The highest summit of the Annapurna range, Annapurna I, had been on my mind for more than ten years. It was Swiss climber Erhard Loretan who kindled my fascination with its South Face. In my very early climbing days in the Himalaya, I had attempted the North Face of Jannu twice, in 2002 and 2003. Neither attempt of this 7000-meter peak in eastern Nepal was successful, but Erhard Loretan’s presence made both trips very special. In 1995 he had become the third person to climb all fourteen 8000-meter peaks, and he had been one of my heroes, someone I looked up to with respect. I was in my mid-twenties, with very little high-altitude experience, and I was lucky to benefit from the knowledge of this old-timer in his early forties. During the long waiting periods for better weather, I absorbed Erhard’s tales about the “good old days.”
One of the mountains that kept coming up in his stories was Annapurna. Together with Swiss mountaineer Norbert Joos, known as Noppa, he traversed all three peaks of the Annapurna range in alpine style, which was an extraordinary achievement. At the time Annapurna had been Erhard’s sixth and Norbert’s third 8000-meter peak. No matter how different the two men seemed at first glance—Erhard was rather introverted, while Noppa was more of an extrovert—they seemed to complement each other perfectly. After they had reached the east summit via the east ridge and spent the night in a snow cave, they traversed to the central summit the following day. In order to reach the saddle between the central and the main summit, which is to the west, they had to rappel down a rock face for about 100 meters. During their rappel, they found that the face was unclimbable and that it would thus be impossible to climb back up and descend via the east ridge. They continued and reached the 8091-meter main summit of Annapurna on October 24, 1984, at 2:30 p.m., becoming the twelfth expedition to reach the top of Annapurna.
Now the real adventure began: descending the wildly fissured and avalanche-prone north ridge. A postcard indicating this normal descent route was the only reference they had. In later years Erhard wrote about the difficulties of finding the route: “In fact, it’s all about taking the right turn in the small zone that separates life from death. I guess this is the whole definition of survival.” For two and a half days they wandered about heavily crevassed terrain interspersed with vertical rock walls and overhanging ice cliffs, which they rappelled. When the terrain finally flattened, they were far from safe. Avalanches and falling seracs posed the next threat. They almost got caught in an avalanche but were lucky and only got dusted with about 5 centimeters of snow. Erhard told me that during the entire descent there were always three of them: Noppa, himself, and fear.
The two had chosen the Dutch route, the shortest route on the north side. Despite its threat of serac fall and avalanche, the French route, which leads across wide glaciers a little bit farther to the west, is still considered the easiest ascent route on Annapurna. In 1950 this was the route of the first ascent, which made Annapurna the first 8000-meter peak to be scaled. Back then France’s best alpinists traveled to Nepal to overcome the “death zone” above 7000 meters and “conquer” an 8000-meter peak. Today we know that at an altitude of 7000 meters or higher, the oxygen saturation of the hemoglobin in arterial blood drops to such a low level that even a perfectly acclimatized body can no longer recuperate. Inevitably the body gets so depleted that it is no longer possible to stay up high. You would die of altitude illness.
At a time when alpinism was still about the conquest of mountains, the first ascent of Annapurna, under the leadership of Maurice Herzog, embraced the myths of heroic deeds and nationalism. Nepal had only just opened its borders to foreigners. The available maps had turned out to be so inaccurate that the French had no choice but to reconnoiter the area in the spring of 1950. Annapurna was not even their initial objective. They had set their eyes on doing the first ascent of Dhaulagiri I. They changed their minds when they saw that its east face as well as its north face, which they had only reached after a very long approach march, were probably hopeless. Hence, the expedition set up its base camp on Annapurna in the middle of May.
They first tried their luck on the north ridge but had to abandon their attempt due to too much difficulty. They then turned to the north face, where they set up five consecutive high camps. After a stormy night Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal started out from the last camp at 7300 meters on June 3, 1950. Against all odds, they fought their way up and reached the summit of Annapurna in the afternoon. They were the first humans to reach the summit of an 8000-meter peak.
The descent turned out to be epic, though, and dampened their euphoria about their success. Herzog and Lachenal were so exhausted that they probably would not have survived had it not been for Gaston Rébuffat and Lionel Terray, who came to their rescue. After the four climbers spent one night at the highest camp, they were unable to find Camp 4 in a raging storm and were forced to spend a night in a crevasse in the bitter cold. The following day they continued struggling on the descent and barely survived an avalanche that came thundering down on them. After six days the four finally reached the safety of their base camp. Lachenal and Herzog had suffered such severe frostbite that the expedition doctor performed amputations along the jungle trail back to Kathmandu. In the end Herzog lost all his fingers and toes, Lachenal all his toes and parts of his feet. Both had to pay a very high price for their first ascent of an 8000-meter peak.
Back in France huge controversies emerged about what had happened on the mountain. Herzog was in charge of the official expedition report and failed to include his companions’ statements, which were only made public in the 1990s, just after Lachenal’s original manuscript was released. As was common with climbers in the 1950s, the French team had taken epinephrine and amphetamines. How much these influenced the climbers’ decisions is impossible to say, but they would have certainly helped them to extend their limits.
The high avalanche danger on the normal route as well as the fact that all the other routes are extremely technical is probably the reason why Annapurna is the least climbed 8000-meter peak. With a mortality rate of 30 percent, it is considered even more dangerous than K2 in Pakistan. Through the spring of 2016, 244 people had reached the summit and 71 had died trying. (For comparison, Everest, with 7655 ascents and 284 fatalities, has a mortality rate of 3.7 percent.)
Erhard Loretan was convinced that the biggest challenge on Annapurna was its South Face. It was first climbed in 1970 and was the second route to the top, which had not been reached in twenty years. In 1964 Shishapangma became the last 8000-meter peak to be climbed, accomplished by a team of Chinese mountaineers. This meant that new and greater challenges from now on would not be simply peaks but previously unclimbed and more difficult routes. Only a small group of climbing freaks was interested in tackling new 6000-meter and 7000-meter peaks.
One of these challenges was the 2500-meter Annapurna South Face—one of the highest and steepest rock faces in the Himalaya. A British expedition under the leadership of Sir Chris Bonington was brave enough to attempt it in the spring of 1970. Bonington not only gathered a team of the twelve strongest climbers, he also managed to get these individualists, all extremely eager to reach the summit, to work as a team to reach their goal. The team chose a route on the left of the face, which elegantly circumnavigated the central rock bastion. They fixed 4500 meters of rope to negotiate the difficult sections, used supplemental oxygen, and set up six permanent high camps. Given the logistics of such an undertaking, carrying the loads became a decisive factor for their success. Getting the necessary gear up the mountain was more energy-sapping than getting the team to advance on the route.
Bonington later recalled that deciding who should do what on this expedition and keeping every single team member motivated at the same time had been the most difficult task of his life. After Tom Frost and Mick Burke had worn themselves out struggling to climb the wall for four long weeks, and Martin Boysen and Nick Estcourt were exhausted from carrying loads up the mountain, he replaced the four climbers with Don Whillans and Dougal Haston. The two were still relatively fresh, and with the groundwork of their colleagues they were able to set up a last high camp and attempt the summit. They were running out of time, as storms had already started to flare up and the monsoon season was just around the corner. It was Bonington himself who supplied the summit team with food and propane before the two climbers left their camp on the morning of May 27.
Haston and Whillans had planned to pitch a seventh camp above the rock band, but around midday they decided to dump their gear and go straight for the summit. Without the weight of their backpacks, they made good progress. After they had negotiated the short summit wall via a ramp from right to left, they suddenly found themselves on the summit ridge, where Whillans fixed the rope to a bolt. A snowstorm was already raging in the south, while the weather was still beautiful in the north. The terrain was flat, and they easily reached the top via a snowy crest. Three days later Mick Burke and Tom Frost started another summit attempt, but they failed, and the fast-approaching monsoon ended the expedition.
This magnificent success, which was based on joint efforts, marked the beginning of a new period of high-altitude mountaineering, which was all about climbing the biggest faces in the world. Due to technical difficulties, the oxygen-deprived air, and in particular the great efforts that were needed for such an undertaking, the risks of such expeditions increased exponentially. The expedition to the South Face of Annapurna was also an example of the close relationship between joy and sorrow. Even though Bonington’s team was unscathed during the ascent, Ian Clough and Mike Thompson were hit by an ice avalanche on their descent between Camp 2 and Camp 1, and a huge block of ice buried Clough forever.
Fourteen years later the South Face of Annapurna was yet again the scene for a milestone in alpinism. In October 1984, two Spaniards, Nil Bohigas and Enric Lucas, opened a new line to the central summit (8051 meters). They climbed alpine style, which meant that they did not use any external help, supplemental oxygen, or fixed ropes. I was particularly impressed by Lucas, who now leads a withdrawn life somewhere in the Pyrenees. He knew what he wanted and had always followed his own path. Bohigas and Lucas climbed the route for themselves. It was their own personal adventure, and they climbed it out of passion and conviction. When they came back Lucas avoided any hype surrounding him. He now leads a simple life, enjoys going for runs, and just wants to be left in peace. He does not give interviews, which is the reason why there is very little information about this expedition.
Eight years after the ascent of Bohigas and Lucas, Frenchmen Pierre Béghin and Jean-Christophe Lafaille tried their luck on the South Face. They intended to take the direct line to the main summit of Annapurna. The route led straight up the center of the face, which the Brits had climbed on the left and the Spaniards on the right. In his tales Erhard Loretan described their undertaking with so much enthusiasm and passion that I was completely hooked.
The pair left their advanced base camp on October 7, 1992, and ascended to their first bivouac at the so-called Pear at 6500 meters. The following morning they moved up the rope they had fixed the previous day to help them get across the first steep section in the middle of the face. From here it was flatter, and they had no problems in reaching the base of the headwall, the rocky section on the upper third of the face. At 6900 meters they hacked a platform into the ice, set up their second bivouac, and spent two nights there. The rocky bulwark of the headwall towered above them, with an abyss of 1600 meters below.
They started out from their bivouac at about 4:00 a.m. Pierre had expected to climb the gully on the face, but they had to move to the left and could not climb the big dihedral as they had intended. As the weather was deteriorating, they were forced to set up a bivouac in a pretty much unprotected space at about 7400 meters. Pitching a tent turned out to be impossible, so they crouched on a ledge for the whole night and following morning until the weather finally cleared. Neither of them was willing to give up. Hoping they had sat out the bad weather, they continued their ascent.
But when the next storm pounded them at 7500 meters, they had no other choice but to retreat. Descending the steep rock face demanded quite a few rappels, during which they had to leave some gear behind. Because Béghin, who was the older and more experienced of the pair, wanted to save equipment, he instructed Lafaille, who had just placed a peg, to remove it again. He was convinced that the Friend he had put into a crack would suffice as the sole fixing point. But when Béghin put his weight on the rope, he pulled the bolt out of the crack. Without being able to help, Lafaille had to watch his friend tumble down into the abyss.
Stranded and alone in the midst of this gigantic face, Lafaille was now fighting for his life. Béghin had taken the rope and his backpack, which held most of their equipment, down into the void with him. Lafaille took a while to recover from his shock before he was able to continue his descent. Without a rope he had no choice but to climb down the steep sections. On the ledge where the pair had bivouacked forty-eight hours earlier, he found a 20-meter length of 6-millimeter rope as well as some food. The raging storm forced him to remain there for thirty hours, alone with his thoughts about Pierre.
On the morning of October 12 the wind finally abated. Without any safety gear, Lafaille knocked tent pegs into the ice, threaded rope through, and rappelled off them. With a 20-meter climbing rope, this was an endless undertaking and was aggravated by the fact that Lafaille had lost one of his crampons. He was on his last legs when he reached the fixed rope just above their first camp. After he had managed to clip into the rope and rappel down, falling rocks hit him about 150 meters above the camp. Unconscious, he slid down the rope all the way to the camp, where he came to. Still dangling on the rope, he found that his right arm was broken. Unable to pitch the tent, he wrapped himself in it and passed the night. He was close to giving up.
Lafaille stayed the whole of the following day at Camp 1 and was only able to get back on his feet and continue down in the evening. Weakened and traumatized by the events and his injuries, it took him all night to reach the bergschrund, not arriving until 8:00 a.m. With nearly the last ounce of his strength, he crawled to the camp of the Slovenian team but was devastated to find it deserted. Once again he had to pull himself together and find the strength and willpower to continue to his own camp. On his way down, the liaison officer of his expedition came toward him. Finally he was safe!
I could not stop thinking about the dramatic story of Béghin and Lafaille. The fact that these two top-class mountaineers were forced back on the South Face of Annapurna meant that it must be really difficult. When in 2005 a German translation of Lafaille’s 2003 Prisonnier de l’Annapurna was published, I was captivated reading about the 1992 expedition as well as his successful ascent in 2002, when he climbed the face via the east ridge with Alberto Iñurrategi. Finally I had to admit to myself that the project of the two Frenchmen fascinated me so much that I wanted to finish their route on the South Face of Annapurna. Their chosen line had the advantage of being objectively pretty safe, as it was not threatened by cornice or serac fall. However, it had the disadvantage of being exposed to the sun for many hours of the day. While this made climbing more pleasant, it also made the route more prone to avalanches and rockfall due to the huge temperature differences between day and night.
