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 American K2 2009 Expedition: Everest Summiter George Dijmarescu K2 2009 part 6

The First Ski Descent of the Bottleneck

Looking up, I could see Dave right at the top of the Bottleneck.
Damn you Dave, I was thinking, you're going to do it. So the tango of turns began.  Dave would make a large left turn, then right, crossing the trail from one side to the other, then stopping to rest, then repeating the pattern. Dave explained that it wasn't the terrain that mattered, but the altitude at which you were skiing. Dave explained, "At friendlier altitudes, I could make runs twice as long, but here you run outta gas and out of breath fast." Fact: Dave ski patrols in Indian Kashmir in winter where he works for "the best powder skiing on Earth", as he put it.  He also helped develop the resort so more people could have fun. I've seen a video of the place and I have to confess that "it's sick" I wish I could take my daughter, Sunny, there for two months and spoil ourselves with this Himalayan wonder.

I grabbed my camera and started to take pictures.  As I reviewed the pics on my small LCD screen I noticed a big white blob.  I checked the camera--it had gotten wet from dragging it through the snow, fogging the expensive lens. I put the camera in the sun hoping I would dry fast--no luck.  So I convinced Mingma to stay and video Dave to preserve the experience.  Getting the video from Mr. Kim, however, would be another

Dave arrived at the camp, dismounting his ski with a gentle smile. He planted his ski upright and joined us for a warm sit-in.  Every eye was on the bottleneck. Gerfried and his teammates announced their intended time of departure for C3 and left soon after. Mr. Kim and Mingma followed, along with others. I was now looking for the International team climbers who climbed up via the Cesen route. 

 None were in sight, nor were their tents. The only climber in C4 who came up this route was Gerilnde.  She started her lonely descent, soon disappearing below the steep wall. She politely said goodbye to all of us and took pictures with the Kazakhs and Santiago.
The Japanese, who arrived for their summit push, were listening to our description of the Traverse.  Although they understood very little English, they got the message.  They would chat among themselves and soon announce that they would descend in the morning
"Base Camp, Base Camp, this is Dave Watson in C4"
Dave decided to place a call to BC to announce Gerlinde's solo descent and give them a heads-up about where she was last seen and to keep an eye out for her as she made her way down. Dave's show of concern for a fellow climber's fate was an indication of his clear state of mind, even at 8000m.

The Japanese at this point reversed their decision for departure; their leader came to our tent announcing their retreat for C3 that evening. Our team, along with Santiago and his Pakistani partner, Querban, remained at C4. My camera lens finally cleared so I started to take pictures again, especially close-ups of Dave's turns. Dave Watson's achievement was a first in Mt. K2's history, the first ski descent of the Bottleneck, let alone to ski the highest point on this mountain, second only to the highest altitude of Everest.
And Dave made it look easy.

As we settled into our tent for the night, Santiago came to ask for some pictures showing his sponsor's logo; Dave and I simultaneously declined his request.

A sunset the rich can't have for cash


The sunset was breathtaking--the other eight-thousanders glowed in the evening sun,
G I, G II, G IV, Broad Peak. The sky was dark blue, not quite black, no wind or distant clouds. Yes, K2 can be tolerable and friendly. This optimism remained with us at least for the evening--we'd see what the morning would bring. We decided to stay in camp to get an idea how the bottleneck would look in the morning and how soon the sun would hit its slopes. This was not only a curiosity but a subconscious observation for our return. I could say that, so far, I was pleased with my performance but, still without the summit, it would mean I would have to start all over again next time: the sluggish, hot six-day trek to BC, the gross ciapati smell, endless dancing and noisy parties in the camps when I don't want to be disturbed.  I'd have to put up with porters and their sirdar, who are less than honest.  I'll have to be on the lookout for my barrels to be sure they won't be opened and precious climbing gear stolen.  I'll have to endure the acclimatization process again, and be afraid, as I was so many times, during the treacherous jeep rides to Ascoli.
I will have to deal with airlines that charge for baggage as much as they charge for the entire ticket--I guess it's how they make money these days.  I'll have to leave the business in the hands of my partner, my brother, Claudio, and expect him to carry on the work as well as the business part.  This was not going to be easy.  Finally, absence from my children hurts me the most.  All these thoughts rushed to my mind, imposing a sadness I couldn't bare.  It would be counterproductive to keep feeling this negative energy.

