Back in 1989 I was dismally failing even to get started on the then-unclimbed Cerro Kishtwar in the Indian Himalaya when I spotted something of interest on the horizon. When I returned home my main concern was for another attempt at Cerro Kishtwar, but the K2-shaped profile of what I now know to be Hagshu never completely left my mind. I suppose it’s a perennial problem with Himalayan climbing that the horizon is so often filled with distressingly appealing objectives.

As the years went by I was regularly reminded of that alluring peak that stands prominently on the Kishtwar/Zanskar skyline. I saw it when I returned to Cerro Kishtwar in 1993, again when climbing Shiva in 2012 and yet again from Kishtwar Kailash in 2013. By late 2013 it had risen to the top of my box file of interesting objectives, and I stepped up the background research.

Hagshu is one of those peaks surrounded by myths and folklore. The name first came to my attention in 1986 when I saw a report about four British mountaineers who had gone missing while attempting to make the first ascent. When no trace of them could be found, rumours went round that they might have been attacked and taken hostage. Eventually, after two unsuccessful search trips by friends and relatives, a local man found some signs of their passing and a third search in 1994 located various items of theirs, including a diary. The final entry was on 1 October 1986 and stated:

Recce trip to the Hagshu La, attention captured by Chiring Peak.

My guess is that they were all killed in an avalanche, but whatever it was, something calamitous apparently transpired around 2 October and their bodies have never been found.

Three years after the British team were lost, the first ascent was made via the south-east ridge by the Polish climbers Paweł Józefowicz and Dariusz Załuski, with a British team of Phil Booth, Max Halliday and Ken Hopper reaching the summit via the east face a few days later. Little did these teams know that it would be twenty-five years and many attempts before another climber would stand on the summit.

The Polish team had a particularly memorable time. After approaching from the south (Kishtwar) side and enduring long periods of bad weather, some of their team gave up and crossed the Hagshu La pass to descend into Zanskar and look round the monasteries there. The remaining two, Józefowicz and Załuski, returned to the mountain, succeeded in reaching the summit and then descended the same line to the huge plateau at the head of the Hagshu Glacier. From there they went north, descending the glacier without any prior knowledge to arrive in Zanskar. Józefowicz had suffered some frostbite damage and presumably returned home, but Załuski returned to their base camp to collect their equipment. He travelled over 400 road miles via Kargil, Srinagar and Kishtwar, walking for several more days, only to discover that it had been ransacked by bears. It wasn’t the kind of trip they were likely to forget.

My research also reminded me that John Barry, the British ex-SAS mountaineer, had led four trips to the north side in the late 1980s and early 1990s. I had been very aware of these at the time and was also very aware that he kept returning. As a strong technical climber I guessed that it had to be an inspiring objective but somehow the photos that were published didn’t make it look as good as I thought it ought to. I kind of wondered whether something was being covered up, but other objectives intervened and as much as Hagshu bubbled in my list of objectives, it never quite made it to the top.

 

That was until 2013, when a combination of seeing its fine profile from Kishtwar Kailash, a mention from Lindsay Griffin and a growing urge to visit Zanskar and Ladakh – new areas for me – prompted a decision that the time had come. Steve Burns and Ian Cartwright were keen to join Paul and me and so the British Hagshu expedition 2014 came into being. At an early stage I contacted Smiler Cuthbertson, who had been on one of John Barry’s trips. His enthusiasm to join us was such that I guessed that I was right in thinking the north side of Hagshu could be rather more exciting than the published photos suggested.

And so, in January 2014, we engaged with the often stressful and notoriously complex world of Indian mountaineering permits. Fresh in my mind was our experience the previous year when the permits we needed for Kishtwar Kailash weren’t issued until the day before departure. This time, for some inexplicable reason, it seemed that the special permits that had been necessary to climb Kishtwar Kailash were not necessary and our application to reserve Hagshu for the duration of our trip was approved nine months before departure. In a curious way the civil servant in me derives some sort of satisfaction from overcoming bureaucratic challenges and the absence of such hurdles on this occasion made me feel a little uncomfortable. It just seemed too easy.