In the autumn of 2006 I finally traveled to Nepal to have a look at the face. It was impressively steep. I realized that I had to be extremely quick if I wanted to climb it during a period of clement weather and be back at its base in good time. The only way to climb the face quickly would be to climb light, taking the minimal amount of gear. I began formulating a plan for a solo attempt. If I could master all of the technical difficulties without making a mistake, and if I were to be at my very best physically, I might be able to pull it off.
The following spring I attempted the South Face for the first time. In preparation for the expedition I trained a lot for endurance and practiced climbing without a rope. In order to be well acclimatized I spent many weeks in the vicinity of Everest in Nepal. Nicole and I climbed Cholatse, a 6000-meter peak in the region. After our expedition Nicole went home, and I soloed the west face of Pumori (7161 meters) in twenty-four hours. I also spent many hours running at an altitude of 4000–5000 meters in the Khumbu. I felt fit and prepared.
Putting together and finding funds for the Annapurna expedition was not easy, but once it was done I felt comfortable and happy with the team. The photographer Robert Bösch, also known as Röbi, came with me to document the ascent. Bruno Roth and Jacqueline Schwerzmann were going to film the events on Annapurna for Swiss television. Michael Wulzinger, editor of the German magazine Der Spiegel, and Oswald Oelz, who came as the expedition doctor, were also part of the team. After a few frustrating weeks waiting for better weather, the skies cleared, and I could finally leave base camp. As the way to the bergschrund was heavily crevassed, Röbi accompanied me to the bottom of the face for safety reasons. When he turned back, I started to climb. Suddenly my mind went black. I cannot remember what happened. The next thing I knew I was coming to with my face buried in the snow. I tried to make sense of it. I must have climbed for about 200 to 300 meters when I was struck by a rock and fell. My climbing helmet was broken. I had been extremely lucky that I had escaped relatively unscathed: concussion, bruises, and a few muscle strains.
Even though this expedition was over pretty abruptly, and I’d had a brush with death, I immediately started to plan my next attempt for the following year. This time I wanted to climb the South Face in a roped party with Simon Anthamatten, an experienced Swiss ice climber. In the spring of 2008 we acclimatized on Tengkangpoche, where we opened a new route on the North Face, an achievement for which we each received the acclaimed Piolet d’Or, the highest award in alpinism.
Although our trip had started so well, our winning streak did not continue. First we had to wait two weeks for the weather to clear and allow us to set foot onto the wall. We then climbed up to 6000 meters, but so much snow had been dumped on the route that avalanches came thundering past us even before the sun touched the face. We were forced to descend—conditions were far too dangerous—but we did not give up hope and decided to wait for the weather to improve and the snow to melt.
But then the expedition took another turn. My satellite phone rang, and we received a call for help: an expedition on the east ridge had run into trouble. Accomplished Spanish climber Iñaki Ochoa de Olza and his Romanian climbing partner Horia Colibàšanu had gotten stuck at 7400 meters. Iñaki was apparently suffering altitude illness and unable to move.
Simon and I started out that night in an attempt to rescue the two climbers, who were about 3200 meters above us. Two days later Simon, who had climbed to Camp 3 with me, took the altitude-sick Romanian under his wing and descended with him. I rushed up to Camp 4, where I found Iñaki in his tent. He was in extremely bad condition. Even though I spent the night injecting drugs, feeding him, and giving him water, his condition worsened by the minute. In the early morning he stopped breathing. I was able to resuscitate him once, but then it was over. There was nothing I could do for Iñaki but be by his side.
After I struggled down in heavy snowfall and zero visibility, Simon and I returned home as quickly as possible. Continuing our expedition was completely out of the question after what we had just experienced. At least Horia was alive, but Iñaki’s death and how he had died really got me thinking. I started to question a few things. For the time being, I was fed up with the South Face of Annapurna.
Even though I managed to not think about Annapurna, I was still fascinated by the idea of soloing big walls at a good speed. I started a phase during which I concentrated on perfecting technical skills needed for solo and speed climbs while making the most of my physical fitness. My speed records on the north faces of the Eiger, Grandes Jorasses, Matterhorn, and Les Droites were a consequence of this training. The next step was transferring these skills to the big walls in the Himalaya, where I had to adjust my speed to the different conditions, such as the thinner air and maximum exposure. Ascending quickly and spending as little time in the death zone as possible was a safety factor.
My goal was to climb 8000-meter peaks as efficiently as possible, and to achieve this I needed more practice at extreme altitudes. In 2009 I got my first experience above 8000 meters on Gasherbrum II and Makalu. In 2011 I soloed a combination of three existing routes on the South Face of Shishapangma and scaled Cho Oyu, and I reached the top of Everest via the normal route the following year. Slowly but surely, I felt ready to give the South Face of Annapurna another go. The temptation was still there, and in 2013 the time had come to take on this challenge for the third time.
Given the height of the South Face of Annapurna, I concentrated on endurance training. After my return from Everest I spent the first two months doing a lot of trail running. As I had done many times before, I ran up the Niesen, a mountain in my home region near Lake Thun. During these sessions I would run up to the top three times, 1700 meters of elevation gain per rotation. This was physically and mentally very challenging. When I started the first rotation, I knew that I had three grueling rounds ahead of me. The only thing to do was blank out that thought and just run as relaxed as possible. Once I reached the top I took the funicular back down. The second time I would run faster, even though my legs were burning. The first part of the run was the most difficult, as the path from the station started off quite steeply. Later I’d try to speed up, which took some effort because my legs were tired. I would try hard to keep my upper body upright and let my legs do their thing. Suddenly I’d find my rhythm again, and my legs felt as if they were running on their own. The ride back down to the valley on the funicular always interrupted my concentration, and I’d start to wonder: “How is it going to be this time around?” Once down I would immediately start running again. The third rotation was always the easiest, as I knew it would be the last. After I’d run the three rotations, 5100 meters of elevation gain, the shower at the top station always felt like heaven.
Training like this also made me mentally stronger. It put the big Himalayan walls into perspective: at 2500 meters the South Face of Annapurna was suddenly reduced to being only half as tall as three times the Niesen. The same applied to the North Face of the Eiger. With its mere 1700 meters one could almost be tempted to climb it thrice in a day. For me, training was never a burden. I loved it, and rarely did I not feel like training and have to push myself to go out. After a hard session I felt much more content than after a gentle mountain climb. In the evenings I loved feeling my heavy legs and arms that were threatening to burst.
On July 20, 2013, I took part in the Eiger Ultra Trail race. The weather could not have been more perfect, and I utterly enjoyed the run, which covered 51 kilometers and 3100 meters of elevation gain. From Grindelwald the route went up to the Grosse Scheidegg, where the first food station was located. It continued via the First to the Schynige Platte before it descended to Burglauenen. It was technically challenging. The descent was steep, the path was narrow, and the terrain was rough and rocky. For me, this was the perfect running ground, and I could accelerate to my heart’s content. I was particularly happy to make such good progress from Grindelwald to Burglauenen. Even though my legs were getting heavy, they were still moving smoothly, which is something I often struggle with on the flat. I hardly ever train on flat terrain, and when I get tired then I seem to come to a complete halt and not make any progress at all. But this was the perfect run. I was able to reach my physical limits but still have a smile on my face when I reached the finish line after a little more than six hours. I felt inspired and energized by the presence of all the other runners.
I love the atmosphere all the events. With so many people around me, it is the opposite of what I usually look for in the mountains. Everyone is prepared to give their personal best. Even though your legs are burning, you keep on running because if the person in front of you can do it, you can too. You understand each other without exchanging a word. Everyone is working hard, and, despite all the pain, everyone is enthusiastic. The people cheering you on and all the helpers providing you with food and drink are also a huge part of the special atmosphere. I feel good in these surroundings. These are the positive moments that make me happy. And if I have to struggle through them, they will stay with me even longer.
At one point, though, I was fed up with running, and to keep up my motivation I looked for an alpine goal that would give me pleasure and put my training to the test. I had been thinking about soloing and traversing the Grandes Jorasses in the Mont Blanc region for quite some time, and now the time had come. I was planning to start from Chamonix, climb nonstop, and descend to Courmayeur. I got very excited about the idea.
Unfortunately Nicole could not share my enthusiasm about my latest plan. While we sipped red wine at our dining table, the conversation went around in circles. I tried to make her understand that the technical difficulties of traversing the Grandes Jorasses were not a problem for me at all. I said I would not climb for speed and would put in protection in case the conditions got difficult. My arguments did not convince her. Of course, I could understand Nicole’s worries since climbing solo always bears a certain risk. If something happened, I would be alone, with nobody there to help me. My abilities and concentration comprised the only safety net I would have.
I had actually promised Nicole that I would stop doing solo climbs, but this did not change the fact that days I spend in the mountains on my own are the most beautiful and most impressive days for me. There is nothing else, just the mountain and me, and that’s what I love. There is nobody to whom I have to justify anything. I can make my own decisions and do what I want. These are my most precious times. I feel at my best when I can just walk, climb, or run. I get into a beautiful rhythm, and nothing can interrupt it.
Nicole knows me well, and she knows my abilities. When I provide her with more details about my plans, she can better understand them. For me, Grade VI climbs are nothing much. The chances of me falling are pretty slim, but of course they are never zero. One can slip and fall on easy ground as Nicole did a couple of years ago—she was very lucky to have survived. Mountaineers have to accept a risk. No matter how well prepared, when you climb a mountain you always run the risk of something unexpected happening. Maybe this is exactly what makes mountaineering so fascinating. The Swiss avalanche expert Werner Munter once said that taking risks is a basic human right: everyone has the right to take risks, but to what extent is up to each individual. Before I decide whether I have enough experience and training to realize a plan without taking an unacceptable risk, I try to evaluate it realistically and judge my abilities critically.
In the end Nicole came up with a convincing argument against the Grandes Jorasses project. The approach march was long, and a large part of it went across a glacier. Crossing a glacier alone and without a rope is dangerous, especially in the summer without skis. Crevasses are unpredictable, and you can easily fall in when the snow collapses. Nicole and I once experienced this together when we traversed from the Schreckhorn to the Lauteraarhorn in the Bernese Oberland. At 4:00 a.m., when it was still pitch black, we roped up to cross the glacier. I was leading the way, following an existing track, with Nicole coming up behind me on the rope. Suddenly I came across a huge crevasse. I had to make a big step to get to the other side, where the tracks from the previous day were visible. I put my right foot exactly into the existing footprint, but when I put my weight on it I plunged into the crevasse. Even though it was still cold in the early morning hours, the snow bridge had collapsed. On this occasion it was not a problem. Nicole was able to hold me on the rope, and I could easily climb out of the crevasse. But without a rope I would have probably disappeared forever.
Compared to glacier crossings, climbing is less risky, as it is more calculable and controllable. For this reason, Nicole and I agreed that it would be better for me to find a project that did not involve a glacier crossing. The result of this discussion was the idea of traversing the entire Peuterey ridge on the south side of Mont Blanc. Starting in the Italian valley of Val Veny, the ridge leads via the Aiguille Noire and the Aiguille Blanche de Peuterey all the way to the summit of Mont Blanc. The Peuterey Intégral is considered the longest ridge in the Alps, and if you add the descent down to Chamonix, it is probably on par with the Grandes Jorasses. I was happy that Nicole and I had found a compromise we both could live with. These discussions would probably always come up in my relationship with Nicole, and I knew that I had to avoid being too selfish or too insistent on doing my own thing. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be good for either of us if I only went along and felt that I was no longer living my own life. In the long run this wouldn’t make either of us happy.
The south ridge to the Aiguille Noire de Peuterey, which is a pleasant fifty-pitch granite climb (up to Grade V+) leading via numerous rocky towers to 3772 meters, marks the beginning of the Peuterey Intégral. It is followed by a long rappel of 450 meters that gets you down to the Dames Anglaises, from which you traverse across to the Aiguille Blanche de Peuterey. Once you have reached its 4112-meter summit you continue to the Col de Peuterey before you gain the classic Peuterey ridge and climb all the way to the top of Mont Blanc. Getting to the highest point at 4810 meters involves ascending another 1500 vertical meters, with climbing sections in the lower Grade IV. This is a proper alpine undertaking, which has its grand finale on a 50-degree ice and snow slope. As I wanted to start straight from the valley floor without spending a night at the Borelli refuge, I added an extra elevation gain of 1000 meters. In plain numbers this meant ascending 1000 meters on the approach, climbing another 4500 meters on the ridge, and descending 3800 meters.