A cold night at 8K m

With only one sleeping bag between us, it was going to be a cold night.  I ate nothing that evening; instead I chose to take more pictures of the fantastic display of light; the sun was getting low and darkness engulfed the mountains and our tent.  We turned on the headlamps and talked about positive things, there was no reason to be bitter about our failure to reach the summit. We gradually started to adjust and be comfortable with our most important achievement: no one has died, no one got hurt.

Tired, we tried to sleep. The shared sleeping bag moved from side to side by the two positioned on the outside of it, one of whom was me.  I woke up several times, cold to the bone, shivering and restless. Just before 4 a.m. I decided to start the stove to bring up the temperature inside the tent a few degrees. The roof of the tent was frozen and stiff, sending icicles of snow and ice down on us. It became a dreadful place to be, so I opened the tent zipper to see how close we were from daybreak.  A faint amount of light poured over China so I guessed it would be another 45 minutes before we caught a better glimpse of the new day.

Dave was very cold and shivering uncontrollably, so I pushed the rest of the sleeping bag on him. He was wet from swimming in the snow at the Bottleneck;  the wet down suit was almost useless, feeling like a wet suit for scuba divers. Dave likes to sleep, and he would spend hours more in BC than I, but still cold and miserable trying so hard to rest. My feet were numb, so I moved closer to the stove; the gas had just run out so I looked around the crowded tent and found an almost empty canister, started the stove again and continued trying to get some warmth in the tent.
Dave continued tossing and turning, but a good rest would elude him.

Another view, unavailable for cash

It was light enough outside now that I decided to get out and enjoy the unbelievable view. The upper part of the bottleneck was lit in a soothing glow of yellow light. This display of colors reminded me of my climb on Denali back in 1997. The tracks of Dave's ski turns were accentuated by the morning light, a perfect chance to take pictures of his entire route of descent. I then wandered around C4 to see if I could find any signs of camps from previous years.  Further down, there was an old broken tent with silverware and pots scattered around it; although I think the tent had been carried down from above by the weight of the snow and ice.  It was frozen solidly in place, proof that it was there a long time. I returned after my twenty-minute walk around, finally feeling sufficiently warmed up.
It was quiet at Santiago's tent.  I discovered that Dave was still buried in the sleeping bag.

"Time to wake up man, we gotta get down to BC, it's going to be a hard long day,"  I insisted. The weather was perfect--no clouds, no wind--perfect. "How's outside"?  asked Dave.
"Great, man." "It was f***ing cold last night, my whole down suit is wet," Dave complained.

Our Black Diamond tent had to be packed, and Dave knew that was his job. By 7:30 a.m. we were ready to move down; I started first.
Immediately bellow C4 was a steep down-climb that required my attention and at its bottom, a large crevasse that kept us for hours when we climbed up. I managed it more easily than I first thought I would. Dave was just five minutes behind and he managed a quick descent.  Then he stopped, strapping on his ski again.

OK, Dave, you want to get down fast, I thought.  After all, Dave worked hard to carry his ski up, now it's bonus time, to slide down painlessly. I waited for him and offered to take pictures with my SLR camera.  We would talk on the radio when he got farther away from me so I could prepare to snap a progression of pictures during his 'slalom' performance. I must admit that with today's digital camera almost anybody can take great pictures--out of a thousand you'll nail at least one that's worth the publicity. Sometimes I keep the firing button down and take about three frames per second. The white snow will fill the camera aperture, resulting sometime in overexposure. Skiing down K2 and having Broad Peak in the background was just plain great. Dave would slide into C3 where Louis Russeau, Sepp,  Mr. Kim and the Japanese team were standing ready to climb down from their overnight perch.
We rested for at least twenty minutes before starting down toward friendlier altitude. Once again I was ahead waiting for Dave to appear so I could get more pictures. If we're going to document this ski descent, we may as well do it right. As I reached C2 I decided to rest and take my boots off, change my socks and spare my feet from further discomfort. Max joined me inside the tent for a snack and I switched to  lighter more comfortable Gortex wear.

