In fear of ruining the streak, I'll say it anyway: So far, so good.
 
My Polish companions have also adopted this slogan as we negotiate Pakistani expedition logistics in rather uncharacteristically smooth fashion. I won't jinx our good fortune with a justification caveat that all manner of potential chaos could be just around the corner...wait, I think I just did.
 
Examples:
 
My flight to Chicago was delayed due to weather. No bother. Both my bags and myself somehow made the 10 minute walk to my London departure gate, only to arrive as the doors swung shut. My flight was delayed getting into London. No bother. We landed a few hours late, but I easily made my Islamabad flight, again with luggage in tow. My flight was 2 hours delayed landing in Islamabad due to dense fog over the airport. No bother. The folks from ATP were waiting at immigration (don't ask how) with my luggage already loaded on a cart. The following day, we returned to the airport in hopes to catch the elusive flight to Skardu. No bother. In 4 years of trying, the flight actually departed the airport, sparing us the desperate swerve-and-curve up the Karakoram Highway. Upon arrival in Skardu, my cargo from the States and from Kathmandu had not yet arrived. No bother. The mother lode showed up the following morning, with nary a piece missing. In short, I am counting my blessings, for they are many...
 
The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Skardu are slightly different in the cold winter air. The mountains surrounding the town seem much larger laden with fresh blankets of snow. Our hotel kitchen serves THE best food I have eaten in Pakistan, and at every meal we stuff ourselves, trying to keep on as much extra weight as possible before the spin-cycle of winter on the Baltoro burglarizes our reserves.
 
We've spent the last few days acclimatizing up the Sadpara valley, climbing the slopes above the serene, emerald-green Sadpara Lake. As we await the weather window for the helicopter flight into Broad Peak base camp, we sort the last of our gear and discuss our plans. The team feels cohesive, lighthearted, and prepared, ready to take on the frigid Broad beast together. Artur, Robert, and myself will be joined by 5 Pakistanis: Didar (cook-extraordinaire and base camp manager from my 2007 K2 expedition), and climbers Quadrat, Amin, Ali, and Taqi. Together we form the unlikely brotherhood of the 2008 Broad Peak Winter Expedition.

 
Waiting to fly to Skardu

 
Ministry of Tourism Meeting with Nanga Parbat Expedition

 
Sunrise over Afghanistan

 
Don in Skardu

 
Junk Show on Tour

 
Artur, Quadrat, Amin, and Ali

 
Climbing above Sadpara Lake

 

 

Many people have recently contacted me with inquiries about the food and gear I use on expeditions, with questions like; “What is your sleeping bag rated at?”, and “What do you eat up there?”, and “How do you guys take a …?” (You get it.)

In truth, expeditions to big mountains like K2 are gear intensive, but so are many weekend adventures here in North America. Combine that with the mountaineer’s propensity to curate gear like the Vatican does artifact, and closets like mine turn into a veritable junk show.

 

 

When considering gear, equipment, and the staples of any climbing endeavor, caution must be observed to not let our “things” replace our “abilities”, elevating confidence by what we have, rather than who we are. Smart marketing campaigns often prey upon this tendency, promulgating that if we simply purchase the latest gadget or gnaw the latest lockjaw energy bar, we can conquer anything. Even the crisp, wilderness air cannot escape the flatulence of consumerism.

However, having pardoned ourselves from the aforementioned al fresco faux pas, mountaineering and climbing are genuinely safer and easier due to advances in food and gear technology. When correctly matched with our limitations, these advances unquestionably extend the limits of what is possible. I couldn’t imagine wearing wool knickers and pith helmets like Mallory and Irvine did on Everest, or to sleep in a 10 pound felt sleeping bag like Buhl on Nanga Parbat. (Although, The Duke of Abruzzi’s four-poster wooden bed does sounds comfy cool.)

Over the next few months I will periodically post gear reviews for things like mountain food, down products, tents, and technical equipment, pillaged from my own personal gear stash. Ergo, I introduce the Gear/Nutrition page on my website, in full knowledge that anyone who knows me knows that the word “nutrition” and myself rarely collide in the same sentence. Nonetheless, I now share with you the stuff I like to use, why I use it, and where to get it. Alas, welcome to my own personal junk show: Gear Reviews

Brought to you in part by:

 

 

 

Over the last few weeks I've endured some of the most challenging moments of my life. My repeated attempts to sufficiently articulate myself in words have mostly ended with the delete key, typing the opening lines of this dispatch over and over- but I've finally managed to get out a few thoughts...

