Blind Date on Quitaraju

by Nick bullock.

A steamy ski chalet in Chamonix - clothes hung on every available beam, windows running with condensation. It was crowded. A successful ski trip for some - a washed out winter climbing trip for others. Outside snowflakes slapped against the glass, remained stationary for a second, then slithered down the pane to be quickly replaced by others. This was the first and only time Al and Nick had met. They’d spoken a few times over the phone since - but that doesn’t help much when it comes to recognising your climbing partner to be.

Now waiting in Manchester Airport, looking for a face that he recognised, Nick re-ran his last phone conversation with Al. Al's words ran through his head: "This'll be the ultimate blind date".

He wasn't wrong....

*

Spending the first week getting to know each other the pair did the usual stuff that strangers do when together for the first time: Carrying bloody ginormous bags to base camp, arguing with taxi drivers, getting ill. They marvelled at the size of American climbers’ rucksacks as they returned knackered from climbs, which were to be Al & Nick’s warm ups!

They acclimatised by going into the Parron Valley. Parron was to be their first peak - at 5600m as good a starting point as any. Three days according to the guidebook. Nick thought not! Neither did Al. The pair set off from base-camp at eleven p.m. - returned successfully at ten a.m. A round-trip of eleven hours. Cruising.

The next peak was Artesonraju. The climbing this time a little more sustained than on Parron, but still relatively straight forward. At 6000m though, it tested their lungs. Al later told Nick that his mate (whom Al had e-mailed on returning to Huaraz) had said he should’ve pissed in Nick's sleeping bag for asking him to go to 6000m after only being in Peru for five days. Nick was glad that Al hadn't - their blossoming relationship may have ended rather abruptly!

Summiting on Artesonraju gave them views of many of the Cordillera Blanca's finest - including the very reason they had come to Peru: Quitaraju. Standing proud the mountain threw down the gauntlet: its fantastic, massive South Face. There had only been one line put up on this before - loads of room left to pop in another, play around and enjoy their time together.

Tucked up for the night, Nick stared at the roof of the tent. He wondered what the next few days would bring. Originally they’d planned a recky into the hanging valley beneath Quitaraju's South face, but because the hillside to be walked up was so steep they’d decided a, lets-just-go-for-it-approach would suffice. Al having scoped the face out the previous day, sounded suitably impressed: "Its like several Galactic Hitchhikers stacked one on top of the other." Nick was secretly pleased with this appraisal - not wanting to have dragged Al all the way to Peru for some boring snow plod!

The following af ternoon they flogged up the afore mentioned hillside, and then into the hidden, hanging valley of the Quebrada Quitacocha, a stunning place. The sun shone through the quenal trees, which covered both sides of the valley. Long marsh grass swayed in the wind. The pair descended onto the dry lakebed. Its surface was cracked; etched into millions of herringbone lines, caused by the sun beating down on the mud. Following the crazy paved surface at the lakeside they picked a way to the end of the small lake, then passing through quenal trees started to climb the head of the valley. Unfortunately the climbers had things other than the scenery to occupy their thoughts.

That bloody massive, broken icefall spewing out from the bottom of Quitaraju's south face for one!

During the B.M.C./M.E.F. interview in London the panel of eminent mountaineers had dared t o suggest that this icefall might be the reason for so little action having taken place on the face. Al and Nick are quite similar in some respects: they are both driven, in a quiet way - although friends would probably describe them as being just pigheaded, maybe even, bloody minded. At times though, such traits may be deemed advantageous - the icefall looked like one of those times. The closer they got to it the more difficult it appeared - in fact, it looked impossible. A good time for any sensible party to look at other objectives; lick wounds, laugh a little at how blind they had been, a little arrogant perhaps to think they could get through where others had failed ... yes.... Run away ... NO!

