Once my decision to leave K2 was made, things happened fast. Seven porters magically appeared in the midst of the blowing snow, enough to take the gear of three of us back to the road head. We said our quick goodbyes and at dawn on July 24th, we shouldered our packs.
Normally, the 65-mile trek is spread over 4 days. We convinced our porters to compress the schedule, covering over 25 miles a day in an effort to reach the jeeps in just two-and-a-half days.
This seemed like a great idea, and I am sure I would do it again, but after 12-14 hours of hiking, over rugged terrain, we hobbled into the campsites each night. So tired were we, that we didn't put up tents on the last night, simply collapsing, porters and ourselves, in a single pile to sleep.
By 11 a.m. on the third day, the three of us were in the village of Skardu, trying to calm a very anxious jeep driver. The river levels, you see, were rising with glacial meltwater. By 1 p.m. the worst of the crossings would be too high. If our porters didn't arrive soon, we'd be trapped for another day. Time raced by with no sign of the porters.
At 1:05, a cloud of dust was visible on the distant trail, and luckily, a layer of thick clouds was hiding the sun. Maybe we could still escape. At 1:30 the porters finally arrived. We loaded the old Toyota Land Cruiser pickup, 13 of us and all of our gear squeezing into the tiny cab and bed.
With the hubs locked in four-wheel drive we grinded up and down the rock strewn, narrow track that passes for a road. Occasionally, we could shift into second gear, but more often we all jumped out to push or simply walk, not daring to sit while the driver inched the Land Cruiser forward. At the river things didn't look good. The road crosses at a stretch of class two whitewater in the midst of the class five run. Few kayakers could navigate this section, never mind our Land Crusier.
This driver was smart, he had brought a teenager with him for moments just like this. This kid was in charge of navigation. He would run ahead and scout the road, move boulders as they slid in front of us, fetch tea in the little villages and wade into the middle of the river to test its depth and force. If he didn't get swept to his death the driver knew he could ford this torrent.
I positioned myself downstream, hoping to catch the kid before he drowned. One look at the currents and the force and I knew he was a goner. He had better be lucky or wise enough to know when to retreat. Standing besides the river, I could sense that this kid was fearful enough to make the right decision.
Just below me, a foot bridge stretched across the river. It was simply two 20-foot logs, 6-10 inches in diameter, lashed together and propped upon two giant boulders. The mist from the rapids coated the logs in a greasy layer and the twisted wood and lack of handrail made things even worse. The porters raced across this to see if they could coax the driver from the other side. I decided to follow them.
Spotting some better stances on the log, I tried not to look down as I made my first step toward them. The logs had some spring in them still, and the whole "bridge" began to shimmy under my weight. This was just like being on a ropes course, just without the help of ropes. I thought about all the kids and corporate groups I had worked with over the years: get them on this and they would build some self esteem.
Well, our driver had a determined look in his eyes. Greed demanded that he gets his cargo to Skardu and no little brook was going to stop him. He gunned the deisel engine and lurched forward, climbing over rocks, then splashing down into even deeper waters. The water level was over the wheels and then over the engine's hood, the water was pushing the back of the truck downstream. Fighting with the wheel and pushing on the gas pedal, he pushed through the lowest section and was climbing to the opposite bank. A cloud of steam was blocking his view, the crash of the waves against the panels of the truck was adding to the cacaphony of screaming porters. From admist this chaos, the Land Crusier emerged from the river, another battle won.
Eight hours later, our dust covered, dehydrated and cranky crew pulled up to a hotel in Skardu (and the hot water for the showers wasn't working).
The rest of the journey unfolded just like that. No planes had been able to land in Skardu, due to the bad weather system that was wreaking havoc in the Karakorum, for the last six days. Yet the morning after we arrived in town, we were able to fly directly to Islamabad.
Once there I caught the next flight to England (if not, I would have had to wait for four days for the next departure). So on the fourth day of travel I was sitting in a pub in London, telling tales about sharing chapatis with our porters, fording rivers and marvelling in one traveling miracle after the next.
