Love & Hate on the Edge of Darkness

by Nick Bullock

With eyes on stalks and my neck stretched, looking like a tortoise wearing a helmet attempting to clear my shell, I knew it was going to be a skin of the teeth affair. Why did I find myself repeatedly in these life threatening positions? One move was hopefully all it would take to get us in a position of safety. One risky move that was all it needed. The constriction we were now aiming to squeeze through was getting smaller by the second. My knuckles turned white, gripping hard, but the decision was out of my control.

A large black cow nearly finished us by swinging its rear into the gap, but the beggar whacked it, shooing it away. The gap opened, we might just make it! Dawa twisted the throttle, and with a roar the motorbike flew through the tiny opening. Leaning, first to the right and then to the left, the Nepalese climbing agent handled the Honda with the skill of someone used to dealing with the bump and grind of a hectic daily life in Kathmandu. I on the other hand had only just returned from a month in the mountains and it had been a long time since I had toyed with the idea of been a biker back in Britain. My nerve was still frayed from a terrifying flight to and from Lukla. The climbing had certainly been less scary than the travelling, and that hadn’t been particularly risk free.

Powell, Cartwright and Bullock, the dream team we were not! Stubborn, driven and determined would be a good description of this ménage-a-trios. Powell was laid-back, quiet, gaunt and rangy. Super fit with a reputation for a lightweight and quick approach in the hills. Cartwright was the superstar of the team, the youngster at 28, sure of himself, chain-smoking, hard drinking, hard climbing, no-nonsense, no bullshit, to the point and straight to the pub. I was old, 37, old and grumpy. Old, grumpy, aching and battered, but if one thing was in my favour it was my cunning. The trip was of my making, the proposed climb was big and hard and unclimbed. If at anytime I felt like giving up I could turn to the other two and be sure we would continue.

Acclimatisation took place on the hills opposite the massive and daunting 1600 meter North-West Face of Teng Kangpoche in the Khumbu. Ice streaked, loose limestone and threatened by serac's, no surprise the face was unclimbed. Cartwright pushed for the big bag, seven day up, three day off the back, nails approach. I suspected that his ten-day epic on Ama Dablam in 2001 had affected his mental state somewhat. I on the other hand plumbed for a slightly different line and different approach. Four days up, one day down. Down the same side, light and fast, maybe suffering a little but with an unclimbed mountain in the bag, new route et-all. Having known Cartwright for a long time though I knew I was on to a loser trying to persuade him of the virtues of the Bullock approach and with a lifetime experience packed into his twenty-eight year old head I didn’t push it. Powell was not concerned one way or the other.

Leaving the freezing cold, half-built lodge at Thyongbo for our first attempt I struggled beneath the weight of the huge rucksack. Cartwright forced the pace and I forced to keep quiet. The chance to stash kit beneath the face the previous af ternoon had been missed due to the late arrival of the other two at Thame. I had walked up to the hamlet a day earlier. In way of an explanation for their late arrival Powell complained as been “powered down”. I substituted powered down for pissed up. Partying in Namche the evening before had been to good an opportunity for the pair to miss, Powell’s strong and gnarly temperament no match for Cartwright’s thirst.

With a huge sigh of relief the initial snow cone at the base of the face proved to be solid, supporting bag and bodyweight. Cartwright set the pace, Powell followed and I moaned. The giant compact North Pillar stood proud and daunting and challenging to the left. A massive crumbling rock wall running from the pillar hemmed the three of us, tottering blocks threatened, seracs miles above teased…. intimidated. Easier angled fields of loose rock, ice and snow ran and ran…. and ran. Bands of seracs stretched across the wall to the right. The wall was something to behold. The Droit’s North Wall on top of The Droit’s north Wall. Runnells, ice streaks, water ice. Mega Route X, Point 5 Gully, Zero Gully, they were all here waiting to be climbed.

