Andean a la Carte

by Nick Bullock

Surviving Jirishanca

The deep throaty growl from above terrified me. The rock I desperately wanted to hide beneath was small, offering no protection; ropes ran uselessly away, uninterrupted passage snaking down the gully. Driving my axes in to wet melting ice I cowered, a rabbit waiting to die!

*

Al Powell and myself sat tucked up for the night clad in down and Gore-Tex, some protection from the spindrift been whipped into us. I finished the last dregs of hot chocolate before settling in and trying to snatch a few hours sleep. It was seven pm - alarms were set, we intended to start climbing at midnight. I knew sleep would be difficult. Jirishanca’s Southeast face towered behind us, a skyscraper with icy attitude. Not quite as high as the other mountains in this isolated range of the Peruvian Huayhuash, but what it lacked in height it certainly made up with difficulty. A massive Matterhorn dripping icicles, some longer than routes in the Canadian Rockies. Fringed latticed icefalls covered the upper three-quarters of the face, joined together by narrow, snowy ledges and steep, compact, rock. The pointed summit was of course protected with the standard, Peruvian, house-sized mushrooms, made from honeycomb snow. The whole of the face was a massive concave snow shoot and at the base, a narrow, tight, snow filled chimney giving the only access, certainly not a place to hang around!

The first attempt to climb a new, direct line straight up the middle of the face ended almost before it started! The snow in the chimney had melted out making the very smooth, steep rock impossible to climb. We explored other possibilities but it soon became apparent the chimney, or what had now been given the very disturbing name “the Death Couloir” would be the only way onto the main face. Finally, rubbing salt into our gaping wounds, clouds poured in and the temperature increased. We didn’t think it possible; it was already so warm. Getting comfortable in the bergschrund we sat around waiting for daylight. The sun finally made an appearance and our fears we’re confirmed. This wasn’t going to happen, not today anyway! Snow in the Couloir and cold weather was a pre-requisite. Most vital, a very early start to avoid anything falling from high on the face and thundering down Death Couloir. Ditching gear at our high bivi we returned to the valley, depressed, but confident our chance would come.

Four, long, and frustrating days followed the first attempt. Snow had lashed the face. Death Couloir had refilled, but time was running short and to add more pressure, a group of American climbers had made an un-welcomed appearance. A cold and clear evening was all the incentive needed to give the climb another shot.

I couldn’t believe it, the storm blew in at ten p.m. Alarms were set for one, but this looked more and more ominous. At one the alarm was ignored, snow, hail, even rain dumped on us, “we’re at 5000meters for gods sake, it should be freezing.” Eventually the storm passed, it’s 5 A.M! Quickly packing, we set off. The new snow clawed at our legs. Maddeningly the sky cleared of clouds and it would only be a matter of time before the early morning sun began to beat down onto the face. The colouir was melting out quick. Water poured down the rock, the gods were against us, we were too late! Eight a.m., too late to be there safely! Too late to climb the colouir! Both experienced climbers, the decision to wait in the bergschrund for the sun to go off the face, or, return to the bivi and try again were sensible options, unfortunately, neither were voiced! The very real chance the snow in the colouir would melt, leaving us waiting for it to refill and the weather crapping out again were strong possibilities. We really wanted this route bad, too bad! Quietly, we carried on!

I took the lead!

Climbing the colouir I repeatedly told myself, “two pitches, that’s all”. We’ll be onto the face, in amongst it. Our intended line was on steep ground out to the right. Here a headwall protects the climbing, “IT WILL BE SAFE, and, out of this god forsaken death trap”. “Two pitches, that’s all.” We had both taken risks before, all climbers do. Mostly you get away with them, the climb is complete and the risks taken are forgotten. “The climbing to come will be worth this moment of madness”; “we’ll laugh about this later”.

I climbed fast, placed two pieces of gear. The climbing wasn’t hard. Safety in this place is to keep moving, get out quick. The rope pulled at my waist, sixty meters, but no belay. I shouted to Al to move up. All the time I looked up, prayed nothing would come down. I shouted again, impatient, worried. I needed to move and attach myself to something solid. Flurries of snow flew past; occasionally larger lumps rattled down from high above. The rope came slack, I moved up aiming for a small rock outcrop in the middle of the gully. Reaching the rock I shouted that I would belay. Turning to face in I heard the loud rumble, louder by the second, Spindrift poured over me. I knew that time was up, we’d taken a chance, one, I hoped, to live and learn from! Driving both axes into wet, melting ice I hunched over them in a vain attempt to make myself small. Death Couloir was about to gain reputation, unfortunately at my expense!