Just below the C2 was the well known House Chimney, impassable on skis, naturally, so Dave down-climbed it as I waited for him to resume his ski run. At the bottom of the Bottleneck, however, there was more rock that interfered with a ski
approach.  So Dave decided to illegally cross the border into China by aggressively taking a wide left turn, treacherously landing him in a shallow gully that led to a rock formation.  There he stopped to rest, turning right toward me. As he made the turn I noticed when his ski carved into the snow, it exposed nothing but blue ice.  This translated into skiing on a very dangerous surface.  Dave knew this unwelcome condition, especially here, was not good.
Then I remembered his motto: "Never ski down what you never climbed"...Dave had broken his own rule for the sake of his quest to conquer this defiant terrain.

My camera and I stayed with him for a few more minutes until he disappeared again below me and behind the rocky slope.
I radioed him to wait until I regained sight of him, assuming he'd stop in C1 and wait for me. My radio call was never answered.  I feared for the worst. As I started to move down, I noticed Pemba climbing toward me. He explained that he was going to C2 to clean up and take their stuff down. I continued down and soon I could see C1. Only one rock obstacle was between me and C1.

Down below was a Pakistani man fiddling with a couple of foam mattresses, one had come off his pack and he was trying to strap it back on. The combination of fatigue and wind made his attempt futile. I had to wait at the upper anchor point in order to give the Pakistani man a chance to regain better ground; he was clipped into the rope and had it pretty tight.  I couldn't even do the double arm wrap to descend safely, so I waited and I waited. Ten minutes passed, and this man's persistence to keep a lousy foam mattress was getting ridiculous. He realized it was too much time for me to wait and motioned for me to descend. I told him I'd rather wait til he finished. The man had no proper straps on his antique back pack and he was gathering ropes from the mountain in order to strap this lousy mattress. Another five minutes went by, and he signaled me again to descend. I told him that I needed some slack in the rope so I could do my thing. He was positioned in a dangerous spot, with only slabs of rock under his metal crampons. My descent went quickly so I was able to reach him in a couple of minutes. As I passed him I changed my anchor again, at first rappelling with my back first.  Then the rope broke. With unimaginable luck I grabbed the upper part of another rope with my right hand and stopped my fall. The man above me had cut the rope for his f***king foam mattress. My heart was beating fast and it took me some time to regain my composure.
"Mother f*errrrr, you cut the rope, you f*ing idiot!" I yelled at him.
People say that the word "idiot" is common in many languages, perhaps one of the most common, aside from the word "mama".
The man was looking at me, knowing he almost killed me.

Down below was Santiago and Sergey, who were resting and saw the whole thing.  I was about to die only 60m from C1. I cursed the man many more times. I could see Dave's tracks going down to ABC.
I felt better knowing he was OK but hoped he wasn't going to drink all the Coke we asked our cook Muna to bring.
I continue my descent thinking again how close I was to losing my life. Behind me Sergey was moving slowly, there was no need to rush except to get down to better food and drink.
The snow was soft and manageable in some places and hard in others. About half way down to ABC I was hit by a chunk of ice right behind my knee, knocking me off my feet.  Sergey dislodged the ice and it rolled down. Well, had it been another meter higher, there would've been a different outcome. Then I remember an incident from my 1999 Everest climb.  There I was, standing below the first step, waiting for the climber ahead to top out.  Man Bahadur Tamang and I were looking at the body of an American woman who had died the year before, when a rock, dislodged by the climber ahead, hit Man Bahadur in the back.  Luckily he had Oxygen bottles that spared him from what could've been a serious injury or worse. Still, the rock made a hole in his back pack the size of a baseball.

Lucky, once again.