After resting, then eating the only proper food they had brought with them, they set off to try to find a way through the icefall. Their plan was a good plan, but it depended on the ability and luck of the climbers to move quickly and continuously. To move light. Only food to be eaten whilst climbing was taken: chocolate, biscuits, and sweets. No food for cooking - so no fuel. No stopping - so no sleeping bags, no duvet jackets. Just one homemade pertex bivvie sack. Quickly through the icefall - move together on the route - using recently gained acclimatisation speedily reach the summit - abseil the opposite face (the standard route, which hopefully would be equipped) – then a cold and hungry but safe bivvie, or more likely keep moving to reach base-camp late, knackered, but safe…

Al started into the icefall. His head-torch beam picked out small ice blocks - easy to hop from one to another. But as the pair moved further into the icy maze, route finding became more difficult - blocks grew to monstrous proportions. The climbers were diverted repeatedly. Often unable to go round towering seracs they had to tackle them head on - pitching hard and worrying ice, hoping the whole lot wouldn’t tumble.

Nick, on the sharp end, suddenly found himself beneath an overhanging ice- wall. He attacked it. Getting started up the thing was desperate – horribly steep from the first move. Ice so hard: two, three axe-swings needed to get a placement. Thuggery got him over the first obstacle - throwing in a cramponed heal-hook at the top he hauled his body ungraciously over the edge. Ahead waited even steeper ice.

Fortunately the shelf he now found himself sprawled on followed a curving chimney. Nick placed an ice screw, and began to follow this icy fault-line upwards. As the chimney increased to near vertical he started to bridge, the dark void below. Nearing the top he noticed a large rounded block of ice wedged into the chimney. He moved onto the right wall to by-pass the obstruction. A few more moves would put him on top of the sarac. Pulling level now to the ice chock-stone Nick took a breather. Planting the right axe he leaned backwards then began to move the left pick towards the top of the block. The pick touched - suddenly the block fell away, plunged into the dark below. Nick's left axe had ripped free from the chock’s soft outer layer. He hung from one axe. He sucked in freezing air, it stung. Sweat froze. He shivered. The block bounced off the walls below - echoes as tons of ice rattled, and shattered into the dark. Then stillness. Nick did the only thing he could do – took a deep breath and pushed on. Reaching the top he quickly set up a belay. ‘SAFE! SAFE!’ safe?

The ice levelled out. Snow had settled, but not consolidated. Al now took over trying to find a way through. As his head-torch beam swept from side to side crystals sparkled. The snow deepened. At thigh depth the snow was a struggle, at shoulder depth it became a hated enemy - a bastard!

The ice creaked as the temperature dropped. Every so often the sound of a collapsing serac smashed, shattering the silence. Slowly, carefully, they inched through. No respite. The water they had melted for the climb on the face had been drunk. Muscles ached. Still more deep wading to come. Plan ruined.

Finally at 8 a.m. they finished crossing the icefall. 8 hours continuous climbing and wading had only made serious inroads into their reserves. There was talk about traversing the base of the face, and so escaping. The most obvious line looked steep and hard. If it were covered in powder it would take forever. After all the hard work getting through they at least had to take a look at the face. I f there was neve perhaps lost time could be re-gained. Push it out, move together - claw back that which had been taken so unfairly from them.

Nick dipped in his big toe - tested the water. He started. The joint decision was made - if the ice was anything but perfect scuttle off to the left, escape! The steep rocky bergschrund proved hard. Time lost nagged - Nick pushed on, climbed furiously up the chosen line. The snow was generally good: patches of neve mixed with water-ice over bulging rock. Al moved up collected some gear, then climbed past Nick. Yes! Decision finalised. No retreat. Committed - one hundred percent!

Sweeping ice sheets of vertical sastrugi rippled over neve as far as the eye could see. Moving together they pushed upwards. The climbing was quality Scottish 1V with steeper sections of V. Calves screamed, no rest to be had though. They had been moving together now for a long time. Al had all the gear - the extra weight causing his calves to burn. He had to traverse from one side of the climb, teetering on front points, over to the opposite side recovering running-belays as he went. Whilst Nick, the bastard, pressed on urgently, the rope tugging at Al’s waist. "What the fuck are you doing?" Al yelled yanking at the rope. The bastard was going to kill them both. Nick guessed what was happening below but the steepness of the face and lack of anything solid to anchor too forced him on.

