C. Bonington, Kongur: China’s elusive summit, Hodder and Stoughton, London, 1982

14

A long plod

4TH-8TH JULY 1981

We had just three days at Base Camp, eating prodigious Chinese meals served by Wang, who worked, almost single-handed, to feed us throughout the expedition. He was one of those cooks who would barely lei another into his kitchen. In this respect I think his assistant had a very easy time.

I certainly would have liked more rest. Although I had felt superbly fit on our return — we made it from our Advance Base in two and a half hours - once back in my tent, the Stress and fatigue of the past week took their toll and I felt listless and washed out. Then there were the scientific tests; I did not mind giving blood for I could lie down while doing that, but I was not prepared to undergo the more extreme exercise tests. I had a slight cough, but beyond that I felt that I was going to need every tiny bit of energy and strength that I had for our final attempt. I was a miser, conserving the last farthing of my meagre resources. Al, who had a very bad chest cough, felt the same way, though Joe and Pete, more richly endowed in stamina, went through the full regime.

There was no question of delay, for nor only was the season beginning to run out, but we were soon to be faced by competition from the Japanese expedition who were to attempt Kongur from the north. We knew they had permission to move into then- Base Camp at the foot of the north side of the mountain on 14^th July, but they had been in the area for nearly as long as us, climbing on Mustagh Ata to gain acclimatisation. The day after we returned to Base, David Wilson and Charlie Clarke, who had gone down to the river to sort out the ferry, came back with news that the Japanese had climbed Mustagh Ata and were on their way round to the north. We certainly had to get back on the mountain as quickly as possible. We had already learnt just how unreliable the weather was and how difficult that final pyramid might be.

We left Base Camp on 4th July. Jim Milledge and David Wilson had agreed to help us on our first day out of the Koksel Basin, carrying part of the load we were taking back up the mountain. We had left as much as possible in the top snow cave and, as a result, were planning this time to take a full ten days' supply of food with ample Gaz cylinders so that we could sit out any bad weather before launching our attempt on the final pyramid.

Our three days' rest had been marked by cloud-filled skies. There had even been a dusting of snow at Base Camp, a sure sign that we were in the right place. Perhaps we had at last got in phase with the weather, for the morning of the 4th dawned fine, and the 5th was a perfect cloudless day. Michael Ward and Edward "Williams had gone out a day ahead to rescue the gear, including our ski sticks, that we had left on the Koksel Col when we had set out on the South Ridge.

This time we were going to return by the South-West Rib which we had reconnoitred two weeks before and descended after our first attempt. Our decision, though, was not unanimous. Joe still clung to the South Ridge route as being more direct and safe, but once again the democratic process worked and we talked it round until he agreed to go along with the majority.

But a lot of snow had fallen in those three days. The Koksel Glacier and the crest of the ridge were covered in a thick mantle of fresh snow, that made trail-breaking even more exhausting than in the past. All four of us took turns out in front, arriving at an agreement that we each broke trail past two of the marker wands we had left on the route. There was an element of chance in this since they were not set at even intervals.

Pete, Joe and I were using ski poles, finding them a great help both in the way you could build up a slow rhythm in which arms were sharing the work with legs, and also because when resting you could sag on to them. Al had never tried them. He seemed to be against them in principle, feeling they were extra, not strictly necessary items of equipment to be taken up the mountain; that everything must be pared down to the bare minimum for an alpine-style push. But I had come to like my ski poles, and sagged on them every few steps to steal a rest.

And the slope seemed endless, longer, if that were possible, than it had been the first time we went up. We were hoping to get all the way to the col on the crest of the ridge, and then the next day cross Junction Peak and return to the snow cave. Jim Milledge and David Wilson came with us for about 600 metres, but the strain was beginning to tell on Jim and he decided it was time to return. David seemed to be going as strongly as any of us - better than me, I couldn't help thinking, wryly. Perhaps it's he that should be going for the top.

We shared their load out amongst us and sacks that had felt heavy before, now felt unbearable. We were probably carrying about sixteen kilos each. And the plod went on. My turn to be out in front. Fifty steps at a time. I counted them, each time my right foot sank into the soft, clogging snow. I managed the first fifty, paused for a rest, leaning on my sticks, the others waiting patiently just behind; then another effort; I only managed forty-eight that time; I glanced up and the marker wand with its tiny flag seemed no closer, and so it went on, a grinding monotonous agony.

I'm never going to make it back to the snow cave; I'll end up being a burden on the others,' I muttered to myself, something I hated the thought of. I turned to Pete as he came up to take over the trail-breaking.

'Look Pete. If you think I'm going to hold you up, I don't mind going back now.'

'Don't be bloody stupid. You'll be all right. You're not holding us back anyway. It's good to have a bit of rest at times.'

And I kept going, ashamed of my weakness, but immensely heartened by the warmth of Pete's response. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when we reached the shoulder in which we had dug our snow caves on our early reconnaissance. The marker flags were still in place indicating where the entrances were meant to be. I had been thinking for some time of our plan to reach the col. I knew that I was getting near my own limit, but beyond that, straight logic seemed in favour of stopping at caves we had already dug rather than going on for a further four or five hours through deep snow, and then having to dig a fresh cave late into the night.

I put my case. Predictably, Pete was in favour of pushing on to the col, feeling that if the weather did break during the night, the slope in front of us was probably the most dangerous of all, and that therefore we might not be able to cross it. Once on the col, however, we should be able to get back over Junction Peak in almost any conditions and sit out any bad weather there. It was a perfect evening, however, and it seemed unlikely, even on Kongur, that the weather was going to break that night, Joe agreed with me and, as so often happened, the decision was reached not so much by agreement as inertia. We began to unpack and scratch around in search of the entrances to our snow holes.

Pete and Al found theirs quickly, but it was some time before Joe and I did. It's quite amazing how elusive a cave can be, even when it is marked by a wand. When we did find ours, there was still some work to be done, for the roof had sunk in the preceding three weeks and needed digging out. Nonetheless, there was considerably less work than there would have been had we started from scratch.

