 Fevrier 2005. I have just received this award from the 1,400 audience members who voted my solo of K7 as the climb they considered the best of 2004. As the announcer excitedly fires away in French about my audience choice award, a television cameraman pans across and pauses on my face.
The Piolet d’Or – Golden Ice Axe – is the climbing world’s pre-eminent and longest running prize. The Oscar of climbing, it was created in 1991 by the Groupe de Haute Montagne, an invitation-only alpine club based in France, and the French outdoors magazine, Montagnes. Their intention was to create an award for “the year’s most important alpine performance.”
Recently the Golden Ice Axe has been awarded to highly publicized climbs, while a number of excellent ascents done with little self-promotion have been conspicuously ignored. The secretive nomination process chooses six climbs a year. The climbers of these routes are invited to present their ascent to a jury, which is headed each year by a different prominent climber.
Historically, North Americans have been overlooked in the nomination process. I am the second to be nominated in the Piolet’s 16-year history, and that came only after two British climbers removed themselves from contention. The British climbers suggested to the editors of Montagne that there were two ascents more deserving of nomination, both done by Americans: my K7 climb and an ascent of Great Trango Tower by Josh Wharton and Kelly Cordes. I was surprised when they chose me. Six months ago, in a widely circulated editorial, I castigated the Piolet d’Or regarding the 2004 winners, writing:
“This (the 2004 award) accomplishes two things. Most sadly, it publicizes an ascent that was accomplished using a style that made the ascent irrelevant to contemporary alpine climbing. Secondly, it demonstrates to me, and to others, that the present Piolet d’Or award is so badly out of touch with alpinism that the award itself has become irrelevant.”
The winners that year were two Russian climbers who fixed ropes on Nuptse, a sister peak of Everest. They had gone back three successive seasons, fixing ropes and leaving them for the next season’s attempt. After their ascent they rappelled the ropes, leaving them all in place, along with all of their tents, food, fuel, and equipment that they didn’t need on the descent.
This year five of the six nominees made their ascents in alpine style, climbing only with one or two climbing ropes, moving the camps or bivouacs with them as they ascend, and taking everything with them off the mountain. The remaining nominee, a large Russian team, climbed expedition style. The 11 Russians had ascended the north wall of Jannu, a mountain of similar height to Nuptse. They unabashedly admitted that they had abandoned 77 sixty-meter-long sections of rope – a total of 15,400 feet of rope – fixed along their route, along with all of their camps and their remaining supplies.
As I weighed the crystal audience choice award in my hand, I wondered if the jury would have the strength and vision to award the Piolet d’Or to a climb done in good style. Or were they under pressure from the primary sponsor of the event, which this year, was Russian.
This image of Vince Anderson captures well the pain and relief we felt. We hurt too much to feel exaltation, though I do remember thinking, “we’ve done it, we’ve actually climbed Nanga Parbat,” and then quickly looking around to check if there was some higher point. STEVE HOUSE
When the announcer presented the Russian team with the Piolet d’Or, I felt let down, though I had suspected they would win. The Russians pumped the Golden Ice Axe high above their heads. A hundred flashes went off in our eyes. They jumped and proudly slapped one another on the back. I was ashamed to stand next to them. I stepped back and walked behind the row of men. With all eyes on the Russians, I left the stage.
Approximately 26,000 Feet on Nanga Parbat, Pakistan: September 6, 2005
We kneel in the snow 700 feet below the summit of Nanga Parbat facing one another. It is dark now, but I still haven’t turned on my headlamp. I reach up and place my hand on Vince’s shoulder. Leaning in I put my face just inches from his. Our foreheads almost touch each other, but not quite. In Vince I have found a true partner, the thought of him getting hurt is terrifying.
“This is it, man.” I breathe two breaths. “We’ve done it. We’ve climbed the Rupal Face.” The steam of Vince’s breathing shrouds my own face and in the darkness I cannot see his eyes, even this close.
“But none of that matters. Unless we get down.” More breaths. The steam from our breathing crystallizes, swirls and disappears in the darkness. “Let’s go slow. Be safe.”
“Okay,” Vince responds. Two more breaths.
“And get down,” I say.
I push my fist against a rock, stand up and pause to catch my breath and get my balance. I switch on my light and Vince starts down; we follow the tracks we made in the snow this morning.
As we edge toward the lip of the Rupal Face I see a few tiny specks of light in the valley: cooking fires from the mortarless stone shacks that are roofed with whole young trees, rocks and dirt – the small summer herding villages in the upper Rupal Valley. From here, it is over 13,000 feet to the glacier at the bottom of the wall. Vince descends first. I wrap the rope around my waist and brace myself against a rock. If he falls I’ll catch him, or get pulled off trying.
Vince down climbs to the end of the rope. He gives a tug – breath is too precious to shout – and I start climbing. Black rocks jut through the snow. I turn in and kick my crampons for a secure step. In the dark below me, Vince makes a similar effort at a belay. If I fall, he will have a harder time catching me because I would fall down past him and be falling rapidly by the time the rope became tight. I can’t fall.
“How you doin’?” Vince asks as I approach.
“Okay. You?”
“Fine. Maybe we should. Start rappelling now,” he suggests between breaths.
“Yeah?” I shine my headlamp down the slope; it is a long way down. Rappelling would be safer, but slower. “Okay.”
“There is a rock horn here,” Vince says. I take off my pack, pass a sling to Vince and rack the ice screws and a little rock gear onto my harness. I put the remaining six slings over my shoulder while Vince threads the rope through the sling we’re leaving. With the rope threaded, I coil up the ends and throw the wad down into the darkness. The ropes jerk and sail down, making a soft noise in the snow below us.