Stopping at the first available belay, an exceptionally poor spike with only his axes as a back up, Nick waited hesitantly for Mr Powel to join him. Attached to the worst spike ever he waited to face the music. Al’s anger was justifiable, perhaps – but, with a great deal of climbing left, they were going to have to kiss and make up very quickly.

The nature of the face has changed. Thin hollow ice now takes the place of neve. Powder snow thinly covers exposed rock. The angle of the face has increased. Unknown to Nick the crux pitch is about to be tackled. At least the confusion of the previous section is over - they would be pitching the climb from here on in!

A direct line would have been possible had the ice covering the near vertical slabs been good. It’s Shit. The slightly overhung corners would be do-able but for rotten ice. The whole pitch less scary with one or two good pieces of gear. Nick is now twenty feet above his last piece - a shaky cam in loose rock. Rock shows above him and to his sides where his picks have shattered the ice. He scrabbles - huge sheets peel off. Forearms and shoulders burn, solid with lactic acid. He needs a descent placement. A rest. NOW. But upward motion is impossible. There is a better-looking line to the left - reaching it though would mean reversing to the cam. The only option. Nick begins reversing, teetering – he expects at any moment his axes to rip. He fights to control the tremors in his limbs. Al looks on. Checks the belay. He’s certain it’ll be tested soon - a factor two fall isn't worth thinking about. Come on, Nick - stay with it. Please.

He does, just.

Now Nick begins the traverse - even more difficult. But the cam now has a better chance of holding a fall from the side. This fact gives him courage. The ice rings out hollow-echoes as picks are tapped into a thin skin covering rock, with an inch of air between. To trust this is madness. But there is no other way. He is committed. All weight onto arms, nothing for front-points: a gentle kick – the ice-skin peels away revealing blank rock. Somehow he finds some purchase for his feet. Now he moves as quickly as he can; aims for an overhanging corner ahead - there the ice looks thick and comforting. The trick is not to let the ice know I’m here. The trick works. Nick climbs swiftly across eggshell.

Al breathed out. Finally Nick pulled through the overhang on better ice. Fucking nutter! - Al'd be sure to tell him as much when he got to him.

The crux pitch was over, but that didn't mean the climbing was easy. Rope-length after rope-length they moved on. Brilliant climbing - similar to the Orion face on Ben Nevis.

Finally the light faded. Al fixed an anchor-point some way below. Nick dug out a snow ledge for them to spend the night. The pair huddled under Al’s pertex bivvie sack. Nick's body cramped every time he moved, Al's eyes streamed with water. Avalanches poured down the face as cornices from the summit ridge high up collapsed. A cold night lay ahead. Nick contemplated the next day - they were still only half way up the face.

Climbing the first pitch of the morning Al shook the stiffness out of his legs.

A steep fluted snow-runnel lead to a ridge to be crossed.

More rocky runnels were followed. Both longingly looked up at the ridge - visible now, but so far away. Spindrift poured down onto the climbers causing them to scream and shout obscenities. The flurries slowed their pace. They crawled through a white wilderness. The runnels, on both sides, became fringed with bulbous mushrooms of ice. Al looked at them weighed them up; he wondered about finding a way off the top of the face – the idea of now having to dig through some alien-shaped ice-monstrosity to escape appalled him.

Still al ternating pitches, they continued to find consistently hard climbing -nothing quite as tenuous as the first day, but nothing easy enough to allow the climbers to relax.

Entering a large bay Al set up an ice-screw belay. The summit looked very close now - continuing on direct looked to be the best bet: two, three pitches maybe.

Two, three pitches maybe. That is, as long as the ridge Nick can now see is the summit ridge and not some subsidiary leading on to yet more climbing. Surely it can't lead to more climbing. Can it?

