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Many of you are wondering about my present state of health.  This dispatch will address that as well as share a brief description of our summit of G1, descent, with some photos, and the obligatory ridiculousness which still seems resident even when I feel like crap… Total crap!

The real start of the summit push began on the afternoon of July 27th. Joined now by Marty Schmidt, Libor Uher, and Radek Jaros, Alexey and I climbed from Camp 2 to Camp 3 and stopped there for a few hours, resting and drinking. At 7:30pm that evening the five of us strapped on our crampons and headed up into the night, knowing that a pending storm was forecast for the following afternoon. We carried no rope, climbing together but independently. We climbed through the night, taking turns breaking trail and sharing the workload. As daylight broke, we were struggling 200 meters below the summit in extremely deep, unconsolidated snow – but, we continued on regardless, fighting hard to gain ever meter. Finally the snow became bottomless, so we traversed/swam to a rock ridge on the far extreme right of the couloir, and climbed steep mixed rock, ice and snow to the false summit. There the summit ridge towered above us, looking rather ominous in the twilight and clouds. At 6:10am on July 28th, after 10 1/2 hours of climbing, Alexey and I, along with Radek Jaros, Libor Uher, and Marty Schmidt, finally reached the summit of G1. People at base camp reported a huge lenticular cloud on the summit at this time. It was definitely cold and windy, but I think it might have looked worse than it was….. Kinda.

After taking the obligatory John Wayne and Pringles pictures, the five of us descended to Camp 3 with no issues. We rested there for a few hours, then continued down to Camp 2. At Camp 2 we were congratulated by the Koreans and Slovenians, then set up our tent and spent a very blustery night as the storm arrived full force. Alexey and I were both tired but happy and content, feeling pretty good. We even discussed descending further that day to Camp 1, but eventually decided against it and stayed at Camp 2 that night, the 28th.

At 4:40am the next morning, Alexey and I awoke to the forecasted storm still raging against the tent. Visibility was very low, but we knew the winds would ease as we descended the icefall, so we brewed up, packed our camp and headed into the whiteout. We both felt good, but still tired, and stopped to take a few photos at our depot under the serac. After reaching Camp 1 we loaded up the entire camp into our packs, leaving nothing behind - just in case the monsoon storms would arrive before we could attempt something else. We discussed the option of trying GIII if the weather would hold up, and agreed we could easily carry gear and supplies back up from base camp if needed.

Halfway down to base camp, we encountered the ever-widening crevasse field which required very careful navigation - believe me, it's getting really scary now. After making it through the delicate section, we could see in the distance the waving arms of our base camp crew. An hour later we arrived at the moraine, and together we walked down through the camps as one porter banged and empty kerosene can while singing a victory song on our behalf. Everyone, especially Alexey and I, were all smiles as climbers and cook staff all came out to greet us and congratulate us as we walked through camps. It was really cool.

We finally sat down in the dining tent, ate some food, and shared a few toasts with the many visitors who came to discuss our climb and congratulate us.

Full stop.

I took a shower - the Pakistani glacier kind, which is essentially squatting on the moraine with a bucket of warm water and an old tin can.

I returned to my tent to put on clean clothes and warm up a bit - and that's when it hit me like a bomb. Within 3 hours my body temperature was over 103F. I even double-checked it with a mercury thermometer because I couldn't believe it was that high. Throughout the evening my chest tightened severely, and I just couldn't breath, coughing up the most disgusting greenish flemmy stuff. My respiratory rate and heart rate skyrocketed, my O2 sats dropped.

Jump to today: I am completely wiped-out, much more exhausted from fighting a high fever for 3 days immediately after summiting GI. This is certainly the most wicked chest infection I've ever had. A helicopter was dispatched the very first day of my illness due to my horrible vitals and condition. With help from the people at Travel Guard and Askari Aviation, hopefully I'll get flown down to a lower altitude as soon as there is a break in the clouds. Today's weather looks grim, so I'll just have to hack and wheeze away in my sleeping bag, downing antibiotics, etc. and dreaming of...well- every place but here. As of now my chest is still tight and my breathing very shallow...hack. wheeze.