“Okay?” Vince asks. He has prepared to rappel.
“Okay.” He starts down, moving jerkily.
His light disappears beneath a squat tower and with it a quiet stillness descends upon me. I click off my light and the clouds of breath vanish in the darkness. The sky is full of starlight. We are completely beyond the reach of mankind. No helicopter could aid us here, or find us. We might as well be on one of those stars.
I breathe out forcefully and fill my lungs strongly, and then release the breath, trying to release the day’s tension.
“Steve!” Vince’s call is strangely directionless.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not that hard.” I wait for him to take more breaths. “Climb down.”
“Okay!” My climbing down will save us one sling, one rappel anchor. That might prove important later. “You got the rope?” I yell.
“What?” echoes back up the cliff.
“You. Have. The. Rope?” I repeat.
“Okay.”
I toss the sling, with the rope through it, down the slope. It goes a few feet, and hangs up on a snow step. I plunge my ice axe into the snow and climb downwards. Reaching the step with the rope on it, I brush it away with my crampon; annoyed that Vince hasn’t started pulling in the rope yet. The rope tumbles and then slithers down out of sight.
The track turns to the left and traverses. I climb across onto a small narrow ridge protruding from the wall, the top of the large gully we ascended this morning.
“Where is the rope?” I ask.
“You had it,” Vince replies.
“No. I thought you did.”
“Nooo,” he drawls, the implication dawns slowly. Without the rope we will die; there is far too much steep ground to down climb.
“Shit.” I start to laugh but instead I choke and start coughing. In 1990, Mark Twight, Barry Blanchard, Ward Robinson, and Kevin Doyle were descending this very face in a storm, at night, and in their depleted state they dropped both their ropes in the very same situation. I start back across the slope to look for the rope.
At the end of the traverse I shine my headlamp past the steps. Twenty feet away, the rope is caught several times around a dark knob of rock sticking out of the snow a mere three inches. Being careful not to dislodge snowballs that might send the rope down the wall, I climb down to the rope and hook it with one axe. I tie a knot in it, clip it to my harness and climb back to Vince.
Breathing hard across the traverse, I look up as Vince snaps a picture. The flash startles me.
“There’s a horn here,” he says. I pass the rope to him and he pulls it towards him, threading it through a sling. “You go,” he says. “You’ve got the gear.” I clip in to the rope and rappel down.
I am finishing the second hole of a V-thread when Vince arrives. He kicks a step and swings one axe into the ice. He thrusts one end of the rope towards me. I stuff it into the hole and using a small metal hook, I snag the tip of the rope and pull it through. I hand the end to Vince and step back. Half sitting in the snow I click off my headlamp to conserve the battery. Vince slowly pulls the rope through the hole to its middle. I rig my rappel device as Vince throws the rope down the slope.
After many rappels I shine my light down the cliff and see the reflective tape sewn into our tent flash back at me. Almost home. One more rappel.
Vince arrives and I already have a sling around a large rock horn. He pulls the ropes and I feed the ends through the sling.
“You go,” I say. “Last one.”
I hand Vince the rope and collapse in the snow as he prepares to descend. Once he is down, I watch his light struggle toward the tent 40 feet away. His slow progress reminds me how strung out we are. I pick up the rope and rappel to its end. I move quickly, feeling a surge of energy in being so close to the tent. I rush to reach the snow and am soon doubled over by lack of oxygen; my pounding head hurts.
I sit in the snow, still attached to the rappel rope. “Slow breaths,” I tell myself, “slow.” I inhale deeply, trying to regain a steady rhythm. We are still above 24,000 feet and the altitude is debilitating when I go too hard, too fast.
I unhook my rappel device and try pulling the rope. The rope offers resistance for a few feet and then stops. I stand up straight, wrap the cord around my hand and pull hard, trying to be careful – If the rope suddenly lets go I don’t want to be thrown down the steep slope below me. I tie the rope to my harness and take a few steps downhill to take some stretch out of it. I drive both my ice axes in the snow as anchors and holding tightly to them, I bounce my weight down on the rope. Nothing. I fall to the slope, breathing hard.
I sigh. I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with this. I put my rappel device back on the rope, tie a knot below it, and start to climb. I have to free the rope. We need it to get down. Frustration cries small and deep inside me. I ignore it; I have no choice.
At the top of the chimney, I find the rope twisted around a block of rough rock. I free it and rappel again from the same anchor, careful to keep the rope clear of that obstacle. At the bottom, I pull the rope and it cleanly piles itself into the snow at my feet.
In front of the tent I kneel in the snow and loosely coil the rope to bring it inside with me. Vince has his headlamp off and I make no sound except the rustling sounds of my clothing and my loud semi-rhythmic breathing. I can hear the stove lightly purring as I reach for the zipper to let myself in.
Vince is lying with his back against the side of the tent with the sleeping bag draped across him. His feet stick out, his boot shells are off, and I can see his bare wrists where his hands are tucked between his legs for warmth. He looks peaceful except for the abrupt rise and rapid fall of his chest. I sit in the tent and unlace my own boots, being careful not to tip the stove. My movements wake him and I notice the water is hot. I shut the stove off to save fuel.
I reach outside the tent and weakly bang my boots together to get some snow off. Looking down, I see the pair of snowflakes still frozen to the toe of my boot. I reach down to brush them with my thumb. When they don’t rub off I finally realize that they’re ice crystals – something more permanent. Like Vince and I, they are perfectly paired. We’ve achieved an enduring partnership, attained a place on this mountain.
