| The author on the summit of Masherbrum, almost 5 miles high. Beneath him lie some of the earth's loftiest peaks, the Karakoram Range. |
| The author on the summit of Masherbrum, almost 5 miles high. Beneath him lie some of the earth's loftiest peaks, the Karakoram Range. |
Saturday Evening Post, March 25th 1961
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We waited tensely for a repetition of the sound. Masherbrum was one of the most tantalizing prizes for climbers in the Himalaya, but it had a sinister history. In three previous expeditions two men had died on its slopes, and others had been injured; no one had ever reached the top. "Masherbrum" means "Day of Judgment," or "Doomsday," "Mountain." In a month of climbing we had found it beautiful, and dangerous, but so far we had had only a few minor mishaps.
Then we heard the sound again—an unmistakable yell for help from above. Jamming on our boots, Akhter and I scrambled out of our tent just in time to see, through the parting mist and snow, three figures struggling to keep their feet in the wake of a small avalanche. Where was the fourth man? Who was missing? As Akhter and I started to their assistance, several thoughts pounded through my mind: If anyone had been hurt or killed up at Camp Six, it would be forever on my conscience because I was the one who had organized this climb. For that matter, I was deathly afraid that this was going to turn out to be one expedition too many.
Before I tell how our luck nearly ran out on Masherbrum, I'd better explain how we happened to be there in the first place. The idea of climbing Masherbrum was put in my mind two years ago at the completion of another Himalayan climb. A group of Americans and Pakistanis were stumbling wearily down the Baltoro Glacier after having made the first ascent of 26.470-foot Hidden Peak [WE CONQUERED HIDDEN PEAK, The Saturday Evening Post, January 31, 1959] when one of the Pakistanis pointed enthusiastically to a tremendous tower of rock and ice to the south. "Come on back and let's try Masherbrum," he said. The rest of us just shook our heads. The last thing we were interested in at that moment was another Himalayan peak.
But if you are a climber, you soon tend to forget about the difficulties of financing a Himalayan expedition, the headaches of organization and even the special agonies of high-altitude climbing, when the combination of blazing sun and snow makes you feel as if your head were in an oven and your feet in a freezer while you carry heavy loads. Instead you remember the comradeship of men who face a common hazard, the exhilaration of success and, above all, the magnificent mountains. So, after we were back home, I talked with George Bell, an experienced climber, about another Himalayan climb, and we looked for others who wanted to tackle Masherbrum.
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A ten-man party was formed under the leadership of George Bell, a thirty-four-year-old nuclear physicist from Los Alamos, New Mexico. George was a veteran of four trips to the Peruvian Andes and had been to K2 in 1953 and to Lhotse, near Everest, in 1955. From Seattle, Washington, came Dick McGowan, a twenty-seven-year-old geography teacher who is the chief guide on Mount Rainier during the summer. Dick had been on three Alaskan expeditions and had been with George Bell on Lhotse.
Dr. Tom Hornbein from the Washington University School of Medicine at St. Louis, Missouri, was our triple-threat man-mountaineer, physician and high-altitude physiologist. Tom, one of the original members of the Rocky Mountain Rescue Group, had done many extremely difficult ascents throughout the United States.
Willi Unsoeld, assistant professor of philosophy and comparative religion at Oregon State College, and Dick Emerson, assistant professor of sociology at the University of Cincinnati, rounded out the expedition's "faculty." Dick served with the 10th Mountain Division in World War II: Willi had been to the Garhwal Himalaya in 1949 and to Makalu, 27,790 feet, in 1954. For many years both had done the hardest climbs in Grand Teton National Park, Unsoeld as a guide and Emerson as a seasonal ranger.
Our three Pakistani mountaineers, Jawed Akhter, Imtiaz Azim and Mohd Akram Qureshi, were captains in the Pakistan Army. Imtiaz was a graduate of their mountain-warfare school; in 1959 Jawed had made the first ascent of 23,500-foot Malubiting East in the Karakoram with the British-Pakistan armed-forces expedition.
Tom McCormack, a twenty-five-year-old ranger from Rio Vista, California, and 1. a twenty-nine-year-old attorney from Dallas, Texas, completed the team. We had climbed together in the Cordillera Blanca of Peru and had been members of the Hidden Peak expedition.