Joe and I had settled into being a closeknit team. Pete noticed this, commenting in his diary: 'I think Chris is just a little scared of Joe. Certainly, I've never heard him use "the tone" with him.'

'The tone' to which Pete refers is my tendency to get autocratic every now and then, particularly in the early mornings, when I can be very self-righteous. I certainly never used this with Joe, but I don't think it was so much a matter of being afraid as the case of the partnership that had developed over the climb.

Joe and I woke first the next morning and were away in front of the others. As usual I started off strongly, but on this occasion, determined to husband my resources, we agreed that Joe should break trail for two hundred paces at a time to my hundred. We had been going for an hour or so before I noticed that I seemed to be covering as much ground out in front as he was.

'How do you count your paces?' I asked.

'Each time my foot touches the ground of course,' was the reply.

I couldn't help laughing. I'd been counting mine every time my left foot sank into the snow and so we had been doing exactly the same amount of work. In a funny kind of way it was a fillip to my ego, but one for which I was to pay a high price later on. The others caught up after a couple of hours and took over in front. The snow was much deeper than when we had come down a few days before and we were sinking up to our thighs at almost every step.

We reached the col at around 12.30, had a brew and something to eat and then set out once again. Pete described me subsequently as a 'four hour rocket', and there was quite a lot of truth in this. I had gone well for the first four hours, but now was definitely beginning to flag, Pete and Al, with Pete doing most of the trail-breaking, were out in front, followed by Joe and me. The route that had seemed so quick and easy on the way down, now seemed interminable. The weather also was beginning to change. Clouds appeared from the blank blue sky, settled on the ridge above us, spread over the peaks to the south, and then engulfed us in a driving swirl of windswept snow.

We plodded on through the near white-out, climbing the steep step in the ridge, and then on to another. My own fatigue sapped my will and, as I caught up with the others on the crest of one of the slopes, I stumped into the snow and told them that I thought I had gone far enough for the day, suggesting that we broke the journey up into three days instead of two, and that we'd all be so tired the next day we'd need to rest anyway. But this was the wrong suggestion and it was Pete who encouraged me into keeping going, telling me that we were very nearly there, and that we didn't want to have to dig yet another snow hole.

So we carried on in the tearing wind, Pete out in front, picking a route, peering into the driving snow, trying to interpret the dark shape of rocks on the crest of the broad-backed ridge. He had to take responsibility for the constant risk of cornice or avalanche, while we plodded behind him, taking his judgment for granted. I was walking in a daze of fatigue, regretting my momentary weakness, now determined to keep going somehow, and through this getting a second wind. We passed a marker wand, only just protruding from the snow. We were on route. A short way beyond we reached a conspicuous tooth of black rock which we had named the 'Matterhorn' on the way down. We now knew exactly where were were. It was Al who suggested that we should change partners. Wracked by coughing, he was going as badly as I, and had done very little trail-breaking on the way up. Pete, as a result, was beginning to show the strain of being constantly in front.

As they set out on a general compass bearing across the broad shoulder that we knew led to the summit of Junction Peak, the wind tore a gap in the clouds and the summit pyramid of Kongur, from this angle a perfect triangle of snow-plastered rock, came into view. It looked very remote and was quickly veiled once again. Like a will o' the wisp, it was tempting us from the safest route; it seemed so easy to strike across towards where the col and snow cave must be, but this would have taken us over crevasse-strewn, avalanche-prone slopes. We had no choice but to climb Junction Peak, a weary 152 metres of ascent, before we could drop down on the other side to the haven of the snow hole.

Although they were breaking trail, Pete and Joe were going faster than Al and I. They vanished and then reappeared in the swirling cloud; their tracks were being blown over already. All we had to do was keep them in sight, but they had to find the route. Pete wrote:

It's not that far away, but this is proving to be a hell of a day. I'm looking hard for a submerged marker flag. See a black crease in the snow, and walk towards it. Black rocks and cloud below me. I'm standing on the cornice above the South Face! Quickly shout to Joe and step back. And then see, much lower down, the flag that marks the point where we can descend to the snow cave col.

Joe and I traverse right, looking for wind creased snow, which will be safer. It's a relief to reach the rocks just above the snow cave. And yes, the flags are over there. It's 9.00 p.m. and I shovel away the spindrift that has built up over the entrance. On a quick inspection the snow cave seems intact. 

Al and I reached it about twenty minutes later. We were soon all crammed inside in a confusion of part unpacked rucksacks, loose snow, the foam mats on which we would sleep and a clutter of food, some left from our previous effort and some brought up freshly. We were all tired, but relieved and content that we had made it to the snow cave with enough food and fuel to sit out a storm and still have a reasonable chance of going for the summit.

Our rations had also been improved in one very important respect. This time we had brought with us some packets of spices, chilli and garlic powder plus some fresh onions. The bland dehydrated food well laced with chillis became quite palatable and the fire of the spices was even warming. That night we did not discuss any plans for the morrow, we were too tired, but I certainly was praying for one day of bad weather so that we could have a rest.

Pete commented in his diary:

 At least we've passed all those potential avalanche slopes and are stuck up here until our adventure has gone one way or another. Come to slowly, with Chris waking us up as usual at 7.00 a.m. Somehow Chris always seems to be the first to suggest staying; Joe doesn't ever need much persuading and A! says he doesn't mind either way, but in a way that isn't convincing since he seems so ill.

Chris has pronounced it a bad day, but when I crawl out to have a look, it doesn't seem that bad to me. I wonder if Joe was like that on Everest — determined but quiet, when right at the end, his silence became his undoing and he found himself almost on his own, because the others had found little encouragement or optimism expressed to spur them on. Al has said he thinks Joe inhuman. But whatever the case, neither Joe nor Al look out this morning; they seem to think that my opinion and Chris's - two poles — are enough,

Perhaps I'm being the devil's advocate, always pushing to go forward, particularly when confronted with arguments to slow down. Would I really be that capable, if some one took me up on the challenge? But it is, after all, a rest day and who knows what it would have been like out there, since we never left? And inside here, a tomb-like quiet, with no knowledge of what's going on outside. 