Karl Brendel and Hermann Schaller made the first ascent of the south ridge of the Aiguille Noire in 1930. It took them two days to complete this feat. Traversing the whole ridge all the way to the summit of Mont Blanc like I was planning to do had first been done by Germans Richard Hechtel and Günther Kittelmann in July 1953. It took them three full days. Nowadays, two days to climb the whole ridge should be sufficient depending on the speed and abilities of the climbers, but most rope parties need two bivouacs. The small Craveri Bivouac is at the Brèches des Dames Anglaises, near the dramatic northern notch. It is really tiny and only allows you to sit or lie down, but it is well protected from adverse weather. There were also faster rope parties, such as the two Italians Matteo Pellin and Arnaud Clavel. It only took them twenty-eight hours from Val Veny to the summit and back to the Gonella refuge and Courmayeur. And Slovenian climber Luka Lindič had reached the top of Mont Blanc from the Borelli refuge in fifteen hours just a few weeks before I started my Peuterey Intégral project.
I felt extremely motivated, but it was a serious undertaking, and I had to study it. I had never been to the south side of Mont Blanc before. With Caroline George, a Swiss mountain guide who lives near Chamonix, I went on a fact-finding mission. Caroline and I had known each other for years but had not climbed together for a long time. She is always up for a good climb, and the Peuterey Intégral was a good excuse to do something together again.
Unfortunately we could not find the route we wanted to do, but after my reconnaissance with Caroline I was convinced that it would be possible for me to solo the ridge. The only thing I needed now was good weather, and I needed it quickly since Nicole and I were due to go to Canada five days later, on August 17. Fortunately the weather gods were on my side, and the weather window was forecast to stay open for a while.
On August 12 I returned to Chamonix and set up my base camp at the Les Bossons campsite. I chose to stay in a tent rather than at a friend’s house since I wanted to be on my own. In the afternoon I traveled to Courmayeur and continued to Val Veny to find out how to best proceed logistically. Matteo Pellin, one of the two Courmayeur mountain guides who had climbed the ridge, managed the campsite in Peuterey. He invited me to stay with him, and since this was the perfect starting point for me, I gladly accepted. I drove back through the Mont Blanc tunnel to Les Bossons and returned to my tent. The following day I took the bus to the south side of the mountain, where one of Matteo’s friends picked me up in Courmayeur. The campsite Monte Bianco la Sorgente in Val Veny turned out to be a paradise. There were grassy spots for tents, and visitors could also stay in old stone houses that had clearly been renovated with a lot of love and passion.
In the afternoon I jogged up the 1000 meters to the start of the south ridge. It was good to blow away the cobwebs and get to know the way since I would start in the dark the following morning. I deposited my backpack at the bottom of the ridge, which would save me having to carry anything in the morning. I had only taken the bare minimum. A 60-meter Dynema rope with a diameter of 6 millimeters, my harness for rappelling, a few carabiners and slings, a helmet, climbing boots, crampons, and ice axes were the basics. I also had gloves, a hat, sunglasses, a thin down jacket, and hard-shell trousers and jacket to protect myself in case the weather should turn, which can always happen in the high Alps. Water would probably be sufficiently available on the way, and I thought that five energy gels and four bars would be sufficient food.
Before I set out, Matteo and his friends spoiled me with a delicious dinner. I gobbled down the pasta as if there were no tomorrow. I certainly needed the carbohydrates for the following day. I was relaxed, enjoyed the Italian hospitality, and was excited about starting my new project. Before dessert was served one of Matteo’s friends suddenly came up with the idea to film the climb. He said that Matteo, being a helicopter rescuer, would probably have good connections to allow him to go up in a helicopter and film. He was so excited that I could not get a word in edgewise. But Matteo got in a word, and it was simply “no.” This suited me just fine. I wanted to go climbing, and I wanted to do it for myself, not for anyone else. A helicopter buzzing above me all the time would have ruined my experience. I was relieved that Matteo thought along the same lines. There was no further discussion, and I did not have to justify my wishes. I might not make it to the summit anyway. One never knows.
At the crack of dawn on August 14, Matteo, who had insisted on getting up at 4:00 a.m. with me, said goodbye after having made me delicious coffee. The biscotti that came with the coffee wouldn’t provide much energy, but I felt well fed, and it was too early in the morning to eat much more anyway. I headed out, and at ten minutes past five I reached my backpack at the bottom of the ridge. I had already done the first 1000 meters of elevation, and faster than I had anticipated. The world around me was still pitch black, but I started to climb anyway. This was exactly the same spot Caroline and I had set out from a week earlier. We had also climbed in the dark, so I was convinced that I would find the way again this time.
Slowly day began breaking, and climbing became increasingly fun with the light. It was reassuring to see the cracks, gullies, and spikes I was holding on to. I felt comfortable on this terrain. After I reached the tower of the Pointe Welzenbach, I took a short break to change from mountaineering boots into rock-climbing shoes before I rappelled 25 meters. The route was technically not that difficult, and I could have easily continued in my big mountain boots, but I moved more efficiently and safely in rock-climbing shoes, an important consideration given that I was climbing without a rope.
After having rappelled into the notch, I was faced with the first serious section on a slab with very few handholds. I had to completely rely on the friction and grip of my rubber soles. Once I had negotiated that section, the route continued vertically toward a dihedral. I had warmed up now, and I moved without stopping. It felt free and easy. From the Pointe Brendel I descended east toward another notch, where I veered to the left to gain a chimney, which was still in the shade. The Pointe Ottoz towered menacingly above me. I remembered that I had to step out of the chimney to the left and gain the wall via a short steep section. The face was precipitous and exposed. Given the 400 meters opening up below me, I was very grateful for the solid handholds and footholds. I climbed the west side of the ridge until I reached an overhang. From there I traversed right toward the east, which brought me back to the sunny side of the ridge. The tower started to lean back somewhat, which made climbing all the way to the Pointe Ottoz relatively easy.
From this tower the top of the Aiguille Noire did not seem very far, but my progress still dragged on for a while. Right under the sixth tower, the Pointe Bich, I came across another difficult section that required climbing a crack. Three powerful moves got me over the edge to the tower, from which I continued without great difficulties to the top of the Aiguille Noire, which I reached at 8:30 a.m.
Even though the sun was not yet very high, I could feel its wonderful warmth. I was very excited to have most of the day ahead of me. For znüni—a second breakfast, which the Swiss usually have when they are at work—I treated myself to an energy bar. I remained on the summit for a while to soak up the beauty, sitting next to a metal Madonna statue that must get struck by lightning frequently, given the number of holes in it. It must be really harsh up here during a thunderstorm, I thought. I was lucky and let the sun shine on my face and enjoyed the peace and quiet. I did not feel under pressure. At this rate I would easily reach the summit of Mont Blanc in good time. I always feel relaxed when I am moving on my own: easy, uncomplicated, and efficient.
When I left the summit there was a bit of lightning in the south, but the sky above me was completely clear. Humidity was low, but I was expecting the Bise, which is a cold dry wind from the northeast, to bring some cumulus clouds later in the day. Having absorbed the beauty of the surroundings, I began the long rappel to the rocky towers of the Dames Anglaises. Down there I was back in the shade, which immediately felt chilly. Bit by bit, I rappelled all sixteen pitches. I had to improvise occasionally, as the pitches were 50 meters long. With a single 60-meter rope, I could only rappel 30 meters at a time. I set up my own belays, which were not always foolproof. I had adjusted my entire rappelling system to the 6-millimeter cord I used to save weight. Using such a thin rope requires a special rappelling device with sufficient braking resistance, otherwise you gather too much speed or get hot fingers. I was using an old Petzl Reversino. This small and light rappelling device was no longer available on the market but still worked perfectly well. It is not really suitable for normal ropes, but it was ideal for my purpose. I had also adjusted my safety system using a Prusik loop, which had a diameter of only 4 millimeters and was also attached to the cord. My rappelling system looked more like a children’s toy than a safety device, but it worked fine and weighed next to nothing.
A broken gully led me to a traverse marking the start of the descent to the Schneider Couloir, which I followed to climb back up to the Craveri Bivouac. The rock was pretty brittle here, and I felt much more comfortable climbing such classic alpine terrain on my own. A roped party would not have been able to secure this route sufficiently, and with more people on the route the danger of falling rocks is a lot higher. I did not have to take care of anyone and could climb at my own speed and my own rhythm. This day it was just me and the mountain, nothing else. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
Just below the Pointe Gugliermina, I heard voices. A roped party was climbing above me. When I overtook them, the second roped party of the day, I stayed well clear of the two climbers so I would not endanger them if I kicked off any rocks. They were going at their own speed, the right speed for them.
I stopped to fill my water bottles. The sun was shining, and the ice and snow were melting, which provided me with enough water. I could drink to my heart’s content and not run the risk of dehydrating on this long route. I continued up through a wide gully. As anticipated, a few clouds had formed by now. It got colder, but I was still well away from the cloud cover.
On the southeast summit of the Aiguille Blanche, I put on my mountaineering boots and crampons. I was now moving on snow. The sharp ridge led to the Pointe Central, where I had to rappel again. After three rappels and one climbing section, I reached the Col de Peuterey. Thick clouds had now formed around me, and visibility was probably less than two meters. This made finding the traverse to the Grand Pilier d’Angle more difficult. I traversed back and forth three times to find a possible way to continue. It took me about thirty minutes before I decided to just give it a go. I did not have a choice, and I was feeling a bit tense. I only had a few pieces of hardware, and if I got lost I would end up in a dead-end situation pretty quickly. But I was lucky and reached the Grand Pilier d’Angle without any problems. At 4243 meters I was once again above the clouds, and the summit of Mont Blanc did not seem far away. Up here I found a few old tracks. They would have been very useful down at the Col de Peuterey!
I started to feel tired, which was not surprising since I had been on the move for quite some time. My gloves had been wet, and now at an elevation of more than 4000 meters they were frozen. I decided not to change into my spare gloves, though. I would put them on when I reached the summit in order to have dry gloves for the descent. Every once in a while I had to stop to warm my hands. As soon as blood flowed back into my fingers, I continued. Now I really appreciated the warmth of my mountaineering boots. In the run-up to this climb, I had contemplated doing the whole route in my running shoes, as this would have saved me a lot of weight. On the lower section on the Aiguille Noire, where I was wearing my climbing shoes, it would have been easier to have light running shoes instead of the heavy mountain boots in my backpack. But as expected, there was more ice than snow up here, and I would have had difficulties finding a good grip with the light crampons I have for my running shoes. And my mountaineering boots did not really weigh that much. They had been made to my specifications and were about 100 grams (3.5 ounces) lighter than the super-lightweight boots one can buy on the market. But no matter how good they were, they could not prevent my calves from burning when I put all my weight on my front points. I felt relieved when I reached the summit of Mont Blanc de Courmayeur at three in the afternoon. I was all by myself, there was not a breath of wind in the air, and I was above the clouds. It was sensational. I utterly enjoyed this moment, which was entirely mine. Having ascended so quickly, I was convinced that I would be able to get down to the valley the same day. Even though fatigue was slowly creeping in, I was still feeling strong. It was reassuring to know that I was fast. I did not have to rush and did not feel under pressure. It was already past 3:30 p.m. when I traversed across to Mont Blanc’s main summit and started my descent toward the Dôme du Goûter. The track along the normal route was well trodden, which allowed me to break into a jog on the downhill. Far below me I could see Chamonix. It was still very far. Around 3800 meters of elevation plus quite a distance on the route along the Dôme du Goûter separated me from my destination. I was not worried about it, but slowly I started to feel my thigh muscles as I jogged. On this terrain my running shoes with light crampons would have been much better—I would have been able to roll off my front foot more easily and use less energy—but one has to make compromises.
From the Vallot Hut the route flattened out, with only a small climb at the end leading toward the Dôme du Goûter. I passed another roped party. Both climbers seemed absolutely exhausted, and I asked them whether I could be of any help. They declined and said that they were simply tired. They’ll be fine, I thought, convinced that they would later be proud of their accomplishment. Beyond the Goûter Hut I was not sure where to continue, but it did not take too long to find the turnoff. The path led past the old hut. I was now below the snowline on a route fixed with chains and other safety equipment. It was fun running downhill even though my legs were getting increasingly tired. The valley floor came closer at a very slow rate. Below the Tête Rousse Hut, I came across a signpost. I was happy to see that the sign did not indicate the walking time, as I didn’t really want to know how far I still had to go. At Bellevue, another sign told me that it was still two hours and twenty minutes to get to Les Houches. It would have been perfect running ground, but it was almost impossible in my mountaineering boots.
I reached the church in Les Houches just after 8:00 p.m, a little over sixteen hours after I had bid goodbye to Matteo at the campsite in Val Veny. I contemplated having something to eat here, but even though I was ravenously hungry I decided to carry on. I wanted to get to my tent and my car in Les Bossons. I toyed with the idea of calling someone to come and pick me up, but as it was such a lovely evening I decided to walk back to Les Bossons.
About an hour later I sat next to my tent. Then I indulged in a hot shower and a carbohydrate drink before I finally lay down. My hunger had disappeared, and all I wanted to do was curl up in my sleeping bag. I sent Matteo a text message to let him know that I was all right and that I had arrived safe and sound in the other valley. I had had an amazing day. I finally fell asleep with a big smile on my face.
After this dress rehearsal for Annapurna, I felt well prepared for the autumn season. The Canadian climber Don Bowie would be my partner on this climb. Weather and conditions permitting, we wanted to scale the South Face, otherwise we would defer to the east ridge.