Once we had permission to climb Masherbrum, we entered a chaotic period. First we had to raise $30,000 to finance the expedition. Generous contributions from members of the American Alpine Club, together with a loan from the club and a grant from the Explorers Club, provided for half our budget. The members of the party chipped in everything they owned, and the trip was financed.
It is a mountaineering saying that each expedition stands on the shoulders of its predecessors. This was especially true with us. Maj. James Waller and Joe Walmsley, leaders of previous expeditions that tried to climb Masherbrum, gave us complete and accurate information on the obstacles that had to be overcome. In 1938 Major Waller had led a British party that reached 24,000 feet before storms and avalanches drove them back. Two of their climbers were badly frostbitten and lost all their toes and parts of their fingers. A New Zealand party made the next attempt in April, 1955, but it was too early in the season. They were plagued by deep snow, and one of their porters died of pneumonia. Then in 1957 the British returned, led by Walmsley. For nine weeks they struggled. One climber died of pneumonia at Camp Six, but they refused to quit. Two of their men, Joe Walmsley and Don Whillans, climbed to within 300 feet of the summit before being driven back by the difficulties of the rock and the on- coming darkness.
We felt we had a reasonable chance to crack that last unclimbed 300 feet. Masherbrum has twin summits; the one on the cast is the higher by fifty feet. A snow couloir—a narrow gully—runs up between these peaks and gives access to the final ridge. If we could only climb that gully—but in 1957 the British had found the snow too treacherous and were forced to try the adjoining rocks.
In order to be prepared for the worst, we felt we had to obtain the very latest in climbing equipment-aluminum ladders, snowshoes, expansion bolts, ice screws, reindeer boots, down clothing, butane stoves, oxygen masks, anything that might provide us a little more security and safety.
We appealed to our friends in England, France and Switzerland for help with the equipment. They responded nobly, especially the Swiss Foundation for Alpine Research, which supervised the purchasing and packaging of our European gear. By mid-March four and a half tons of supplies had been shipped from the United States and Switzerland to Pakistan.
On May eighteenth when we assembled with our equipment in Rawalpindi after a 950-mile train ride from Karachi, only our climbing pants were missing. A local tailor increased his staff by 500 per cent and made substitute trousers overnight.
From Rawalpindi heavily laden DC-3's carried us through the Himalaya to Skardu. There we spent several days re-packing our gear into sixty-pound loads and met our six high-altitude porters, whom we called HAP's. Four of these men, including the leader, Ghulam Rasul, had been on Hidden Peak; the other two were with Akhter at Malubiting in 1959. We considered these porters to be the finest in Baltistan and had requested them by name through the political agent, Faizrullah Khan.
Masherbrum may be an uncivilized mountain, but its approaches are being tamed. Last year the sixty-mile track from Skardu to Khapalu was widened for jeeps. However, as there were not enough vehicles to carry our baggage, our porters had to walk. We needed the conditioning. so we accompanied them.
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Eighteen miles to Gol, twenty-two miles to Gwari—sun, sand and blisters. Some of us began to think we would never live to see the mountain. On the third day the harmless delusion that we were heroic pioneers was rudely shattered when a white jeep containing a United Nations inspection team came around a bend toward us. They took many pictures of us and our army of 137 coolies and eleven horses, undoubtedly to convince their skeptical families that they really were stationed in wild country.
For one day we enjoyed the hospitality of the rajah of Khapalu while our supplies were shuttled across the Shyok River on goatskin rafts. Then we began the final leg of our march, thirty miles up the narrow Hushe valley. Granite spires rose above the dark green, irrigated fields that punctuated the sandy waste. For two days we followed the trail along the Hushe River, crossing and recrossing rickety log bridges before reaching the last village. Coolies who had been faltering were replaced with local men, and we started up the rock-covered moraine of the Masherbrum glacier. It was a twelve-mile hike, a long, hard day. The upper part of the glacier was still covered by the winter's snows, but at five P.M. on May thirtieth the expedition reached its base campsite, 13,500 feet high.