Once again, we reached a compromise decision, which I think was probably for the best. It certainly was from my point of view, and I suspect might have been for all of us, even Pete. We spent the rest of the day brewing up, chatting and also deciding on plans for the summit push. Pete was convinced that there was enough snow in the gully at the foot of the summit pyramid to dig a cave, and was in favour of abandoning the tents, heading for it the following day and then going for the summit, hoping to get another snow cave near the top where undoubtedly there was more snow. I was not convinced that there was going to be enough snow in the gully and mooted the possibility of taking tents to the end of the ridge. After some discussion I gave in quite quickly, relishing the idea of carrying the extra weight no more than the others. We were going to take with us four days' food, the bare minimum of climbing gear and rely on moving fairly quickly.

I was still worried, however, about the gully and, jokingly, the morning that we set off for the summit, recorded an interview with Pete:

Chris: It's the morning of the 8th July. Pete, am I right in assuming that you are staking your entire mountaineering reputation on the fact there's going to be a snow hole in the gully at the end of the long ridge? Mr. Boardman, can we have your comments.

Pete: There is a precedent which is when Shackleton crossed South Georgia. He could not be certain if there was a route across, but he came out all right in the end. There comes a time in a climber's life when you have to take chances, have to go for it; leave the tents, take a shovel, and hope . . .

Chris: But Shackleton had no choice and we have.

15

Snow coffins

8TH-12TH JULY 1981

It was very different from the last time. Deep snow plastered the knife-edged ridge that led to the foot of the summit pyramid. Joe went first, ploughing through the deep snow just below the crest of the ridge. He commented:

It was the most gripping lead I did on the entire climb. It wasn't difficult ground but it was really worrying and dangerous in the context of avalanche. I was wading through waist-deep snow and it took me about an hour to go three hundred feet. I had to stamp down every step before I dared put my weight on it. I was quite frightened but thought 'Chris is belaying me; he's on the ridge and can always jump down the other side if the slope avalanches away.'

I just kept on going and I suppose it was because I was so exhausted that I didn't look back and just focused my attention on keeping going. I thought the rope was getting longer and longer, but even so it was a shock when I looked back and saw that Chris was walking along behind me in my track and that if the slope had gone, then both of us would have gone with it. There would have been no question of a rescue.

He came to the root of the first step in the ridge and found a secure belay at last on a rocky spike protruding from the snow. I led through, up some rocks covered in snow and then across another snow slope. I couldn't get too close to the crest for it was corniced, and yet the slope I was on, was both steep and terrifyingly insubstantial. No matter how much snow I dug away, there seemed to be no solid bottom to it. It was like a great mass of candyfloss, as much air as substance. I struggled up to a notch in the ridge, poked my axe into the snow and looked down through the hole I had made to the glacier some three miles below on the north side. But I had to pull myself up on to the lip of the cornice. The snow here was at least more solid than the slope beneath. If it did collapse Joe should be able to hold me; I would go down the other side of the ridge from where he was sitting crouched below. I tried to distribute my weight as widely as possible, kneeling on the snow, shuffling gently along and at last I reached a rock, hauled up on it, and slumped down the other side. I pulled in the rope and Joe came up and led through. We moved slowly, cautiously one at a time along the ridge. We were even slower than we had been the previous occasion, for not only was it very much more dangerous with its jacket of fresh snow, but we were now heavily laden with our four days' food, sleeping bags and spare clothes.

Half way along the ridge we let Pete and Al move ahead and they continued past the rock gendarme, edging along the top of the snow slope where it clung to the precipitous rock. Pete managed to hammer in a couple of pitons to safeguard the traverse. Even so, it felt frighteningly precarious- The snow-clad gendarme beyond was as unpleasant as ever with loose snow lying over loose rock, but more worrying than this was the weather.

A huge wall of turbulent dark cloud was inexorably rolling over the dusty foothills from Russia, swallowing Mustagh Ata and sweeping on to Kongur Tiube, whose bulk seemed to be holding the huge wave for just a little. It was more, much more than the standard afternoon cloud and bad weather. It had a gigantic ominous majesty that surely heralded a serious storm. By the time Joe and I caught up with the other two, Pete was already in the bed of the gully where we hoped to dig a snow cave. We had brought with us one of our ski poles, stripped down to act as a probe, so that we could find the deepest bank of snow, but we hardly needed it here. Wherever we searched there was no more than a metre of soft snow before reaching ice or rock. We cast back along the ridge to see if there was enough snow for a cave in any of the cornices clinging to its crest, but were disappointed.

A drift of old snow about three metres deep is the ideal thing in which to dig a comfortable, four-man cave. In this case there seemed only one solution; to dig what were little more than tubes between the ice or rock and the surface of the snow. Pete and Al had already started digging in the middle of the gully and so Joe and I burrowed in slightly to one side and below them. All too quickly we hit ice. It is possible to dig into ice but it is a long and wearisome business, and so we spread out in each direction to dig a tube in which we could each lie. This meant carving out the snow as close to the surface as we dared. In my direction I quickly came to rock on the inside, I had no choice but to hollow out the snow towards the surface. On Joe's side there was ice rather than rock and he cut away a fair amount but even so his outer wall of snow was fairly thin. By this time it had begun to snow and flurries of spindrift were chasing down the rocks above us and pouring down the gully into our newly hollowed holes. It only took us a couple of hours to burrow out our caves. I could barely sit up in the tube that I had dug and had to be careful not to lean against the walls of snow. My head was level with the entrance which we blocked with rucksacks. It quickly became choked with spindrift and we were sealed inside. Joe's feet were just about level with my nose, his head at the end of the tube, away from the entrance. This meant that I would have to do all the cooking, but I had been doing most of it anyway.