That discomfort was heightened when an American climber, Seth Timpano, contacted me for some advice and decided to attempt Barnaj II, an unclimbed peak which was accessible from the same base camp as Hagshu.

‘Looking forward to hanging out together at base camp,’ emailed Seth.

He sounded a nice, friendly chap, but as someone who cherishes the sense of isolation and adventure in being the only climbers for miles around it took me a little time to get used to the idea of ‘hanging out’ with another team. The Vasuki Parbat trip, six years earlier, had been the last time there had been another party in the same valley, let alone the same site, as our base camp.

Having sorted out the permit situation well in advance and conditioned myself to enjoy the company of one other team at base camp, I was rather taken aback when, seven days before we were due to leave, news reached me that a Slovenian team of Marko Prezelj, Luka Lindič and Aleš Česen had just left Delhi bound for the exact face that we had a permit for. I was mystified. Permits are issued for one team at any given time and they didn’t have enough time to climb Hagshu before our permit started. That aside, our plans were clear on the internet, I knew Marko well, had presented him with honorary membership of the Alpine Club, and couldn’t believe that he was planning to step in front of us. In the small world of alpine-style Himalayan mountaineering we felt that would be ungentlemanly in the extreme.

The names of Luka and Aleš didn’t immediately ring a bell, but a quick Google search revealed that they were both young, cutting-edge mountaineers. In fact, the more I researched, the more I felt slightly embarrassed that I hadn’t immediately recognised their names. And this talented team were already on their way. Identifying inspiring unclimbed objectives and organising Himalayan trips takes a lot of research and energy and I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable about the whole thing. Whatever was going on?

Shortly after trading angst-ridden emails with Paul I received a phone call from my ninety-four-year-old father’s carers. It seemed that he had fallen over and couldn’t get up. With only days to go it was clear that I would have to arrange more care without delay. And then, as I worked long hours to get on top of things at the tax office, Nicki had a health scare with test results due just two days before departure. Amidst much relief the tests were negative, but I got as far as emailing the others to warn them that I might have to pull out at the very last minute. It’s amazing how uncertainties tend to mount at the most inconvenient times and how so often I wonder why I put myself through the stress of arranging a greater-range trip every year.

Despite the fact that it looked like a fantastic mountain, concern over the plans of the Slovenian team meant that excitement levels were not as high as usual when we met at Heathrow and boarded the plane to India. My previous trips to this part of the world had all approached via the lush valleys of Kishtwar. This time we were to fly into the town of Leh in Ladakh and, as much as I had seen plenty of photographs of the starkly arid landscape, I was still taken aback to see sand dunes on the outskirts of the town. Equally surprising was the extent of the proudly advertised ‘Leh Beautification Project’, which appeared intent on carrying out every aspect of ‘beautification’ at the same time. The whole town centre doubled up as an active building site and a busy shopping area. Shoppers and mechanical diggers mixed in that barely under control way so often on display in India. Wobbly planks spanning deep trenches gave access to shops and the whole scene particularly impressed the health and safety expert side of Mr Ramsden.

Keen as ever to save time and get to base camp quickly, we left Leh immediately to drive along the 200 kilometres of surfaced road to the town of Kargil, close to the Pakistan border. The scenery was stunning, but my efforts to soak it in were regularly interrupted by stops for me to be sick. Our driver was truly appalling and appeared totally unable to drive in a straight line. The whole journey was a series of unnecessary swerves and to this day I fail to understand why we gave him a tip when my torture was over and we finally arrived in Kargil.

I had heard many rude comments about Kargil, but initial impressions were pleasing: the inappropriately named Hotel Greenland appeared comfortable and had hot water taps that ran with hot water. Perhaps it says a lot about me and the hotels I frequent, but this was a near first for me in the Indian Himalaya. I stood for a long time in the shower enjoying the experience. But away from the relative tranquillity of the hotel there were signs that all was not peaceful and relaxed. Kargil is only a few miles from the Pakistan border and was the focal point of a 1999 border skirmish between India and Pakistan. Tensions were still evident and I couldn’t help but notice young children in pristine white shirts and school ties travelling to school in caged army vehicles protected by rifle-toting armed guards dressed in full camouflage gear.