We spent May thirty-first getting our equipment reorganized for the climb. While Hornbein cheerfully bled everyone in the interests of science, McCormack and I checked the oxygen apparatus. Some of the thirty oxygen bottles we had brought were low in pressure, and half of the valves leaked when we turned them on. It was disappointing, but we were able to muster up around a dozen good bottles—enough for a couple of summit assaults.
That evening we gathered in our big white tent for a council of war. We knew where we had to go. The descriptions of the route from our predecessors were depressingly specific. First we had to wend our way among the tall ice pinnacles, watching carefully for crevasses, as we crossed the Serac Glacier to a snow basin that nestled beneath the hanging ice cliffs of Serac Peak. From there the route went up steep slopes that culminated in a dome; from the dome we would go to a plateau under the final southeast face. We decided that Camp One should be pitched at about 15,500 feet on the glacier. Camp Two would be established somewhere in the basin. Our advance base for the upper part of the mountain would be Camp Three, at 21,000 feet, on top of the dome. Despite the information we had, we would still have to locate and prepare the trail as well as determine the safest sites for the camps. While this reconnaissance was going on, the rest of the expedition would carry loads of supplies up the mountain.
It had been overcast, but now there was an unprecedented ten-day spell of good weather. We didn't waste it. On June first McGowan, Emerson, Hornbein and Akhter found the way to Camp One. The key was an avalanche chute on the right side of the glacier which the British had named Scaly Alley because of the numerous falling rocks. In 1957 one of their climbers had been struck on the arm. It made us nervous at first, but we climbed early in the morning, when there was less danger of avalanches. There were no accidents, and our morale improved. Furthermore, deep snow covered the crevasses. This made it possible for porters, who had no special climbing equipment, to make the ascent, provided they were escorted along safe routes. Azim and Qureshi doubled our carrying capacity by persuading fifteen tough Baltis from the nearest village that hauling loads to Camp One would be the easiest rupees they would ever earn in their lives.
We put Dick McGowan in charge of this exercise in mass mountaineering on the theory that his experience in dragging tourists up Mount Rainier left him uniquely qualified for the task. Five days later we had carried 3000 pounds of supplies up to Camp One and had abandoned base camp, except for occasional forays to discharge porters and collect the mail.
Meanwhile, Willi Unsoeld and Tom McCormack located Camp Two at 19,500 feet on the slopes leading to the dome. No one liked the place because of the potential danger from snow slides, but there wasn't much choice. In 1955 the New Zealanders' food dump down in the basin had been buried by a gigantic ice avalanche. We avoided staying in that camp as much as possible.
On June eighth, McGowan, Akhter, and Unsoeld, starting from Camp Two, climbed to the top of the dome, putting in fixed ropes as they went. The HAP's, spurred on by Ghulam Rasul, brought up load after load of food and equipment, and Camp Three, our advance base, was firmly established. Then the weather changed.
It snowed every day for twenty-four days. Although we were pinned to our tents occasionally, we were able to keep going. Bell, Emerson and McCormack pioneered the way to Camp Four at 22,000 feet. McGowan and Unsoeld put in Camp Five at the base of the southeast face, and the endless job of relaying supplies continued. Every night the snow covered our tracks; every day we rebroke the trail. Bamboo wands topped with small triangular flags were placed 100 feet apart to mark the route. On some days the snow and fog were so bad we could see only two wands ahead.
Behind us the soft snow on the Serac Glacier was melting, and crevasses were opening up. When Qureshi and I took five porters along a much-traveled route down to Base Camp, a weakened snow bridge collapsed, and I sank chin-deep in a crevasse. Ahead of us the southeast face swept 3000 feet upward at an average angle of forty-five degrees to the twin peaks. On it were many overhanging ice cliffs; the largest was more than 200 feet high. If that cliff broke off, it would annihilate anything in its path. However, there was little sign of activity; and as George Bell said reassuringly, "If that thing comes down, it will be an act of God."
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We had thought that the Serac Glacier and the dome were a bit dangerous in places, but after we had been on the southeast face, they seemed flat, easy and safe. Camp Five was the dividing line. Below it we felt we would have been unlucky to get killed; above it we would be lucky to escape. We lived in a tilted world of wind, snow and avalanches that rumbled past after every storm. Base Camp seemed as remote as New York City.