I had met Don five years previously, in 2008, when I was climbing Annapurna with Simon Anthamatten. Don had been part of Iñaki Ochoa de Olza’s expedition but had left before the ill-fated summit attempt due to disagreements within the team. He had gone back to Kathmandu, but when he heard about Iñaki’s distress, he had immediately returned to base camp by helicopter. Together with Denis Urubko he climbed up carrying a few bottles of oxygen while I was fighting for Iñaki’s life at 7400 meters. Unfortunately their ascent was hampered by deep snow, and they did not make it in time. Iñaki died before the oxygen could reach him.
A year later Don’s path and mine crossed again in Pakistan, where we were at the same base camp. Don was attempting Gasherbrum III, while Nicole and I were climbing Gasherbrum II. During long periods of bad weather we discovered that we shared a profound love of coffee.
In 2011 we climbed together for the first time. We started off on Shishapangma and then climbed Cho Oyu and Everest. My summit day on Cho Oyu was pretty bad, as I was suffering from diarrhea and had zero energy. At about 8000 meters I had more or less decided to turn back and give it another go the following day. At exactly that moment Don caught up with me and encouraged me to carry on to the summit. He just wouldn’t let me turn back. Even though he comes across a bit cool at times, he is a very sensitive guy who would do anything for a friend. He is pretty quiet, and I don’t know many people like him. We found that we had a mutual understanding that did not require any words. This is pretty crucial when on a big expedition where you spend months in cramped conditions and it is almost impossible to keep out of each other’s way. In addition, his training is very similar to mine. He very deliberately prepares himself for an expedition. He is big and strong, and at first glance he looks more like an athlete than a mountaineer. He had scaled K2, Gasherbrum I, and Cho Oyu, and he was familiar with high altitude and knew how his body reacted to it. I was convinced that if Don told me that he wanted to join my expedition to the South Face of Annapurna, then he was confident that he could do it.
In mid-September 2013 I traveled with photographer Dan Patitucci and his wife, Janine, via Doha to Kathmandu. We stayed at the small, no-frills Hotel Manaslu, which has inefficient service but a good price. It also has a pretty garden that is tended daily. At this time of year its flowers were a colorful explosion. Pierre Béghin and Jean-Christophe Lafaille had used the same hotel in 1992. In 2013 we stayed in Kathmandu only long enough to run all the necessary errands. I could not wait to get to the mountain. Finally Annapurna had become real again!
Kathmandu was quite familiar to me. I had been there so many times that it had almost lost the exotic character it had for me during my first visit. I always enjoyed going back there, and I liked that I now knew my way around the city. First and foremost, however, I had to deal with all the bureaucracy that comes with such an expedition. The meeting at the Ministry of Tourism was always a mere formality. For the officials involved it was mainly a money-making exercise. They always came up with new regulations and absurd permits requiring mountaineers to dig deeper into their pockets. I played along, paid my dues, and simply went climbing.
Don wanted to produce a documentary about Annapurna, and Jonah Mathewson was supposed to film it. Don, Jonah, and I, together with Dan and Janine, took a small plane to Pokhara, Nepal’s second-biggest city. Our cook, Kaji, had already taken most of our gear to base camp a week earlier and had pitched the tents and set up the kitchen. After one night in Pokhara, we took a minibus to Nayapul, where we transferred to a jeep taking us along the Modi Kola River to Kimche. With their newly constructed roads, the Nepali authorities had saved us a whole trekking day. One could argue about whether the road construction is a blessing or a curse. Of course, trekkers on the Annapurna Circuit would rather hike through untouched nature. On the other hand, you can’t blame the Nepalese for wanting to expand their road network. Just like us Westerners, they want to be more mobile. I did not object to having one less trekking day. I wanted to get to the mountain as quickly as possible. One less day of trekking meant one more day of climbing.
In oppressive heat we hiked to Ginu. We were going to stay the night there and visit the beautiful hot springs nearby. The forest was dense, and there was no sign of big mountains. The heat was almost unbearable, but despite the humidity, we still walked to the hot springs. Once we had immersed our bodies in the hot water, a thunderstorm arrived, the skies opened, and it poured down rain relentlessly. We had no intention of getting out of the water and walking back to the lodge in the downpour. The atmosphere was threatening, and it almost seemed we had reached the end of the world. It was dark, with a pitch-black sky, and the roaring Modi Kola thundered next to us. In the end we did not manage to sit out the rain; our empty stomachs drove us back to the lodge. When we got there we were absolutely soaked and had to change into dry clothes before sitting down for dinner.
The following morning I decided to go all the way to base camp. I could no longer wait to see the South Face, and it would also be good training to run a longish distance just before the expedition. The rest of the group would walk and get there a day later. I headed out with the team on September 21 but said farewell in Chomrong and started to run. It felt good. I ran up the valley through the forest without any difficulty, gaining 2900 meters of elevation and covering 21 kilometers to get to base camp. At midday I reached base camp after about six hours of running. The mountains were engulfed in thick clouds. Annapurna was hiding, but it was still good to have arrived.
I was excited to see Kaji again. We had not met for more than a year, and I was looking forward to having a cup of sweet, milky Nepali tea with him. We had been through a lot together. He had been part of my very first expedition in 2005, when I was doing the so-called Khumbu Express. I will never forget when he came up to meet me on top of the Cho La Pass. I had soloed the North Face of Cholatse and descended into another valley, which meant that I needed to climb up the 5400-meter Cho La to get back. It was the third day of my expedition, I had long ago run out of provisions, and I was starving and absolutely exhausted. At the foot of the pass, I asked a trekker if he could give me something to eat, and he told me he did not have anything to spare. Maybe he would have softened had I told him where I was coming from and how long I had been on the go, but I let it be. Another trekker was kind enough to give me a chocolate bar, which I devoured just before I started the ascent. Had I only known that there was a lodge an hour’s walk in the other direction, I would have gone there. But then I would have missed that unforgettable moment on the pass, when Kaji suddenly appeared, handing me cookies and a big thermos of tea. These were the most delicious cookies and the best tea in my life! This had been eight years ago, and since that time Kaji had brought me tea and cookies on many occasions. He had always looked out for me and seemed to know exactly when I was coming back. He always made sure to be there and to give me tea and cookies. Kaji had become a sort of symbol for me: whenever I spotted him, I was on the summit. I had reached my goal.
Annapurna base camp was on grassy ground. That fall of 2013, Kaji had set it up right behind the lodges and not on the other side of the moraine as in previous years. Logistically this was easier and, as it turned out, was closer to the start of the climb. At base camp we were using new tents that were big enough to stand up in. I’d had them made in Nepal the previous year. They were yellow, and our camp looked like an Asterix and Obelix comic with the mess tent, the kitchen tent, and the three sleeping tents all lined up. We even had the luxury of having camping beds rather than sleeping mats on the ground. Dendi, the owner of the trekking agency, had come up with this. I had no clue where he had found the beds, but I did not complain. The mess tent was equipped with a heater, but it was too warm to use it. As the days were getting increasingly colder, though, it would be useful before long. The days were short in the fall, and it got dark pretty early. With no electric lights or heater, the nights become unbearably long since everyone crawls into their sleeping bags as soon as the sun goes down. Over the years I have learned that climbers should be allowed some luxury. It is certainly good for our motivation.
At the crack of dawn the following day, I left base camp for advanced base camp. We had planned to set it up at the foot of the South Face at about 5000 meters, which was about an hour and a half below the start of the climb. I took a few bamboo rods to mark the route and followed the same way I had taken in previous years. I crossed the glacier and stepped onto the moraine and the grassy slopes on the other side. Then I walked past the old base camp and descended back onto the glacier. With rope and the few ice screws I had taken, I wanted to fix the icefall for everyone to go up and down independently, without having to rely on another person.
The icefall was in pretty dire condition that year. I spent a lot of time finding a good route, which was important since we would use it many times on this expedition. It was definitely worth investing time and effort to fix a good route. When it had gotten quite late, I stopped halfway through the icefall to return to base camp. The first day had been very productive. I felt a lot calmer, and the South Face looked magnificent. Back at camp Kaji informed me that the glacier had changed so much that it was no longer necessary to make the detour on the right side of the moraine: it was now possible to go through the center. He could have told me in the morning! I had spent all day wondering why there were markings in the middle of the glacier.
In the meantime the others had arrived. Don, Jonah, Dan, and Janine were busy settling into their tents while I was already on the mountain in my thoughts. I wanted to set up advanced base camp as quickly as possible in order to be ready for the climb. It was important for Don and me to make use of any stretch of good weather and get onto the face as soon as possible. The following day I rested and sorted our gear. I was trying to establish what should go up immediately and what could remain below. The next day I climbed up again, this time taking the route through the center moraine, just as Kaji had told me. It was certainly a lot better. In the upper section of the icefall, I took quite some time to fix the rope on the steep sections. I was able to find a pretty good and safe way through the crevasses. Out of curiosity I continued to advanced base camp to find out how much snow there was. I was pleasantly surprised that there was none at all. Fantastic! It would be a comfortable camp, and I had already done the first section of the climb.
The following day we prepared everything: rope, equipment, food. It was crucial to have enough provisions at advanced base camp to allow us to stay there for a while. This was a tactical decision. After having been on so many expeditions, I had gotten to know myself pretty well, and I knew that if I didn’t have enough provisions, at advanced base camp, I would rather go down to base camp and spend less time acclimatizing at 5000 meters. At 4200 meters our base camp was relatively low, which was good for recovery but not high enough for acclimatizing properly so I really wanted to spend a few nights at our advanced base camp. It was in a beautiful spot, right below the glacier. The view was even more stunning than from base camp. Here we were surrounded by steep, imposing faces. At the moment, though, all the gear still had to be carried up from base camp. We had just started, but my thoughts were already a step ahead, as was often the case. I felt very optimistic. I was focused and busy, and my gut feeling was that it would work out this time around.
Don needed some more time for acclimatization. I stayed at base camp for a few nights and used the days to carry our gear up to advanced base camp. The team spirit was great, and everyone lent a hand. Our Sherpas Nima and Tenji helped us set up advanced base camp and carry loads. Dan, the photographer, offered to carry up another load with me. It turned out to be a long and exhausting day for him. He was not properly acclimatized, and we took a long time for the descent. It was getting dark when we approached base camp, and the last section was a small climb back up the moraine. Even though it was only 100 meters, this felt endless after such a hard day. Kaji’s dinner, which alternated between pasta and French fries with vegetables, tasted even more delicious after such a day.
The following day I returned to advanced base camp and stayed a night. Spending this first night at 5000 meters got me even more excited. I had only been here for five days and was already a step closer to my goal. Don was planning to come up the next day. For dinner I prepared my new favorite mountain meal, the traditional Swiss rösti. Together with some onion and Parmesan cheese, the readymade potatoes turned out to be a true gourmet dinner. Not particularly light to carry but absolutely worth the effort! At this altitude, I could afford to carry a bit more weight, and good food was essential. I had also brought a comfortable double-walled tent. It got dark pretty early, and before long I crawled into my sleeping bag. I tried to read a few pages, but concentrating was difficult, and I soon fell asleep. On expeditions I have a lot of time to sleep, which I absolutely love. I adapt to nature, which means that once it gets light I get up, and when it gets dark I withdraw into my tent. It’s as simple as that.
The next day was beautiful, with the sun already warming me in the early morning hours. After coffee and a bite to eat, I headed out toward the start of the climb carrying a few bamboo sticks. I pretty much knew the way but had no idea how much the glacier had changed. I started out following my route of 2007 and 2008, which headed straight out of the camp and then veered left over some scree. I came across a few old way markers and cairns pointing to the glacier. I walked slowly, step by step: there was no pressure. Today was just about finding a good route and putting in markers. Once on the glacier I tried to spot the most direct path through the crevasses. I marked the dangers with two bamboo sticks each, one on each side of the crevasse. Two sticks relatively close together indicated danger. Without gaining much height I traversed to the right until I reached the center of the glacier. From there I thought it would be possible to climb up to the bergschrund. Here the glacier was not as rugged and had fewer crevasses, but higher up I spotted a huge crevasse. It had been there in 2008, and I remembered going around it to the right. I turned right and found that the rest of the way to the bergschrund was free of crevasses. Suddenly I found myself standing below the start of the climb. A steep snowy flank reached all the way up to a small rock barrier, and I looked for a good place to climb it. Five years earlier the glacier had reached all the way to the face, but now a 20-meter band of rock was exposed that we would need to negotiate. Fortunately I had brought a 5-millimeter cord to fix this steep section, which would later allow us to easily climb it fairly quickly. The hot sun was beating down, and water was running down the rock. I found it hard to motivate myself to tackle this section. The rock looked steep and wet, and the idea of taking a shower up here at 5650 meters was not appealing, but I set out regardless. The rock was almost vertical, but there were good holds for hands and feet. Despite the shower, it was actually fun to do some rock climbing again. I first climbed over a small pillar that ended in a dihedral, where the rock leaned back and flattened out somewhat. Now the climbing felt less exhausting. The last 2 meters were almost vertical before I traversed to the left.