Heavy concrete snow hit me square on. I was ripped from the middle of the couloir, plucked up and thrown down the face. Screaming, deep, from the pit of my stomach knowing I was about to die, please let it be quick! Tumbling, spinning, head over heels, hurtling down, smashing. Upside-down I crashed with force; my left shoulder took the full impact. My body collapsed, concertinaed. Knees crashed into my face splitting soft skin, air forced out of my lungs with the crushing impact. My ribs, chest and back tore. Blacking out for a second, then horrified to find I was still conscious, still in this nightmare, pleading, let the next one end the pain, I’ve suffered enough now! Please.

Hitting hard, deep snow, soft, I’m alive! The joy of living gave way to panic, HORROR! Two hundred feet crashing down rock but still I fell. Spinning, twisting, pushed on by hundreds of tons of heavy, wet snow. Surfacing I gulped air, pulling hard each time I surfaced, trying to reach the side of the avalanche. My legs twisted into unnatural angles, joints forced the wrong way. Still I fought, clawing, flailing. My resolve strengthened, refusing to be taken under for good. The snow slowed, I clawed and swam. It started to set, pulling hard to get high I pushed an arm into the air hoping to leave some part of me visible, something for Al to dig out. It never entered my head that he could also be buried.

Miraculously, I was alive!

Al repeatedly shouted my name. I moaned, over and over. The shock of living the fall was too much to comprehend, my chest heaved, sucked in. Moving was impossible. Large blocks of snow covered me and the ropes were tangled all around. Luckily, he had been spat out of the side; straddling blocks he came over and freed me, ever the professional he took a couple of photos first, bastard! Sitting up it came apparent that I was battered, but not broken. My shoulder and knee hurt like hell, torn muscles in my back, hips, and ribs. My head ached, physically and mentally. I sat on my rucksack, a good impression of a motorway pile up survivor. Drawing in the whiteness of the snow, the savage beauty of the mountains I popped the question, “What are you doing next May Mr Powell?” Al looked at me gone out, a patient, someone to be handled with care! A minute hesitation, “climbing this bastard with you of course Mr Bullock.” Having received the answer I desperately craved and filled up with painkillers, we started the slow descent. I refused to let Al carry my rucksack, (although he had the rack and both ropes), until two hundred meters before base camp. Feeling really nauseous I swallowed my pride and reluctantly passed the sack over. Al stacked it on top of his own and set off at a blistering pace. Some warped sense of competition set in. I attempted to restore dignity and tried to keep up, I failed!

*

Returning to Edwards’s inn at Hauraz after two long and painful days on the road, we met with Owen Samuels and Jonnie Baird. The two travelled to Peru with us hoping to climb a new route on he north face of Ulta, in the Cordillera Blanca. Unfortunately, Baird was having real problem acclimatising. They had walked in to the mountain, spotted a great new line, and, frustratingly, walked out.

Powell didn’t need to say a word; I could see the plan hatching in his head as if I were psychic. He had a partner who was smashed up. Samuels had a partner who couldn’t acclimatise. Simple solution, Powell climbs new route with Samuels, Bullock goes home with Baird. A fair solution except for one minor point, no way would I go home if others were staying and having fun! A rain soaked June sulking and hurting in Leicester was not for me! The two of them climbing together made sense, I suggested as much, on condition they didn’t mind a crock coming to base camp with them. After all, the walk in to Ulta is extremely short and I found that stuffing myself full of pills relieved the pain tremendously! Decisions made, we all packed!

*

Ulta-ring the balance.

Late af ternoon, the sun sinks low on the horizon and starts to loose its power, shadows grow. I cross beneath the North Face of Ulta. The shape of the mountain reminds me of the more famous Eiger North Face. An ice streak starting in the middle of the base of the triangular face runs the whole length, until stopping abruptly at the apex. A great line, it’s not for me though! I look for a bivi spot to give quick, easy access to the ice slopes beneath the NW Face. I left Powell and Samuels contemplating their line under the pretence of having a look around the North ridge at the face. I didn’t really think I was capable of much climbing, I’m sure the other two didn’t think so either. Although, I harboured a secret belief that I could possibly climb the Dawson, Cheesmond line, given the right conditions, and, after eating enough painkillers. Time would tell!

Midnight, stars shone bright, it was freezing hard. The others had set off, I’d watched the pin pricks of light slowly making their way to the base of the north face an hour earlier. Starting up the steep ice field my lungs soon found a steady rhythm. I stopped regularly to reduce the depth of my breathing, which in turn relieved the pain on my bruised ribs. I crossed large crevasses and sneaked through broken ground trying not to think how difficult it would be to return, especially as the sun worked on the thin snow bridges.