We pushed on. A good day was due soon, and we wanted to be in position. Willi Unsoeld and Dick McGowan, the first assault team, led up and across the face. I followed, escorting five HAP's. We were under the gun of the large ice cliff and could not find a safe place for Camp Six. Finally Unsoeld spotted a sheltered area behind a thirty-foot ice pinnacle that would hold two tents. The next day George Bell and Tom Hornbein, the second summit team, also occupied the camp while Akhter and the indomitable HAP's brought up loads.
On June twenty-fourth Unsoeld and McGowan started for the summit, each man carrying two bottles of oxygen. They had trouble with their oxygen sets, however, and abandoned the bottles. The climbing became more difficult; in many places the snow lay just a few inches over the ice. One traverse above the ice cliffs was especially delicate. The fragile steps they were kicking in the snow were in danger of collapsing, and they could only get a "psychological belay," a weak stance that would not hold a fall. After forty minutes of work, they were able to put in an ice screw to protect this section. George Bell and Tom Hornbein followed, attaching fixed ropes.
At noon, when they had climbed to 25,000 feet, Unsoeld and McGowan reached a bergschrund—a big crevasse formed at the head of a glacier by the moving ice pulling away from the mountain. It cut across the snow face underneath the twin summits. But then the weather turned bad again, and they decided another camp was needed before they could try for the top. They left a cache of pitons and descended through the storm. Small slides of powder snow started coming down. Suddenly McGowan was swept from his steps, but Unsoeld had a good stance and was able to hold him. It was a warning of things to come.
The first attempt had failed, but at least they knew what they were up against, and the route was prepared to Camp Seven. The four men waited for a break in the weather. It never came. When they looked out of their tents on the morning of June twenty-seventh, they saw a new storm bearing down on them. They decided to retreat. Descending cautiously through a wicked mixture of snow and mist, they followed the bamboo wands. Unsoeld was leading; roped behind him in order were McGowan, Bell and Hornbein. They were slowly groping their way forward when the avalanche hit.
First the powder snow was around their ankles; a split second later it was over their heads. Desperately they tried to drive in their axes, but one by one, inexorably, they were swept downhill, first Hornbein, then Bell, then McGowan. Unsoeld, now the highest man, almost held; then he, too, was flipped backward. He came right side up again as the avalanche was slowing down. He redrove his ax, and this time it held. The four men came to a stop just short of an ice cliff after a 200-foot slide. Bell had tumbled upside down, but quickly recovered. McGowan, while struggling to his feet, lost his pack. Luckily Hornbein was able to intercept it before it disappeared down the mountain.
Their shouts after they got free of the deep snow left by the avalanche were the ones Akhter and I had heard in our tent at Camp Five. McGowan was the climber I could not see when I started struggling uphill. His arms had been pinned by the climbing rope, and he had been dragged under the snow. After he recovered, he had to lie down and rest for a few minutes. Although he was badly shaken, he managed to stumble into Camp Five unaided.
We regrouped. Tom Hornbein and Dick McGowan went to Camp Three to recuperate. Six of us, Emerson, Akhter, McCormack, Bell, Unsoeld and I occupied the two tents at Camp Five, ready to take advantage of any change in the weather. Snow and wind, wind and snow-avalanches constantly thundered down the face. The supplies which had seemed so enormous four weeks before began to appear insignificant. On July third Emerson, McCormack, Akhter and I descended to Camp Four, where there was still a fair amount of food. The next day Bell and Unsoeld, our new assault team, would have to follow. But the next day it cleared.
The mountain came alive with climbers and HAP's. Bell and Unsoeld returned to Camp Six, which they found completely buried in snow. Emerson and Akhter, who climbed all the way from Camp Four, joined them and helped to dig out the tents. Hornbein, McGowan and I returned to Camp Five while the HAP's hauled provisions from Camp Three to Camp Five. Down below, Qureshi, Azim and McCormack kept the supply line open.