I reached the upper edge of the rocky step, where it was a lot flatter. I actually managed to walk upright. After a while I found a solid rock, which I used as an anchor. I put a sling around it, fed the rope through, looked around for a while, and then started to rappel. I felt happy and content. I’d had a good day: I had reached a new high point, and at 5650 meters I was feeling great and did not have the slightest sign of a headache. The way to the wall had been opened. Lower down I set up another fixed point. I jammed a bolt into a crack just above the small pillar, attached a carabiner, and clipped the rope through. From there I rappelled straight down to the snowfield. Then I retraced my steps across the glacier and was back at advanced base camp before I knew it.
Step by step, I was getting closer to Annapurna. The time I spent on the mountain gave me the opportunity to familiarize myself with it. Slowly but surely, we established a sort of friendship. The face became more structured, and I could see what to expect. Everything became more tangible: the rock, the snow, and the distances. Everything about the South Face of Annapurna used to be based on assumptions, but now it had become real.
The following day was a rest day. Don had arrived the previous evening. The weather was still brilliant, and I found it hard to sit still. I was full of energy, but we were forced to remain at advanced base camp for a couple of days to get our bodies acclimatized. We enjoyed hanging out at the base of the South Face of Annapurna, just the two of us. It was sensational: The weather was holding, and the temperatures were incredibly warm. I was already convinced that climbing in the Himalaya in the fall was, overall, better than in the spring.
After my fourth night at 5000 meters, we decided to climb higher. Don and I set out leisurely in the morning. We did not have too many plans for the day but intended to set up a camp at around 6000 meters that would serve as a good point from which to advance farther on the face. Béghin and Lafaille had put their first camp somewhere up there, and it seemed that there was a protected spot on a rocky ledge. We followed the marked way to the start of the climb, and despite our heavy backpacks we were able to negotiate the ledge relatively easily and continue to climb without a rope. I was in front, and Don was a short distance behind me. Every once in a while I waited for him, and then we took a few pictures and continued up on firm snow.
At about 6100 meters at the left on top of the rocks, we found an ideal spot for a camp. It was a real eagle’s nest and required some work. Digging out a platform and flattening the ground with rocks and snow, we both felt quite cheerful and relaxed. In addition to a lightweight tent, I had brought its vestibule, which added another 400 grams (14 ounces) to my load but would afford a lot more space. It was better to cook in the vestibule rather than inside the tent, where condensation is always a problem. As the temperature difference between outside and inside is much greater with a single-walled tent, condensation forms, making the tent and everything inside it damp. During the night, the condensation freezes, and if you are not careful when you stretch in the morning, it covers you in small snow crystals.
We used the rest of the fixed rope, which we had found at our campsite, to anchor the tent and make it stormproof. I was surprised to find relatively new and good ropes up here, and Don mentioned a Japanese expedition that had been here recently. I had not heard anything about it. In the late afternoon, when the sun had gone down and cool air had moved in, we were already tucked up in our sleeping bags. Such moments in the mountains are special. We were at 6100 meters on the South Face of Annapurna, and night was falling. The stars were shining brightly, far more brightly than back home. I felt much closer to the sky, and the stars seemed more tangible than in the Alps. We fell asleep early. The night was long, but I slept soundly.
In the dim light of dawn, I carefully stuck my nose out of my sleeping bag. It was cold and damp, and I could hardly bring myself to get up. I was dying for coffee, however, and I finally started melting some snow. Don had brought packets of Starbucks instant coffee from the States. This tastes like the real deal and is a treat for your taste buds at high camp. Don and I were in agreement: There is nothing better than a cup of coffee in the morning.
After breakfast I got restless and needed to move. I wanted to climb a little bit higher to have a look at the conditions on the face, while Don would stay at camp. He had not slept well and was complaining about a headache. It was warm as I climbed the rocky ledge right behind our tent. I knew from Lafaille’s book that he and Béghin had fixed some rope here in 1992. The climb was steep, but it was going pretty smoothly, even though the snow cover turned out to be thin and soft. When it got too soft, I wiped the snow from the rock to find a grip underneath. I had to be careful where I put my feet. It was different from lower down, where I always found a good place for my feet in firm snow and ice. Around noon some clouds moved in, reducing visibility at times, but they offered a welcome break from the scorching sun that had been beating down all morning. In the clouds it was gray and bright at the same time. I climbed to almost 6600 meters. The incline of the upper part of the wall up to the rock band looked about 50 to 60 degrees on snow and ice and appeared relatively easy. It seemed that we ought to be able to climb the 2000 meters from advanced base camp to the rock band in a single day. This would get us pretty high already, leaving another 1000 meters to the summit. This was doable!
Feeling happy with my reconnaissance, I turned back. Fortunately I could down-climb the steeper sections. Placing an anchor for a rappel would have been challenging: The layers in the rock were not optimal and the warm sunlight had made the ice too soft to place a screw.
When I returned Don was inside the tent. We spent another night at 6100 meters, and Don was more comfortable than on the first night. The following morning he felt fine, but the weather had turned bad, and we decided to descend to base camp. Having spent two nights at this altitude was already pretty good. I had reached 6600 meters, which meant that I should now be pretty well acclimatized. In fact, I was probably acclimatized enough to attempt the summit. On Everest in the spring I had climbed up the West Shoulder to 7500 meters after five nights at Base Camp and one night at 6400 meters. Now I had already spent more nights up high than in the spring. This thought was comforting since it made me realize that we could actually start for the summit with the next weather window.
We left the tent, the remaining food, and the rope at a well-protected depot, which we anchored solidly to make sure we would not lose our gear in the next big storm. Going down was easy. We ate some food at advanced base camp and then carried on to base camp. Now we could enjoy full dining service again! The weather worsened, and it started to rain. Perfect timing. We were back down, and it was my birthday.
Frenchmen Yannick Graziani and Stéphane Benoist were also back at base camp. We had run into them in Kathmandu, and I had known both Yannick and Stéphane for quite some time. They had decided pretty late in the season to also attempt the South Face of Annapurna. We wanted to share a permit, but this was far too spontaneous for the Nepalese authorities. They would not have conceded even if we had offered to pay them, but this did not stop the pair from coming, and I was happy to see them. They followed a different acclimatization rotation since they did not have a permit for Annapurna. They had spent a few days in a side valley and climbed to 6000 meters from there. Now they wanted to rest and sit out the bad weather. We could have teamed up with them, but they were not sure which route they were going to tackle. Stéphane wanted to attempt a new route to the central summit, while Yannick wanted to be more spontaneous and flexible. I had the feeling, though, that he had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to climb.
The weather was miserable, but it did not worry me in the slightest. It was probably good to rest for a few days. I had been on the move nonstop since our arrival. For my birthday we went out for dinner, walking over to the lodge. Yannick ordered a huge amount of food, and I was surprised in the end that everything got eaten. This fine feast was crowned with a piece of Kaji’s birthday cake, and after watching an episode of Game of Thrones on the computer we all fell into a deep and happy sleep.
Two days later, on October 6, Yannick, Stéphane, and I went back to our advanced base camp. Don decided to catch up with us later since he did not want to walk in the rain and preferred to wait for the weather to clear. As it had snowed higher up, we decided to stay at advanced base camp for another day and see how the face would react to the fresh snow. The following day was beautiful. The sun was beating down, which gave the fresh snow the chance to either settle or slide down the face. It felt almost excruciatingly hot, and we were basking in the sun in our T-shirts at 5000 meters. It was almost impossible to get away from the heat. It was boiling inside the tent and unbearably bright outside. The sun was working hard to clear the snow from the face, and huge avalanches started to thunder down it. The wind was also working hard: we could see huge plumes of snow coming off the ridges. The face was getting a spring cleaning in the fall, with the wind sweeping off everything that was not glued to the rock.
Our weather report from Meteotest in Switzerland forecast brilliant weather for the following three days. We double-checked with Yannick and Stéphane, who received their weather reports from Yannick Giezendanner in Chamonix, and they agreed. Don and I wanted to see how high we would get on the face and thought that if things were going smoothly we might even attempt the summit. I had thought about it carefully, with all day to ponder it. On Everest in the spring I had climbed up to 7500 meters on the sixth day of the expedition. We had now been on Annapurna for eighteen days. I was convinced that we could make it in three days. With our acclimatization, I thought, we ought to be able to reach 6900 meters on the first day, and from there it ought to be possible to get to the summit and back in two days.
This, however, required us to climb more or less without a rope and without any safety gear up to 6900 meters. The route to the rock band was not that steep, maybe less than I’d judged earlier, mostly ice at about 45 to 55 degrees, intercepted by some steeper sections of about 70 to 80 degrees. Such an incline did not necessarily require a rope. We could rope up and put in protection on the steep section beyond the first high camp, which I had already climbed. The good thing was that we were not under pressure. We’d see how we would get on. If it did not work out, we would at least be well acclimatized for our next attempt. I was also aware that my threshold for climbing without a rope was higher than Don’s. I had to be careful not to expect the same from him as I did from myself. It could be dangerous to put him under such pressure.
On October 8, early in the morning, Don and I headed for the South Face. Dan, who was in charge of taking photos, and Jonah, who was filming, joined us. The ascent to the bergschrund took a while since Dan and Jonah were not as well acclimatized as Don and I.
The weather was fine, but the wind had not abated. I was confident that everything was in place. I had never seen such perfect conditions on this mountain. Finally we had the chance to give it a proper go. I felt very optimistic and extremely motivated. Don, on the other hand, seemed tense. Once we had reached the bergschrund, Don told me out of the blue that he had decided not to continue. His gut feeling was that the terrain was technically too demanding for him to climb without a rope. His words sounded final and left no doubt about his decision. Even if I had been able to convince him to come along, it would not have been good. There was nothing to discuss, though. He was not coming, and that was it!
At first Don’s decision triggered a feeling of frustration in me. In my world, everything was perfect: the weather, the conditions, everything. Why didn’t he want to continue? But it quickly became clear to me that the terrain higher up looked different to his eyes than mine. I had to accept it. In my view, climbing this route required moving without a rope to the rock band. From there we would have roped up anyway to get over the headwall. Since I had climbed to 6600 meters, I was convinced that this section could be climbed without a rope. Don and I had discussed this at base camp, and he had agreed. Had we roped up on this terrain, it would have taken us ages to get to the bottom of the headwall. We would have been exhausted by the time the real technical climbing started. Additionally, the extra nights up high would have had a negative effect on our bodies. Between 6500 and 7000 meters, even bivouacking sucks the energy out of you.
Although I had climbed with Don before, I had probably overestimated his willingness to climb a technical route without a rope. We had never done a real technical climb together. Because Don had been on Annapurna before, I had assumed that he would be able to gauge the intricacies of the South Face and that he would be confident enough to climb it. After all, he had agreed to come. I guess I must have been naïve and expected him to climb at my level. On the other hand, I really appreciated Don’s honesty and the fact that he put a stop to his expedition before he got into trouble. It was right that he had heeded his gut feeling and hadn’t put himself into a situation he was unable to handle just to please me. Such an expedition was mentally demanding. It was important for teammates to support each other with positive thoughts and not get each other down by thinking negatively.
But what was I supposed to do now? Carry on alone? Or join the others and go down? I had not been prepared for such a situation, even though I had soloed the face before. On this day I had expected to climb as a team. I was still hanging on to the thought that our plan could work and that we still had a good chance to reach the summit together. Thinking about routes I had soloed before, the psychological threshold of at least having a look at the face was not that high. “I am going to have a look,” I said to Don, Dan, and Jonah. I was totally aware that I had to set off immediately, that otherwise it would have been difficult to let them go. I knew myself well, and I knew that I had to say good-bye. I had to follow my own path and forget everything around me. I had experienced this on my other solo climbs. If I did not manage to step into my own world, it would not work. I would sit at base camp in brilliant weather and be annoyed with myself that I was not somewhere on the mountain. Letting such precious days go by without achieving anything in the Himalaya is a luxury that a mountaineer like me cannot afford.
I did not get into a discussion with the others. There were gazillions of reasons for not soloing the South Face of Annapurna. I had fallen here before, and I had been lucky to survive. But this was not the moment to question myself and my abilities. I had to decide for myself what I wanted to do. I wanted to make the most of this beautiful day and go climbing, no matter where and how high. I wanted to climb, not sit around, and so I followed my heart.
When I crossed the bergschrund, I had no idea how I would proceed. Several scenarios buzzed around in my head. One was to spend three days on the face and get better acclimatized and then maybe join Yannick and Stéphane. At the time, they were still intending to tackle the Japanese pillar, and since they were good friends of mine I was sure they would let me tag along. Or maybe Don would change his mind and decide to give it a go in these perfect conditions after all. Maybe he had only slept badly and was too nervous. I did not want to put any pressure on myself, and I consciously started to relax.
