Feature

Kyzil Asker

The Return Bout

By Es Tressider

"You try this face, alpine style...and you take no bolts?!?"

The Spanish lilt echoes in my head. At the time we guffawed, played our part as bold Brits, out of our depth but evangelical about the style in which we would try to stay afloat. The Spaniards with whom we shared basecamp and a desire to climb this face seemed to think we were slightly unhinged. Up here such posturing seems vain, short sighted and plain stupid. I fight to clear a crack above me, frustrated by the knowledge that somewhere under all this ice there must be a belay but that I might be too pumped, too scared and too panicked to find it. I search the sidewalls for an edge, some nook on which to rest a Skyhook-our one concession to ethics. Blank, vertical granite greets me on both sides. A stern and fatherly voice rises up from beneath the icicles I've just climbed through;

"Hurry up Es, it's thawing fast down here".

Guy sounds genuinely scared. I don't ponder how my reply sounds. The sun is making its presence felt and I hack away, eager to get through this section before the thaw that shut down our first attempt kicks in. Sweat pours down my sides and I swing my axe with the accuracy of a frightened beginner. The steps I've kicked for my feet finally collapse just after I clip the hex I've blindly pounded in. It passes this impromptu test. Guy leads up inch thick ice to the first ice field.

Two hours later we both conceded that the sun had turned eighty degree ice into unclimbable slush; useful only for quenching our thirst. We agreed that we were out of time and out of luck, down was the only option. Months later as I stagnated in a university computer lab, I wondered whether in fact we just ran out of momentum. Retrospect is such a cruel light to shine on one's achievements. Or lack of them.

My first expedition had been a rollercoaster ride of emotions. Thoroughly steeped in British climbing folklore, my notions of the perfect route were constructed around 'Fowleresque' ideals. Urge provoking lines, following natural weaknesses, meeting the mountain on its own terms. In the grand architecture of Kyzyl Asker's south east face I found every manifestation of those qualities; soaring alpine pillars split by line after line of improbably steep ice. My eyes were inevitably drawn to the fattest central line. Here was a natural "Super Directissima", traced by a continuous line of white, on the steepest face of the highest peak in the area.

Seeing this face for the first time began a two year obsession that would turn my life upside down. Guy and I made two attempts on the route in 2002, both of which failed because whenever the sun hit the face it would turn to a waterfall. Our highpoint was about 500m up the face.

Exam term of my final year was the crux of my university degree. I couldn't concentrate in lectures for daydreaming about when we might finally climb the face. I'd agreed with Guy that we would leave it for two years and go back in 2004, but I couldn't help planning and wondering about the return. Would it be cold enough if we went back a month later? Would we get trapped by winter snows if we went later than that? In an attempt to salvage my degree I did only three routes that season, and failed on a few more. The day after my last university exam Guy and I cruised The Vicar, a short winter test piece that I'd long considered too desperate to try. I hadn't climbed for two months but the passion was still there, waiting to be released from my library addled brain.

For the rest of the year I worked as a cycle rickshaw rider, reluctant to settle down to a proper job for fear of the effect it might have on my climbing. The flaw in this plan was that, although on paper you I had lots of free time, most of it was spent too exhausted to do anything. I spent days in a sleep deprived haze, feeding an insatiable hunger and nursing sore legs. Sometimes I would manage to climb on Wednesday or Thursday, before another weekend of toil came around. Another winter passed with a small haul of routes.

What little climbing I did do was coloured by the spectre of that line, looming in my future. If I led a hard pitch the only questions that mattered were "Could I have led that on day three, at five and a half thousand metres? Could I have kept my sack on?" My whole life was on hold for this route.

By the beginning of 2004 the expedition was taking shape. We had recruited Pete Benson as extra fire power for our route. Matt Halls and Robin Thomas rounded our team off to a sociable but not unwieldy five.

In the spring I took my girlfriend to Kyrgyzstan to show her some of the country I had fallen in love with two years before. We did some trekking and easy routes, me hoping to speed my acclimatisation on return to Kyzyl Asker. It felt like the process of the route had started, my life and imagination rushed forward towards the expedition. More than anything I wanted to have climbed the route. I wanted it to be over.

Training for climbing has never been a particular strong point of mine. From time to time in Kyrgyzstan however, worries about what we might be up against would spur me into a few hours of frenzied activity. I had sporadic but intense training sessions, running from 2000m to 4500m and back in four hours was a favourite.

We arrived at base camp at the end of August. I felt good and set about ferrying skis and loads to the base of the glacier. My initial dynamism soon floundered as I was floored with the ubiquitous early expedition stomach upset. Lying in the tent at basecamp, sick bucket to one side, antibiotics to the other, while my friends shouldered their loads and skied to the col, I couldn't help but wonder whether my illness was purely psychosomatic. It certainly seemed like a welcome get out cause; the others could go and try the route, if they got up it, I could share some of the glory because it had been my planning that had got us here.

