Thieves, Liars and Mountaineers: On the 8000 Metre Peak Circus in Pakistan's Karakoram Mountains (18 page)

So the rumour about the Spanish team is confirmed as they post to their website that five members of their team, including the old man, reached the summit of Gasherbrum I at the same time as the Koreans on Monday. This means it took them 11 to 12 hours from Camp 3, roughly the same amount of time as it took Veikka Gustafsson. That it took a 72 year old in 40 to 50 kmh winds the same time that it took one of the world's best high altitude mountaineers in near perfect weather conditions seems implausible, but doubts are now creeping in. Michael now tells me he and Arian saw someone high on the summit ridge of Gasherbrum II while they were in the Japanese Couloir on G1. This would appear to support the claim of the other Spaniard that he did summit G2 while we were descending from Camp 2 on G1, and might explain why we didn't see him. Arian and Michael started climbing the couloir at 8.30, so to have been high enough to see the summit pyramid of G2, it would probably have been about 11 or 12 o'clock. If the Spaniard didn't get back down to the traverse until after 3pm, when we last saw the Iranians at the end of it, then we would not have been able to see him. Of course, there remains the question of whether he actually reached the true summit, or turned back at the technical section where everyone else seems to have done. I guess we need to see summit photos to support all of these claims.

Arian wanders down to the Korean camp to ask them about their oxygen cylinders, which we know they used during their summit ascent, but didn't see them carrying when they returned to Base Camp. While one of their Sherpas is sheepishly confirming they dumped the cylinders just below the summit, he also reveals that the Spanish summited at the same time as they did.

“Leaving aside our envy and slightly unwarranted inclination to slag off the Spanish team,” I ask Phil, “do you think all these claims about summiting are plausible?”

“To be honest,” he replies, “I don't care. As long as we're happy about our own performance and decision making, and we're all back safely, that's what matters.”

“I guess this sort of thing happens on every 8000 metre peak you climb?”

“Not really. On Everest and Cho Oyu there are so many other witnesses around that everyone knows who summited and who didn't.”

The Spanish team pass through our campsite on their return from the summit while we're sitting in the dining tent playing cards. Although tired, they all look in good shape, with no obvious frostbite victims being nursed along by their teammates. They tell us that three Czech climbers reached the summit at the same time. This makes 11 summiteers in total – much the most successful day in the Karakoram this year, and too many people for a conspiracy. We begin to believe they did summit after all, in which case it was some achievement.

A short while later the Korean team leaves by military helicopter. For them it's been a remarkably businesslike performance. They've been here barely a week, climbed their mountain and flown out again. We're still here after two months, having climbed nothing. Even our card game is frustrating – I lose comprehensively.

“It's like a commando operation,” says Gordon, of Miss Oh the Korean's ascent.

But none of our group are too convincing in our acceptance of other teams' successes.

“The Korean lady looks like a man,” says Gordon. “I want to see her summit photo.”

“I want to see her dick,” says Phil.

Just when I'm thinking we've heard the last word on dubious summit claims, later in the afternoon Michael and Arian are sitting outside the dining tent when the two Iranian climbers return from their summit push on G2. They have garlands around their necks and seem happy.

“Did you reach the summit?” Arian asks them.

“Yes, we set off at 2am on Sunday, and reached the summit at 2pm.”

Unfortunately neither Phil, Gordon nor I are present to tell them that at 2pm on Sunday we saw two black figures still heading up the traverse, many hours below the summit, which could only have been them.

I will be glad to leave this place. The scenery is breathtaking, but some of the people here are doing my head in.

Our last day ever at Gasherbrum Base Camp. Also therefore the last day for quite a while that I'll spend playing cards just to pass the time. If I had an unlimited supply of worthwhile reading material then I would not be spending so much time at the card table. Unfortunately, apart from my own books, the quality of literature here has been universally dire. As the last team to leave camp, we've accumulated a library of books so shit that nobody wants to take any of it back with them. Almost all of it's trashy thrillers with names like
Firebreak
and
Shattered Bone
.

“Buck Smith, pilot with the US Air Force, unknowingly stumbles upon a plot to blow up New York. Injured in Vietnam and pursued by the CIA, with his knowledge of fighter planes he finds himself the only person able to save the world”

After lunch we light a ritual pyre to burn all this crap so that we don't have to carry it back with us, though in my view some of it isn't even fit for burning, and should have been used earlier in the expedition when we were running out of toilet paper. I now have just 800 pages of my own books left to nurse through the remaining week and a bit before I leave Pakistan.

I spend most of the morning packing, dividing everything into a 25 kilo bag to go with the others on the normal route back to Askole, and a smaller bag with climbing kit to go with me over the Gondokoro La. When the porters start arriving at 4pm, with the weather worsening and snow forecast for the weekend, in the end Michael decides he no longer wants to risk going over the high pass. If heavy snow were to cause another porter strike like we had on the journey in, it could mean us missing our flight from Skardu, and potentially therefore our flight back to the UK. So we're off on the easy route back to Askole again with everyone else. Secretly I'm quite relieved, and pleased that Michael ended up buckling before I did, though don't tell him.

We finally say goodbye to Gasherbrum Base Camp at 7am this morning, after getting up at first light, clearing away our tents and helping the kitchen crew to pack away. We go through the ritual of watching our army of porters divide up the loads and argue about weights. It's a much smaller army than the hundred strong troop we came in with – this time we only need about 40.