In an attempt to make you breathe equally as shallow, here's some photos from our grand exploration up G1. I promise to post more excellent images in the weeks to come, and keep you updated health and evac home. In case you haven't checked the news lately, Pakistan is in chaos...hack. wheeze.

July 20, 2010

Saturday, July 17th, at 1:00am, Alexey and I awoke once again at Camp 3 on G1. The forecast for the mountain that day was to be almost perfect - if not a little cold - but low winds and no precipitation. We quickly ran through the morning rituals of alternating swinging arms through down jackets and pulling on boots in tandem. It's kinda like synchronized swimming - except at altitude, and not in a pool, and without those gross nose plug thingys, or the forced smiles. Come to think of it, it's not like synchronized swimming at all, but you get the picture - and it makes a pleasant visual reference for something not so pleasant.

Shoveling down the usual handfuls of cereal - this time a chocolaty delight called "Milo" resembling dry dog food - we drank a cup of lukewarm water each, pulled our packs out of the frosty tent, and headed up once again into a black night.

This time we would have company. The South American contingent had left 2 hours or so earlier, and we could see their headlamps as they danced against the icy slopes far above us. The dancing lights better resembled synchronized swimming than the tent thing. Never-mind.

After the first steep step, we fell into a rhythm, our crampons crunching the hard snow beneath our feet as we climbed higher and higher, hour after hour. Just past the first rock ridge we caught up to one of the South Americans who joined in behind us, while another sat in the snow, obviously struggling with the altitude. An hour later the slopes turned blue in the morning twilight, and as we turned off our headlamps, we caught up to the rest of the climbers who had now reached the final long couloir, winding up and right toward the summit.

 

The next few hours we climbed in a broken line amongst the Columbians and Brazilians, but none of us spoke much - we were all too busy focusing on every move. The snow was extremely hard in places, and it took careful concentration for tools and crampons. I kept thinking, "Better keep some in reserve for the way down, buddy. It's gonna take a little effort to reverse climb all this."

 

By now all climbers but 3 had turned around, including one Columbian who was exploring a chute to the rocks above and right of us. Alexey and I climbed straight up, breaking trail through thigh deep snow for a few meters. We swapped out breaking trail a few times, until finally I reached snow depth about waist deep. The top layers broke between my legs and ice tools in near-perfect blocks, sliding below me on a layer about 30cm down. But it wasn't till I heard that all too familiar, throaty, "thunk" all around me - the disconcerting sound of snow layers settling, that I finally froze in my tracks. I think my stomach echoed the sound the snow made. I turned and looked down at Alexey. I'm sure the look in my eyes said it all. "This is bad".

I stalled in the same spot, not moving for a few minutes, hoping the snow wouldn't notice me and forget I was there. I then swallowed hard and began traversing left toward the first serac, hoping to find something shallow and stable. No good. Alexey urged me to reverse my steps carefully. The avalanche conditions were definitely bad. I looked up to the ridge above and checked my altimeter; 7970 meters. With a (now different) sinking feeling in my chest, I thought to myself, "What? You've got to be kidding me! We're going to get stopped here? After all this?" I reversed down to Alexey.

 

Alexey climbed down our trench as I followed, and then at a juncture began to climb back up and right, following the footsteps the Columbian climber who had made the attempt there earlier. As he started up the tracks, I surveyed the slopes above in the direction of the chute. The surface texture of the snow beside the rocks above was exactly the same as the slope I had just "checked my shorts" on. It would be bad beside the rocks also, I assumed. I called to Alexey my observations, but he wanted to check it out. The 2 Brazilians followed him. "OK. I shouted, I'm going to start heading down then, k? That slope is not for me."

The slope wasn't for Alexey, either. Shortly after reaching the first rocks he discovered chest-deep, unconsolidated snow - even more unstable than the first slope we tried. Soon after he retreated and we began the long descent back to Camp 3.

So, we were close to the summit. How close? Check out the image of the summit ridge behind the Brazilian climber, and the 2nd image of the summit ridge rocks just above and out of reach beyond the end of the trench. So, I ask you, if there is only a few meters above you, have you reached the summit? And if yes, what is the relative cutoff of a "few" meters? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Fifty?

John Wayne once said about K2, "If you can't ride that thing like a pony, you ain't on top!"