Crossing left into the centre of the face the climb started in earnest as I entered a very typical Peruvian fluting. Steep walls on either side. Hard snow at the back of the runnel made for quick efficient climbing. At about Scottish grade three with occasional steep bulging turns, it reminded me very much of an extended number two gully on the Ben, only steeper, with a massive amount of climbing above. Escaping the tight confines of the runnel the climb opened out. This was feeling more than fact; I couldn’t see a thing. It was very dark, stars shined but the moon didn’t make an appearance to help guide me. For almost the first time on the trip it felt really cold.

The face appeared steep, very steep! The ground I could see was broken with slithers of white. The original route followed a fluting right of centre, and, at half way doglegged right to avoid the steep ground at the top. I couldn’t make this line out in the dark, but the best bet appeared to be to the left. I remembered spotting a continuous line of snow and ice on the left side of the face when we checked it out the previous day. This line also appeared to have a way through the mushroom madness directly below the summit. It was a gamble, do I forgo the near certainty of the summit by the established line making the first solo ascent. Or, go for broke, climb several new pitches and finish directly at the summit, no contest!

Decision made, pulling out of the fluting I traversed left to join a system of shallow runnels. Immediately the climbing became more tenuous. The runnel I followed appeared continuous, I could just make out the line. Steep, thin ice covering rocky bulges slowed me down drastically. Hollow ice over hard compact granite made me think back to last year, of the new route Powell and myself had done on Quitaraju. We had set out for a quick hit, hardly any food, no bivi gear, lightweight and quick! Three days later with pitches and pitches of difficult climbing behind us we crawled back into base camp, much thinner, and richer for the experience!

Hitting another large patch of snow it reminded me of the basin on the Orion Direct, the runnel reminiscent of Astral Highway, a route I soloed a few months previous. Getting off that though was easy, I feared this would be slightly more difficult! The original plan for escape was simple. Down climb the route! It was blatantly obvious this wasn’t going to happen. The runnel when it bulged was about 70-80% and the ice so thin and rotten it would be an absolute nightmare. Down climb grade five, I think not! Fortunately Samuels had lent me a soloing rope. 50 meters of 7mm cord; I hadn’t climbed any bulges longer than twenty-five meters, so I had enough rope to abseil over the steep sections, and the ice at the top of the bulges was perfect for ice screw threads. My only hope now was not to climb any steep, rotten patches longer than twenty-five meters!

Pushing hard I know the top is close. Climbing for an e ternity the angle of the face grows even steeper. The ice thinner, more rotten, nose to nose confrontation. The shallow runnel turned into a full on Scottish grade 6 mixed climb, transported from the Northern Corries. Tom Patey would be in his element! Large granite blocks perched precariously one on top of another, covered with a dusting of powder snow. Good torqeing cracks now to place and twist picks. Holding my breath I lean back and stand up, the exposure is like nothing I have experienced. Standing with my feet together, both crampon front points teeter precariously on an edge of granite. I reach for another vertical crack with my right axe. Placing it in the crack and pulling back onto the torqued pick I lift my right foot really high, I can just position it onto an edge. Rocking over placing all my weight on the right leg. Shocked, I catch a glimpse below, it stops me dead! Half way through the move I’m looking straight down a thousand meters. It’s been light for two hours, maybe more, I wished it wasn’t. I hadn’t noticed the sun coming up. Focused totally on the ground above I never thought to look below. The voice in my head screamed, demanded attention. Hundreds and hundreds of meters fell away into a sickening void; I’m climbing mixed 6! The fall on Jirishanca was 400ft. That hurt! Screw up now, and die!

No room for error, carefully I continue to climb, slow. Very slow! Time weighed heavy on my mind, as did the vast distance below. The sun shined brightly onto the icefall no doubt melting everything. I really started to worry about getting down. The sun would hit the whole face in two or three hours. The thought of been in the middle of the face as the sun worked it’s destructive power on the massive cornice mushrooms was terrifying. After been hit once by an avalanche on this trip I was not keen to repeat the experience. To compound my fears, the chance of making ice screw threads to abseil from with the whole slope melting didn’t inspire me either. It was time to move! I hadn’t done all this hard work to give in now though. I was nearly there. Clouds whipped past near enough to touch. A few more feet of hard climbing remained. A really sketchy mantelshelf onto a powder covered slab made me question my sanity, but after completing this mad manoeuvre I gained enough height to reach the summit cornice. Ten feet away a small snow corridor between two overhanging mushrooms led to the easy angled, summit snow slope; I’d made it! No trumpet fan-fair, no cheerleaders, just quiet contemplation. I weighed up my options. Go to the summit to ie abseiling off a melting anchor or freeze my balls off sitting up here waiting for the face to re-freeze. Run away now though, and put the odds in my favour. I decided I had done enough, it was time to get down!