A few days later I made it to the col. In my weakened state the seven hour ski under the beautiful Ochre walls was hard. Despite the struggle, I arrived at the tents inspired; the walls were laced with beautiful ice lines.

Things were looking to be back on track, and with improving health my enthusiasm for the project returned. With this enthusiasm came an impatience that annoyed the other members of the team. I was keen to kick the plan into action, all the sooner to return to basecamp and get on with my life; unburdened by the enormity of this project.

Skiing down from the col to advanced base camp I remembered first seeing the face in 2002. We had assumed that the ice we'd seen in photos was absent, as it was hidden at first. Instead, descending towards camp, the view around a huge buttress is revealed. This time the teasing effect was accentuated by the weather, with the clouds clearing periodically to reveal a glittering series of buttresses. How did it compare to my memory? This face had kept me awake on more nights than I cared to remember. After pitching the tents the clouds cleared, the sun came out, and the line dazzled us. Again.

A warm up route of steep, technical ice gave us a new line but no summit. We began to feel well acclimatised and confident about climbing as a three. The day spent climbing in continuous spindrift above 5000m had left us wasted, and despite the clear skies the following day, we stayed in camp.

After resting we felt sufficiently recovered to think about going on another route. The weather was holding and we spent hours debating how best to climb the SE face. It was slightly cooler than in 2002, but a massive thaw still took place each day. We packed our sacks for a super lightweight, climb by night approach-we would sleep during the day as climbing would be impossible. In such good weather we'd be warm enough without sleeping bags, so we packed just a three man bivi sack. The initial excitement of the plan carried us along. It seemed so audacious an idea, to climb the hardest alpine route of our lives in the dark. For three days without a sleeping bag. But would we get shelter from falling ice during the day? If not, could we survive three days in the firing line? Slowly throughout the afternoon we started to realise that it was probably also a ridiculous idea. I don't remember who said it first, but by nightfall we were all going for different routes, ones that didn't face the sun.

Guy and I picked a line on the Great Walls of China while Matt, Robin and Pete went to attempt Kyzyl by another route. Our line faced North and looked good; thin icy mixed climbing leading to what looked like easier snow ice goulottes above. From where the line met the ridge crest of the Great Walls it looked like easy snow to a virgin summit. The walls were unclimbed. The approach was true convenience alpinism, five minutes of fast icy snow, whizzing over crevasses on skis, brought us to the foot of the route at dawn.

Rushing, I throw kit out of my sack; rope, crampons, Platypus. Oh shit! Those crampons are recently sharpened. I pick up the Platypus to find it spurting water out of a sizeable hole. Three litres of our days ration of four is on the floor. We down the rest and set off up the route.

Guy leads the first pitch. Following is pure joy, delicate thin ice with spaced but adequate gear leading to a snow patch and belay below my pitch. Above rises a mixed wall, leading to a steep hand crack with a small roof capping it to gain a hanging icy niche.

Some fun technical climbing brings me to the foot of the crack. It is steep, perfect hands but too narrow for crampon clad boots. There are few footholds and no ice. I consider aiding it but this is the 21st century. Dry tooling rules the roost, the "mixed climbing revolution". Undoubtedly it could go free, but I know it will require a lot of effort and a fair bit of luck. Steep jamming in gloved hands, monopoints balanced on miniscule facets to the side of the crack, brings me to the small roof. I reach my axe over and sink the pick into a good hook at the base of the niche. By now the altitude is playing havoc with my arms. A hex at my waist winks temptingly, but no, this will go, just a few more moves. The niche is deep in powder, and it takes a lot of digging to get a placement that begins to feel secure. I pull hard, moving up till my face is level with the top axe. The axe rips under the strain throwing me backwards, shock loading the lower axe. This also rips but catches a few inches lower down. Gone is the one big effort I had in me. "Take" I call down to Guy, knowing I'm too pumped to give it another go. Out come my home made 'aiders'.

For me aid on alpine routes is a non issue. If it needs aid it needs aid. Still, I can't help feeling the perfect route is one where you have to fight tooth and nail for every pitch. One that only just goes free. The problem with this attitude arises on pitches that might or might not require aid. An inordinate amount of effort is put into trying to free them first go, only to resort to aid when this fails. That I had used only two points made no difference. The pitch had aid, in the eyes of the purist it was tainted. I was as exhausted as if I had freed every move, and as disappointed as if I'd aided every one.