We cooked a meal and settled down for the night. Inside there was no hint of what the weather was like outside, but when I poked a hole through the entrance the following morning, spindrift poured down through it. It was snowing and we were in cloud. There was no means of communicating with the others; we just settled down for a day's wait, hoping that the following day would bring fine weather. It was very difficult to prevent snow getting on to the sleeping bags, but in this respect we were saved by the Gore-tex material with which they were covered. Though not totally waterproof, it is certainly much better than any other material on the market and has done as much to help lightweight alpine-style attempts on high mountains as any other technical advance. The greatest problem is remaining dry in extreme circumstances. Once one's sleeping bag is soaked, body warmth and then strength drain away with an alarming speed.

Through the day, the outer walls of the snow holes slowly collapsed in upon us. It reminded me of the story by Edgar Alan Poe, where one wall of a room slowly, almost imperceptibly closes in, to crush the occupant to death. I was becoming positively neurotic about being suffocated, poking air holes through the snow with my ice axe. Joe, meanwhile, was stoically silent. He had a capacity for sleep that I envied.

Our second night in the 'coffin' was more fraught than the first. My end was in the final stages of disintegration, with the snow of the roof pressing down on my face. The atmosphere was so badly polluted by carbon dioxide that the stove would barely light and burnt with a dull glimmer. The following morning, when I peered outside, the storm was raging unabated. My own hole was now untenable and I had to resign myself to digging a new one. That meant getting dressed, packing my now damp sleeping bag away in the rucksack and crawling out into the storm, to dig a fresh hole on the other side of the one occupied by Joe.

I found Al already outside about the same business. This time I found ice and spent most of the day hacking away at it to ensure that I had a better snow cover on the outside. Joe was also enlarging his hole and we were cutting towards each other hoping to make it into a single chamber, but were thwarted by a large rock. All we could do was dig a narrow window at one side of it, through which we could communicate and pass food. This also became the kitchen with the gas stove sitting just below my feet.

The day dragged on, punctuated by the occasional brew of tea, until at last it was time for supper. We had reversed roles and Joe was doing the cooking. It was to be beef stroganoff, the best of the dehydrated meals, suitably titivated with chilli powder and fresh onions. It smelt delicious. It was very nearly ready and my mouth was already beginning to water in anticipation. I sat up and, as I did, my feet must have eased forward, striking the stove and upsetting the pan over Joe who was lying below. His mitts, down suit and sleeping bag were covered in a sticky pulp of beef stroganoff. I was horrified, both by the loss of our supper and the appalling mess I had created, but what impressed me most of all was Joe's self-control. He did not say a thing.

But that night he wrote in his diary: 'Chris thought that I was incredibly controlled because I didn't say anything and just started clearing up. It wasn't control! I couldn't find words sufficient to express the venom I felt towards him at the time.'

We managed to salvage a quarter of a panful of the stroganoff and consoled ourselves with the fact that we were not using up too much energy. Even so the cold was beginning to bite. My clothes were damp from my excavations that morning and it took a long time to dry them out. In addition the sleeping bag was becoming progressively damper, both from the snow that inevitably spilt on to it and crept underneath it on to the Karrimat, and also from the damp clothes I was trying to dry out.

But there was one glimmer of hope. Although it was impossible to tell what was happening outside once our entrance had been sealed with spindrift, the altimeter was an indication of weather changes, for it worked on the barometric principle and therefore any seeming change in altitude indicated a change of pressure. That evening the altimeter showed a significant drop in height which denoted an increase in atmospheric pressure, which in turn should mean an improvement in the weather.

I therefore willed myself to wake before dawn, gave Joe a yell, for only he could reach the stove, and we started to brew. I delayed opening up the cave to the very last minute, for the tiniest opening led to an avalanche of spindrift, but by eight in the morning we had had a couple of brews and a cupful of muesli and were ready to start. I got fully dressed, packed my rucksack and opened up the entrance. A gust of wind-blown snow poured in, but I crawled out all the same, to find that the weather had improved. We were in deep shadow, the ridge above us denying us the sun, but there was a certain amount of blue sky overhead though the mountain tops were all covered in cloud. More serious, there was a bitter savage wind which gusted clouds of spindrift down the rocks above. There was no sign of the others' snow cave, just a uniform snow slope. I did not dare move around for fear of stepping through their roof. I shouted, and eventually, just in front of me, the snow broke away to show a cavernous hole, out of which Pete's voice wafted up, sepulchral. We talked over the situation and decided to give it another day.

I then returned to my tube to settle down to another twenty-four hours of inactivity, There was a womb-like quality about the snow slot; the complete confinement, the silence, the lack of all the conventional stimuli. There was barely anything on which the eye could focus other than the dappled patterns of light that picked out the axe strokes on the roof of the 'coffin'. Joe was out of sight, the other side of the rock, silent, no doubt asleep. We talked very little, and when we did it tended to be on the practical matters of day-to-day survival.

'How about another brew, Joe?'

'We've just had one. I'm trying to get some sleep.'

My mind wandered, lethargic, drifting from dreams of mammoth breakfasts to making pictures from the light patterns. Time slid by surprisingly easily in this limbo world.

And then came an interruption from the outer world; Pete's voice from outside, muffled, but insistent. 'You got the shovel, Chris? Shove it out will you.'

I could hear his feet crunching into the snow, getting closer to my safe little tomb and shouted out, 'Keep away from the bloody hole; I'll give you the shovel.'

But his footsteps seemed to be getting nearer and nearer. My own reactions were slowed up. I could have pushed the shovel through the snowed up entrance, and Pete would then have known where our cave was situated and got what he wanted, but somehow I never thought of that. I think I resented my peaceful isolation being disturbed and dreaded having anything to do with that cold and bitter outside world. As I shouted into the sound-absorbent snows, Pete was now nearly on top of me.