Carefully down climbing between the mushrooms I made a grave discovery, I couldn’t lower myself using my knackered shoulder. Abalakov threads were going to be order of the day. The very steep ground at the top of the face was impossible to down climb anyway! No time was lost setting up the anchor, threading the rope, rapping and pulling it. It soon became apparent though; this was going to rank high on the Bullock scale for madness as I slid a tiny twenty-five meters, only to start the procedure again.

For once on the trip the unsettled weather was in my favour, clouds rolled in blocking the sun. The face remained cold making the anchors safe. I abseiled over and over. I cursed my stupidity for not bringing another rope, although at the time I wasn’t sure I would manage the extra weight. Occasionally I tried down climbing; the pain in my shoulder, the steep bulges, and the rock hard patches of water ice soon convinced me there was no other way. The rope did provide safety and allowed my battered head and body respite from the tension. The nagging worry of the cornice collapsing and thundering down on top of me never relinquished though! I tried to move quick but failed. The angle of the face eventually eased, but I continued to abseil.

Eventually I reached the bergschrund and jumped it. Very slow now, picking my way back through the icefall. Following steps where they hadn’t melted out, I attempted to levitate over the smaller crevasses until I came across the monster crevasse I knew was waiting to get me. Looking all the way down 1000 meters at the start of the descent this was the thing I had been dreading most. I remembered the size of this first crevasse from the climb up. I also remembered the extremely thin snow-bridge I had to cross to get over it. This was a crevasse taken from all of the Hollywood mountaineering films ever made, Cliff-hanger, Vertical Limit, they all had a crevasse like this one. It had personality, a character, and it sat waiting to welcome me with open arms.

Dripping icicles fell from its mouth, disappearing into the black gaping void. A London double decker bus could fit into this monster and still have room to spare. Dark and foreboding, I peered into the bottomless pit. The snow-bridge crossed in the dead of night had melted away. Looking both ways the icefall became more chaotic. No way would I go and explore elsewhere, it was too dangerous. Close to finishing this mad adventure I would just have to jump the bloody thing.

Decision quickly made I plodded a few steps back uphill and before my head realised the score, I ran, and launched. Flying over the void I wondered how painful hitting the snow slope on the opposite side would be, if I made it!

Landing on my arse having cleared the edge by inches I slid down the slope gathering speed all the time. Swinging an axe with my good arm, eventually, I slowed to a stop. Injuries complained, but I was alive, ALIVE! Following the ice slope to the bivi I had to stop repeatedly, my feet were killing; hours of front pointing had taken its toll. Looking over at the North face whenever I took a break I strained my eyes looking for sign of the others, there was none. Finally dragging my aching body over the moraine I reached the bivvi and Collapsed. I ripped my boots off and lay in the sun. The whole climb from start to finish had taken thirteen hours - it felt slow, but I was only taking a look after all!

EPILOGUE.

I lay in my sleeping bag, the sun set once again over Hauscaran. I was very content and knackered. A crashing noise disturbed the serenity. Turning to look behind I quickly dived for cover; blocks of ice flew all around. Minutes passed and still ice ricocheted off rock. Something massive had broken from the face. Eventually the flying lumps slowed and stopped. I knew tomorrow, I would cautiously, and, very carefully return to Huaraz. Once there I would not come out of the room. I would barricade myself inside until it was time to go home. Peru obviously wanted me for its own, but I wouldn’t go without a fight!

The End.

Nick Bullock would like to thank the B.M.C. and the M.E.F. for their support making this trip possible.

Also thanks to Al Powell whose easy disposition and ability to dig are just two qualities which make travelling, climbing, falling, surviving….a joy!

Finally, thanks to Ken Wilson who helped, bullied and badgered!

Summary.

Jirishanca, Peruvian Huayhuash, 6126m.

First ascent, North Ridge: 1964, Colliver, Denny.

Southeast Face: Nakatsuka, Yoshigawa, Shinohara, 1973.

Southeast Face: Direct attempt, Powell, Bullock, May 27-June 7, 2002.

Ulta, Peruvian Cordillera Blanca, 5875m.

First ascent, Northeast Face: Bogne, Kampfe, Hechtel, Liska, D-, July 1961.

North Face: Powell, Samuels, ED 2, Sct V11 7, 8-10 June 2002.

Northwest Face: Cheesmond, Dawson, TD+ August, 1977.

Northwest Face Direct: Bullock, TD+/ED1 Sct V1 6 solo, 8-9 June 2002.