I was at the last rope when my legs suddenly sank into deep snow, all the way up to my crotch.  It took me almost five minutes to get my boots out of the deep snow and ice.  Then, as I sat for the last break before ABC, a huge chunk of ice of more than one meter flew over my head, landing just 20 meters down from me.  What if my legs weren't stuck in the snow just minutes before?  Lucky, again. And yes, climbing at high altitude, luck can be as important a part of climbing as guts, strength and experience.

I could see Dave now, sitting by our tent, so I joined him.
Dave had just become the first man to ski down K2 from the top of the "Bottleneck"; I'm not sure it sank in--what he had just accomplished; it didn't for me either.  At his feet were two bottles of Coke, one half full the other unopened. "This one's for you, buddy." Dave was smoking his favorite cigarettes, "Black", and I joined him to vent out the stress of almost two months of climbing on K2. I always joined in this habit of having a smoke after the climb was over. We shared some of our precious little spoiled coke with our Kazakh climbing mates. For sure they, like us and the rest, craved the sweet but different taste of the American wonder made in Pakistan, the all too known Coca Cola.
Dave started to tell me that while skiing down from C1 to ABC making his left and right turns, he had started small slushy avalanches, a combination of wet snow and ice carrying down more of the mix and picking up speed.
"Mingma was ahead of me but I could not see him, then he appear from under the rocks formation, it hit him on his legs and knocked him down" Mingma had no idea what had hit him, he started to slide down uncontrollably, Dave watched Mingma helplessly fearing Mingma will be seriously hurt caused by his ski descent. Sick feelings feel his inner body, what if Mingma will slam down into the rocks. Mingma fell for quite a while but it take a lot to seriously hurt a sherpa. Then Mingma came to a rest. Dave rushed to his side only to find Mingma's face bloody complaining of pain on his right shoulder. He appear not to have any other injuries but since Mingma's body was full of adrenaline, Dave stay on a cautious side. It is well known that a fall could end up in serious internal injuries, at first undetectable.
We looked up in silence, each of us with our own thoughts of what we'd been through during the last months of preparations and the climb itself, the sadness and the thrill, and of course the joy of being alive, still being able to tell others of our experience. I've always been willing to share with others my own experience of climbing and my personal observations, what I've learned and what I keep from what I learned.  So here it is, albeit belated, a presentation of my Mt. K2 experience, where I was part of a group of people, hungry to top out the mountain of all mountains, the mountain that offers no easy way up, regardless of which way you try. We're the ones who wrote for history, the K2 climb of 2009.

Earlier: Louis Ruseau shines.
Gerfried spotted me and waved, then came to where Dave and I were sitting, just under a rock formation, the place for the last anchor at the bottleneck. Louis, a tall Canadian from Montreal, climbed and climbed well with the Austrian team on Nanga Parbat. It was here that Louis displayed his sheer strength and technical abilities, his youth of course being a huge advantage.  Dave and I let all the climbers in the vicinity pass, then I decided to climb again, and Dave followed me soon after. We were climbing in better snow conditions. Dave and I know very well how to climb and when to climb, and as Gerfried put it: "I don't care if I am the last to summit K2."  The sky was clear to the horizon, there was no wind, the conditions were ideal.

 I opened the front zippers of my jacket for ventilation,  but I still felt pretty hot.  Although our snail's pace helped keep the temperature in check,  eventualy I had to take off my down jacket.  Still too warm with my fleece jacket on, I had to unzip even the polypro layers underneath.  
You never know when you need more ventilation, especially with the extreme temperature changes K2 is known for.

Luck, please!

Having enough physical strength to safely ascend K2 is not enough--we need sufficient power to get back down, often more challenging on higher mountains than going up.  Saving energy for descent was one of the skills I acquired for survival, having learned early on in my climbing career.
With the bottleneck fixed by 10AM, on a mountain that appeared very friendly, with weather one only dreams of, I started to feel that by the end of the day I would call myself a K2 summiter.
I could just feel it, taste the sweetness of a successful summit.  I felt that adrenaline rush, something close to how I felt when topping out Mt. Everest.  With not much to think about, I was fantasizing about a sure and easy summit. I was already thinking about telling family and friends at home how easy it was to climb K2.