My decision to leave K2 wasn't simply based on the weather, although that was what I had stressed in my last dispatch. Fact is, a number of things weighed heavy in my decision making. I know that my climbing is fueled by passion, but I do consider myself to be a very thoughtful and rational climber. I am constantly collecting data, hoping that I am making smarter choices through analysis. The experience I am about to describe made the decision to go home very easy. I couldn't share this with you when I was on the mountain, because the family involved still needed to be notified. Below is the email I sent to a few friends just after the event:
Dear Friends,
Well, I am back in Base Camp after experiencing one of the worst days of my life. As I was standing at Advanced Base Camp, one of our group started screaming. A body was falling down the face, bouncing, spinning, tumbling. Peices of gear spread downward. Was it two bodies? Was it Pasang Dawa, a Sherpa on our team, who was high above us, jumaring on the fixed ropes? Was it one of the four high altitude porters that were climbing from Camp 1 to Camp 2? Everyone was screaming.
Henry Todd, on the ropes high above us, dodged one object and then seemed to be hit by the second. He was knocked off his feet, did it kill him? The radios were screaming. Base camp, climbers on the ridge, us at Advanced Base Camp, were all crying out for information.
Rod Richardson and I emptied our packs, pulling from the pile anything we would need to save this man's life. Henry shouted over the radio, "Don't worry, he is dead. There is no need to bring a first aid kit." Capt. Iqbal, the Laison Officer for the Chinese-Pakistan Freindship Expedition had been descending from Camp 3 on K2's Abruzzi Ridge. As he was rappelling, or maybe simply switching from one rope to the next, the rope either broke (later we confirmed that the rope did break) or he slipped, plunging over 5,000 feet to his death.
It wasn't a pretty fall.
Large red spots marked every point of contact. His body finally stopped, pushed into the snow, about 500 feet above those of us at Adavanced Base Camp.
Rod and I were the first on the scene. His body had been severely destroyed by each of the dozens of impacts. We pronounced him dead at 1:11 p.m.
I have held two people as they died in my hands. I have rescued at least a dozen climbing accident victims, pulling them from crevasses, resplinting compound fractures, using drugs to pull people from comas. I have never witnessed anything so gruesome.
(Last night, I used intense emotional energy to not see that site everyone time I closed my eyes.) By a miracle, his large red down jacket (which had hit Henry) and an ensolite pad, tumbled down with his body. We were able to use this to package him and with some short ropes we (Pasang Dawa, Henry, Rod, Gia and I) lowered him to the bottom of the snow. Here we gathered the parts of a tent and gently wrapped him in layer upon layer of nylon. Thankfully, we had him beautifully wrapped before any of the Pakistani climbers and porters on the mountains arrived.
Peta, Henry, Rod, Pasang Dawa, Gia and I sat at the base, next to Capt. Iqbal for more than an hour waiting for help to arrive. We all had funny stories to tell about this larger-than-life man, whom everyone in base camp knew and loved.
As I told and listened to the stories (mine were about Catholic School) Iqbal and I spent an hour laughing about my elementary education. He wanted to know if the nuns were beautiful women.
"How was I to know at 8 years old?"
"Come on man, you can tell."
"All I could see was their faces?"
My stomach began to turn. I felt the nausea growing and finally I had to leave the scene and walk the two hours back to base camp. I cried much of the way.
You know something, K2 is climbable, of course. But this is not the year for me. The bad weather (our last two forecasts have been exact opposites: from stable and low winds, we now have snow storms and 90 mph winds at 8,000 meters) and the two deaths have made my decision for me.
I am coming home.
I would love to spend the next few weeks in a warmer, safer place. After all, today is my birthday, I might as well give myself the gift of returning early to bother my poor employees.
-----
Will I go back to K2? I hope to. It is going to take me a few years to get back there, though, as I've got some crazy things taking shape for next year. As soon as things get confirmed, I'll let you know.