In September the temperature is pleasant, perhaps 20 °C, but Rinku – once again our liaison officer – told us that winters here were ferocious and the coldest temperature ever recorded in India had been measured just down the road at the town of Dras. It surprised me to learn that the record was as low as –52 °C.

The day after we left home, Scotland had a referendum on whether or not to remain part of the United Kingdom and we were keen to learn the result. A restaurant with a television seemed a good place to find out, but it soon became clear that there was a dearth of such places here. Eventually we had to admit defeat but found a room at the hotel with a working television. The news came on and, rather to my surprise, the result was covered at some length. There were a couple of locals in the room but neither of them spoke any English and so, being unable to understand the commentary, we had to rely on numbers appearing on the screen to find out the result. Plenty of numbers crossed the screen but, almost laughably, none of them left us any the wiser. Just when it looked as if we might not learn the result there was a short clip of David Cameron, British prime minister, standing outside 10 Downing Street. His voice was all but drowned out by the commentary but we were just about able to hear that Scotland had voted to stay part of the UK. That was the result that we wanted to hear, although it did feel slightly bizarre to see the British prime minister announcing it on a fuzzy television screen in Kargil.

 

It was in Kargil at the Hotel Greenland that we met Jared Vilhauer, one of the American team. He was a tall and instantly likeable man who was not having the best of holidays. Having flown to Leh with the rest of his team he had been badly affected by the altitude – Leh is at an altitude of about 3,500 metres – and had to return to Delhi. After a few days’ recovering he had returned to Leh and quickly continued to the lower town of Kargil where our agent had arranged for him to join us and travel to base camp a week or so behind the rest of his team.

The second day of our drive was very different to the first. A major plus for me was that we had a much better driver and so I was able to happily take in the increasingly mountainous scenery as we drove past spectacular peaks including the 7,000-metre mountains of Nun and Kun. Habitation thinned out, the tarmac finished and all became much more to my liking. After some hours of bouncing along we arrived at the remote monastery of Rangdum. An armed guard at a checkpoint outside seemed overcautious until Rinku told us that terrorists attacked it in 2000 and several monks and a German hitch-hiker had been killed. To us it seemed a most tranquil spot and an unlikely target. The news came as a sharp reminder that this is a far from peaceful part of the world.

The road continues over the 4,400-metre-high Pensi La pass and drops into the valley of Zanskar. Although I knew a fair bit about the area, it was only now that I began to fully appreciate the risk of being snowed in here. Despite around 15,000 people living in Zanskar, this road – completed in 1979 – is still the only road in and it stays at an altitude of over 4,000 metres for a long way. Our planned departure date of 15 October wasn’t long before the winter snows and if there was a heavy fall we could be seriously stuck; it certainly wouldn’t be a matter of hiring a few yaks to get us over a short snowed-up section. The thought crossed my mind that phoning home and tax office and explaining that I had no idea when I would be back might not go down well. We could but hope that the first big snows held off until we had left.

The village of Akshow was one of the first we came across and was notable for being small, friendly, wild and windy. The deeply lined faces of the locals spoke volumes about the harsh climate. They referred to the peak we had come to climb as ‘Akshow’, which did make us wonder if ‘Hagshu’ was a Western mutation of its local name. Our map marked it as ‘Agshu’, which added support to this theory. Our cook Pritam, and a ‘new’ kitchen boy for us, Kapil, were here already and had arranged for yaks to take us to base camp the next day. The yaks were large and hairy and had big wooden rings through their noses. The owners attached rope to these rings and tugged fiercely to control them. I was intrigued to see that yak noses are remarkably stretchy and they seemed not to mind being pulled along by them. I never cease to be amazed by yaks.

It was good to see Pritam’s smiling face again, and Kapil was cheerful, positive and likeable. They had already been up to the base camp area and enthusiastically told us how they had seen a bear – a first for both of them – on their way up.

Base camp was supposedly two days’ walk away. That meant that we had to pay for two days but everyone recognised that it would be done in one. My research had revealed that some years earlier a team had spent the entire day walking up the nearside of the river before deciding they couldn’t cross to where they wanted to. The river did look to be a significant challenge. A couple of yaks chose to cross via a rickety bridge, but most clearly relished the refreshing challenge of deep, fast-flowing glacial water. Carrying loads of perhaps 100 kilograms plus a yak driver, the water level rose to over halfway up the loads and yet they still kept going at a steady pace, stopping for an occasional drink of the silt-laden water. I never did quite work out how they avoided being swept downstream. Impressive beasts.