 Not again, God
 "Ice falllllllllllll!!" yelled Mingma. 
Shards of ice rained down on us, I dodged a few, although they were nothing compared with the torrent that came last year.  I kept my eyes out for new missiles and offered the local gods a quick prayer. I pray the serac will stay in one piece.
It did.

I climbed up to Mingma who was now descending.
"I am going down, I am a young man, I have one young son, I don't want to die", confessed Mingma. His face was gripped with fear--Mingma knew the two sherpa who died last year, and  exactly how they died.  He looked determined to abandon the climb. I leaned my head on his chest in disbelief and after pausing for a few seconds, I asked him to reconsider. But with Mingma's own instinct for survival, he knew better. I understood his view: the desire to stay alive is so powerful, so it made no sense to push the issue.  But next to me was his client and climbing partner, Mr. Kim.  Mingma had a moral responsibility to honor his commitment to him, so I tried a new approach.

A climber without hands?

"What about Mr. Kim? I can't take care of him if he goes for the summit," I tell Mingma. At this point Pemba was next to us and heard the conversation. This very shy man from Makalu spoke little English but understood a lot more. Pemba started downclimbing and continued without rest,  Mingma was still with me but no longer talking; he was thinking. "But George Sir, if I die, who will take care of my family?" I had told Mingma repeatedly to stop calling me "Sir", but even at this altitude he would not shake the habit--Mingma's mind was clear and his judgment sound. Perhaps Mingma was just tired and disappointed; after all, he had broken the trail on the entire bottleneck and fixed the rope for all of us. "I worked hard on this climb, Sir. I carry ropes, tents, ice screws, pitons, snow bars, I break trail, but in base camp they said,

"We want to help too'." 
Not so. They were the exact words from one of the climbers from the Cesen route. Mingma was at the pre-summit meeting and remembered those exact words. So, there was the truth: plenty of opportunity for the others to help as they had offered; all they had to do was to get in front and plow the snow. But no, those were words of Ego or perhaps because the video camera was rolling, they wanted to appear tough, but their words were empty. As they say, talk is cheap, very cheap, and experienced climbers like Mingma knew all too well how we non sherpa perform in the death zone. I, too, was invited to lead and break trail but, ironically, only by climbers who never lead one inch of the trail. I remember only their demands, not actions. But even at my age I'm still learning; perhaps that never ceases.  Some apparently need to realize this about
themselves. As long as I can keep Mingma next to me and listen to his venting of dissatisfaction, it was a good sign: he just may stay on the climb. Mingma never said he'd stay, but after I decided to climb on, I looked back: he was still there. Then Mr. Kim came but I don't think he ever asked Mingma to stay. Mr. Kim seemed to be a very sensitive person and perhaps knew he won't keep Mingma from going down if he really wanted to.

Louis Ruseau, again.

In front now was Louis Rouseau, a Montreal climber who topped out Nanga Parbat just weeks before. Louis started to lead the traverse from what I could see was very dangerous ground. He not only had to keep his balance, but place ice screws into the serac and plow the deep snow. He disappeared behind a sharp turn, returning after only fifteen minutes. We all had to wait for him or get a signal from him. Then his tall slender frame of a climber appeared, shaking his head.
"Big snow," I thought he said.
"How big?" Gerfried asked.
Louis pointed, placing his hand barely below his chin.
Frankly I don't think any of us believed him.
Louis stated that he needed more screws and carabiners, and word went out that more work needed to be done.  Louis displayed his strength and technical skills, using his ice axes for security, to turn the screws into the ice.
Louis disappeared once more, and soon all of us would follow, advancing 20m (yards) more.
Vasili, also out in front, then took the lead, going ahead for another 20m.
Louis decided to stay behind, I passed him but asked if he wanted to stay in front of me.
"I think I did my share today" he replied.
I thanked him for the hard work he did for all of us and passed him.
"Gerfried, this is not climbing, this is waiting" Louis called out to his partner. Louis was frustrated by our slow rate of progress and since he was the first to see and taste it, he knew we were not going to get very far.
"One more hour," Gerfried yelled back.