Free from the constrictions of rope, people, bills, work and worries, we left behind the concerns of the daily grind. Each step was liberating in a worrying sort of way. The runnel tightened and the incline grew steeper, but with good snow we continued to solo. Occasionally the heavy rucksack stuffed with seven days food and gas and ropes and tent and gear, pulled and threatened. It insisted and demanded, but still we moved together. Cartwright in front, strong, natural, powering through unconsolidated snow. Powell behind, competitive, refused to compromise, refused to give in and allow the gap between himself and Cartwright to grow. I was at the rear, old and stubborn and recognising my weakness in this big-bag approach. I allowed the gap to grow…guilt coursed through my body at allowing Cartwright to brake the trail for so long but my bag was so heavy because of his estimate of time, line and refusal to return down the north side of the mountain it was with the warped sense of the just I hung on to my dignity.

The gully twisted and turned, sometimes it kicked back, sometimes the angle increased. Reaching an overhanging ice-smeared-slab broke the uniformity of the Scottish grade three gully, so without any persuading we decided to climb a mixed corner to the right. Cartwright still in front was now in his element, rock bulges were turned, rock corners hooked and torqued. A delicate traverse using blobs of ice with a full stretch-step-down was gibbered, if only by the 6ft dwarf on the team.

“What the hell is this?” I yelled.

The first climbing with a rope came as a shock as Cartwright and Powell were a lot taller than I, and had been able to step down to reach a horizontal crack ready to accept a crampon point easily. I on the other hand found the whole procedure desperate. I needed an intermediate placement but none was forthcoming. Gently lowering myself, the parasitic sack drained my strength; I used a pick placement in a blob of ice to support me. The ropes running horizontally left around a corner rubbed on sharp edges of rock. Powell, out of sight, pulled. The rope drag left no feeling for sensitive belaying. I swayed. Powell pulled me to the left for a second time. I resisted and carefully pulled against the rope. A tug of war was not on the script for survival. I stretched, full-body length hanging from the pick in the blob, straight-arm-hanging and still 6 inches short. Commit. Commit…. Commit. The limpet like qualities of the blob made the decision for me by braking away, Splinters of ice flew, sparks flew. sliding…. My left front point found the crack and snagged. I stop. Powell pulls again, I move. Leaving behind the “what ifs”, no time to dwell on the “what ifs”, there was to far to go for the “what ifs”.

Around the corner the angle of the face eases and the snow covering becomes deeper. Powell takes the rope in as I move toward him. Cartwright is selflessly breaking trail up a large snowfield leading back toward the runnel. Guilt hits me hard once again, I should be up front breaking trail, doing my turn if only for my own peace of mind. Its still only day one and already I detest this rucksack, the soft snow, Cartwright’s drive and determination, his fitness and his lack of years…”Bastard”! At that moment I hate him but hate myself more. Why do we have to get old? At one time I would be fighting for the front, fighting to break trail. The competitive and driven streak running through my personality wouldn’t have allowed anyone else to do it. The nagging voice in my head would have driven me to distraction. It still does, it did now.

Reaching the top of the snowfield a perfect tent spot presents and Powell volunteers to stay and dig. Ahead the runnel has turned into a perfect two-pitch 75° Scottish gully. Cartwright asks if I want to lead it and in some way to address the balance and to ease my evening of self-doubt, I jump at the chance. The sack of injustice can be left behind, as the plan is to climb two pitches, fix the rope and return to the tent spot ready for a speedy ascent the following day.

Climbing the first pitch the old feeling of joy at vertical movement returns without the weight permanently pulling at my shoulders. Cartwright joins me and I set off again to lead the second pitch of this Himalayan-Ben Nevis-Green Gully impersonator. Once again at the top of this pitch I fix the ropes ready for a session of jumaring in the morning. As I slide back to the tiny yellow dot 120 meters below, the mountains across the valley turn red, huge Himalayan faces of rock; snow flutings and ice turn on a light show to behold. In the far distance Everest, Lhotse, Cho Oyu stand proud on the horizon, pushing into the clear sky, higher than the hundreds of smaller mountains kneeling at the feet of these Himalayan giants.

