From
inside the soft yellow light of our cook tent the droning sound amplifies, an
invisible missile, its target unknown. I rush to stick my head outside the
window of the tent just in time to witness this granite missile culminate in a
horrifying impact of stone on stone complete with a 30 ft. cloud of rock dust. From our camp, tucked between the coarse boulders, below the west face of Seerdengpu I watch as
the dust cloud recedes from the midst of the first pitch of our intended line
up the northwest buttress. Yesterday in an acclimatization foray on the same
line we had nearly been struck twice with similar rockfall. A contemplative
silence looms over the camp. It is time to change plans again.
This
wouldn’t be the first time our plan had changed this season or doubt about our
objectives had filled my head. The whole year we had planned, trained and
prepared for a trip to the Trango Valley to attempt a new line on Uli Biaho.
Then in April I was diagnosed with an inguinal hernia and had surgery to repair
it. For the next several weeks I could barely put on my own socks let alone
prepare for an expedition to the Karakorum. With time I healed though and as
mid June arrived I was feeling stronger and more confident with each day. Then
the unthinkable happened in Pakistan. One the evening of June 22, a group of
Taliban walked into the Diamar basecamp below Nanga Parbat and killed 12
climbers. This horrible incident rocked the community of climbers who had been
to Pakistan and had experienced nothing but warmth and hospitality. For me it
was exactly what I had always told my friends and family wouldn’t happen, “it’s
not like the Taliban are going to hike for days into your basecamp,” I would
say.
The West Face of Seerdengpu (left) seen from the valley.
Trying to tell the locals where we wanted our basecamp. Communication was very difficult with almost no one speaking english.
Keita Kanehara of Japan bouldering during a short break in 12 day stretch of bad weather.
The
attack at Nanga Parbat scared me but more impactful, it terrified my family. My
family had always been 100% supportive of my climbing and now, despite how
subtly they might would express their opinions, the vibe just didn’t feel
right. We quickly pulled together a plan B to travel to the Siguniang National
Park in China. The west face of Seerdengpu was an appealing objective and Pat
had already been to the area twice. Tickets were bought and by August we were
on a plane to China.
As
I watched the frighteningly large dust plume fade into the afternoon light, I
felt our psyche for tomorrow’s planned attempt begin to wane. Were we
over-reacting? We couldn’t really tell where the rockfall was coming from.
Would we be reasonably safe if we moved fast in the early morning when there
seemed to be less rockfall? Our chosen line followed several amazing splitters
in perfect granite to more questionable terrain up high. Would the lack of snow
and ice create dangerously loose ledge systems up high? The questions cycled
through my head. As we considered other, less threatened lines, it struck us
both as ironic that we had bailed on our Pakistan plans only to attempt an
objective that seemed much likelier to kill us with rockfall then our chances
of encountering the Taliban would have been in Pakistan.
Pat following one of the beautiful granite crack pitches on our first attempt.
Pat leading flakey pitch on our second attempt on the face.
Pat approaching the wall through the early morning fog. The fog in the valley was amazing, flooding the landscape in minutes and then disappearing just as quickly.
The
rest of the trip was wrought with unsettled weather and just plain bad luck. . One day we climbed 1600’ up through a
mix of crystal-laced cracks and run-out 5.10 slab climbing only to be hammered
that night by a lightening storm that was the first of 12 straight days and
nights of rain. We descended to a guesthouse in the valley below passing the
time helping the family there harvest potatoes and occasionally getting in some
bouldering between rain storms.
A view from the approach gully on the final line we attempted.
Despite
continued snow and rain we returned to basecamp as much for a change of scenery
than anything else. As we dug out the tents from under heavy wet snow we
discovered that we had had a visitor. An unknown creature had chewed through
the mesh vent on our single wall tent and stolen all seven pairs of socks we
had left in the tent. Amazingly the now well-insulated creature had not been
interested in anything else. Now
with three increasingly smelly socks between the two of us, we considered our
options. When the weather finally cleared we found our previous line looking
more like a black diamond ski run then the rock buttress we had previously
tried. One final attempt on yet a third line on the face ended before it really
started with Pat throwing up as an apparent result of food poisoning. Shortly after we broke down our camp for
the last time, descending into the valley below under crushing loads.
The third member of our team.
Failure
in my climbing is not a new experience. I’ve found that as my skills and
passion have grown and I push myself harder in each aspect of this sport I fail
more than I succeed. I know this means that I am trying as hard as I can,
unsatisfied with having it any other way. This time though conditions, health, and just plain bad luck prevented us from ever really got a chance to fail, from retreating knowing that you had given it everything you had.
Now,
home in Vermont, I look up from my computer screen to the heart of the Green
Mountains sprawled out before me in an orange, yellow and red technicolor. I
must admit that failure has gnawed at me since returning home. Questions ripple
near the surface of my conscious mind, “is it all worth it?” “If we had done
this or that maybe we would have sent…” I know better than to be sucked in by
these thoughts but nonetheless they are there. I know that each experience,
successful or not, offers lessons learned and experiences not otherwise had. People
say not to stress the summit, to “appreciate the journey,” or something about
each failure furthering personal growth. I know these things to be true but I’ve found it hard to
swallow this time.
Despite
all the factors that can conspire against you, I know I’ll return to the
mountains. I’ve come to love the process of expeditions, the intense excitement
and drive leading up to departure as I push myself harder in the weight room,
the jaw dropping grandeur of seeing the objective in-person for the first time,
the nervous excitement that keeps me awake the night before an attempt. As the days pass since returning from
China my thoughts slowly shift from any frustrations about the trip to thoughts
and ideas for the next adventure that I can’t wait to begin.
I'd like to sincerely thank the support of the American Alpine Club's Lyman-Spitzer Award committee for their support of our expedition despite our last minute change in destination.
Brewing up amongst the boulders below Seerdengpu.
Approaching the wall early in the trip. Notice the complete lack of snow as compared to later in the trip!
