EXTREME ISOLATION previously
To tackle a unclimbed peak in Nepal, mountaineer Rebecca Coles spent two weeks cut off from the outside world with her partner. Here she tells the story of the expedition, and reflects on what it taught her
BACK IN THE AUTUMN of 2016 my partner and I found ourselves on a singleprop plane weaving between the foothills of the Himalayas, bumping down on the tiny airstrip of Simikot in Far-Western Nepal. Simon and I and the eight other passengers disembarked. Breathless with the altitude, we shouldered our kit bags heaped on the runway and lugged them up the steps to the tiny airport waiting room.
To reach Simikot had taken two flights from Kathmandu; the only other way of reaching this small Himalayan town was a two-week trek. Our reason for coming here was to attempt to climb a peak we believed had not been climbed before.
To a mountaineer, making a first ascent is always attractive. We got a tip-off about this peak from mountaineer Mick Fowler in a chance conversation; he had passed it on his way to climb Gave Ding. He later emailed a picture of a beautiful snowy, pyramidal peak reaching over 6000 metres (19,685 feet) – we were smitten.
Simikot was a dusty town of higgledypiggledy houses. Mules were tied up outside shops trading basic supplies, baskets piled high with tomatoes, potatoes, radishes and leafy greens on their verandas. The sound of shrieking children, their bare feet slapping on the sun-baked ground, mingled with distorted music played too loud for the sound system. We settled into a local teahouse and discussed our plans with the well-connected owner, who set about organising logistics as we drank litres of tea.
ONLY THE MOUNTAINS FOR COMPANY
Unclimbed mountains come in several varieties: really, really hard; very remote; or a combination of the two. We knew this mountain was remote, but it was impossible to tell from the two photos and the Google Earth imagery I’d studied how difficult it would be.
Heading into the unknown was exciting on some levels but it also came with anxiety. I’d been to remote areas before, sometimes for up to three months, but it transpired that this trip would be exceptional on many accounts. The only other team member was my partner – both climbing partner and fiancé – and we were about to spend an extended period of time together, not only in the confinement of a two-person tent, but also without any contact with outside world. What would we learn about each other, and ourselves, from living so closely together?
Our journey from Simikot into the mountains began with a long, multi-day trek helped by a local man and his two mules. The route initially passed through outlying villages, where rooftops buzzed with activity. Women with babies strapped to their backs were drying produce for the bitter winter months to come. The track led into a deep gorge where a river rumbled far below, often completely out of sight.
“There is an anxiety in being so isolated, so far away from
help if even a minor accident
happens.”
Beneath the sprawling canopies of walnut trees, groups of men eagerly gathered the fallen nuggets of fruit. This trail was well maintained; not for trekkers, but for these local traders heading over high passes to Tibet. Our two mule loads of supplies and equipment were embarrassing compared to the small packs they carried.
We asked locals what they called the peak. It was so striking, we were sure the yak herders who frequented the valley in the summer had a name for it. They told us it was called Lasarmula.
We had carefully calculated supplies in order to bring exactly, and only, what we would need. We had a small amount
of high-altitude dehydrated food from the UK, and sourced all other food in Kathmandu and Simikot. But anticipating what was needed and where to source it had not completely gone to plan. The thought of both a tea and toilet roll shortage led to a few words of blame being exchanged, but with a quick stock-take and some rethinking, we found some solutions.
We made our way to the base of the mountain with relative ease; no difficult river crossings nor boulder-strewn valleys. Our man with the mules left us, to return two weeks later. Now we only had the mountains for company.
FINDING AN ASCENT ROUTE
We set about organising a base camp, acclimatising, and exploring the area. We had uninterrupted time to pursue whatever we wished, but it wasn’t without its hardships. The approach valley was on the north and east side of the mountain. Long shadows were cast over the camp long before night, freezing the stream hard next to our camp and forcing us to wear all our clothing. It slowly melted the next morning, going from an icy trickle to a babbling brook by lunchtime, when we could lounge in shorts and T-shirt next to the tent.
We forded icy rivers and clambered over scree to reach the base of the glacier. Steep slopes led to a flat outwash plain in a hanging valley, beyond which was a tongue of dirty ice. The ease with which we managed to access the edge of the glacier surprised us; glacial retreat from climate change has left some approaches to mountains a gauntlet of unstable moraine. By finding a route onto the glacier we had unlocked the gateway to the mountain.