Reaching the tent I sit outside as the others sort the inside. Making a single skin, tiny-two-man tent into a home big enough for three is the work of a conjurer not a climber. Patiently I sit on my rucksack and lean against the overhanging rock that the tent is nestled beneath. Contemplating the day I now feel satisfied after taking some of the share of the work. Not yet at ease with myself though I silently question my feelings and motives. Why did I feel the need to prove myself? Why did I question my motivation if someone else took the lead? Was I threatened by the onset of age?

The night was one of the worst I had ever spent on a mountain. Three people crammed into a tent only just large enough for two. I had drawn the short straw and ended lying between the others, crammed, unable to move or even turn to lie on my side. The morning arrived and I was wrecked. As milky-grey, gore-tex-filtered light entered the tent I lay awake much as I had through the whole night. I waited for one of the other two to start the stove and begin the arduous task of melting snow. An Alpine start this was not, but eventually breakfasted and packed we were ready to move. Cartwright was going to clip the ropes fixed the day before and climb along side. Powell and myself were leading and seconding.

“Are you going to take these ice-screws Jules?” I asked wondering what other gear was going to be left for the last one up the hill to carry.

“No!” Came the sharp reply.

“Oh, why’s that then?” I asked taken back a little by his shortness.

“I’ll just do everything shall I? Yesterday I broke trail, carried all the gear and cooked. This morning I even melted the snow while you and Al lay there, how the fuck are we going to climb this thing if there is only one of us doing the work?”

Age has mellowed me but I did consider some of the early morning rant unfair.

“Oh, so of the three pitches led yesterday I’m wrong to say I led two of them am I?”

Powell been Powell said nothing, took it quietly on the chin, and continued sorting gear. Cartwright in full flow by this time continued.

“Hey I know if we continue finishing at 3 o clock and starting at 8 we’re never going to climb this thing.”

He was right, even if I did still disagree with some of what he said. I was smarting from what I considered the wrong approach to the climb. Subconsciously this was gnawing away at me and obviously making me sensitive to small inconsequential matters.

Cartwright climbed along side the fixed rope, kicking hell out of the snow, still angry and obviously re-playing the argument. He would thank me later as I’m sure he didn’t even remember the early morning strain of climbing, the sting of freezing air sucked into a heaving chest. I also re-played the disagreement and vowed to drive myself harder.

The runnel twisted and turned. Cartwright apologised for the argument. I accepted the apology and accepted we needed a kick up the backside. For hours we moved together, pitched, soloed and cajoled until the final pitch of the day, a beautiful steep and ice-dripping overhang was climbed and fixed ready for the morning. Progress was good, Cartwright’s words had done the job. Shadows lengthened, colours intensified, breath froze, sweat froze, dark beckoned and a ledge for the tent was excavated.

Returning from fixing our high point I could feel something was not right in myself. As Powell and Cartwright dug, I milled around trying to sort myself. For two days my bowels had seized and I felt as backed up as a storm-drain on a leaf-covered autumn eve. The cold penetrated my bones and my head felt light. Stamping a ledge into the steep snow I ripped at clothes until my bottom half was naked. Gaining a crouching position was difficult, I really didn’t want to tumble down the slope half dressed but as the snow was not solid there was nothing to hold onto and lean back from. Eventually I sat and strained for an eternity, finally my bowels decided I had froze my backside for long enough and the feeling of release was fantastic. Clothes were pulled up quickly causing snow, blown into my under-ware, to melt and wet my legs. Finally, half an hour from starting the mad-defecating procedure I rejoined the others.

Crawling into the pitched tent I forced myself tight into a corner. Wrapped in all my clothes I slid into the normally comforting feather-down sleeping bag but still I felt cold. Then sick, then light-headed.