And then, crash! A boot came smashing down through the roof a few inches from my face. The snow poured in. I got a glimpse of Pete's embarrassed, concerned face, but it made little difference as I erupted with all the pent-up frustration, discomfort and fear of the past two days, hurling at Pete a string of abuse that had best remain unprinted. I followed this with the shovel that I hurled out of the hole . . . and then as always, chastened by my loss of control and relieved no doubt by the tension I had released, I apologised for my outburst.

Pete replied: 'If it makes you feel any better, Al did exactly the same thing to me yesterday and I used the same words on him.'

Pete returned to his hole and for the rest of the day I could hear the steady tap and thud through the snow as he enlarged his home. I was left with the problem of mending my roof and in the end managed to block the cascade of spindrift by wedging my rucksack with my ice axe against the hole, and stuffing blocks of snow I had carved from the inner walls around it.

I contemplated the damage; my sleeping bag and foam mat were covered in snow. I spent another hour painstakingly brushing the snow away, but everything was that little bit damper and the cold was insidiously chilling deeper. I sank back into daydreams interspersed with thoughts about our prospects. We were now getting low on food and had only one more main meal left. This meant that we really did need to make the ascent the following day. I kept checking the altimeter throughout the day and it was steadily losing height; in other words the weather was improving.

That night I found sleep difficult, partly because I was now so cold that I had periods of uncontrollable shivering, and partly from excitement tinged with forebodings at our prospects the following day. But each time I looked at the altimeter, it was still slowly losing height. I called out to Joe to start cooking at six in the morning when it was still dark. Two brews and a very small cupful of muesli and dried fruit later, the snow of the roof was glimmering a tight grey. The dawn was upon us.

I probed a spy hole through the snow with my ice axe and peered through it. I could see the spindrift cascading down past it and the sky seemed grey. The weather was as bad as ever, and yet this time we had to go. It was the morning of 12th July; both our supplies and our resistance to the cold were very nearly at an end. We could not sit it out any longer. And so, I packed my sack, stuffing the wet sleeping bag into it with the scant remains of our food, and hacked away the snow at the entrance to make a hole the size of a picture frame. As I did so, my spirits soared. The narrow view through the spy hole had deceived me, for outside the sky was clear; the shapely summit of Chakragil on the other side of the Gez gorge was bathed in brilliant sunlight. It was still bitterly cold and windy and we were chilled and weakened from four nights and three days in our snow coffins, but it was the best we could hope for.

16

Going for the top

12TH JULY 1981

I felt a wild, exuberant joy at the prospect of escaping from inactivity and the excitement of the climb ahead. I shouted at the blank slope under which Pete and Al were hidden. Some snow crumbled away and Pete peered out. They also had been brewing up for some hours. Joe was still in the bowels of his hole, and I stamped up and down in the snow, impatient to be away. It was nine o'clock before we were all out of the holes, with our rucksacks packed with sleeping bags that were already beginning to freeze in the bitter cold of the outside air. We gathered in the nick between rocks on the col, pausing for a second before the commitment of the climb. I suggested to Pete that he started out on the ridge. Was it a courtesy, or perhaps a little jab of fear, a holding back from the steep ice-clad rocks above.

Pete started up, climbing blocks of rock plastered in snow on the crest of the ridge, a fragile stairway to the base of the pyramid. We debated where to go. Joe was in favour of going straight up, Pete and I were for doing a high traverse round the left, which is the route we took. This was real climbing, steeper than the North Face of the Matterhorn, more like the North Wall of the Eiger in winter. Frozen snow clung to crumbling rock. It needed care, stepping delicately from one rocky hold to the next, precariously balanced on crampon tips.

Pete led round a shoulder, hammered in a piton belay and it was Al's turn to lead, up an Open scoop of hard snow into a little rocky niche. Hard awkward climbing at sea level, but this was at around 7,315 metres in a bitter wind shaded from the encouragement of the sun. Joe and I caught up with Pete, the three of us sharing a small ledge, while Al eased himself into an open rock groove, hammered in a piton for protection, and then bridged up it to reach a snow ledge.

By the time Pete had led the next pitch across snow-covered rocks he had lost all feeling in hands and feet. He took off his mitts and gloves to see that the tips of his fingers were blackened with frost nip. He asked Joe and me if we would move through into the lead. We now seemed close to the end of the extreme difficulties. A projecting buttress just in front was at last catching the sun and the angle was beginning to relent. I led across to the buttress, and then Joe went through to climb one more awkward pitch over a bottomless rocky scoop, that thrust one out of balance and was particularly difficult with a rucksack. Beyond, though, it all began to open out, with the sun creeping over the crest of the broken ridge about thirty metres above and hurling jagged beams through the swirling Spindrift. It was now possible to follow runnels of snow through the shattered rocks, scrambling up the broken ground towards the crest and the sun.

I pulled out over the top and found myself in a different world. I was on a broad platform that would have taken several tents, bathed in sunlight and out of the wind. Above, the ridge broadened, a winding snow trail between the rocks leading summit-wards. I brought Joe up and the other two followed. We had taken five hours to climb about 152 metres. It was now two o'clock in the afternoon.

Pete, still concerned about his feet and hands, took his boots off to massage some life into his toes. I loaned him one of my down socks to give his frost-nipped hand greater protection than he could get from his frozen mitts. And then we set off again, but now we could move together, the only curb on our progress the weakness of lungs in the thin air. It was a slow steady plod upwards, picking our way past huge boulders that barred the crest of the ridge. In one place we even had to take off our rucksacks to wriggle through a narrow gap beneath a rock.