We had climbed the initial steep section, and from the ground we'd predicted the rest would be easy. Perhaps it was, but in our dried out state it felt steep and hard. Seventeen hours after finishing the last of the water, we reached the ridge. It was dark and our shrivelled brains screamed for descent. Content with bagging the first ascent of the wall, if not the summit, we headed down. The rest of the night passed slowly, ropes jamming on the steepest abseils and interest maintained by a dropped belay plate. By the time we touched down on the glacier it had been light for several hours. The mile long ski back to the tents and water felt like a marathon.

We arrived back at advanced base to find Pete and Matt gearing up for another go at Kyzyl Asker, this time by a line scoped on a previous attempt. Their proposed route was far from obvious though, taking a cunning approach to the twin problems off the mountain: thawing steep ice on the south face, and monster seracs guarding the bottom of the easier angled north face. They planned to climb a short south facing gully to gain the col between Kyzyl Asker and Panfilovski Division before dawn, then traverse onto the north face above the seracs. The plan worked seamlessly, and seventeen hours after leaving they returned to the tents having made the second recorded ascent of the mountain. I brewed up for them at midnight as the good weather finally came to an abrupt end.

We met and discussed options the next morning. It was clear that none of us were willing to attempt 'the line' on the south east face. In good weather it was just too dangerous, and in bad weather it would be too gnarly. Food stocks were dwindling and we longed for the grass, bouldering and good food of basecamp. The next morning we were away.

And so it was over. Two years of dreaming about this route and we were going to leave without even trying it. Thinking back on 2002 I realised that we'd been incredibly lucky to get away with what we did unhurt. In the thaw we'd been able to find shelter, but there was no certainty of that higher on the route yet falling ice would be a problem every day. Surrendering before any shots had been fired felt a bit of a cop out, but our haul of routes so far more than made up for it. On the way back to basecamp we dumped the climbing gear and a tent below the Ochre walls, intent on adding a few routes to these walls after some rest at basecamp.

Pete and I headed for an eye catching ice smear visible from basecamp while Matt and Guy went for a line linking some ephemeral icy ramps on a neighbouring peak. The day started fine enough, sunny and clear, but with a vicious wind that whipped cruel spindrift into our faces no matter which way we looked. After moving together up the initial 250m one eye was frozen shut and I was seriously worried that I might loose my cheeks to frostbite!

The first pitch offers a choice. Steep, thin ice one way. A snow ramp leading out right the other. Perhaps there will be another snow ramp round the corner? I go for a look and discover not a snow ramp but an imposing off-width torque crack. Having just climbed easy ground, my last protection is some way below, so I blindly fiddle in a few wires before pulling round into a strenuous axe layback. Perhaps it is the constant spindrift pouring down my neck, or the lack of protection forced by our lightweight approach, but the pitch feels very hard, amongst the hardest I've ever climbed. Insecure hooks, tiny footholds and tension dependent torques lead to a stretch left to thin ice. By the time I run out of rope I have placed every one of my nuts, and am left to construct a belay from pegs, a hex and a surprisingly good jammed knot! Watching Pete second the pitch I reflect that I might have just led one of the hardest and most rewarding pitches of my life for absolutely no reason. The other option looks much easier than the way I have just gone!

It is bitter, much colder than either of the two previous routes, and by the time I have led the pitch and belayed, Pete is thoroughly chilled and offers me the next lead. It is the perfect pitch to lead, thin brittle ice that breaks off as you climb past it. This means what is relatively easy for me is rendered desperate for the Pete, nicely massaging the ego! Pete takes over and after one more steep pitch we are into ridge mode. Nearly level with surrounding summits we sense we must be nearly up. We race the fading light and stand on the summit at dusk, the mountains all around glowing a steely grey, tinged with the red of sunset.

Properly fed and hydrated, the descent passes much more smoothly than from the Great walls. Passing the crux pitch I am glad to see that what I'd thought was an easier alternative to the way I'd gone looks to be 40m of thin ice with no obvious protection. Perhaps my lead hadn't been so pointless after all!

On return to basecamp we learnt that Matt and Guy's route had thawed in fifteen minutes of sun. While we were sheltered by a big buttress, they were in full glare. Despite it barely getting above -10°c on our route, there's had turned to mush and forced retreat! I felt our decision to leave the south east face had been justified.

Back at home there was a tangible relief to being free from the route. Having accepted that there were no conditions I was happy to climb it in, it ceased to haunt me. I had come to terms with the paradox of the route; stormy weather and intense sun were the very things that formed the copious perfect ice that defined "my" line. But these were the very things that made it unclimbable. The routes we had done had been beautiful, a perfect mix of ice and rock and I felt satisfied. I could go climbing without dreaming about success or failure on Kyzyl. My love of climbing for pleasure had been reawakened and I started to think of new objectives. Perhaps crucially, I started to think about how these could be fitted into a more conventional lifestyle than I'd enjoyed for the past two years.