“ Give me the pan.” I yelled.

Powell passed the cooking pot over quick.

Throwing up, head stuffed into the pan I felt proud that I hadn’t missed, that would have been a disaster at 5400 meters in a small tent.

“ Hey, bet you were worried I’d miss and throw-up all over the tent weren’t you?”

“You mean like you did half an hour ago?” Powell whispered.

“What do you mean, like I did half-an-hour ago?”

Looking at Powell I could now see the worry in his face and the obvious relief at my return from the land of the lost.

“You’ve been unconscious, we’ve been planning how to get you down.”

“Oh well, no need to worry now as I feel fine, just give me that pan again will you. QUICK!”

The throwing up continued for the rest of the night.

Retreat and run-a-way was opted for in the morning to add to my guilt, and several hours later Cartwright and Powell crashed through the door of the Everest Summiter Lodge at Thame. I arrived a drained half-an-hour behind.

Rest, recuperation, a running race (for Powell), several drunken sessions (for Cartwright), several bakery hits, strong, black and tar-like espresso (for me), and gallons of milky tea for all, had Cartwright and myself ready to do battle once more. Powell on a three week limited time schedule had to return to Britain. Saying farewell in Namche, we split and headed in opposite directions.

The food and gas had been stashed at the high tent spot from the first attempt. With the hardware collected from the base of the face, we set forth to do battle once again, (this time it would go). The high wind was cause for concern though. The face was blasted, the summit ridge extended, great plumes of snow stretched into the sky, snow-powder-fingers grabbing at the speeding clouds. Spindrift avalanche’s poured, rocks rattled, bounced, whirred and whistled. Five days had passed since the previous effort. The unseasonable warm weather had stripped snow revealing loose rock, no longer bonded by sticky-safe ice. Insignificant dots picked their way, following the same line as before, lost amongst powder, lost in the maelstrom, a tiny rowing boat fighting the vertical, crashing sea’s of white. Hiding behind a pillar of rock straws were drawn for who should force into the open ground ahead.

“ I don’t want to go out there, it’s an artillery range. I whimpered.

“ I agree this is madness.”

Waiting hidden, waiting for a lull in the madness the decision was taken to force the issue. I led 60 meters out and then another as Cartwright followed. Tied to the same ropes, moving together with an occasional piece of gear between, no belays, speed was of the essence. Still smarting from my poor show on the first attempt I forced the pace nervous of been hit from blown debris, nervous of the sensible option and scared of failure. We had already spoken of retreat and the large blocks of freshly hewn rock scattered, half buried in the snow lay testament to the direction we should move.

Slow and meticulously we continued to climb in the wrong direction until at last the high point from the first attempt was reached. Fortunately the wind had subsided with the onset of night. I pulled onto the ledge and waited for Cartwright to reach me, glad we had forced the issue; glad we had made it without injury. It had taken us 11 hours to reach the same point that had taken two days previously. I was cold and knackered but relieved at last to be fit. Nestling into the tent the extra space was a luxury with just the two of us. We decided to see what the weather threw at us through the night and this would decide the plan for the following day.

Diving for cover in the crackling frozen interior of the tent we waited to be wiped out by the rattling rocks bouncing above us, shattering the silence. The rocks cannoned from one side of the gully, then whistling and splintering continued their deadly dance heading in our direction. Fortunately the rocks whistled over the tent, to continue exploding down the face. Silence. Silence in our heads now the immanent danger had passed but outside the wind blew with the hostility of a drunken soldier on a weekend pass. All night spindrift, ice and rock pelted the thin skin of the gore-tex tent. A second night followed a harrowing day until finally we could stand the inactivity and threat no more. Taking advantage of the early morning lull in the wind we packed and ran. And ran. All the way to Thame, where we parted company, Cartwright had seen enough to convince him he wanted to live a little longer and I returned to the hill, but to look at an easier, safer line on the Northeast Face.