After I had climbed for about an hour, I knew that I would not stay at Camp 1 at 6100 meters. The weather was far too good and the conditions too ideal to spend the day in a tiny tent. I would continue but leave there all the gear I had taken for Don and me for three days. My plan was to carry only a light pack and climb as high as possible. I could also climb the snowy and icy sections during the night, which would keep me moving when it was cold and save me carrying heavy gear, such as a sleeping bag and warm clothing. With this tactic, I would rest during the day, when it was sunny and warm. In the worst-case scenario, I would have to descend if I got stuck on terrain that was too technical. Leaving the provisions at Camp 1 gave me a backup, as I could always come back here and find food, propane, and a sleeping bag. All of a sudden it was clear to me: I had to go and have a look at what was possible.
At the beginning it is never easy to put your mind to soloing, especially when you have not been prepared for it. I usually plan everything meticulously prior to an expedition. I know every move and what I need to do. On Annapurna, however, I was not quite sure whether I was carrying the right gear. It all happened a bit too quickly, and I did not have the opportunity to think everything through carefully. I was forced to rely on my long years of experience. The pristine conditions helped me to quickly concentrate on the climbing.
It was distinctly colder than it had been the last time I had been here. According to the weather forecast, the wind would remain strong for the rest of the day and abate during the night. The following day was forecast to be calm, and three dry days were predicted. Clouds would gather by day, with no precipitation. Wetter weather was supposed to move in afterward. It was still too early to be more precise, but the forecast showed no storm brewing. The only worry left was the strong wind still blowing on the summit.
It was not far to Camp 1, where Don and I had left a stove, some food and propane, and a rope. I put the tent and stove into my backpack. Even though I was planning to keep moving all the time, I wanted to have the tent in case I had to sit out the wind somewhere. I left the rope behind since I had taken a 6-millimeter cord from advanced base camp. Wanting to save weight, I did not take my sleeping bag and tied it to an anchor together with the remaining gas, food, and the rope. I emptied my pack of everything that was not needed for climbing. I packed my down jacket for the night, but otherwise I was pretty economical with my clothing. I wore only a stretch overall, a pair of hard-shell pants, a fleece hoodie, and a thin PrimaLoft jacket. I carried one pair of double-layered gloves for climbing and one pair of thick down mittens. I even removed the hip belt and the carrier system of the backpack. Every gram counted.
After having repacked everything, my backpack was almost empty, and the difference was remarkable. I had reduced the weight from about fourteen pounds, which was already pretty light, to seven or eight pounds. It felt good.
The steep section beyond Camp 1 was covered in a lot more snow than when I had come here during my acclimatization rotation. Then the rock was bare, but now everything was covered in a frozen layer of snow, and the sunlight was not strong enough to soften it. I had no trouble getting up it, and I was convinced that down-climbing this section would not be a problem in these conditions.
The ascent was magical, almost surreal. A climber could not have wished for better conditions, but I restrained myself and moved at a moderate pace to avoid overdoing it. Once muscles accumulate lactic acid up here, the body isn’t able to get rid of it, and above 7000 meters that slows you down significantly. I had to save my strength since I wanted to climb through the night or at least until the sun was on the face again. I was prepared to climb nonstop for twenty-four hours.
I was oblivious to my surroundings. Climbing was the only thing that mattered. I was in my own little world: there was nothing but the mountain and me. I lived for the moment and dug my ice axe deeply into the solid snow. It stuck, which gave me confidence. When I thrust my right axe into the snow, it hit hard ground. Using less force, I tried again a bit farther to the right, where the snow was firmer. It was safe. I let my feet follow and swung the axe again. This was my world. These were my thoughts, my actions. Ice axes and crampons were the only things on my mind.
The ascent up to the headwall turned out to be pretty straightforward. The slope had an incline of about 40 to 50 degrees, which allowed me to walk on all fours. I felt comfortable on such terrain. Most of the time I was relying on my crampons and using my ice axes only as support. Up to about 6600 meters, wind and the occasional spindrift were my only companions. These small snow avalanches triggered by the wind are usually pretty harmless, but if they carry too much snow they can throw a climber off balance. I climbed to just below the headwall at 7000 meters, where I wanted to pitch my tent and wait for the wind to abate. If it did, I would continue. If it did not, I would descend. The thought of spending a night in a tent without a sleeping bag was horrible—that was not what I had planned for.
Just below the rock band I found a spot that at first seemed suitable for my purpose. I didn’t need much space but wanted to be able to sit. Suddenly I spotted a small pillar above me on the right. Being in quite a protected spot, it looked like a good place to wait without exposing myself to possible avalanches. I climbed about 100 meters to get closer to the top of the pillar, which involved negotiating a rocky section. Nothing very difficult, just necessary in order to get back into the snow. When I reached the head of the pillar, I realized that it was far from suitable for pitching my tent: It was sloping and covered in ice. I tried to chop out a ledge, but it was hopeless. After having scraped off about 10 centimeters of hard snow, I hit thick blue ice, which meant that I would not be able to build a platform in reasonable time. Hoping to find a better campsite lower down, I descended. This situation was disheartening. Was this already the end of my jaunt? Did I have to go back to Camp 1? The wind was still howling higher up, and it was too dangerous to continue.
Before I started my descent I wanted to take a photo of the rock band. I had never been so high on the face before, and from here I got a good look at the headwall. As I stood slightly to the side of the route, I could see the structure and the profile of the face much better than I would have from up closer. A photo of the wall would make it easier to find it again in the dark.
I thrust my two ice axes deeply into the hard snow. With my crampons I tried to flatten the ground some to stand more comfortably. Balancing at about 1500 meters above the bergschrund, I took off my mitten and hung it carefully over one of my axes. The camera was attached to my harness, but its cord was too short to allow me to take a photo. I unhooked it from the loop and pressed the shutter button. To be on the safe side, I wanted to take a second photo, but before I had a chance to press the shutter button again, I was hit by something coming from above. I immediately grabbed my ice axes, waited, and hoped that it would be over soon. Snow was crashing down on me: I was being attacked by a huge spindrift. I could feel the pressure build between the rock face and my body, and I was struggling to keep my balance. Finally the pressure eased. I was prepared for more, my whole body shaking in anticipation, but nothing else happened.
That was a close call! But it was over now; the snow had stopped pouring down on me. Both my mitten and my camera had disappeared into the abyss. I was annoyed and relieved at the same time. I was still on the face but had escaped a fall by a whisker. I wanted to get away as quickly as possible. The next mega-spindrift could hit me at any time.
I was now left with one down mitten and my two-layered climbing gloves. This could be a problem. Again I wondered whether the time had come to go down. Had Don’s intuition been good? But I had been climbing without my down mittens all day and had only just put them on. It ought to be possible for me to continue without them. The terrain was getting steeper, and I had brought my gloves especially for the headwall. If it got too cold I would have to descend, but for the time being I could continue. The mitten would have just been an excuse. I stayed calm and tried to analyze the situation. Now that I did not have a camera, I did not have a good picture of the route, but that was not really decisive either. I had only one down mitten left, but I had not fallen. Now I had to act immediately to find a protected spot.
Before I descended I took the time to have another look at the face. From my position the conditions looked perfect. I could see a white line winding its way through the snow-covered rock. I had not seen this in 2007 or in 2008, but that had been in spring. I wondered whether the snow up there was hard or soft. The fact that the wind had been blowing hard for a few days gave me confidence since it would have blown off any snow that had not been solidly frozen to the rock. In order to find out whether I could follow that line of ice and snow, I needed to climb higher to take stock.
At this moment I realized how much risk I was prepared to take and how high I had already climbed up on the face. It did not really matter now whether I carried on or turned back. I had accepted the risk. It occurred to me that I might not come back from the face. Suddenly there was no longer an afterward. The spindrift had flicked a switch inside me, and I was now prepared to give everything.
This attitude was selfish, but at the time and place it was fine for me. I did not need to discuss this with anyone. I did what felt right for me and did not have to justify my actions. I was prepared to take the risk, no matter what happened. It was just Annapurna and me. The rules were clear. I had no fear, and I did not mind being exposed in the middle of the face. I could neither win nor lose. No matter what happened, I had accepted the situation.
I climbed down the pillar, hoping I would find a suitable spot to wait for the wind to die down. I was no longer worried about the spindrift but was now completely focused again on my ice axes and crampons. I needed to feel whether my crampons could find a good grip underneath me. When I reached the short rocky section, I carefully lowered my right foot and put it on a small ledge. I started putting weight onto my front points and slowly put all of my weight onto this foot. I stretched my arms out and put my left foot next to my right. I let my ice axes follow the movement and brought them down to shoulder height. I placed the two blades on top of a small ledge and consciously pulled down on them. Then I stretched my arms again, and again lowered one foot after the other. This footstep was a bit bigger. All the front points of my crampons were on the rock. I put weight on them again and moved the ice axes down. Five such moves took me back to the snow, where I could walk upright with my axes and climb down step by step more easily.
A hundred meters below I found a crevasse, which turned out to be the perfect bivouac spot. I was able to pitch my tent inside it and was protected from the wind and spindrifts. I felt annoyed that I had not seen the crevasse during my ascent. It would have saved me a lot of hassle! I had climbed up right beside it without noticing it, but it had been completely covered in snow. When climbing down, having nearly fallen into it, I felt like a blind hen finding a grain of corn. Now it was time to eat and drink as much water as possible, since I wanted to head out again as soon as the wind died down. Once the snow had melted, I drank the tepid water without waiting for it to boil. I managed to drink about one and a half liters in no time and was even able to fill my water bottle. A piece of cheese Don had given me at the base of the wall was a welcome change from the sweet energy bars I usually eat. It was cheddar, and being Swiss I am sure it tastes delicious only at 7000 meters.
The moment the sun disappeared from the face, the wind also calmed. We had observed the same phenomenon at advanced base camp the previous evening, and Stéphane had experienced it on Annapurna during an earlier attempt. He had explained to me that on some days the sun created a strong thermal that died down as soon as the face was in the shade. I had frequently felt upwind that day. It was extremely likely that wind and a thermal would come back once the sun hit the face in the morning. This meant the only way to the summit was to climb during the night, just like Swiss mountaineers Erhard Loretan and Jean Troillet had done in 1986 when they climbed up and down the North Face of Everest in forty-three hours.
I had two choices: up or down. Staying here in a bivouac with my limited gear was out of the question. I had only been here a very short time, but I was already getting cold and needed to move again. This could be the chance of a lifetime, and it needed 100 percent commitment. I was optimistic and rational at the same time, which was decisive. Such undertakings do not allow emotions. The only thing that works is to rationally focus on your actions. As soon as you allow your emotions to get in the way, you lose your nerve. And for one stricken by panic in this hostile environment, each step could be the last.
I started giving myself orders. I told myself that it was too early to give up. From earlier solo climbs I had found it useful to give myself commands. This let me believe that I was not making decisions for myself but for somebody else. I looked at myself from the outside and observed myself climbing. This person did the right thing, just like I told him to do.
So, up we go! The break had not been long. I left the tent and started out very slowly. Moving—plus the hot water bottle in my pocket—brought warmth back into my body. I had left everything at the bivouac: backpack, tent, and stove. I was only carrying the cord, which I had tied around my back, my water bottle, and a few bars of chocolate. I would climb as high as possible and would then descend to Camp 1. I allowed myself that freedom and did not put myself under pressure. This was my usual approach. When I felt that it was time to turn around, I did, no matter for what reason.
I was completely detached from the world below. There was nothing but climbing. No goal, no future, no past. I was climbing in the here and now. One swing of the ice axe after the other, one step after the other. I saw only my ice axes and how they penetrated the snow and ice. My view narrowed. There I was in the middle of this gigantic face with very limited equipment. I felt light but also extremely exposed. I knew that the tiniest mistake would mean certain death. However, I was not scared about making a mistake. I was still giving myself orders. I was controlling the person climbing the South Face of Annapurna. It was not me. If this person fell, it would not really be me.
The uninterrupted line of ice and snow crossing the rock band in combination with the light of my headlamp made it possible for me to find the way in the dark. I liked climbing at night. It made me concentrate. Only the next step counted. It could be the last, but I did not mind. I was not worried about routefinding or about not being able to climb the next section. I was living for the moment, and right now everything was fine: Conditions were perfect. Rock and ice were covered in hard snow, just like on the Eiger North Face in perfect winter conditions. Whenever possible, I switched off my headlamp to save battery power, although it should have had enough charge to last the whole night. I knew cold temperatures can sap battery power in no time.
I was climbing pretty far to the right. The lower part had a few steep, icy sections, but it was not hard blue ice. The ice was covered in a sheet of hard snow, and wherever the ice was uncovered it did not chip. I used my one-hit approach, aimed at hitting each axe blow just once, precisely. This increased my speed but required total concentration. As I pulled I had to consciously avoid moving the axe since the tip of the blade sometimes did not sink very deeply into the ice.
It was ideal terrain for a solo climb. As long as I could continue like this, I would be extremely efficient. At 7000 meters the air starts getting thin. This is where the so-called death zone begins, but one can still move around quite freely. I felt light and agile. I didn’t have a backpack and wore light clothing. Only the cold bothered me. I was worried about my hands.