The base camp site in the ablation valley on the true left bank of the Hagshu Glacier was idyllic. The American and Slovenian teams were already established in one area but Pritam had spotted a beautiful spot five minutes or so lower down and we pitched our tents there before heading up to meet the others. Compared to what I have become used to it felt a bit like arriving to greet the crowds at Snell’s Field in Chamonix back in the 1970s. Jared’s acclimatisation was now going well and he and his fellow Americans spoke enthusiastically about their intended climb on Barnaj.

Luka was the only one of the three Slovenians at base camp; he was suffering from a stomach upset and so had held back for a day while Marko and Aleš were out doing a reconnaissance. He confirmed that they had been aware of our plans before leaving Slovenia and explained that they had ended up here after earlier permit applications had been refused. He also told us that the IMF had cut their permit short so that there was no overlap with ours, but that they had no intention of complying with this change. We discussed the situation and he said they would decide what to do after Marko and Aleš returned.

Steve and Ian had in mind exploration of other unclimbed 6,000-metre peaks to the south of base camp, but we all decided to acclimatise together by walking up the Hagshu Glacier and seeking out a high place to spend a few nights on a 5,700-metre peak just to the north-west of Hagshu. This, we reasoned, should satisfy all our needs: Paul and I would get a good close-up view of the northern side of Hagshu and Steve and Ian would be able to enjoy a panoramic view of the peaks they were interested in.

 

Three days of heavy breathing saw the four of us camped in a wind scoop at about 5,500 metres. It seemed a lovely calm spot when we arrived but midway through the night I was braced against the sidewall as gusts of wind roared through. I recalled uncomfortably the last time I experienced this kind of situation, in east Tibet in 2007 when Paul had eventually asked me to climb on top of him to try and stop the wind lifting his side of the tent. This time he snored contentedly (‘breathed heavily,’ he would say) as I spent the night struggling manfully. By morning the wind had dropped and he was disbelieving of my night-time exertions. The skies were clear and we were treated to a wonderful panorama of the peaks and valleys of Kishtwar to the south. We could see trees down there and it was amazing to think that the valleys were lush and well populated whereas the Zanskar valley that we had approached through was harsh, dry and empty; an amazing contrast over such a short distance.

We moved the tent to a less exposed position a little higher, wandered up to the 5,700-metre summit and returned to relax and read in the tent. The Slovenians had been up here too. Their tracks were intermittently visible and we wondered what they were intending to do. What with the personal history between me and Marko, when Luka confirmed they knew of our plans before leaving Slovenia and that the IMF had cut short their permit, I couldn’t believe that they would step in front of us and climb the north face. Paul was not so sure. We discussed the situation interminably. Permits aside, if a friend had plans on an unclimbed line we agreed we wouldn’t dream of stepping in front of them. Finally, we decided that we were confident enough that they would choose another line that we would cache our equipment beneath the north face and head down to talk things through with them while enjoying a day or so of resting and eating at base camp.

On our return to base camp we somehow missed them coming up through the huge mounds of moraine on the glacier. No one at base camp seemed to know what their plans were. We tried to ask their liaison officer but it appeared that he had made a vow of silence for a fixed period of time. This seemed pleasingly eccentric, as I had rather thought that a liaison officer’s job was to liaise. Initially I wondered if it was some kind of unusual religious ritual but it soon became clear that Rinku was as mystified as we were. We later discovered that this wasn’t the first time he had decided to abstain from talking and an earlier period of silence had caused some difficulty for the Slovenians. Anyway, interestingly bizarre as this behaviour was, it was of no use in communicating any useful information.

We returned to our tents where we could do nothing other than sort out our equipment, eat, drink and fret. The fact that I knew Marko well and had liked Luka during our brief meeting simply added to the feeling of discomfort I felt over the situation we found ourselves in. It weighed heavily on my mind, we spoke of little else and I slept only intermittently.

‘They are on our line.’

