The others had been as worried about us as we had about them. They had not seen us for ten days but they said nothing as we approached the tents. Mo was crouched over a stove, cooking. Doug and Tut were packing rucksacks, Clive taking down one of their tents. They were obviously on the move.
‘Don Morrison’s dead,’ Doug stated flatly.
An accident to the team on Latok had been one of our hypotheses for their delay. I found that I accepted it factually. I hardly knew Don and had only talked with him a couple of times at Base Camp. Our own isolation and the constant stress of risk we had been under in the last few days deadened my reaction still further. It wasn’t callousness, rather the acceptance of the inherent risk we constantly lived under, a reaction similar, I suspect, to that of the soldier in the front line.
‘What happened?’
‘He fell down a crevasse.’
Tony Riley and he had been walking up to their first camp in the late afternoon. It was a route they had followed dozens of times, so they had stopped roping up. The snow had hidden a deep crevasse. Don must have stood on the critical weak point and had fallen in. It was so deep and narrow that they had been unable to reach him. They could hear nothing so it seemed he had been killed by the fall.
But there was more than the shock of Don’s death that seemed to divide us. I felt uncomfortable, disappointed at not having reached the main summit and, at the same time, guilty now that we had attempted it and allowed ourselves to be drawn into unspoken competition with the others. I also sensed their relief, not only that we were alive and well, but that the Ogre was still unclimbed. Casualness concealed tension.
‘Did you make it?’ Doug asked.
I told him. ‘But what are you doing? Are you going to try our route? It’s not too bad.’
‘No, we’re going for the West Ridge.’
They had reached the crest of the ridge at the foot of a steep rock spur that eventually led to the West Summit and were planning to establish a camp at its foot. Already I longed to be with them but I was too tired and too much in need of a rest. I looked at the pile of food and gas cylinders they were about to pack.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Yeh. Should be enough,’ said Mo.
‘I just don’t think it is. You’ve no idea how hard the final bit is and surely the West Ridge is going to take you a few more days. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up doing what we did, getting below that final summit block and not having enough fuel or food to go for it.’
My reasoning was sound but my motivation was not entirely unselfish. If I could persuade them to return to Base Camp to get more supplies, Nick and I could grab our much-needed rest and then go for the summit with them.
Nick had other feelings which he confided to his diary:
Regrettably I kept quiet – also most other people, as it seems Chris got his way. Their route was only leading to the W. Summit and they had insufficient food and gas to continue to the main top. So Chris persuaded everyone to go back to Base Camp for more of same and to come back up. So, suddenly, just when I thought the trip was over, I was feeling satisfied and had survived, I have got another fortnight to contend with.
Quite apart from his terrible throat – Nick could only talk in a harsh whisper – he was already nearly two weeks overdue for work, but now it could be a month or more before he was going to get back.
We dropped down to Base that same day. Nick and I had been above the snow line for over two weeks and in that time had only taken two days’ rest. We had all but climbed a difficult and certainly very taxing mountain of over 7,000 metres, yet on the way down I felt quite fresh, stimulated by the fact that I still had a chance of sharing in the first ascent. Base Camp was an oasis of green. You could smell the grass, lie in it, feel it, revel in it. The harsh world of glaring snow, steep rocks and constant danger had ceased to exist.
Paul Nunn and Tony Riley, quiet and subdued, were packing up their camp. They had built a cairn and memorial to Don Morrison on a little knoll above the lake. That night Doug and the others talked long into the night but I slid off to bed and collapsed into sleep. It was only the next day that I realised just how tired I was. Nick and I spent it sleeping, only getting up for meals. The others were in a hurry to get back on to the mountain. Doug, Mo and Clive were going back up the following day, giving Nick, Tut and myself just one more day at Base, after which we also would go back up the hill. But we were to spend a day clearing the gear that Tut and Doug had left at the foot of the Nose on their earlier attempt, before going on to join the others. Doug sent a message with Paul Nunn for Hadji Medi, the headman of Askole, to send us twenty porters on 12 July. We hoped to reach the top and get back down again by then.
The decision-makers now were Doug and Mo; Clive tended to go along with what they said and Tut was at a disadvantage because of his leg. Nick was still almost speechless with his sore throat and I was very aware that having got the chance of a short rest, it was now a matter of fitting into their plans. I was so tired, there was little else I could have done anyway.
The two days at Base Camp went all too quickly and on the third morning, 5 July, the three of us walked back up to Advance Base. It had that messy, neglected feel that comes to any transit camp on a mountain. Rubbish was scattered over the snow and the remains of spilt food littered the communal tent.