 

First, I am deeply saddened by Inaki's death on Annapurna. Inaki's accomplishments in the high mountains of the world were beyond impressive, and he leaves very large footprints to fill for those chasing the highest summits. He will be missed by many. My thoughts these days are with the friends and family he left behind, and my prayers are that they would be comforted in this difficult time.

 

I also frequently think of Nancy, Inaki's girlfriend, who stayed throughout the entire ordeal at base camp, often coordinating rescue efforts herself, and then having to endure departing the mountain without Inaki by her side. The courage and strength she showed throughout those impossibly challenging days was extraordinary.

 

My heart also goes out to Horia, my former partner on the expedition, who stayed with Inaki until the very last moment possible. Endangering his own life, he had to be convinced to come down, unwilling to leave until help had arrived. Such loyalty is uncommon these days.

 

Ueli and Simon, the two Swiss climbers who immediately went up to help, had no knowledge of the route or way through the glaciers and left their camp in the darkness of night- with no high altitude equipment (theirs was stashed on another route)- to bring medicine to Inaki in Camp 4. Ueli's display of strength and courage, climbing alone in extremely poor and dangerous conditions was, plainly stated, beyond heroic.

 

Dennis Urubko and I started climbing from near Machppucharre Base Camp to Camp 2 immediately after the helicopter dropped us there mid morning of the 23rd. Two different helicopters had tried in vain to place us as higher on the mountain, but thick cloud cover repelled earlier efforts. We would have to start the climb from even lower than base camp. Climbing through new snow and poor visibility, we reached Camp 2 after a 7 hour slog. Alexei Bolotov met us in the tent, surprising Dennis and I with his intention of ascending back up to the ridge with us. After 1 or 2 hours of sleep, the three of us began climbing the wall. Early that morning we met Simon and Horia descending near the bottom of the steeper slopes. Ueli had convinced him to leave and was now making his way along the ridge toward Inaki. Horia was weak from his extended stay at altitude, but had improved with the thicker air at 6200 meters. (and a dose of dexamethasone, which Ueli had administered up on the ridge).

 

The snow was soft and deep. Simon and Horia's down-tracks had all but disappeared under the fresh snow of spindrift avalanches. One avalanche in particular split in 3, with the major portions sliding behind, between, and in front of Dennis and I, who were about 10 meters apart when it hit. When the snow cloud cleared, Dennis turned and looked down at me, asking me if I was alive. My simple response was "Yup", and we continued up the wall, saying nothing more about the event. Despite the soft conditions, we climbed as fast as we could, reaching Camp 3 a few hours later and taking a short break to re-hydrate and rest for half an hour. But just before we began up the steep slopes above the tent, Ueli's voice came franticly over the radio, announcing Inaki had stopped breathing.  Standing on the narrow ledge at 7000 meters, we both cried...

 

Since the helicopter flew us out of base camp on the 25th, I've spent my days soaking in the relative comforts of Pokhara, the small city nestled in the jungle foothills below the Annapurna Sanctuary. Monsoon has almost arrived, and as the afternoon thunderstorms wash away the debris in the streets, so the rain also seems to have some therapeutic affect on my heart, which has been so saddened these last few weeks- first, with Inaki's death, then my grandmother who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had passed only a few hours later. Then, when I opened my emails back in Pokhara, I learned of the death of my friend Gianni Goltz on Everest.

 

Enduring such adversity and challenges while being so far removed from my friends and family during this time has been extremely difficult, yet, I feel your strength even now. Your prayers, encouraging emails, and messages have been my strength through such adversity, and at some point I hope to thank every one of you for you support. It continues to be made clear to me that my strengths come from the cords of many.

 

In a few days I depart for my next expedition, which I intend to announce upon arrival in country. More to follow soon...

I've just returned from our high point on the South Face, a small ledge where we are camped at just under 6900 meters. My recent illness left me completely out of sync with my partners, Inaki and Horia, so I've spent the last 6 days working with the Russians, pushing the route up the wall.
 