Thanks for joining me on this adventure.
Normally, the 65-mile trek is spread over 4 days. We convinced our porters to compress the schedule, covering over 25 miles a day in an effort to reach the jeeps in just two-and-a-half days.
This seemed like a great idea, and I am sure I would do it again, but after 12-14 hours of hiking, over rugged terrain, we hobbled into the campsites each night. So tired were we, that we didn't put up tents on the last night, simply collapsing, porters and ourselves, in a single pile to sleep.
By 11 a.m. on the third day, the three of us were in the village of Skardu, trying to calm a very anxious jeep driver. The river levels, you see, were rising with glacial meltwater. By 1 p.m. the worst of the crossings would be too high. If our porters didn't arrive soon, we'd be trapped for another day. Time raced by with no sign of the porters.
At 1:05, a cloud of dust was visible on the distant trail, and luckily, a layer of thick clouds was hiding the sun. Maybe we could still escape. At 1:30 the porters finally arrived. We loaded the old Toyota Land Cruiser pickup, 13 of us and all of our gear squeezing into the tiny cab and bed.
With the hubs locked in four-wheel drive we grinded up and down the rock strewn, narrow track that passes for a road. Occasionally, we could shift into second gear, but more often we all jumped out to push or simply walk, not daring to sit while the driver inched the Land Cruiser forward. At the river things didn't look good. The road crosses at a stretch of class two whitewater in the midst of the class five run. Few kayakers could navigate this section, never mind our Land Crusier.
This driver was smart, he had brought a teenager with him for moments just like this. This kid was in charge of navigation. He would run ahead and scout the road, move boulders as they slid in front of us, fetch tea in the little villages and wade into the middle of the river to test its depth and force. If he didn't get swept to his death the driver knew he could ford this torrent.
I positioned myself downstream, hoping to catch the kid before he drowned. One look at the currents and the force and I knew he was a goner. He had better be lucky or wise enough to know when to retreat. Standing besides the river, I could sense that this kid was fearful enough to make the right decision.
Just below me, a foot bridge stretched across the river. It was simply two 20-foot logs, 6-10 inches in diameter, lashed together and propped upon two giant boulders. The mist from the rapids coated the logs in a greasy layer and the twisted wood and lack of handrail made things even worse. The porters raced across this to see if they could coax the driver from the other side. I decided to follow them.
Spotting some better stances on the log, I tried not to look down as I made my first step toward them. The logs had some spring in them still, and the whole "bridge" began to shimmy under my weight. This was just like being on a ropes course, just without the help of ropes. I thought about all the kids and corporate groups I had worked with over the years: get them on this and they would build some self esteem.
Well, our driver had a determined look in his eyes. Greed demanded that he gets his cargo to Skardu and no little brook was going to stop him. He gunned the deisel engine and lurched forward, climbing over rocks, then splashing down into even deeper waters. The water level was over the wheels and then over the engine's hood, the water was pushing the back of the truck downstream. Fighting with the wheel and pushing on the gas pedal, he pushed through the lowest section and was climbing to the opposite bank. A cloud of steam was blocking his view, the crash of the waves against the panels of the truck was adding to the cacaphony of screaming porters. From admist this chaos, the Land Crusier emerged from the river, another battle won.
Eight hours later, our dust covered, dehydrated and cranky crew pulled up to a hotel in Skardu (and the hot water for the showers wasn't working).
The rest of the journey unfolded just like that. No planes had been able to land in Skardu, due to the bad weather system that was wreaking havoc in the Karakorum, for the last six days. Yet the morning after we arrived in town, we were able to fly directly to Islamabad.
Once there I caught the next flight to England (if not, I would have had to wait for four days for the next departure). So on the fourth day of travel I was sitting in a pub in London, telling tales about sharing chapatis with our porters, fording rivers and marvelling in one traveling miracle after the next.