Eventually we get bored of watching and start walking down the moraine strip that will eventually lead to home. It's a cloudy morning with rain threatening the air, but it holds off initially. The grey overcast skies part briefly, just long enough for me to look back and have one final view of Gasherbrum I towering above the place that was our home for nearly two months. But before I reach the corner where the Abruzzi Glacier becomes the Upper Baltoro and turns north, everything closes up again.

Morning light show over Gasherbrum I on the day of departure

It doesn't take me long to drop behind the others; just a couple of stops for photos and to remove a layer, and before long I'm on my own, following some semblance of a path on rough moraine in thick mist. A couple of times I quickly check the compass on my wristwatch, but thankfully I can't really go wrong here. I catch up with them about an hour short of Concordia, with the sun threatening to break through, though K2 and Broad Peak are nowhere to be seen among the cloud. This state of play doesn't last for long. The others move off, I drop behind again, and the sun vanishes.

Concordia, the junction of three glaciers – the Baltoro, the Upper Baltoro, and the Godwen Austen – is renowned as one of the most beautiful places on earth, but this reputation is totally dependent on the weather, and as we've discovered in the last two months, the weather in the Karakoram is extremely erratic and unpredictable. When we came through here in June, it was perfect, and the place lived up to its reputation, but today it's bleak and depressing. The clouds hang low, and black rock walls are the only reminder that there are mountains all around us. For the first time in two months I feel rain on my face instead of snow. The white winter wonderland we walked through on our outbound journey has now been replaced by a wasteland of wet black slate.

The toughness of the terrain on my feet as I weave up and down over folds in the glacier doesn't improve my mood of depression. I stumble onwards with the wind blowing rain in my face. Forlorn looking tents of disappointed trekkers are spread out across the cold dark moraine. I was going to stop and eat my packed lunch here, but the rain drives me on. Then I see Tarke standing in the rain outside a small mess tent. He's been looking out for me and ushers me inside, where the rest of the team are crowded into some sort of storage tent, sitting on boxes and drums while Ehshan our kitchen assistant works at a stove. A mug of hot tea is thrust into my hand, and we're able to eat our lunch in the dry while we wait for the rain to slacken off.

It takes another three hours to reach Gore II camp from Concordia. Fed up with being the team slow coach, I put on a burst of speed and manage to keep up with most of the others, but at a speed which is uncomfortably fast. In many places the slate covering beneath my feet is wearing away, exposing the smooth ice of the glacier. This means the trail is slippery in places, particularly when traversing the side of a steep bank of ice, but generally I'm able to keep up the quick pace, although the terrain is pretty uncomfortable underfoot.

I reach Gore II camp at 3.15, an inconspicuous area of moraine in the middle of the Baltoro Glacier. This is where we had a porter strike on the way up and had to spend an extra night after they refused to move in the snow. Today it's much quieter, though there are a few tents of trekking groups coming the other way. It's sunny when we arrive, but our quick pace means we have to wait three hours for the majority of our porters. By then a storm is brewing, and we end up putting the dining tent up in howling wind and rain. It slackens off for dinner, but heavy rain raps against our tent for much of the night.

I think I can say without fear of exaggeration that today is one of the least pleasant day's trekking that I've ever had. The combination of terrible weather and atrocious terrain underfoot gives the Karakoram a unique place among the world's classic trekking destinations, and today exemplifies both, but I know I should look beyond this and appreciate that I'm lucky to be here.

I spend almost the entire day boulder hopping for hour on tedious hour, and by the end of the day my ankles are like jelly. The main reason for the absence of good path is because we're walking on a glacier which changes shape from season to season, but for some reason the terrain today is ten times worse than it was yesterday. We set off in light rain and overcast conditions which persist on and off for most of the day. Gordon has twisted his knee but refuses to take a horse because if he did then he thinks Phil would take the piss out of him. At least this means there's somebody else as slow as I am – my dodgy ankles don't cope well with hours of boulder hopping.

The pair of us hobble into Paiyu camp at 6.15 after more than 11 hours of walking. I'm not looking forward to tomorrow, which is supposed to be even longer. Still, at least we're off the glacier now and back on dry land for the first time in two months, so perhaps the terrain will improve tomorrow.

Later in the evening there's a minor panic for Phil as the expedition appears about to unravel. Around 8pm, as darkness is falling, he's informed by Ashad that some of the porters haven't arrived yet, and if they don't show up this evening then it may mean they've done a runner with the kit they were carrying. Unfortunately one of the barrels that's missing is perhaps the most important cargo of the lot, because buried at the bottom of it are the entire expedition finances, amounting to several thousand dollars. There's still hope that the barrel will show up after nightfall, though as we know, if the porter carrying it is still up on the glacier then they've got some very difficult terrain to navigate in the dark, with a high risk of twisted or broken ankles. Two of the quickest porters are sent back to look for them with head torches, but Phil is a very worried man during dinner.

“I kept telling them to put the important gear with the quickest porters, but do they listen!” he says.

After dinner he's wandering around listlessly outside the dining tent when we hear a loud splosh, followed by a number of expletives. He's fallen into a stream coming down from a steep bank behind the campsite, and cracked his knee on a rock. To cap his worry about the cash, he now thinks he may have broken something ahead of a 12 hour day tomorrow. Ashad ushers him away hobbling to his tent, promising to wake him up as soon as the porters show up, which happens about half an hour later. Eventually, all is well.