Ok...I just made up that John Wayne quote, but if John Wayne were ever a climber, he would have said that for sure. Imagine what Chuck Norris would say.

***Please submit your Chuck Norris quotes to info@calpinist.com. If you don't understand this, google "Chuck Norris Quotes".

 July 13, 2010

Our trip up to Camp 3 on GI was a very enjoyable climb. Unfortunately, there were many old ragged ropes hanging in the Japanese Couloir - some of which we used to our advantage climbing on the rock to the left of the main chute. The upper part of the couloir is narrow - perhaps 3 meters wide in places - and really nice climbing on steep snow and moderate ice.

 

As we neared the top of the couloir, I began to feel the altitude, and by the time we crested the final slopes both of us were definitely feeling a bit sluggish; this was the first time either Alexey or I had been above 6400 meters on this expedition, and we had now reached 7000 meters.

It was immediately obvious we were at the main Camp 3 spot, as garbage, old tents, gas canisters, and oxygen bottles were strewn about everywhere. It's rather sad commentary that this remote and beautiful place is subject to such neglect. We found the lowest of all the old tent platforms to be the least exposed to the wind, and promptly set up our tent. As I unloaded my stuff inside, Alexey wandered about and discovered many things - a few unmentionable. Among his findings were enough gas canisters to keep us burning the stove for a week straight. My excitement at his find soon gave way to concern, as I wondered whether it was Alexey's intention to see if we could actually stay at or above Camp 3 for that long.

Our plan was to sleep during that evening, wake up at 1am, brew up, and head out by 2am for a little "hike" toward the summit. We knew we were pushing things a bit acclimatization-wise, but since we were already here we figured, "Hey. What the heck."

It has been said that a "plan" is simply a list of things which do not occur. I have personally tested this adage repeatedly, only to find it absolutely true. When the alarm went off at 1am, the first conversation emerging from icy sleeping bags went something like this: "Did you sleep. No. You? No. Ok, let's go." As we dressed, we scarfed down handfuls of Fruit Loops and Cheese Pringles amidst slugs of lukewarm tea.

By 2:15am we were outside the tent and struggling in the cold to put on harnesses and crampons. The night was crisp and clear as we prepared under the expansive blanket of stars. The Milky Way appeared as an astonishingly bright, glowing sheet from this altitude - so vivid against the black backdrop. We departed camp with headlamps on, the mists of our laboured breathing rising like smoke in the beams. These times always feel so surreal to me, slightly separated from myself - like diving in the ocean or walking in space, or painting without sufficient ventilation.

 

Immediately above camp the terrain steepens through rock steps and a snow ramp. I remember trying to remain focused on every move on the firm snow, as a fall here would be def. not a good idea - and I still needed to get warmed up bit. We switched leads breaking trail, although we mostly ascended on firm snow and ice, climbing with no rope.

After 2 1/2 hours our pace began to slow. Both of us were feeling OK, but tired, and we knew that the pace was slow for us at this altitude. Above, the obvious route followed a wide couloir up the final 500 meters to the summit ridge where the winds were now whipping the snow around fiercely. A long flag of blowing snow had formed off the summit ridge, and was clearly visible in the morning light. Wind speeds were forecast for +65kph at the summit - which we knew beforehand - and it would take well acclimatized strength to wrestle those conditions at 8000 meters.

I looked at my watch. It was only 5:30am and we were already at 7500 meters. We both agreed that it was still early in our trip and we could wait for better conditions. So we turned and began down-climbing to the tent below. By 7:30 we were already warm again in our sleeping bags - content with our acclimatization efforts, but wondering if maybe we had more strength than we thought.

 

The truth is, we ran out of Pringles - the mainstay of mountain performance cuisine. How could anyone be seriously asked to climb any high mountain objective without a sufficient supply of Pringles? Not to worry; we have many more tubes stashed at-the-ready in base camp, where we headed the following day, July 11^th after a final night at Camp 3 to ensure our acclimatization.

 

The truth isAs a consolation prize, we found the kitchen crew at base camp preparing for us a lovely, semi-vegan, goat-head stew- the mainstay of mountain gross-ness cuisine.

Admittedly, I added the semi-vegan part, but it's still gross.