This didn’t sound like a good start to the day. Paul was peering through binoculars and had spotted tracks beneath the face that followed the exact line we had told Luka we intended to follow. I was really upset, whereas Paul was angry.

The last time I had climbed behind others in the Himalaya was on the north face of Changabang in 1997, and it led to several near misses as rocks and ice were knocked down by the party above us. It also left me with a general sense of exploratory dissatisfaction such that I vowed never again to climb a technical Himalayan route behind others. So the decision not to climb behind them was an easy one to make, but there were other practicalities too.

‘Shit! We’ll have to go back to below the north face to collect our kit.’

It was time to refocus. Building enthusiasm for something new when one’s heart has been set on an objective for nine months is difficult. However, in looking at the northern end of the mountain from base camp, our eyes had been drawn to a more or less continuous edge catching the early morning sun on the north-east face. It was longer than the north face and had a very difficult-looking section at around two-thirds height. It wasn’t what we wanted, but it was a wonderful opportunity for exploratory climbing leading to the north summit of Hagshu. In the space of a few hours the decision was made. The north-east face it would be, and we would start out the following morning. Although I was disappointed I felt excited to finally know exactly how things were to pan out and what we would be attempting.

 

I never cease to be amazed at how the body improves with acclimatisation. In one day we easily covered ground that had taken two when acclimatising. And as I pitched our little tent beneath our intended line there was still enough time for Paul to retrieve our cache of equipment. The good weather showed every sign of continuing as we settled down for the night and inspiration levels were rising. At long last, twenty-five years after I had first set eyes on it, I was about to attempt Hagshu.

The size of the avalanche cone at the base perhaps said a lot about the strength of the monsoon rains. Floods in Srinagar had been headline news in the UK, so we were not surprised to have to take on some heavy wading to finally cross the bergschrund and stand on the front points of our crampons at last.

‘There we are: our bergschrund for the year crossed.’ This has become an annual comment of mine, what with our full-time jobs that prevent our getting out into the mountains as much as we would like. To my embarrassment I didn’t manage to get out winter climbing at all the previous winter and so not only was this my first bergschrund crossing of the year, it was also the first time that I had put on crampons since taking them off after descending Kishtwar Kailash.

From a distance, the initial slopes had looked to be soft white ice, which I hoped we would be able to climb quickly and easily. In fact they were hard ice with a dusting of hoar frost and snow. Short, sharp steep sections added interest but the challenge was more the time-consuming and exhausting business of climbing up a bullet-hard ice slope rather than any particular technical difficulty. I thought back to Changabang in the 1990s when the ice had been so hard that Steve Sustad and I couldn’t even cut footholds to stand on while belaying and instead just attached our rucksacks to ice screws and sat on them. The going here was hard, but at least it wasn’t as bad as that.

On a normal day like this we will start looking for somewhere to spend the night at around 3 p.m., such is our routine of stopping early and just enjoying being high in the mountains. This day, luck was with us. Just at the ‘start to search in earnest’ time, we found a perfect projecting prow of rock with a covering of snow just thick enough to smoothen out and pitch the tent on. We got the tent up quickly, tied it and ourselves to the mountain and settled down to get the stove on.

From this position it was clear that a sharp-topped, unclimbed peak on the other side of the Hagshu Glacier was much higher than we had realised. The south side that we were looking at was not particularly inspiring but what we could see of the north side looked more interesting. It appeared to face a valley that I didn’t think had been visited by mountaineers and, like so many others in the Himalaya, could easily contain hidden gems. Google Earth and the like might allow an insight into such places but there are still plenty of valleys that have not been visited by Westerners.

It was perhaps inevitable that a good night’s sleep in our luxury bivouac should lead to a leisurely start. Thus far the way had been obvious, but now the weakness we were following reared up into a series of steep walls festooned with hanging icicles. A Scottish-style gully cleaved the lower section and appeared to end in an overhanging amphitheatre. It also acted as a funnel for the frequent spindrift avalanches caused by the wind blowing snow around on the upper part of the face. Much peering through binoculars had suggested that it might be best to try a hidden line to our right. Now we were here though, with our noses hard up against steep ground, we couldn’t even work out where that line might be. The best option looked to be steep ground, right of the gully. It looked to offer hard mixed climbing and was at least out of the spindrift avalanches.

