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...

On April 21, Inaki, Horai, and I left early in the morning to head for the "wall" on Annapurna 1. Our goal was to acclimatize ourselves in preparation for the next step in our bid for the summit. About an hour out,  I started to feel very sick. We all have taken our turns struggling with some kind of illness or another, it's just the way of life when you climb ...so I guess it was my turn, now. I wanted to continue on, but Inaki and Horia said if I didn't turn around and go back to base camp, they would turn around and that would make me go back since I can't climb the ice fields alone. I did not want them to be held up in their climb, so I turned around. I had a good day and nights rest and while I didn't feel exactly top notch, I headed out the next morning to climb to camp 1 with the Russians. Camp 1 is about 5000 metres. Dan Bass, our camera man, also is coming with them carrying some heavy packs. They will all be suffering because it is really hot here. We will have to decide whether Dan will climb to camp 2 with me tomorrow or go back down. So, here I am in sunny, hot, camp 1, waiting for the Russians and Dan to arrive and enjoying the view and the sun.

Right now, I can see Inaki and Horia climbing on Tomaz Humar's route. They are more than 1400 metres above me, abut 6400 metres, on the wall. I wish I were with them!!

There is a bit of a problem for me in moving forward tomorrow if Dan decides not to go with me. The Russians have been fixing ropes on the Polish route. Inaki, Horia, and I do not want to climb the Polish route. The problem is that I can't go through the glacier by myself. And, if Dan doesn't want to go, I will have to wait for the Russians and go their route. Worst case scenario is that, tomorrow, I will go with them to camp 2 and not meet up with Inaki and Horia. Camp 2 is about 6000 metres. I will stay there for 2-3 days and climb up further and maybe help the Russians fix ropes, so that I can acclimatize at a higher altitude, then we will all come back down to base camp.

Our plan right now is to stay in base camp for 4-5 days and then wait for a weather window. When that happens we will make our bid for the summit. We do not plan to fix ropes on our way up to the summit. Since we have already established camp 1 and 2, we will stop at both for a rest along the way.We will carry camp 3 with us and set it up alpine style when we necessary. The path that we are climbing looks steep, but once you get on it it really is not that steep. It is only about a 45 or 50 degree angle. So all seems to be going well!!!

Inaki, Horia, and I are still having "fun" and we seem to really enjoy one another's company. Good companionship and light-heartedness really makes the climb so much more enjoyable and relaxing and it especially helps when the three of you end up in a tent together.

I will try to send another dispatch when I get back to base camp. I am still having problems with my Thuraya satellite phone....so I hope that will happen. Thank you for all your support and emails...your encouragement is much appreciated.
Don.

The weather over the last few weeks has been atrocious. Day after day we are greeted in base camp by the rising sun, but by mid morning watch the mists rise from the valley below, bending around the base of Machhapuchhre, the great Fishtail Mountain. By mid day, thunder ehchoes over the high passes, and the snow begins to fall. If it were not for the ridiculously sublime view framed by breaks in the clouds, the storms would be nothing but dreary.

 

Across the glacier, the tilted, overgrown football field we call the "Mixed Salad Traverse" has been piling up with snow, frequently cleaning itself with avalanches. To cross it safely, we need at least few days of sunshine. Every morning the melting snow loosens the dirt walls guarding both sides of the glacier, and huge stones careen down in massive, roaring earth slides. There is only one safe gully exiting the far side of the glacial floor, and this needs to be ascended before the melting snow starts to loosen the walls into a veritable gauntlet of falling stones.



After enduring three straight weeks of inclement weather a break from base camp was due, and I could find none better than to descend to the warmer air of Chomrong Village. My visit happened to coincide with the historic elections in Nepal, and it was fantastic to see the villagers enthusiastically line up to cast their votes for the first time in years. Experiencing firsthand a moment so significant is something I shall never forget, and there remains something about those few days in Chomrong which shall never leave me.

Feeling empowered and refreshed, I made the usual 2-day trek back to base camp in a mere 5 hours, and the following day climbed alone up to Camp 1 for a day of solace. The following day Inaki and Horia joined me, and we moved camp another 100 meters higher toward the wall. The next day we retraced their steps to the previous high point to further explore the upper glacier directly under the left side of the wall- at least until I decided to find a huge, hidden crevasse, a la Bruce Normand style. Well prepared, my partners quickly tensioned the rope and I clumsily crawled out of the gaping maw, rather wide-eyed, so I am told. A few weeks ago a visiting trekker from Canada asked me "How do you guys dangle up there?" My smartass reply was, "I never dangle." I guess I lied. Apparently I do dangle, but certainly not by choice- and hopefully not again soon. After the extrication, I peered into the Don-hole and saw nothing but blackness. I hate crevasses. We all have things we hate. Inaki hates lightning. I hate crevasses. Horia hates communists. (hey, he's Romanian)

After dead-ending on the left side of the glacier, we turned our attention towards the huge 400 meter high rock island in the center of the glacier. The "easiest" way up it appeared to be a series of narrow, near-vertical couloirs on the right side of the massif, which Inaki disposed of quickly while I belayed him on the Korean fixed rope- sans protection, of course. Inaki's brilliant lead up thinly iced slabs led us to a long, sloping ridge, angling upward and left. Exchanging leads, Inaki and I broke a trail through another 200 meters of steep, rotten, snow (and worsening weather) to 5800 meters, where we stashed our gear and turned down toward Camp 1 in low visibility.

Next- Camp Two and Mustard the Wonder Mutt…