The next pitch will hopefully place them beneath the summit – climbing it though is not going to be a breeze. Ahead the bay steepens to a rocky back-wall with only one possible exit - an ice runnel guarded at the bottom by a rock overhang.

Nick has placed three screws, more than on any other pitch so far – he’s conscious of how weak he is. He steadies himself beneath the runnel. The effort required for this is going to be more than his body wants to give. Placing his left axe as high beneath the overhang as he can, Nick breathes deep. Closes his eyes. Forces the air back out of his lungs. Now - steps up. Locking off with his left arm he reaches over - swings the right axe to get a placement. The ice is hard; in fact it's too hard. He swings again. Again. And again. Good, at last he has a placement that he can trust. BUT. But his body is empty - muscle is being eaten by muscle to fuel movement. Pulling now on the right arm, he twists the left and pulls the axe free. His upper body is past the overhang. The next placement needs to be as high as possible. The next placement needs to be good. He draws his arm back – SWINGS. Nick’s feet stay put while the left axe is driven home. Thank you. Pulling now with both arms, feet cut loose. Quickly he draws his knees upward towards his chest. Carefully he places front-points just above the lip of the overhang. NOW. Nick straightens his legs, thrusts, and stands up. Yes! He’s established in the runnel. He retches, his gut dry-heaves.

Al watched as Nick set up the last belay on the route. Then he climbed up to meet him. Eagerly he moved past. They hardly spoke, there was nothing to say, they’d had enough. They deserved the summit.

Wading, Al forced a trench through unconsolidated sugar for fifty meters. And then, finally, he was rewarded: the mountains all around were deep red as the sun dipped below the horizon. He looked on to the whole of the range, re-born into the horizontal world. The sky turned dark and stars appeared. Al breathed deep. He was alive. Alive. The wind whipped up spindrift, it stung his face. He shivered – the spell broke. Time to belay. Time to meet Mr Bullock.

They spent their third night out on the summit in a snow hole. The temperature plummeted. The night was shivered away. At dawn they quickly set off (packing is a short affair when there is nothing to pack.) By midday the bottom of Quitaraju's north face had been reached - the abseil anchors hadn't materialised so down climbing had been the order of the day. They passed first Swiss climbers, who gallantly fed them tea and chocolate, and then a French team at the Alpamayo high camp who, magnificently, gave them all of their spare food. They dropped down to the very busy Alpamayo base-camp, sneaking through without talking to anyone. Doggedly they pushed on - driven by the thought of food, flat ground and sleeping bags.

The meadows below the base camp are beautiful. Having just spent the last three days on a big, snowy, cold mountain the pair suck in the scene, savour the scent. Senses amplified. Hundreds of flowering lupines. Forests of quenal with bark peeling, branches covered in damp thick moss. Mountain streams gush down the steep slopes to join the swollen river running through the centre of the meadow. Even the dust kicked up by dragged feet, as they head back down to the Santa Cruz, is refreshing. This whole getting back into the land of the living is suddenly topped off - a massive Condor swoops overhead, no doubt looking for tasty morsels. But deciding there’s nothing worth picking from the bones of these poor specimens.

Reaching the rock with their kit stowed underneath at 8p.m. three and a half days since leaving, the food bag was the first of the belongings to be opened. It was time to dine!

Nick leaned back, relished the comfort of the double seat, and accepted a second drink from the airhostess. He couldn’t help but wonder what Cilla would’ve made of Al’s and his adventure: "Any chance of romance?" Cilla asks. "Oh, I don't think so," Nick replies, "But we’re going to stay in touch!"

Acknowledgements:

Alun Powell and Nick Bullock would like to thank the following people, without whose help it would not have been possible to take this new and radical method of slimming to such extremes:

The British Mountaineering Council and Mount Everest Foundation for grants.

Joe Simpson for info and references. Jules Cartwright for matchmaking!

Nick Bullock would also like to thank Mark Goodwin for putting some semblance of order to the above.