I was undoubtedly going slowly but was still determined to take my share out in front, aiming at twenty steps at a time and then a rest. As we slowly gained height, the ridge seemed to stretch in front of us for ever in a series of false crests. Glancing back the summit of Kongur Tiube still seemed slightly higher than ourselves. The light of the afternoon was beginning to soften as the sun dropped down towards the western horizon and still we plodded on. And yet we knew we were going to make it. Nothing could stop us now. It was just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other.

I was savouring the moment of success and knew an emotion of anticipation which actually brought tears to my eyes. I had the feeling of immense affection for the three others sharing this experience, who had given me such great moral and, at times, physical support.

The summit came as a surprise. Joe was out in front, pulled over a notch in the ridge, and poked his head back to shout down to me: 'I think you'll like what you see up here.'

I did. The ridge curved round in a gentle sickle of snow to what was obviously the summit just fifteen metres or so above us and thirty or so distant. Across the open easy-angled slope of the summit, at the other side of a broad col, was the other summit of Kongur, a distant rounded hump of snow. It definitely seemed lower than the one just in front of us. We sat and waited for the others, and then started for the summit. Joe, who was determined to film our success, unroped and went up first with the cine camera, stopping Just short of the top to film Al, Pete, and me, trailing an empty rope, move up towards the summit. Joe wrote:

I had this clamp which I stuck on the ice axe, and I filmed the other three coming up and then filmed them going past me and standing on the summit itself. And then I thought it a bit daft if there are only three people seen on the summit, because my mum's going to think I'm dead or something, so I then rushed into the picture and knelt there myself so that I was in the summit film too.

The emotion of anticipation had somehow vanished in the practicalities of reaching the top. Pete had nursed the string of silk summit flags, the ensigns of China, the United Kingdom and the expedition flag containing the Jardine logo, all the way from Base Camp. He had never taken a flag to a summit before but the way he had cared for these seemed to show a liking for the symbolism that they contained, fluttering from his ice axe on that bleak snowy mound. It was bitterly cold with a fierce wind blasting clouds of spindrift over the summit. The sky above and around was a deep dark blue, clear of haze or cloud, but below was the cottonwool of cumulus clouds stretching out to the far horizon, hiding distant mountain peaks.

It was getting late, past eight o'clock in the evening and we still had no shelter for the night. We left the summit after about ten minutes, dropped back to the shoulder and then started looking for a suitable drift for our cave. Al found one just below and started digging. It took us three hours to carve out a shelter big enough for the four of us to squeeze into. Pete, worried about his frost-nipped hand, stayed outside, kicking away the snow with his booted foot as we shovelled it out of the entrance.

It was very nearly dark when at last the cave seemed ready. Joe and I had dug a broad but quite short shelter while Al had made a much narrower but longer slot. As Pete crawled into the hole, he exploded into recrimination, that Joe and I had been thoughtlessly selfish in just digging ourselves a luxurious abode with no thought of helping Al who had been working on his own. It was a short blazing row, engendered by fatigue and strain. That day Pete had done all the leading on the upper part of the ridge since Al had been struggling with a severe throat infection that sent him into paroxysms of coughing.

But the row died in apologies and we were able to snuggle into sleeping bags, light the stoves and at last have a victory brew of tea. There was not much else, for we h ad run out of main meals and just had some soup thickened with mashed potato powder, spiced with chillies. We were too tired to feel much elation, were still bruised by the argument, which had been a release as much as anything of the tensions built up by our days trapped in the snow cave and the isolation of our present position. It was two o'clock in the morning before we finally settled down in our cave just fifteen metres below the summit of Kongur.

17

The hair's breadth

13TH-18TH JULY 1981

I was woken by the light of the sun streaming into the entrance of the snow cave. I made a brew and then, while the others were creeping into full consciousness, I dressed and crawled out of the hole. During the night the wind had dropped to a steady breeze. It was still bitterly cold, but it was a perfect day with only a light scattering of clouds around the distant horizon. I walked back up to the summit — it was only a few metres, but now, with the entrance to the snow hole hidden by a curve in the ridge, I could have been on my own on what felt like the roof of Asia, There was a sense of space and distance I have never before experienced. In most mountain areas, even on the highest summit, the horizon is limited by surrounding peaks, but here, in the heart of Central Asia, Kongur was so isolated that the neighbouring peaks were dwarfed and the horizon formed an arc as perfect as if I had been far out at sea. The surface of the desert was concealed in a light brown dust haze, out of which the distant peaks, like foam-capped waves, rose on all sides. To the north-west, beyond the haze beneath which Kashgar must be hidden, was the distant range of the Tian-shan and to the west, mingled in cloud, were the Soviet Pamirs. Even the mighty bulk of Kongur Tiube and Mustagh Ata were subdued, while to the south, glimpsed through serried cumulus cloud, were the peaks of the Hindu Kush and in the far distance just a hint of K2, barely discernible on the far horizon.

The view to the north-east was barred by the mound of Kongur's other summit. The previous night it had definitely looked lower, but that morning it appeared to have grown, a trick no doubt of the light, for the sun was now to the east. But could it be higher than the summit on which I was standing? There was obviously not much difference. By the time I got back to the snow hole, the others were beginning to emerge. We sat on the shoulder, poised between the notch which led to our route off the mountain, and the unwelcome second summit, which almost seemed to gain in height as we gazed upon it.

Reason told us to escape while we could. The weather was perfect, but for how long? We were a long way from safety- The fact that we could see neither our Advance Base nor our Base Camp, both of which were shielded by the bulk of Junction Peak, increased our sense of isolation. Yet Pete expressed the problem all too well: 'We'll kick ourselves for the rest of our lives if we don't make sure we've been to the top, and the only way to know is to go there.'