We felt very much the B team the following morning as we slogged up the gully to the col where Tut and Doug had left their gear, with the great granite wall soaring above us. Tut’s leg was giving him trouble and he pointed out where the boulder had come hurtling down. We were due to rejoin the others the following morning. But that afternoon in camp Tut and Nick decided that they had had enough, what with Tut’s leg and Nick’s sore throat. If Nick and I had been on our own I am sure I would have returned home quite happily, having reached the West Summit. But although I was tired, I still had a driving urge to reach the top of the Ogre. It was a combination of a feeling of failure that I hadn’t at least had a try at the summit block, and the very human, if somewhat childish, fear of being left out of a successful party.
My resolution was not quite as strong at three the following morning. It had only just begun to freeze and the snow was still soft. I would have to cross the snow-covered glacier on my own. It would have been fairly safe if the snow had been hard frozen but in its present condition it would be all too easy to step through the snow cover into a hidden crevasse. Don Morrison’s death made the danger all too obvious. I decided to delay my departure a couple of hours to give the snow a chance to harden but even at five it was still soft. I set out all the same. I was carrying about fifteen kilos of food and gas cylinders. It felt too heavy even at the start.
As I plodded in the glimmer of the dawn back towards the Ogre, each step was filled with trepidation. I constantly glanced around me, trying to glimpse hints of hidden crevasses indicated by slight creases in the dim grey snow. At times the crust would give, my foot would plunge, I’d experience a stab of terror, but each time it reached a solid base.
At last I was off the glacier and on the wall leading to the col. This was safer. There was a fixed rope to clip into and follow but the face had changed. Most of the snow had melted, leaving steep stone-swept ice. No longer was it a question of walking up steps in the snow; each step had to be worked for, kicking the front points of my crampons into the ice and heaving up on the jumar. My progress was painfully slow. It took me ten hours through the heat of the day just to climb the thousand metres of wall. After that was the easy but weary plod over the plateau to the campsite by the col.
One lonely tent was pitched. The others had obviously moved up to the foot of the ridge. That night I was too tired to cook a meal, just made a brew of tea and crawled into my sleeping-bag. I joined them the following day, climbing a snow gully that stretched up towards the red tunnel tent at its top. I still felt tired and was going painfully slowly. I needed more rest. What was this driving ambition and ego that made me return to the Ogre? More to the point, had I enough strength to reach the West Summit a second time and then go on to the main top? Maybe we’d have some bad weather. I could do with the rest that it would impose.
I could see three tiny figures at work on the steep sunlit rock of a pillar that barred the way up the ridge. They got back down that afternoon, pleased with their progress, enthusing about the quality of the climbing. In the past two days they had run out 150 metres of fixed rope, most of it salvaged from the dump left by the Japanese.
I had been worried about my reception but they seemed glad to see me and I almost immediately felt a part of the team. That night, as there was only one tent, I slept outside, using the Gore-Tex cover over my sleeping- bag. It was chilly but also satisfying, the sky a brilliant black, studded with stars that had that clarity only altitude can give. I decided it wasn’t just ego that brought me back. It was good to be part of this mountain, part of a team with the simple all-consuming objective of reaching the top of that great citadel of rock that had defeated Nick and me only a few days before.
The following morning Mo and Clive returned to the Pillar to try to reach its top, while Doug and I dropped back to the camp on the plateau to pick up a tent and the rest of the food and fuel. I was worried by the ease with which Doug pulled away from me on the way back up. That evening a bank of high cloud rolled in from the west. Could it be the break in the weather I had been secretly hoping for? My prayers were granted. The others debated whether to go for the top but finally decided to give it another day, even though this meant that our food reserves, once again, were getting low.
It dawned fine on 11 July. We only took one bivvy tent on my assurance that we could snow-hole on the col between the two summits. Even so our sacks were heavy with climbing equipment, food, fuel and bivouac gear. I was impressed by the steepness of the Pillar as I jumared up the line of fixed rope laid by the others. It worked a serpentine line up the Pillar, starting on its left, working round on to its nose and then creeping on to its right- hand side across the base of an open ice gully. Mo and Clive had reached the top of the gully but had used the ropes we would need to climb with to reach the crest of the Pillar. This meant we had to take them up with us, removing the umbilical cord that linked us to the security of our camp at the foot of the Pillar.