The rock next to the ice was well structured. For a short section just below the snow band, the ice line got pretty narrow and steep—about 85 degrees. It was classic alpine ice climbing terrain, just like in Chamonix. The ice section ended just below vertical rock. Here I was able to move onto a small ramp on the right, where the ice line was even narrower but not too steep at about 70 degrees. I put my right crampon on a rocky ledge in order to move my center of gravity. I then moved my left ice axe to the right and found myself again in a perpendicular position. From here the ice track widened again slowly. The ice was smoother and more compact than lower down, where it was a lot more corroded, like hard snow.
A ramp led from the snowfield to the right, and I followed it. I reached another snowfield, where I climbed back toward the left and continued until the route went up more directly over a steep section. From what I had seen from below, I knew that I had to keep to the left and must not get too high. I found a traverse, which led me across to the left. And from here, I thought, the route ought to be clear. The hard snow cover was pretty thin in places, which made me aware of time. I had to be back here before the sun had a chance to soften this layer. Coming back here too late would be fatal, since down-climbing this section in soft snow would be impossible.
I was still making good progress. It was absolutely quiet, and I only heard my own movements, the crampons, the ice axes, and my breathing.
The headwall turned out to be shorter than I had anticipated. As I was not using a rope, it was difficult to say how many pitches it would have been. In the upper section I encountered classic North Face terrain: rocky, with a hard snow cover, and a lot flatter than lower down. I could immediately feel the change of the incline, as I could put most of my weight on my feet. I kept to the left for quite a while before I climbed straight up and then moved over to the right toward the snowy patch. From here the terrain got steeper and the snow cover thinner, so that I sometimes hit rock with my ice axe. Even though this was my favorite terrain, I could not get rid of the feeling that I had to work hard before I was rewarded with flatter terrain. My calves were burning. The route seemed endless. I had to be there soon! Finally the terrain got flatter. I had reached the end of the headwall, and the snow felt more compact here. I immediately felt less exposed. Above me in the dark there was a big white snowfield.
It was only here that it became clear to me where I was and what that meant. For a moment I allowed my thoughts to wander. I knew that from now on it would be a race against the sun and the wind. I could not afford to turn back too late. If the sun softened the layer of hard snow and ice, it would be my end. However, it was still early, and turning around for this reason would have been just an excuse. I did not check my watch, since this would have worried me. So far, I could see no light on the horizon. As the terrain was not too difficult, I could easily continue until dawn. I hoped the thermal winds would not be too strong in the morning.
My position was beginning to worry me. I was very high, very exposed, and I would have to down-climb with no gear whatsoever. Rappelling with a 60-meter rope, five bolts, and one ice screw was unrealistic. I switched to survival mode. For a brief moment, I was indecisive. I would have loved to turn back, but I kept on telling myself: “Keep on climbing.” The weather would hold. I had come so far, and now it would not really make a difference.
I ordered myself: “Continue!”
I calmed down a bit as I climbed. I had switched off my headlamp, and the sound of the crunching snow was somehow comforting. My right hand was getting cold, and I put the down mitten on, even though it was the wrong hand. It warmed up pretty quickly. I concentrated hard and found my rhythm again. Everything sorted itself out, and the thoughts disturbing my flow had disappeared. I was back in tune with my movements, blow by blow, step by step. The snow slope seemed endless, but up here it was not so steep anymore.
I crossed another steep rocky band before I reached flatter ground covered in hard snow. Here I stopped briefly to change the down mitten from my right hand to my left, and then I veered left. The terrain got steeper again. I climbed through a gully toward the black sky. Once again it felt steep. Was I too far to the left? Should I have kept more to the right? Even though I had an inkling that the terrain would have been better on the right, I continued through the steep gully to the summit ridge. This may not have been the best route, but it got me there. The last few meters were pretty exhausting.
Suddenly I was standing in the dark below a sky full of stars. The ridge ahead of me went down a ways. I followed it. It went up again and a little later down again. Everything seemed pretty flat up here. Finally I reached a third elevation. Was this the highest point? I could not see any higher point in front of me. The summit was obviously just a prominent point on the ridge, nothing spectacular. With my headlamp switched off I could see the ridge and the surroundings a bit better. The ridge led down until it got lost in the black night. Up here it was significantly colder and windier. As soon as I stopped I started to get cold. I had to move again.
Suddenly I felt that I had to go back down as quickly as possible. I did not feel triumphant or victorious about having reached the summit. I felt uncomfortable, nervous, and scared. I wanted to get away. I suddenly longed for the bergschrund. It was 1:00 a.m. I immediately started my descent. Would I be able to get down? After a short while, I stopped. It was difficult to see my tracks, but it was crucial not to lose them. In the hard snow and ice I could sometimes only make out the little dots made by my crampons. At first, higher up, I could descend facing forward, which was easier. As soon as I was in the gully, I climbed down backward following the traces of my ice axes. I hardly ever looked down. Whenever I lost my tracks, I stopped, looked left and right, and usually found my tracks about a meter next to me.
Lower down, where I had traversed to the left, I was able to climb down again facing forward, but once I had reached the small rock band I had to climb backward. As far as I could remember it was pretty straight down from here. I felt under control. It was certainly not the first time that I was down-climbing on difficult ground, but I still wanted to get down as quickly as possible. I expected to be able to down-climb most sections, but I knew exactly which sections I would have to rappel.
From the upper edge of the snowfield the terrain got steeper again. The snow cover was pretty thin here, and I had to do my first rappel of 30 meters on an Abalakov V-thread. I then down-climbed a few meters before setting up the next V-thread. For this I drilled two holes that interconnected at the end to form a V-like channel in the ice and threaded my rope through the channel. After three rappels combined with some down-climbing, I was back at the traverse, where I could down-climb without any problems. It all went pretty smoothly; I had found my rhythm again. The consistency of the hard snow was still ideal, and my ice axes had a good grip.
The headwall required eight rappels on V-threads. The other sections I could down-climb facing inward. In order to find hard blue ice for my V-threads, I had to move on pretty uncomfortable and steep ground. As I always used the entire rope length for my rappels, I made a knot at the end of the rope to prevent me from slipping off. I then switched into down-climbing mode again and slowly pulled the rope down. Once it had fallen down, I simply let it dangle and continued to climb. The knot in the rope was attached to my descender, which was a good way to prevent my losing it.
This rappelling technique felt right, and my tracks were pointing me in the right direction. I knew exactly what to expect. I did not have to worry about coming to a dead end. I just had to follow the little tracks. This ought to have been comforting, but I felt extremely tense. I tried to concentrate and focus, and I kept on telling myself that everything would be all right. I had again lost sense of time and just kept on climbing. I began feeling tired, and I had to force myself to thrust my crampons firmly into the hard snow. I was using my front points most of the time and swinging my ice axes into the ice with less force than before. They probably would have just pulled out had my feet slipped! At about 4:00 a.m. I reached my bivouac at the base of the headwall. I crawled into the crevasse and without even unstrapping my crampons, fell into my tent. Given the circumstances, I did not care if I ripped holes in the fabric. I melted snow and drank. I knew that it shouldn’t take me very long to get down from here, but I still filled my bottle with water. I had already done the steepest sections of the climb. Day would break soon, and then I would be able to see properly again. While I was putting everything into my backpack, I felt something hard in the outer pocket. Maybe something to eat that I had forgotten about? No, it was my satellite phone. I had been sure that I had left it in the camp at 6100 meters. I continued to pack, and for the first time I thought about down below, the future, and things other than just climbing. There was another world out there. It was a tricky moment. My emotions set in, and I no longer wanted to be up there. I wanted to get down as quickly as possible. But first I wrote a text message to Don. Had the others been worried about me? I had only been thinking about myself the whole time. I almost made a big mistake and let my emotions surge. I pulled myself together and consciously suppressed them. They could be fatal in situations like this. But the cat was out of the bag, and all of a sudden I was scared of falling and dying. Until that moment I had suppressed this. Fear had emerged only on very few occasions. But now the world had changed. I could see a future again.
When I got back on my feet, my calves were as hard as rock, with occasional stabbing pain shooting through them. But I was able to concentrate again, knowing very well that every step could be my last. I was still in the middle of the South Face of Annapurna. Dawn was slowly breaking toward the east, and I was hoping that the wind would not immediately pick up again. I was absorbed in trying to feel my feet with every step. Since I could not see them, I had to sense whether I had put them in the right place or not. The ice axes were only there for support. I was relying 100 percent on my feet. Now I had reentered the world of the mountain and me, and I was focused on every single step. I registered every sound and was as tense as a spring. If I slipped or another mini avalanche came down on me, I would have to react immediately. Everything around me was still frozen hard.
After having negotiated the last steep section, I could finally turn around and face down. What a relief! I down-climbed a rib that led to our depot camp. Apathetically I packed all the gear I had left there and carried on. My pack was now significantly heavier. For a split second I thought of simply throwing it down the mountain. At that moment the pack was a burden, and I just wanted to get rid of the heavy load on my back. I felt relieved when I reached the bergschrund and found the thin cord I had fixed to the rocky ledge with which to rappel. This was the door leading me back into the real world.
Finally I was off the face. I let my eyes wander across the glacier to see whether my friends were coming up. They must have seen me descending. But I couldn’t see anybody, and I just kept on walking. It felt like being in a movie that keeps on running even after everyone stops watching it. Everything seemed to happen automatically. I wasn’t in pain, and I barely noticed anything apart from the fact that my vision was blurred. Sweat was running into my eyes.
I traversed the glacier toward the moraine on the right. When I came around a corner, suddenly Tenji was in front of me, just like that. Out of the blue. I was so happy to see him!
We looked at each other.
“Summit?” he asked.
“Yes, summit,” I responded.
That was all I could say. I was in a different world again, and Tenji seemed like an angel. If anything went wrong now, there would be someone to help me. It was no longer my sole responsibility. Tenji opened his bag and retrieved a Coke and an apple. When we climbed Everest together in 2012, I had carried a liter and a half of Coke up to the South Col. On summit day, we lived off Coke. He had remembered that as well as the fact that I could eat tons of apples.
We didn’t talk much. I had nothing to say. I was still in a trance, and everything seemed to bounce off me.
Soon afterward, Don, Dan, and Janine arrived. They congratulated me and took pictures of me. Life carried on.
My apathy turned into nervousness, however, and I wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I felt scared. There were all these people around me, and I did not know what to tell them. I knew them, but at the same time they seemed like strangers. My eyes were burning from the sweat that was trickling down my forehead.
It had been twenty-eight hours since I’d left advanced base camp. I had been completely exposed and left to my own devices. Every single move had needed to be perfect. It was over now, but my body was still full of adrenaline. My head was empty, and I felt like an alien. Everything seemed out of context, and I was just tagging along. We got back to advanced base camp in no time.
On October 9 at 9:30 a.m., back at advanced base camp, I called Nicole. There was a moment of silence after I told her that I had climbed the face alone, but at the same time I knew she was relieved that everything had gone well and that I had come back safe and sound. The conversation did not last long. It was always difficult to talk in these moments. Back home Nicole was in a completely different world and was busy with her job. We needed to be patient and wait for me to get home to talk properly. We were both used to the distance that gets between us during such an expedition. It was almost routine. Even though I was dead tired and my legs felt like jelly, I wanted to descend to base camp that day. I knew I would even feel more exhausted the next day. My head was spinning, and all I wanted was peace and quiet. The descent was a question of willpower. Crossing the moraine was draining. I was so drained of energy that I had to stop a few times during the 50-meter ascent from the moraine up to base camp.
I could hardly sleep that night. My head buzzed with random thoughts about climbing, rappelling, spindrifts, and the like. One minute I was climbing up, the next I was climbing down. One time I was able to climb a particular section, the next time I was not and fell. Such scenes kept recurring the whole night. As soon as it got light, I could not wait to get out of the tent. I was still alive! I needed a change of scenery and had to do something to distract myself. I wanted to leave base camp, and for that matter Nepal, as quickly as possible. I hoped that the tension would ease once I was home and with Nicole.
The mountain continued to haunt me the following nights. The abyss, the emptiness, the cold, the wind, and the spindrifts. Annapurna seemed to consume me completely. Night after night, I fell. In my dreams I lost control over my climbing, and this got worse with every night. I would fall off the face and see my body lying at the base of the mountain. At times I wore the same green helmet I had worn in 2007, when I was hit by a rock. The nights became one single nightmare. What I had experienced up there must have just been too intense—the twenty-eight hours of full concentration, of knowing that a single mistake would mean death. I might not have exceeded my physical limits, but I must have gone past my psychological ones.
I was still in my own world, although I was no longer as focused as I had been. I had no idea what to tell my friends about my experience up there, and I did not really feel the need to do so. I was alone with my thoughts and would not have been able to express them properly. Suddenly everything seemed gloomy, and I had this uncertain fear that something bad might happen. Home became my focus and the solution to my problems. I was convinced that everything would be all right once I got back to Switzerland. I left Nepal as soon as possible.
Despite my rushed departure I had an amazing time with all the friends who were with me on this Annapurna expedition, especially Don, who motivated me to attempt the face solo. Just before my departure I gave him one of my ice axes as a memento. I wanted to dedicate the route to the two climbers who had been the first to attempt it: Jean-Christophe Lafaille and Pierre Béghin. The route had been their vision, and I had just realized what they had conceived. The fact that I had climbed the line I had been dreaming about for many years became a sort of liberation for me.