The day progressed in the way of my ideal Himalayan climbing day. Challenging pitches with much heavy breathing, relaxing sessions of belaying and a generous dose of admiring the view, all in a position that felt completely safe from objective dangers. To add to perfection there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the day ended with us coming across a totally unexpected and flat snow ledge at just the right time. The ledge was safely positioned at the base of a prominent overhanging wall and for the second night in a row our little tent was pitched perfectly. Life was very pleasing.

Being snuggled into our sleeping bags early we lay there brewing and chatting. As it is so often, the perennial problem of work/life balance was on our minds. The possibility had arisen of Paul taking a month-on month-off job in Saudi Arabia, whereas I had just committed to dropping to twenty-four hours a week in the tax office. Paul’s dilemma was that he would be better off financially but if he were to continue with annual Himalayan trips he wouldn’t see his wife and daughter for a three-month spell each year. The problem for me was that I had grasped the opportunity when it was offered but was concerned that it might be too soon as it prompted quite a few uncertainties around income, children, selling the family home and my ageing father. We never came to any clear conclusions but relaxed bivouacs are useful places to air thoughts when the mind is not cluttered by everyday life.

The 4 a.m. alarm heralded a cold dawn. As the years have gone by cold mornings slow me down more than they used to. Once it was me who was always ready first and champing at the bit. Now though, the erratic circulation in my fingers slows me down as I take extra care to keep them warm and stave off frostbite. This morning was particularly cold and, as Paul kicked his heels waiting, I decided that the time had come to invest in a pair of heated gloves before my next trip.

The sun was up by the time I was ready for action and the obvious way onwards was to move left into an area where snow had been blasted up under overhangs. I am always wary when I see this as it almost inevitably means that heavy waves of spindrift pour down the area when there is just the slightest snowfall. Quite how the snow then ends up stuck on the underside of overhangs I have never been sure. I suppose it’s similar to the airflows that end up with the back of a car getting dirtier than the front. Anyway, the detail doesn’t matter. This morning the sun shone, my fingers were toasty warm, the cloudless skies continued and there was no need to worry about spindrift.

By early afternoon we found ourselves on a snow fluting immediately beneath the summit buttress. From a distance we had seen weaknesses that led us to think we could climb the front side of this buttress, but now we were here the obvious way forward was to move right across the top of the north face and climb on its right-hand side. I made a quick foray but felt tired. The ice was glassy and brittle and the distance to cover looked significant. It seemed likely we would not have enough daylight to make it to possible bivouac sites on the far side. Thirty metres below though, the fluting eased to a short horizontal section which looked as if it might be fashioned into a useable platform on which we could pitch the tent.

I lowered and Paul abseiled and together we stood attached to an ice screw and contemplated. The crest turned to hard ice at a depth of a few centimetres and the spot was nowhere near as good as we had hoped. Paul summed it up perfectly:

‘This is crap.’

But now we had no real option but to spend the night. We would have to make do. At this point though, we seemed to lose coordination. I hacked away with the optimistic intention of getting the poles in and draping the tent over the crest while Paul hacked away working towards a sitting ledge. After a bit we took a break to marvel at our handiwork. It wasn’t looking good. All we had done was chop a nick out of the crest and make a very small triangular ledge. Before the trip Paul had spent some time making a snow hammock. The idea was that it could be secured to ice screws and filled with snow to extend ledges and make them big enough to pitch a tent on. Frustrated at our lack of constructive progress, we spent some time wondering if we could somehow use this hammock to extend triangular ledges. But the idea led nowhere and time was ticking by. We cursed our dithering and contemplated that it had been several years – back in 2010 on Sulamar – since we had been caught out like this. And there we at least had the excuse that the weather had been awful and we had been making an unsuccessful break for the top of the face. Here, the weather was perfect and we could only blame ourselves for ending up with an obviously uncomfortable night ahead.