We eventually decided to dump our sacks on the shoulder and walk over, Pete and Joe were going to team up once again to allow Al and me to go at our own pace. Having made the decision, it was easy going at first down and across the summit slope towards the col between the summits. Easy, but dangerous, for the slope had the crusty quality of windslab. Could the whole lot slide in a gigantic sheet? We kept a wide distance between the two parties and tried to tiptoe down. It was a strange sensation for the way was quite gentle with scree exposed on the other side of the col as we scrambled up by broken rocks. It was like walking along the ridge of Helvellyn on a clear winter's day. But the thinness of the air and the spaciousness of the view to either side belied the illusion. We came to the top of the slope. This was the central summit. From the viewpoint Michael Ward and I had had the previous year on the other side of the Gez gorge, it had seemed little more than a knob of rock on the summit plateau, but now, upon its crest, it assumed the stature of twin rocky summits linked by a sharp ridge of crumbling rock. We shuffled over it awkwardly and then down a steep snow field on the other side to the next col. The dome of the north-east summit was now before us. It was an easy walk, curving gently uphill. By the time Al and I got there, Joe and Pete were already sprawled on the snow, munching boiled sweets.

It was an agreeable anticlimax for looking back, the fin-like summit we had reached the previous night, stood proud and high projecting above the lip of the flat plateau on which we were sitting. It was undoubtedly the highest point on Kongur, though probably by not more than thirty metres or so. We turned round and started back, Al and I out in front this time. We always seemed to be ascending in order to get down on this climb. We had to plod back over the central summit and then across that dangerous slope to reach the main summit.

It was four-thirty in the afternoon when we were ready to leave once again, but there was no suggestion of spending another night in the summit snow hole. We all desperately wanted to get back to the food cache and the relative safety of the snow cave at the foot of junction Peak.

Just before we set off, Joe reminded me of one more commitment that we had. Michael Ward had been given a message for peace with the request that it should be planted on the summit of Kongur. I buried the little card in the snow, the only token of our presence that we left behind.

Dropping down the ridge, we lost height quickly and steadily for we were no longer fighting gravity. But then we came to the shoulder above the difficult step. This was going to be awkward to reverse. We discussed the best route and finally decided to follow the crest and abseil down the steepest section. Pete was out in front, picking his way down the ridge, via a small gully and then to a rocky pinnacle poised on the brink of the sheer drop of the final step. He commented:

I go to the big block on the crest, lower myself around on its north side and find a large spike overhanging the west. It seems stable and I tie two slings together, to go round it. We must hurry and someone must go first and there's no reason why it shouldn't be me. I tie off the rope that Al and I have been using and hurl it down.

By this time Joe and I had caught up and sat crouched on a ledge above watching Pete prepare the abseil. He threaded the rope through a karabiner brake from his waist belt and then ran it under his thigh to give more friction. He started down the narrow crest of the ridge; it was awkward for he could swing to either side of it and constantly had to adjust his balance to counter the pull of the rope. He paused on the brink of the drop, decided to commit himself to the western slope and began a careful pendulum over a steep snow slope. The rope caught on a rock protruding from the snow. It shifted, rolled and was tumbling down towards Pete. It was the size of a football. Joe and I shouted out at the same instant:

'Watch out! Rock!'

But it hit him as we shouted. He shot down out of sight. It was an agonising few moments- Had he gone off the end of the rope? Was he dead, or unconscious with severe head injuries? And then a voice came from below, distant; slightly aggrieved: 'I've been hit on the head by a rock.'

'We know, are you all right?'

'I think so.'

Al was the first to go down and then Joe. By the time I got there, Pete was sitting against a rock, looking dazed but conscious. It had been a narrow escape, for the rock had knocked him out for an instant - enough time for him to slide out of control down the rope. He had not tied a knot in the end of the rope and so he might very easily have gone off the end, in which case he would have fallen a few thousand metres to the glacier far below. He was probably saved by his hand which was guiding the rope, being drawn into the karabiners acting as a break. This jammed the rope running through them and the pain might well have brought him back to consciousness as his feet hit the snow at the bottom of the sheer section down which he had plunged unconscious and out of control.

Joe had checked Pete's injuries before I got down. The rock had hit him a glancing blow on the side of the head, by his left ear. There was a lot of blood, but the skull seemed intact. Had the rock been just an inch or so more central on his head the injuries might well have been more serious. Pete had been within a hair's breadth of death, for had he been unconscious or even semi-conscious I doubt whether we could have got him back along the knife-edged ridge and then back over Junction Peak. The margin between happy success and disaster is always so terribly fine in the high mountains.

By the time we had rigged another abseil, Pete, though still slightly giddy, was able to move unaided and we all slid down another thirty-six metres to below the steepest section of the step. We now had a traverse round its base back down to the col. It was awkward climbing on steep ground, with crumbling rock underfoot and poor belays, but soon we were back again just above the snow coffins we had left thirty-six hours before. The sun was balanced over Konger Tiube, bathing the rocks in the rich yellow light of sunset. We were determined however to get all the way back to the snow cave. Pete had now recovered and was once again out in the lead. Joe and I followed the other pair as we slowly picked our way over the crumbling gendarme, and then beneath the steep rocky pinnacle which was a golden brown in the last rays of the sun.

It was dark before we reached the end of the ridge, but as the sun vanished below the western horizon an almost full moon took over, bathing the mountains and desert in a cold, ethereal light. Far below on the glacier, bare ice glimmered, like the lights of a city seen from a high-flying aircraft. It was so light on the crest of the ridge that we could pick our way without the help of our head torches, but the fatigue was beginning to tell. I took just a few paces at a time before resting. Joe ambled along, patiently behind me. Down to the col and then the last climb. It was only eighteen metres or so, but seemed interminable, my body screaming its exhaustion.

The gaping hole of the snow cave at last; crawl in, lay out the roam mats, creep into sleeping bags, lie down and relax. I was too tired even to wait for the snow to melt for a brew and dropped into a deep sleep.

Next morning we had the one section of ascent and then from the top of Junction Peak it was downhill all the way. But it took us most of the day, particularly the slog through the deep snow of the traverse from the col back to the crest of the South-West Rib. Down below we had noticed two tiny dots. Were they a reception party or just rocks in the snow? We weren't sure. Then as we came over the brow of the South-West Rib we saw they were indeed members of the team.