Both Béghin and Lafaille lost their lives in the Himalaya. They are only two of many examples that reflect the fine line between life and death in the mountains. Erhard Loretan, who fell to his death while guiding in the Alps, is another one of these examples. He was the one who taught me what was possible in the high Himalaya without taking too much gear. Yes, I had trained hard for my expedition to Annapurna, and I had planned it meticulously. But training and planning alone had not been decisive for my success. I had also had a good portion of luck. I was fortunate to have had such perfect conditions and that the spindrift did not throw me off balance and down into the abyss. I had been extremely exposed. It had seemed normal at the time. I had decided what was right for me, and I had simply functioned. During the climb it had been perfectly all right for me to accept such high risks. I had put all my eggs into one basket. Climbing such walls demands willingness to take risks.
Maybe the events on Everest were part of the reason I had been prepared to take so much risk. What had happened in the spring that year had shaken me pretty badly. It had made me lose my belief in humanity. Those events certainly threw me back into my own world, and afterward I had just wanted to climb—nothing else mattered. I wanted to train and push my body’s limits. That was my goal for the summer of 2013. I wanted to live, and maybe I wanted to live feeling that I had nothing to lose.
The events of the night on the South Face of Annapurna had left their mark on me. There were many unforgettable moments. Stepping onto the ridge after having climbed the headwall was one such moment and feeling totally liberated when I finally tied into the fixed rope to rappel across the bergschrund was another. Some of my decisions were made by following my gut feeling. I cannot really explain why I sometimes decided to climb on the left or on the right. I simply followed my intuition, which is the result of years of climbing experience. I recognized myself in the Italian mountaineer Walter Bonatti, who wrote after his solo climb of the West Face of the Petit Dru: “For the next five days it was like living in another world; like entering an unknown dimension; like being in a mystical visionary state in which the impossible did not exist and anything could happen.” I felt much the same way on Annapurna. Somehow everything seemed possible. Everything was in reach, and everything worked out.
When I finally got home after the expedition and was back in my familiar surroundings, things did not get back to normal as I had hoped. I realized that when I was climbing the face, I had actually finished with my life. This realization shook me completely. In hindsight, I simply did not understand how I could possibly have been prepared to take so much risk. I had accepted putting my life on the line. On the South Face of Annapurna, this feeling gave me a lot of strength and willpower, but now it was giving me a lot of grief. I struggled to get along in everyday life.
During the climb it felt good to be so uncompromising. There was no afterward, and there was no worry, no fear, because there was no future. There was only the here and now. At home I started questioning my actions. I returned home with a mountaineering trophy, but had I been doing the right thing? How did I end up being in this trance-like state? What about Nicole and my family? I had a responsibility toward them.
A few days after I returned to the Bernese Oberland, Nicole left for a climbing holiday in Turkey. She had planned this trip thinking that I would still be in Nepal during this time. Being left on my own, I felt my world was crumbling. My nightmares continued, and I was still falling to my death on the South Face of Annapurna, night after night. Now the events on Everest also came back to haunt me. I had started taking sleeping pills, but I still woke up drenched in sweat because there was someone at the end of my bed wanting to crush my skull. I was scared of falling asleep and wanted to stay awake to fend off possible attackers. During the day I was so tired that I hardly managed to go for an hour’s run. I was suffering from panic attacks, and my life was out of control for many months.
In previous years I had repeatedly gotten myself into highly stressful situations in the mountains, but I guess the psychological pressure was just too high this time around. While on Everest, I had experienced fear of death and had lost all faith in humankind, whereas on Annapurna I was looking death in the eye—and I was solely responsible. This had simply been too much for my psyche. I had been living an illusion, convinced that once I had finished my project on the South Face, my life would go on as usual, with self-confidence. But things got worse. I could no longer trust anyone and could not get rid of the feeling that everyone wanted to harm me. It became obvious to me that I had not gotten over the incident with the Sherpas and that I had only pushed it to the back of my mind.
I felt lost. I was unable to share my experience on Annapurna with anyone, even Nicole. I was convinced that nobody who was not a mountaineer doing solo climbs could possibly fathom what I had done and experienced up there. Annapurna had made me lonely, and my fears made me withdraw even more. I then felt ashamed. How could someone so rational as myself fight something so irrational as fear? I had never expected to face a situation where I had such little control over my life.
Finally I came to a dead end. I had mastered the South Face of Annapurna. What else was there left to do? This could not be topped. I was used to making progress, with projects lined up and every single step getting me a bit farther. But now I was stuck. My fire had gone out, and I had lost all motivation. I no longer felt like myself and could barely face giving interviews to the media. This extreme situation was new and unknown territory for me.
It became clear that I would only get out of this dismal state by seeking professional help, which would also involve medication. Otherwise I would just continue going around in circles. Getting out of this spiral of self-doubt and fear was one of the most formative experiences in my life. I found out a lot about myself, and I am still in the process of finding out more. However, I don’t wish for anyone to experience something like this. In a way, it felt like training, when you have to push yourself to your limits to get stronger, even though sometimes it is unpleasant. But becoming aware of my own limits has certainly helped me to be more content with my life, to be more confident within myself and with others. In any case, my crisis made me withdraw from public life and concentrate more on my immediate surroundings.
After I had gained some distance, I came to the conclusion that my panic attacks were probably an expression of my fear of myself. I knew exactly how I felt after I had withstood the spindrift: I couldn’t have cared less if I had fallen to my death. These thoughts and the recognition that this was probably characteristic of me made me scared of myself. I had no guarantee that I would not take such great risks again. In fact, I was afraid that I would.
I had to get this under control. If I continued like this, it would certainly end in death. But, after all, I was a climber and not someone wanting to commit suicide.
But I was not altogether lucky on Annapurna. The fact that the spindrift had hit me at exactly that spot and that I had lost my mitten as well as my camera was actually pretty unlucky. At first the loss of the camera only bothered me because I could not take a good shot of the face. It was only later when I realized that without the camera I would not be able to take a summit photo, which would serve as proof of my successful ascent. But how convincing and informative would a photo have been? A selfie in the dark in the middle of the night? Nevertheless, after my return it did not take long for me to be criticized for not having a summit photo and for having failed to record the route with my GPS watch.
Criticizing me and telling me what I could have done better is easy. If you have never been in such an exposed position in your life, it is almost or completely impossible to understand my decisions. I do not want to sound arrogant, but this is just the way it is. I must have done most things right on Annapurna, otherwise I would not have survived. I had consciously decided not to switch on the tracking mode of my watch to save battery power. To me a GPS is a safety device that is used for navigation in low visibility. I just don’t want to risk not having any battery power left in a critical moment. Batteries are pretty sensitive to the cold. In freezing temperatures their performance is only a fraction of what the manufacturers state in their operating instructions. I know from experience that in the cold, the battery power of my model is reduced from fifty to sixteen hours. It took me twenty-eight hours from our advanced base camp to the top and back. And GPS data are not that precise on steep walls anyway. If the horizontal distance is slightly off, even 30 meters could place the summit 200 meters too high or too low. The elevation of Annapurna’s summit was clearly too high on my GPS watch.
From the very beginning I was open about the fact that I did not have any proof of having reached the main summit of Annapurna. Since I had climbed during the night and had switched off my headlamp at times to save batteries, I was not visible to my friends at advanced base camp at all times. They also spent a few hours sleeping during the night. The loss of my camera triggered speculation. It didn’t take very long for the first doubts to be voiced as to whether I had actually reached the summit. I was even accused of not having climbed the face at all but rather having stayed inside my tent in the crevasse the whole night and having descended the following morning. These accusations came from the mountaineering scene as well as the media.
It is absolutely legitimate to question reports about alpinist achievements, especially when the protagonist is a professional mountaineer and is in the public eye. It seemed to be difficult for the doubters to understand that I was only focused on climbing during the hours on the wall and that I was not thinking about documenting or collecting evidence. The fact that there had not been another mountaineer to have dared such a solo climb made my tales absolutely implausible in the doubters’ eyes. My psychological state after the expedition did not help the situation, nor did my not quite hitting the right tone in interviews and not wanting to be in public. I was swamped with interview requests as the media went crazy about the controversy regarding my ascent. I could not, of course, control what was published about it. My withdrawal, on the other hand, led journalists to obtain secondhand information, which they then copied from each other, twisting the story in ways that would confirm their own opinions. It went as far as the assertion that I had paid Tenji and the kitchen boy, Nima Dawa, to testify that they had seen the light of my headlamp just below the summit and that they had watched me descend the following day.
What upset me most was that I was accused of lying. There have been cases in alpine history where mountaineers have not been honest and have come up with their own stories. Mountaineering is different from other sports that are subject to rigid rules and the official keeping of times, heights, and distances, as well as doping controls. Mountaineering, on the other hand, is based on trust. In 1984 the Polish mountaineer Krzysztof Wielicki became the first person to climb an 8000-meter peak in a single day. He scaled Broad Peak in Pakistan and went from base camp to the summit and back in twenty-two hours and ten minutes. In 1993 he climbed the South Face of Shishapangma in Tibet in twenty hours. Krzysztof does not have a single summit photo of his successful ascents of Lhotse and Kangchenjunga, and his photo from the top of Everest could have been taken anywhere. But his reputation as a high-altitude mountaineer is sterling, and so it should be.
Despite technological gizmos, mountaineering achievements will need to continue to be based on trust and climbers’ honesty in the future. Solo rock climbs will only be 100 percent verified if they are done on a climbing wall or witnessed from afar by other climbers. Being able to make the decisions for oneself and being responsible for oneself is also part of the beauty of mountaineering.
I tried not to take the accusations personally, but it was not always easy since some came within my wider circle of friends. At the end of the day life would go on, and I had to try not to let the stuff written in the press get me down too much. Yannick Graziani and Stéphane Benoist were two friends who supported my reports. In the end the pair decided to climb my route, and they started the climb on October 16. The conditions they found on the face were not as pristine as when I climbed it a week earlier. A storm had deposited about 60 centimeters of fresh snow onto the face a few days before they started up. This and the fact that they pitched the climb and were sometimes held up by bad weather made them a lot slower: they spent nine days on the face. They followed my route with a few variations, but due to the fresh snow they could not find my tracks, and some used this as “proof” that I had not climbed the face. During their descent Stéphane suffered from severe altitude illness, and it was only thanks to Yannick’s selfless deeds that both climbers reached the base of the climb alive. Stéphane got pretty bad frostbite on his fingers. After their climb they both stated publicly that they had no doubt about me being able to climb the face solo in good conditions.
At the beginning of 2014 I was nominated for the Piolet d’Or for my route on Annapurna’s South Face. I was very pleased about the nomination, but I spent a lot of time discussing the lack of proof with the organizers. I would have completely understood had they withdrawn the nomination. However, there is no clause in the regulations of the Piolet d’Or that says that proof is needed for a climb. There are numerous examples of great ascents without a summit photo. The nomination was not withdrawn.
In March 2014 I was awarded the Piolet d’Or, as were Raphael Slawinsky and Ian Welsted, who received it for their first ascent of the Northwest Face of K6 in Pakistan. Receiving this public recognition for my climb was definitely good for my self-confidence, even though I figured that it would probably fuel the fire and trigger more criticism. It was interesting to see how the speculations about my climb took on a life of their own in public, especially on the internet, where provocative stories generated more clicks. I had learned my lesson, and I knew that in the future I would have to do a better job documenting my climbs.
I wanted to keep my style though, and not take a photographer along every time I went climbing. Soloing means being alone. A helicopter circling in the background and ready to come to my aid if I got into trouble—that sort of thing makes a big difference. I was interested in the physical challenge of a climb and not in selling adventure or making it into alpine highlight films. The business around mountaineering is rife with staged photo shoots, fake film material, and clever advertising and marketing strategies. There were still plenty of adventures up in the mountains, especially in the Himalaya. How long and how efficiently could a person move at 8000 meters? Has the time come to tackle the Horseshoe, the traverse of Everest, Lhotse, and Nuptse? When will the direct route on the west face of Makalu be climbed? Or the direct route on the north ridge of K2?
I continued to have dreams, but I had to be careful not to let my critics provoke me into feeling that I had to prove something. I knew that I would never go as far as I had gone on the South Face of Annapurna again. It had been too close to the limit. If I did, it would only be a repetition of something I had done before, and it would prove nothing. There was only one way to deal with this situation, and that was by redefining myself and giving my values a new focus.
In order to help me cope with past events, Nicole and I decided to take a sabbatical year and go climbing together in 2014. We needed to spend some quality time with each other. The previous year had not been easy for her. The person she loved had turned out to be self-destructive. We had once agreed that I wouldn’t do any more solo climbs, yet I had gone ahead and climbed solo on Annapurna after Don Bowie had backed out. And Annapurna had put a serious strain on our relationship, since I had become a bit of a recluse. Going together on climbing trips and expeditions would give us the opportunity to find each other again and get some peace and quiet together.