A common purpose brings people together. It may seem obvious on an expedition what the purpose is, something that doesn’t even need to be discussed; but
the assumption that everyone has the same motivation can lead to misunderstanding and diversion. Some people may be on a trip to summit; some to experience a place; others to commemorate a loved one or fundraise for a charity; whilst some people just want to hang out and have a laugh. It’s good to have a common purpose but an expedition can still go well even if team members have different reasons for being there, as long as others understand and respect those reasons. Common purpose forms the roots which bind a team together; but understanding is the soil which nourishes it.
After acclimatising and spending an incredibly cold night at 5500 metres (28,208 feet), where temperatures touched -30°C, we had explored the approaches to the two ridge lines on the mountain. Snow conditions were far from ideal; we’d flailed through a seemingly bottomless dry powder on the glacier. A weather report of high winds drove us back to base camp.
ISOLATION ANXIETY
The ceaseless blue sky made the summits look deceptively calm; but wisps of spindrift, picking up the gales streaming across them, gave it away. After a couple of days, however, the weather settled. We had to make our move now. Back on the glacier, though, the snow conditions had not improved. With altitude the deep snow became ever more energy-sapping, like trying to run in a bad dream, and the col we were heading towards never seemed to get closer. “This is futile!” Simon exclaimed. “Let’s head back down.”
There are different types of strength. Physical strength in the mountains is often valued over other kinds of strength. But mental strength is what keeps teams going. We all have different abilities, and what makes a team successful is
harnessing each person’s strengths and just as importantly valuing their different contributions. “Shall we keep going until it gets dark?” I replied. “See how far we get.”
As dusk crept towards us, we were forced to make camp. We had hoped to have reached the col but instead we found ourselves digging a small platform on the side of the slope to pitch our tent. Not being as high as planned meant that we had a mammoth task the next day if we were going to reach the summit.
In the small hours the following morning, using our hands like paddles to climb the soft snow, we gained the col. The sun’s rays hit the east ridge, which stretched in a sinuous line to the summit. Conditions improved on the ridge, scoured from the previous day’s wind, but the sun’s warmth was both a blessing and a curse, warming
our chilled bodies but softening the snow.
Being alone in the mountains is often written from a viewpoint of calm and wonder, sometimes of terror if an accident happens, but little is spoken of the inbetween; the general anxiety of being so isolated, so far away from help if even a minor accident happens. There is dayto-day stress over decision-making, and constantly thinking about how to avoid things going wrong. Some of the biggest arguments I’ve seen in the mountains have erupted over different attitudes to risk.
I’ve seen good climbers on easy terrain paralysed by the consequence of a fall, whilst others seem oblivious to an accident in these remote and unforgiving lands compared to when on a familiar hike across the likes of the Carneddau.
As the ridge narrowed, becoming
precipitous on both sides, the grip of this anxiety felt crushing. The only protection was the snow arête itself. If either one of us slipped, the other would only be able to save our team of two if they could react quickly enough, with bravery and trust, by jumping off the other side of the ridge. The rope would cheese-wire through the snow, leaving both of us dangling in a precarious position, but ultimately saving us from falling to our deaths.
RETURNING TO THE ‘REAL WORLD’
In the end, we reached the summit safely; but we couldn’t linger long. There was no relief yet, as it was late in the day, the clock was against us, and we knew we still had to make a long descent.
We descended in a calm dusk as
alpenglow from the setting sun lit up the surrounding mountains. It was dark by the time we reached our tiny tent, perched on its platform. The following day we stumbled into base camp, and the day after that, with great relief, we saw our man and his two mules appear from the valley.
After a big expedition, the long walkout is a time to reflect. The trees in the gorge were shedding their leaves and the advancement of winter could be felt. Thoughts of fresh starts and change are often at the forefront of the mind, but this is not the time to act on these thoughts. The clarity from returning home is needed before life decisions are acted upon.
Re-emergence into the real world can be a strange and disorienting process.
The initial feeling may not be one of rejuvenation but instead of exhaustion and being a little bit broken. I often find myself planning a big day in the hills too soon, only to be frustrated with how hard I find it, my body screaming out for rest and recuperation.
When isolated for long periods, the expectation is that home will have changed in our absence. It can be with a mixture of surprise, disappointment and relief that we find no change at all: the structure of what we left behind, and people’s worries and concerns, are the same as before.
It can be deflating initially; there is something inside us that wants change. But with time we notice that there is a difference: a realisation that it is not the people and physical structures around us that have changed, but ourselves. We have new outlooks, we appreciate new things, and we have a feeling we are stronger than before. And when unexpected situations arise in the future, we are more able to cope with what life throws at us.