On July fifth Bell, Unsoeld, Emerson and Akhter climbed up to the bergschrund. The cache containing our rock pitons had been swept away. There was very little space for a tent, but they managed to pitch one at an angle, partly on the lip of the bergschrund itself, partly on the snow inside the crevasse. After Akhter descended, Bell and Unsoeld settled in. During the night ice pellets struck the side of the tent. For a few bad moments Bell and Unsoeld thought an ice avalanche was coming and they were going to be pushed over the edge. They shifted themselves toward the back of the tent platform. Neither man slept that night.
They left Camp Seven at five A.M. on July sixth, following the bergschrund laterally until they were directly below the steep couloir that led to the summit ridge. The weather was perfect—too perfect: the sun beat upon them unmercifully. Stiffing in the heat, they climbed upward. Cautiously picking their way across a band of rock, they entered the gully. On the right the ice was exposed, on the left it was covered with treacherous fluffy snow. Between the ice and the fluff they kicked a fragile ladder of steps.
Six hours later they reached the razor-sharp ridge between the twin peaks and turned toward the East Peak. They were blocked on the ridge by a gendarme, a large rock tower. Unsoeld hammered an ice screw into a crack of the rock, clipped a rope in for protection and inched his way over loose, snow-covered rocks. Again they balanced along the thin snow edge until they reached a vertical rock wall forty feet high. A short smooth chimney—a crack wide enough to enable a person to get inside—was the only possible route. In the Rockies it would have been a minor problem; at 25,500 feet it was absolutely exhausting. Unsoeld and Bell heaved themselves upward. Now there was only a gentle slope ahead. Rhythmically, mechanically, they plodded through the soft snow. Then the ridge slanted downward. They were on top. It was 3:15 in the afternoon.
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The giants of the upper Baltoro Glacier rose before them-Hidden Peak, Gasherbrum IV, Broad Peak and, above all, K2, second highest mountain in the world. The view brought back old memories, especially for George Bell. Seven years ago he had almost been killed on K2 and had been carried out of the mountains on a litter, his feet badly frostbitten. Two toes were amputated, and many people thought he would never climb again. Viewing K2 from the summit of Masherbrum, he thought it looked magnificent. Unsoeld and Bell took photographs for one hour before starting down. Attaching their ropes to four-foot aluminum pickets, they rappelled down the 50-degree slope of the gully and got back to their tent by eight P.M.
They were not the only climbers who had an exciting afternoon. The second assault party, Captain Akhter, Tom Hornbein and Dick McGowan, was starting up the fixed ropes toward Camp Seven when McGowan, who had never completely recovered from the avalanche, doubled over with violent cramps. Hornbein yelled, "We've got to go back!" Akhter, in the lead, turned around. His delicate snow step broke, and he came toppling down the slope. There was no time for the other two men to get a good belay. In desperation Hornbein grabbed the fixed rope with his left hand and the climbing rope with his right. If he didn't hold, all three climbers would go over the ice cliff below. Tom held. Akhter tumbled down the slope and then plunged deep into the snow when the rope went taut. It was 160 feet from drop to stop. Akhter was all right, but McGowan was out of action now, so they all returned to Camp Six, and Hornbein escorted McGowan down to Camp Five through the gathering dusk.
The following day, July seventh, Dick Emerson, Captain Akhter and I climbed to Camp Seven to make the next attempt. On the way we met Unsoeld and Bell coming down. They had plenty of good advice, the essence of which was "be careful." After reaching the bergschrund, we tried to widen the snow platform and repitch the tent, but it still tilted downward and hung out over the slope. During the night Emerson began suffering from an attack of dysentery, but he wouldn't think of quitting.
As a rope of three climbers moves more slowly than a rope of two, we wanted to get a very early start for the summit. At one A.M. on July eighth, Akhter and I lighted a stove and began melting snow for breakfast. We punctured a can of butane to prepare the second stove. The valve was defective. The escaping stream of gas hit the flame of the first stove and exploded. Instantly a fountain of fire shot to the top of the tent and set the inner lining ablaze. I threw the pot of water on it, but it did no good, as the flaming gas was still under pressure. Gingerly I went for the entrance of the tent farthest from the flames—we had to be careful or we would knock ourselves off the mountain. There were two zippers. 1 unzipped the one on the left, which opened into space. I started to unzip the right. It jammed. Emerson waked up to find his head surrounded by flames. He tried to get out, but I was in his way, so he fumbled for his pocket knife to cut a hole in the side of the tent. Meanwhile, Akhter, his retreat blocked, picked up a pair of down pants and beat out the fire.