A band of snow stretched away towards the South-West Ridge, but the route up the ridge was barred by another rock wall much lower than the one we had just climbed. Doug surged out in front, traversing a horizontal line of broken rock interrupted by ice bulges. It didn’t look too hard until I came to follow him. We were carrying our sacks and the weight pushed me out of balance. In some ways on a traverse it is more unnerving to be the second man than the first. You’ve got just as far to swing if you slip but you can actually see how far you would go, for the rope snakes out in front of you. About halfway across Doug had stepped down on to a steep little slab. Here he had had the benefit of a back rope through a piton just above him. I didn’t. The next runner was about three metres away at the same level. I dithered; stepped down, made a lunge, missed and slipped, skating down and across the slab until I hung from Doug’s runner. I’d banged my elbow on the way across and the pain, merged with the adrenalin surge, left me shaky and trembling. I scrabbled up to Doug, panting, but then led through up easier snow lying on ice towards the crest of the ridge. We were able to drop the rope down the other side so that Mo and Clive could jumar straight up.
But it was getting late. The sun was already low in the sky, yet there was another rock tower to climb before we could cross the West Summit. We’d certainly never make it that night and so bivouacked where we were, Mo and I digging a small snow cave that was just big enough for the two of us, Doug and Clive setting up their bivvy tent outside.
Next day the weather was perfect, with the sun shining from a clear sky as we started up a long steep snow rake leading to a ridge that dropped southward from the West Summit. Today it was Mo and Clive’s turn to be out in front. The snow rake was nerve-racking, for a couple of centimetres of powder snow covered hard ice at an angle of sixty degrees. Inevitably Mo slowed up as he crossed this section and I could sense Doug’s impatience. I tiptoed my way across immediately behind Clive, the points of crampons and ice tools barely making any impression on the ice. Doug followed. There was now more snow over the ice and the climbing became more relaxed. I was content to wander up the steps left by the front pair. There was time to enjoy the unfolding view, to absorb the heat of the sun, but Doug couldn’t relax. He climbed on up past Clive, who was belaying Mo, and was soon following in Mo’s footsteps. As Mo paused for breath, Doug surged past leading the last few metres to the crest of the South-West Ridge.
Doug was now firmly in the lead once more and worked his way up the snow-plastered crest of the ridge towards the West Summit. I followed on behind him. He hadn’t bothered to belay, since the rope running over the top gave us a degree of security. I hardly had time to savour my return or gaze across at our objective before the rope tugged insistently and I followed down the steps Doug had left. You could still see traces of the route Nick and I had taken. Our little balcony was still there. That afternoon we expanded it into a commodious snow hole, but the others were not too happy about the safety of the snow; it was lying on quite steep ice, even though it seemed consolidated.
Doug and I set out at five the next morning. Mo and Clive were going to come on later. We followed the snow slope skirting below the rocky crest of the ridge, at first moving together and then, as the slope steepened, one at a time. Several rope-lengths brought us to the foot of the summit rocks that soared steep and massive above us. Snow-covered rocks led back up to the crest of the ridge and I moved to the foot of these to let Doug lead the first pitch. He climbed it powerfully up a series of awkward icy grooves. When I came to follow I was breathless by the time I reached him.
‘You might as well keep the lead, while I get my breath back,’ I muttered.
He pushed on straightaway, heaving over a rock bulge, running out the full length of the rope and anchoring it at the top so that I could jumar up it while he reconnoitred the way to the final pyramid. By the time I reached the top he was already out of sight. I coiled the rope and followed the line of tracks round the snow-clad crest of the ridge down a steep little gully to find myself on the col that immediately abutted the final tower. An open groove, capped by a small overhang, presented a possible line of weakness. Doug was already festooned with a variety of nuts and pegs and had one rope uncoiled at his feet.
‘I think it’s about time I did some leading,’ I commented.
‘Not here, youth,’ Doug replied. ‘It’s going to be hard technical climbing up that. It’s getting late already. Give me that rope.’
I felt overwhelmed by the sheer force of Doug’s drive. In surrendering one lead, I seemed also to have surrendered any share of the initiative. I was too tired and lacked the self-confidence to argue. Perhaps he was right. Doug grabbed the rope, tied on to one end, threw down the coils and started climbing, swinging up a corner crack on a hand-jam. He was only a metre or so above me when the slack in the rope formed into an inextricable knot.
‘Hold it, Doug. You’ve got the rope into a bloody tangle.’
I resented the rush that had caused this to happen, resented being relegated to the mere status of rope holder, and was even more resentful of the fact that Doug was going so much more powerfully than I.
‘Hurry up, it’s bloody tiring hanging on here.’
‘It’s your fault the rope’s tangled anyway. I can’t do it any quicker. You’d better come back down.’