Sitting side by side works quite well on a linear ledge but not on a triangular one. After not very long my side collapsed and tetchiness prevailed. Over the years Paul and I have climbed together he has increasingly complained about my fidgeting and me about his snoring. It used to be that I fell asleep readily on such bivouacs, but the tables have definitely turned. Paul was soon ‘breathing heavily’ while I woke him intermittently as I experimented with numerous different hanging positions in an effort to avoid forever slipping off what remained of my side of the ledge. At length we settled down to me hanging deep inside the fabric while Paul sat awake with his head out the top soaking in the night.

‘There’s a lot of activity down there.’

I looked at my watch and squirmed upright. It was 3 a.m. I peered down towards base camp but without my contact lenses in didn’t stand a hope in hell of seeing anything. I had brought my glasses along too but they were out of reach in the lid of my sack.

‘Lights all over the place at base camp and on the south side of Barnaj too,’ said Paul as I stared blankly into the night.

This at least gave us a subject to chat about and pass the time. We knew the Americans were trying the north side of Barnaj and concluded that they must have succeeded and for some reason chosen to descend the south side through the night. The base camp lights were more of a mystery and gave rise to many theories. We never guessed the truth, which was that a bear was showing great interest in our food store and resisting all attempts to frighten it off. And we got the Barnaj lights wrong, too. In fact the Americans had retreated from the north side of Barnaj and were making a determined attempt from the south which had to be done partially at night because they had so little time left before they were due to leave.

The night passed slowly but in the morning the traverse up and across towards the edge of the summit buttress looked more amenable and shorter than it had done the day before. The slopes formed the top of the north face and it was still early in the morning when the success of the Slovenians was confirmed as we joined their tracks exiting from the face to a fine camping place. We later discovered that, in sharp contrast to our 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. approach, they had climbed twenty-three hours non-stop to reach this point. Mind you, if we had pressed on rather than spent so much time cutting a small triangular ledge we too could have enjoyed a luxury camping spot.

There were now tracks to follow, which was a new Himalayan experience for the two of us. Somehow it made everything feel more familiar and less adventurous. We followed them up to steep, sunny and pleasant rock climbing on the summit buttress and then on towards the previously unclimbed north summit. Just before the north summit we were surprised to find an extensive flat area that just called out to be camped on. The view was fantastic and we were obviously gaining height well as the nearby peak of Chiring (c.6,000 metres) was now clearly below us and the Barnaj peaks (c.6,300 metres) looked about level with us. Beyond them, evermore interesting objectives reared their heads for closer study later.

Our best guess was that the ridge to the main summit would be long and time-consuming. The weather was holding good and we decided to stop, enjoy a good night’s sleep (heavy breathing and fidgeting aside) and continue in the morning. The wind was light and there was no need to tie ourselves on. We wandered around unroped, felt very lucky to be able to get to such places and generally relaxed. Seldom have I enjoyed such an unexpectedly flat, sunny and extensive bivouac spot.

The north summit was just five minutes above us and it was something of a surprise to gain it the next morning and see that the way ahead looked more straightforward than we had expected. Easy walking led to the saddle between the north and main summits, near to where the British 1989 ascensionists had joined the ridge. From here a beautiful, if exhausting, few hours led along the ridge to the summit that we had been dreaming of for so many months.

For the last few years it has been a ritual for Paul and me to take summit selfies. We use these to relive summit moments and also to chart the ageing process. This self-imposed duty over, it was time to continue the traverse with the descent of the south-east ridge, the route taken by the Polish first ascensionists in 1989. We knew that there had been unsuccessful attempts to repeat this line and were uncomfortably aware that we had not been able to get a decent view of it before starting the traverse. That said, we had the Slovenian tracks to follow and we knew they had got down because we could see their tracks way below us on the glacier. We passed a comfortable-looking bivouac spot they had used just below the summit and continued along a sharper ridge until abseiling became necessary. Soon we were hanging free on big abseils, wondering exactly where the Polish team had climbed back in 1989. Wherever they went it certainly looked to be a fine effort.

Clouds were at last appearing on the horizon and after a final bivouac below the difficulties we descended the broad expanse of the upper Hagshu Glacier in a white-out by following the increasingly difficult-to-spot tracks. By that afternoon – seven days after leaving – we were back at base camp, albeit with me falling over, cutting my head and incurring the only injury of the trip 100 metres from the edge of the glacier.