Michael Ward and Jim Curran had spent eight days at Advance Camp. They had not seen any trace of us, but taking the storm into account, Michael had worked out that our food would run out by this day. If we did not return, then something must have gone seriously wrong. They had climbed up the South-West Rib to just above 6,000 metres. It was a really gorgeous day. Jim had been taking numerous cine shots and they had been examining Junction Peak constantly. At about 2.00 p.m. Jim did one more pan and they were about to go down when Michael suddenly saw us about half way down the ridge. They sat through the afternoon as we slowly came down towards them.

As we neared them Michael climbed up towards us. We stopped and told him our good news. There were handshakes, understatement that hid the warmth of our welcome and our own response, and then the final walk in the late afternoon sun back down to the camp in the Koksel Basin, We threw off our climbing harnesses and clothes, lay in the warm tents and were served endless brews of tea by Michael and Jim- It was good to relax at last; it didn't matter that Michael upset the panful of cannelloni over the tent. Have another swig of whisky, another coffee, and gaze back at the high outer wall of snow and serac that once again shielded our summit.

Next morning the last walk uphill to go down, roped up in our pairs for the final time. We had a feeling of close unity and satisfaction as we sat on the col at the head of the Corridor and gazed back into the Basin against the shallow angled rays of the sun. Then it was down into the Corridor; no more rope between us, no more danger of hidden crevasses. There were so many firsts; the first trickling stream down the bare ice of the glacier, the first patch of moss, the first grass, the first primula. We were striding down the moraine ridge, the tents of Base Camp toy-like in size scattered over the grassy moraine that seemed startlingly green; it was so bright after our days of white snows, blue skies and black rocks. Someone had seen us in Base Camp; there was a shout and they all came rushing out.

They had grabbed the flags that flew outside the base tent and used the kitchen pots and pans as drums and symbols. We dropped down towards them and met in the little valley between moraine and hillside just above the meadow. We were all shouting with joy, experiencing a relaxed delirious happiness that it was all over. Liu Dayi, his careworn face transformed by a happy smile, embraced me, muttering: 'Ah Bonington, Bonington,' as a parent would do to a wayward child back from some adventure. To me the most important feature of this wonderful welcome was that when they saw us, they had no knowledge of whether we had climbed the mountain or not; they were just so relieved to see that we were alive and were welcoming us back as friends returned from danger.

It summed up the entire spirit of the expedition. It was formed of several disparate groups of people — the four climbers, the scientists, Jim Curran the film maker, David Wilson our interpreter, and our Chinese support team, who had got us to the foot of the mountain and looked after us so well when we were in Base Camp. The aims of these groups could so easily have begun to conflict. That they didn't was partially due to the personalities involved and partially to the way that Michael Ward had interwoven the research and climbing programme. As a result there was never a feeling of 'them and us' amongst the team, everyone being happy to muck in with whatever work had needed doing. This was epitomised by the effort that Jim Milledge and David Wilson made on our behalf in carrying our food half way up the South-West Rib on the final push for the summit. It was certainly one of the happiest expeditions that I have been on.

Down at the base tent we took off rucksacks and gear for the last time, downed bottles of Xinjiang beer and told the stories of our adventures during the last eight days. Then, in the mid-afternoon a yak ambled into Base Camp carrying not only our mail but a crate of champagne sent by our sponsors. The timing could not have been better, as we drank their health and ours in pint plastic mugs in the afternoon sun. The following night we had an expedition feast when the entire team, Chinese and British, sat down to demolish course after delicious course cooked by Wang, who barely found time to sit down himself. Toast followed toast, in champagne, beer, whisky, and a lethal Xinjiang whisky that Mr. Shi Zhanchun had presented to us when he had bade us farewell in Urumchi at the start of the expedition. Charlie was the chief toastmaster, drinking to everyone, from our bank managers back home (and possibly, though I don't clearly remember, the Inland Revenue), to eternal friendship between the Mount Everest Foundation and the Chinese Mountaineering Association.

It was a happy, mellow evening, the climax to a successful expedition when everyone came home, and yet it could so very easily have been very different. Perhaps for this very reason our celebration had an unconsciously frantic level.

Just how close is the margin between success and failure was to be cruelly brought home to us a fortnight later. As we pursued our own boistrous celebration the Japanese had just started their climb on the precipitous northern side. They had some very strong climbers and they also wanted to make the ascent in alpine-style. Three of them set out for the summit bid and were seen by a local herdsman, tiny dots against the snow, through a break in the cloud. They were close to the summit but then the clouds rolled in and they were not seen again. It will probably never be known how they met their deaths, or whether they reached the summit. It could well have been we who had vanished high on the slopes of Kongur.

We left Base Camp the next day, a column of smoke marking a bonfire of burning rubbish. Once the ashes and empty tins had been buried, a few discoloured patches on the grass where our tents had been those last weeks were the only signs left of our occupation. The marmots had the meadow to themselves once more as we turned our back on Kongur. Kongur was elusive again, hidden, inscrutable within a cap of cloud, and yet as we wandered down over the rolling moraine, my memories were held, as they still are, by those intense days above 7,000 metres. There were moments of total despair, when I felt I could no longer push myself any farther. It was the encouragement of the other three that had helped me break through momentary weakness. But there were many more moments of pure elation; the satisfaction of leading the rock gendarme, even though it led nowhere; the huge empty beauty of desert, snow and cloud mountains; of friendships grown stronger through the greater knowledge we had of each other's strengths and weaknesses in a world that was at the same time so enormous in terms of space and yet so small in terms of people.

It is this intensity of experience that draws us back to the mountains again and again, to set us planning the next trip, and the one after that, before the last one has barely begun. Nine months later, in my Lakeland cottage, I long once more for those wide open spaces and vistas of unclimbed, unexplored peaks stretching in every direction to the farthest horizon.

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