My decision to leave K2 wasn't simply based on the weather, although that was what I had stressed in my last dispatch. Fact is, a number of things weighed heavy in my decision making. I know that my climbing is fueled by passion, but I do consider myself to be a very thoughtful and rational climber. I am constantly collecting data, hoping that I am making smarter choices through analysis. The experience I am about to describe made the decision to go home very easy. I couldn't share this with you when I was on the mountain, because the family involved still needed to be notified. Below is the email I sent to a few friends just after the event:
Dear Friends,
Well, I am back in Base Camp after experiencing one of the worst days of my life. As I was standing at Advanced Base Camp, one of our group started screaming. A body was falling down the face, bouncing, spinning, tumbling. Peices of gear spread downward. Was it two bodies? Was it Pasang Dawa, a Sherpa on our team, who was high above us, jumaring on the fixed ropes? Was it one of the four high altitude porters that were climbing from Camp 1 to Camp 2? Everyone was screaming.
Henry Todd, on the ropes high above us, dodged one object and then seemed to be hit by the second. He was knocked off his feet, did it kill him? The radios were screaming. Base camp, climbers on the ridge, us at Advanced Base Camp, were all crying out for information.
Rod Richardson and I emptied our packs, pulling from the pile anything we would need to save this man's life. Henry shouted over the radio, "Don't worry, he is dead. There is no need to bring a first aid kit." Capt. Iqbal, the Laison Officer for the Chinese-Pakistan Freindship Expedition had been descending from Camp 3 on K2's Abruzzi Ridge. As he was rappelling, or maybe simply switching from one rope to the next, the rope either broke (later we confirmed that the rope did break) or he slipped, plunging over 5,000 feet to his death.
It wasn't a pretty fall.
Large red spots marked every point of contact. His body finally stopped, pushed into the snow, about 500 feet above those of us at Adavanced Base Camp.
Rod and I were the first on the scene. His body had been severely destroyed by each of the dozens of impacts. We pronounced him dead at 1:11 p.m.
I have held two people as they died in my hands. I have rescued at least a dozen climbing accident victims, pulling them from crevasses, resplinting compound fractures, using drugs to pull people from comas. I have never witnessed anything so gruesome.
(Last night, I used intense emotional energy to not see that site everyone time I closed my eyes.) By a miracle, his large red down jacket (which had hit Henry) and an ensolite pad, tumbled down with his body. We were able to use this to package him and with some short ropes we (Pasang Dawa, Henry, Rod, Gia and I) lowered him to the bottom of the snow. Here we gathered the parts of a tent and gently wrapped him in layer upon layer of nylon. Thankfully, we had him beautifully wrapped before any of the Pakistani climbers and porters on the mountains arrived.
Peta, Henry, Rod, Pasang Dawa, Gia and I sat at the base, next to Capt. Iqbal for more than an hour waiting for help to arrive. We all had funny stories to tell about this larger-than-life man, whom everyone in base camp knew and loved.
As I told and listened to the stories (mine were about Catholic School) Iqbal and I spent an hour laughing about my elementary education. He wanted to know if the nuns were beautiful women.
"How was I to know at 8 years old?"
"Come on man, you can tell."
"All I could see was their faces?"
My stomach began to turn. I felt the nausea growing and finally I had to leave the scene and walk the two hours back to base camp. I cried much of the way.
You know something, K2 is climbable, of course. But this is not the year for me. The bad weather (our last two forecasts have been exact opposites: from stable and low winds, we now have snow storms and 90 mph winds at 8,000 meters) and the two deaths have made my decision for me.
I am coming home.
I would love to spend the next few weeks in a warmer, safer place. After all, today is my birthday, I might as well give myself the gift of returning early to bother my poor employees.
-----
Will I go back to K2? I hope to. It is going to take me a few years to get back there, though, as I've got some crazy things taking shape for next year. As soon as things get confirmed, I'll let you know.
Thanks for joining me on this adventure.