(9:08 PM - Nepal Time) Dan & I are at Camp 1. The last of the Russian team passed us on their way down. They are tired but in good spirits. Climbing was done in overcast conditions with light snow. There has been no wind. It appears as though a light system has stalled over us. Earlier we enjoyed dinner. Presently we're boiling water before turning in for the night. Tomorrow we continue to Camp 2.

Don was glad to report that after his climb with the Russians he had acclimatized and was now back in sync with his partners, Inaki and Horia. After a couple of days rest in Base Camp they once again began climbing together. They set out on May 3rd and eventually arrived in Camp 2 the following day. Daily clouds blanketed Annapurna 1 with frequent snow showers and moderate winds. Don believed the weather was deteriorating and the accumulating snowfall would make for difficult climbing, especially on the wall. Inaki called the Meteotest Mountain Weather forecaster on behalf of the team to determine if there was a weather window favorable for summiting. Meteotest informed him of the weather forecast. Don concluded from this feedback that "pushing for the summit over the next days was not advisable." A discussion ensued as to whether to continue their summit bid. Three different opinions emerged. Based on the information from Meteotest and the prevailing conditions, Don felt strongly that the wisest thing was to return to base camp and wait for a more favorable weather window. Horia insisted on continuing their push for the summit. All three returned to base camp on May 5th. Shortly thereafter, Horia and Inaki decided to part ways with Don and climb on their own. The twosome has since returned up the mountain. Don is currently awaiting suitable conditions before he resumes climbing Annapurna 1. Based on the likelihood of avalanches and even bigger amounts of snowfall that are forecast this weekend, Don intends to stay on at base camp. He feels that the weather looks more promising for climbing early this coming week. He’ll keep you posted as he formulates his plans to make another summit bid.

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...