The cloistering and clinging dark surrounded. The cold penetrated, burrowed deep into bone. Clouds of condensation poured from stinging lungs. Starting at 1.30am I had been wading thigh-deep snow since. Why had I been so bored resting the day before in Thame, “warmth and safety were passé, not deserved”. At last level with the dominating feature of Teng Kangpoche’s Northeast face, The North Pillar, I craved up not across, but height was illusive. A direct line was the objective, but standing beneath the shortest way to The East Ridge the top section looked broken. Uncertain. A right-rising traverse to meet the fluted runnels beneath the summit appeared the best way.

Turning to gaze behind, down to the valley the dim yellow lights of the monastery above Thame flickered and reassured. Comforted that I could be seen and was not alone I hoped the monks would say a prayer for me. Right, always Right. The sky turned pewter-grey and on the horizon the Himalayan giants of Everest and Lhotse glowed red. Tenuous and steep, unconsolidated snow was kicked, punched, pawed. With height and light and right, I stood looking over a deep colouir that was threatened by great towering seracs, guarding the East Ridge. No way would I cross beneath these. Some in the climbing world thought me a little deranged maybe, but I knew in myself I wasn’t that mad. Not ready to give in, a broken ridge of rock and snow led direct to a vertical wall of ice. The ridge was still beneath the serac band, but I tried to convince myself should they collapse the ice would be funnelled either side and chose to forget the massive avalanche witnessed sweeping the whole of the face when one of these seracs had carved on our first week of acclimatisation.

My spirits surged climbing the ridge. On my own in the middle of this wild, unclimbed, hostile territory I felt honoured to be there, I felt alive, living and in control of my destiny. Warm-yellow, glowing tendrils of rejuvenating sun flickered and occasionally touched my body. Steep-ice reared and presented a cold and dangerous barrier at the base of the seracs. Quickly, as if a few minutes would make a difference, I kicked and picked around the obstacle and climbed steel-hard, blue-green vertical-ice, like candle-wax, bubbled and running, dripping the length of a church candle. At last the East Ridge was excitedly pulled onto and the sun was worshipped. The summit reared up, alter-like, not 200 meters away.

Staggering and happy, I moved toward the steep ice-cone leading to the final section of The East Ridge. Dark-brooding slots snaked across the flat section of ridge covered in part with fresh blown snow that was been whipped around meringue-curved crests. This was a dangerous place to move around alone and un-roped, although the bright sun and the new view down into the tree-filled south eased the tension. Cautiously I trudged to the base of the cone. A bergschrund appeared, it was large enough to crawl inside and give protection against the strong north-wind whistling across the col. I didn’t need an excuse to stop and warm myself, the bitter cold had been causing me to stop and warm wooden fingers and toes since midday. It was now two-thirty, thirteen-hours since the start of my pilgrimage. The temptation to bivy and wait until tomorrow for my summit celebrations was too strong, the opportunity to warm frozen fingers and feet would relieve the worry, but unbeknown to me as I snuggled into the sleeping bag with both feet wrapped around a bottle of hot water the celebrations would never come, and my cold and lonely vigil at 6350 meters was to be my high point.

Epilogue:

Discovering the slope beneath the summit was badly crevassed with no way around I regretfully turned tail and ran (but not without the nagging voice of castigation). The valley was reached within 6 hours of abseiling and down climbing. The line taken was the direct line I intended to take on the way up.

Since returning home I have discovered The East Ridge was illegally climbed from Kwangde in 1984 and because of this my line is recognised as it joins with an established line. I have called it Love and Hate and given it the grade D+/TD-.

The End.

Nick Bullock would like to thank The Mount Everest Foundation and The British Mountaineering Council for support with finances, and to Mammut and DMM for kit.

Finally thanks to Ken Wilson and Joe Simpson for the references.