Steve and Ian had arrived the day before and over tea they regaled us with their near-success on their peak. They had reached the summit ridge, and, after a tricky traverse, Steve reached a notch beneath the highest point. From here the way ahead had been blocked by a short vertical wall that they didn’t have enough equipment to tackle. And so they failed by perhaps five metres to stand on the highest point. They were full of enthusiasm for both the climbing, the area in general and the panoramic view they obtained of unclimbed objectives to the north-west. They also told us about a couple of locals who had just passed through our base camp on their way to cross the Hagshu La to buy wooden shovels and say hello to friends on the Kishtwar side. The multi-day round trip involved a long section of glacier travel with minimal equipment and seemed quite an adventure to us, whereas it was clearly viewed very much as business as usual to them. New roads, easier communications and shrinking glaciers mean that the mountain passes are crossed far less frequently than they used to be, but it was heartening to know that these traditional trade routes are still seeing some use.

Next morning we lounged around immersing ourselves in the comforts of base camp. Around lunchtime Marko, Luka and Aleš appeared bearing gifts of whisky, wine and Slovenian sausage. An awkward meeting ensued as Paul and I explained how disappointed we were at what we saw as such ungentlemanly behaviour. But the alpine-style Himalayan scene is small and there was nothing to be gained by prolonging tension. I can’t say that the awkwardness completely dissipated, but we shook hands, drank and ate and wished each other well as they departed the following morning.

Although our yaks were not due for a few days, Rinku and Pritam were clearly restless.

‘The bear keeps visiting us and just won’t go away. It’s a big problem,’ they explained. I had been vaguely aware of scuffling, snuffling and shouting outside during the night but nothing had been disruptive enough to stir me from my slumbers. None of us had ever seen a Himalayan brown bear, so the prospect of the bear returning was very exciting. Soon though, it became clear that Rinku and Pritam had stayed up all night for several nights to protect our tents and food and they were tiring of the situation. Now they mentioned it, they did look rather sleepy.

Rinku explained that he had applied all the standard guidelines for dealing with bears – shout, try and chase it away, light a fire and so on – but none were having the desired effect. In fact, he reported that the ‘light a fire’ tip seemed to have the opposite effect as the bear had immediately dug through the glowing embers in a manner which suggested it was very pleased for an opportunity to warm its paws. Other deterrents were called for and, noting its enthusiasm for rummaging in our discarded food pit, Pritam had tried to discourage it by adding vast quantities of chilli powder. The bear had happily eaten the lot without appearing at all concerned. We listened to all this sympathetically while still being hopeful that we would catch our first ever glimpse of a bear. We didn’t have to wait long.

It was much bigger than I had expected and was sitting on a rock overlooking our camp. Paul stretched for his binoculars.

‘Nice ears,’ he announced.

I had to agree. Light-coloured tufts made the ears stand out prominently as it stared at us from a distance. As the evening progressed and the light faded it came closer and closer until eventually its close proximity was slightly uncomfortable. Trying to stop a large, strong, sharp-clawed animal doing something it wants to do could be tricky. Meanwhile Rinku and Pritam started what had become their nightly routine of trying to find new ways of discouraging it. By morning we could understand their difficulties.

‘I think it best that we finish the expedition early,’ announced Rinku.

Over the years I have experienced an interesting variety of Himalayan challenges aside from the climbing, but never dreamed that being hassled by a bear might be one. But as there was no particular reason to hang around we were happy to go along with Rinku’s suggestion and return to our other worlds. Getting back to family and work a few days early always goes down well.

 

Memories of the tensions between us and the Slovenians were resurrected a few months later when we learned that they had been awarded a Piolet d’Or for their climb. We didn’t feel that our climb should have been in the running but we couldn’t help but notice that the jury had relied on information which incorrectly stated that it was our permit that was cut short and the award criteria included ‘showing respect for members of other teams’. We couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable about this. It seemed that issues surrounding Hagshu would continue to detract from the experience for us. More than anything I felt upset that the level of retrospective pleasure I normally experience after climbing such a great mountain was tarnished. In short, wonderful as the climb was, the whole Hagshu experience left a rather sad and sour taste in the mouth.