On the 26th, Alexei Bolotov and I finally pulled over the lip of a narrow, steep, ice chute and onto a lower angled snow ramp. At the top of the ramp was a small ice cliff, perhaps 3 or 4 meters high, and beneath it lay what we were looking for; the first horizontal piece of terrain in nearly 700 meters. It would take a lot of work to transform this pile of spindrift into a spot big enough for two tents, but it would do. We spent a few moments drinking tea and taking in the view before we began shaving off the top of the drift with a single shovel and our boots. Soon after we started the work we were joined on the ledge by Sergey, Dima, and Sasha, the three other Russian climbers.  As we continued our efforts shoveling off the platforms, the sun broke in and out of the rising cloud layers. My overtaxed brain tried to keep up with the rapid temperature fluctuations as they alternated somewhere between flash-frozen and twice-baked. My internal thermostat was seriously tweaking.
 

 
All morning long, Alexei and I had simulclimbed the mid section of the wall in a rather specialized technique saved for the high mountains; one climber ascends while trailing a rope with the end tied to the anchor, while the excess rope loops down from the climber's harness, hanging below the anchor point. The slack is slowly taken in as the roped climber gains elevation, while his partner climbs ropeless, often breaking trail above. When the end of the rope is reached, a new anchor is set and the whole process is repeated, the pair typically exchanging roles. It's not exactly the safest climbing method, especially with the cheap Korean plastic rope, but it is fast, and speed on this type of terrain equals safety- so the two balance each other out. (sorta)
 
My recent climbing partner, Alexei, is seemingly carved out of wood. If he suffers from anything it is never apparent, often spurning adverse conditions with a smug kind of confrontation, as if to say, "Hmpf. Is that all you've got?". At 44 years old, he is medium height, but his build and stature suggest a strength not-so hidden. His climbing resume' is beyond impressive: The North Face of Jannu, Lotse Middle, Makula West Face Direct, the West Face of K2, etc. Here is a man who knows the hardest hardships of the highest environs. I could learn from this man.
 
After a few days of sharing both rope and tent with Alexei, I discover that one of his favorite sayings is, "Not necessary", spoken in that perfect Ivan Drago, Russian-English lilt. The quip is loosely applied to all sorts of things I personally deem rather necessary, like say, drinking water, for example. Out our 6900 meter high camp the other day we awoke to a freezing morning, and a thick layer of frost coated the inner walls of the tent. Any movement inside was tenuous, where even a sneeze produced significant snow accumulation over everything under the frozen nylon. To get things going I produced a warm canister of gas which I had (not-so) lovingly nurtured in my sleeping bag all night. (warm gas works far better than cold) Before I could grab the stove, Alexei had already attached a cold can of gas, and was now attempting to light the stove with a cheap lighter. After 12 or 15 tries, the tent now reeking with the rotten-egg stench of propane, he frustratingly uttered some expletive and tossed the entire contraption in the corner of the tent, releasing another internal snow-squall.
I shiraded, in Russian, that we try using the warm can, to which Alexei replied, "Not necessary".
"Breakfast, you mean?", I questioned.
"Ya. Ve go down. Breakfast in base camp".
I smiled, and offered him some luke warm tea I had left in my nalgene bottle from the night before. In typical gracious style, he took one small sip, handed the bottle back to me, and said, "Enough. Thank you."
So, after rappelling the face, traversing the ice fall, downclimbing the rock island, glissading the snow slopes, negotiating the grass traverse, and decending the dirt couloir, we finally had our breakfast...seven hours later, in base camp.
 
One thing the Russians do find necessary, is to eat well- when they do eat. Even near 7000 meters, it is not uncommon for meals to consist of generous portions of sausage, cheese, tea, bread, dried fruits, honey, large amounts of chocolate, and my personal favorite- smoked chicken breast. During one of our first meals, Sasha produced an entire 4x4 inch box of sugar cubes, used to sweeten almost everything including the hot chocolate. When that box ran out the following day, he produced another box twice as big.  Dinners are shared communally, in one tent, whenever possible. All that is required is a spoon, your own cup, and some good stories to share. I have enjoyed the Russians' company and partnership on the mountain during this last push, and in our shared efforts find that we have become good friends.
 
Now back in base camp, we await good weather forecast to attempt the summit push. Inaki, Horia, and I are back in sync, acclimatized and prepared for the summit push. The winds have dropped but the humidity has arrived, and even now the sanctuary walls roar with thunder outside my tent. But, as soon as there is a window...