It was one of those tangles that you couldn’t believe were possible. I ended up having to untie from both ropes and painstakingly unravel them until at last they were clear. Doug returned to the fray and climbed the groove quickly and elegantly. I followed, jumaring up the rope; it was a pitch that I could have led. Why the hell had I let myself be steamrollered?
Doug was on a small ledge at the foot of a sheer rock wall split by a thin crack.
‘Can’t we get round the corner?’ I asked.
‘Don’t think so. I’ve had a look. It’s just as steep round there. The crack should go.’
I didn’t volunteer to lead it. This was obviously going to be hard. I started pulling in the rope I had just jumared up. It jammed almost immediately. I cursed my inefficiency. Doug said nothing. I had no choice but to abseil down to the bottom, find the knot that had somehow formed in the rope and then jammed in a crack, clear it and jumar up again, all of which wasted a precious half hour.
Doug took off his crampons and started climbing the crack, making some moves free, using the rock holds, and on others stepping in slings attached either to pitons or nuts. I sat in the sun and watched the progress of Mo and Clive. They were now climbing the snow-covered rocks leading up to the crest of the ridge. Looking along the corniced rim I could just see the little hole that was the entrance to our snow cave and the tracks leading down from the West Summit. The rope stopped sliding through my hands.
‘The crack’s blind. Can’t get a peg in.’ Doug was scraping snow from a little scoop in the rock, but it concealed no hidden cracks or holds. ‘Let me down.’
He lowered himself about fifteen metres on his top runner, a wired nut.
‘Hold me there, I think I might be able to pendulum to that crack over on the right.’
He started running from side to side to gain some momentum on the sheer wall and at the end of each swing tried to reach the crack to the right with a sky hook. It took several tries but at last he managed to lodge the sky hook, haul himself across, and jam his fingers into the crack. He tried to get a foothold but his boot, big and clumsy against the finger-width crack, slipped and suddenly he was swinging back away from his objective. He rested on the rope and then tried again. This time he found a toehold, was able to consolidate his position and began finger-jamming up the crack until he was level with, and then above, his wire runner. It would have been strenuous at sea level. Here, at over 7,000 metres, it was incredible. I lost all sense of resentment in wonder at what Doug had managed to do, at his strength, ingenuity and determination.
It was now my turn – a simple matter of jumaring up the rope, though extracting the nuts Doug had dangled and pulled on was slow, hard work. By the time I joined him the sun was already low on the western horizon. The day had slid away from us and we still had another thirty metres or so to climb. Mo and Clive had been watching Doug’s acrobatics from the col and now decided to return to the snow cave. It didn’t look as if we had much chance of reaching the top before dark – they had none at all.
I was determined to have a lead. A short snow crest led to the final summit block, a smooth boulder of brown granite. It was steep and holdless. I tried to work my way round the corner along a narrow snow ledge, and came to a little overhanging scoop that led into a snow bay that in turn seemed to lead up to the top. I hammered in a piton but still couldn’t muscle my way up the scoop.
‘You’d better come and have a try,’ I shouted to Doug.
He hadn’t put his crampons back on so was able to stand on my shoulder to reach holds above the overhang. He heaved himself up and a metre or so higher managed to get a belay. Without the shoulder it was all I could do, on a very tight rope, to fight my way over the bulge. I landed at Doug’s feet like a stranded fish, panting my heart out. Before I could get my breath back to talk, Doug had undone his belay and already started up the snow gully. I was left to put on a belay and hold the rope.
It would have been logical for me to have led through, since I was wearing crampons, which was one reason why I had been unable to lead the rock scoop behind me. As Doug slowed down above me, I regretted not being more assertive but his energy was that of an erupting volcano, in which his own driving force swept everything else aside. As I shivered in the growing cold of the gully I had time to reflect. Doug was going more strongly, but in the past I had experienced similar imbalances with Don Whillans and Dougal Haston, both of whom were stronger and more forceful climbers than I, but the climbing had always been harmonious with a sense of shared decision and participation.
He had disappeared from view. Slides of snow came tumbling down as the rope slipped slowly through my hands. The light dimmed to a uniform grey as the shadows of the valley crept up the peaks bordering the Biafo Glacier. We hadn’t much time left before dark.
At last there was a shout. He was up. Another pause and he called for me to start climbing. I kicked up the snow of the gully. With crampons on it felt fairly secure. At its top I pulled out onto a small block of rock with Doug crouched upon it. There was too little time for jubilation. Doug had been there for about twenty minutes and was anxious to start down in the little daylight that was left. I quickly took a photograph of him and then of the four quarters of the horizon. The mountains were silhouetted against the purple of the gathering dusk.
We had climbed the Ogre – all we now had to do was to get back down.