After this attempt to cook ourselves for breakfast, we felt somewhat disorganized. Furthermore, Emerson was now too sick to go for the summit, but he gallantly insisted that Akhter and I make the attempt while he cleaned up the mess. The two of us left at 7:30 in the morning.
I tried to use oxygen, but the rig was troublesome and eventually I gave it up. Jawed and I, rotating the lead, slowly climbed up the gully. The steps were filled with frozen snow; we had to rekick every one. We reached the ridge and headed east. I tiptoed across the gendarme while Jawed struggled up the chimney. Then there were no more tracks to follow, We were on the summit of Masherbrum.
Masherbrum was the highest mountain ever climbed by a Pakistani, but we didn't have time to think about that. It was 6:15 P.M., and the mountains were putting on their robes of purple for the night. We quickly took some pictures and started back.
Our troubles weren't over. As we rappelled down the vertical rock wall, one of Jawed's down overmitts became untied and disappeared into the closing darkness. The thin air blurred our minds. I foolishly clipped my ice axe to my belt to free my hands. As I started off an overhang on the rope, the axe twisted and jammed on a ledge, leaving me suspended in mid-air. On the third frantic try I freed it.
What happened on the next rappel was even more critical. We were using two ropes tied together so we could slide 120 feet at a time. It was still dark, for the moon had not risen. Standing in the couloir, we pulled on the ropes. The first one came. The second one cleared the sling and started to drop, but suddenly it stuck. We put all our weight on it, but it refused to budge. We had to rappel because the gully was too dangerous to climb down, but now, with just one rope, we could not possibly reach the aluminum pickets put in by Unsoeld and Bell. We would have to cut a deep channel into the snow to use as an anchor for our remaining rope. In the cold at 25,300 feet, this took ages. Fortunately there was a full moon by now and no wind. We worked all night and reached our scorched tent at 7:30 in the morning, twenty-four hours after we had left it.
Both of us were exhausted, and Akhter's fingers and toes were frostbitten—later he lost the tip of one finger. Time was precious now. At three P.M., July ninth, we packed Camp Seven and began the retreat. Dick Emerson, who had partially recovered from his attack of dysentery, kept Akhter and me on a tight rope, and we stumbled down the fixed lines to Camp Six.
The next day a storm broke. We knew we had only a few hours to get to Camp Five before the powder-snow avalanches started. We were desperately tired. Fifty yards out of camp, when my snow step collapsed, all I could do was yell, "Fall!" and hope that Emerson could hold me. The situation was becoming serious. Then we saw two figures in the mist and heard the strains of Tom Dooley being played on a harmonica. Willi Unsoeld and Tom Hornbein had come up from Camp Five to inquire if we wanted assistance. We did. They took our packs and guided us down through the swirling snow. Measuring distances with the rope, Unsoeld and Hornbein did a brilliant job of blind navigation. An hour later we reached Camp Five. Behind us, the newly fallen snow began to avalanche.
The HAP's were waiting. They picked up the camp, and everyone continued the descent. We didn't stop until we reached Camp Three at nine o'clock that night.
Wet and cold, we huddled over the stove in the cook tent. There was mail for all of us. Unsoeld's wife, Jolene, had ended her letter by quoting their youngest son, "When is daddy coming home?" All of us were grateful that "daddy" and his companions were on their way.
The worst was over. The basin and Scaly Alley seemed mild. On July twelfth, Unsoeld, Emerson and I climbed down the last icefall and stumbled into base camp behind the beams of our headlamps. We were off the mountain.
After resting several days, we packed our gear and started the march out. The Hushe valley was lovely as we came hiking down the trail. Because of his frost-bitten toes, Akhter was riding a pony, his dangling feet almost touching the ground. Suddenly he waved his bandaged hand toward a group of spectacular granite towers and said enthusiastically, "Now that's what we should climb the next time you come to Pakistan."
THE END