Like me, Gerfried was hoping the snow would somehow compact at the top. With only one section that was steep we would have an easy walk to the summit, we had plenty of rope for security, and all we needed was snow not so deep, snow or sugar-like.
Gerlinde tried but after only a few meters and without Oxygen she could do no more. Then Santiago took the lead, he would push as hard as his oxygenless lungs would allow. He would shove his axe forward, trying to move the snow away from his path, only to have new snow come down to his feet from above.  The sugar-snow was a serious deterrent to our progress; he would rest, then push, then rest, again and again. Then he, like the other climbers before him, succumbed to the fatigue exacerbated by the thin air.
Louis called Gerfied again about timing--it was not promising. We were all waiting under millions of tons of ice and, I assure you, everyone knew what had happened in last year's tragedy. It was a bad place to hang around, and Louis knew this was not a smart way to climb. "Only thirty minutes," once gain came the answer from Gerfried. Dave Watson was the last climber who took the lead, with his ski on his back.  Dave was perhaps the only climber who could not be mistaken.  He put up a brave battle with Mother Nature, he knew how close we were from the summit, he knew he could top out and back safely, If we could only overcome this unexpected obstacle. But even Dave, fighting Mother Nature indeed, fighting with K2, realized that, once again, this mountain would prove that it's not enough to be fit and have cooperative weather-- you need luck.

Luck did not visit K2 in 2009.

I could see Dave about 15-20m ahead, like Santiago he would use his axe to move the snow to the side.  Progress was miniscule. I called his name and gave him a cross-arms sign to give it up.  He would pause, then continue his work.  We all watched him trying his best to summit the mountain of our dreams, going at it a few more minutes as voices from below would once again call for his surrender. I, too, would call again to my partner once more: "let it go Dave."
"I don't want to summit at 6 o'clock," Gerfried told me as he started to descend. The climbers below got the message and started their own climb downward. "We can come back tomorrow," Vasili said confidently. We left the ascent attempt on a melancholic note and turned our attention to the descent.

From here is only down

All my aspirations, my inner assurances that I would at last summit the toughest mountain on Earth, had just come to a halt.
As I started downclimbing, I was thinking of Vasili's proposal to come back the next day. I  disregarded the fact that I would have no more oxygen for one last try, nor did I have any food left. I rationalized that I wasn't hungry anyway, I could go on for 3-4 days without eating.  I had done it on Everest so many times and, as for Oxygen, the climb I just made was easy enough that I did not feel the need for the gas.
Yes, I'll try it.

I clipped my carabiner to the rope Mingma fixed and, with a double-arm wrap, would slide down the bottleneck. The deep snow would make it almost impossible to go fast, and I would take my time. I stopped from time to time to take pictures on a day that only the lucky climbers could've dreamed of.
The sight was incredible.

In front of me was Gerlinde and Chris, they stopped from time to time for a rest and chat, Gerlinde even made a satphone call. Dave was behind me as I distanced myself from him, he was taking his time, too, like I was.
The last one was Santiago.

As I reached the spot where I earlier had my face-to-face encounter with death, the hidden crevasse, I stood next to it to see how bad my situation was.  I discovered the angle of it was slightly vertical.  I tried to see down to the bottom of it but there was only darkness with nothing visible at the end.  I could see the disturbance of snow I had made crawling out of  this death trap.  It would be eery to fall in it again, I thought, so I shifted to the left and vaulted across it. The camp was nearby, taking only minutes to reach it. Sitting everywhere were disappointed climbers like me, no one engaged in conversation. Mingma was taking pictures and video for Mr. Kim.



Continuation from previous dispatches

The crevasse fall has sobered me for the climb ahead. I was paying attention more than ever to where I was stepping, looking for any sign of fault lines that may indicate a hidden crevasse that will hurt me, or worse. I passed the climber ahead of me, the climber that seemed to hear me when I was calling for help. I passed him without saying a word; I knew speaking to him would've helped no one at this point. I kept my concentration on the climb ahead and made good progress.  Standing still, seemingly for no reason, was Vasili, one of the Kazachs.

"This is not the route," he claimed. I looked around and remembered the photographs Chris had shown me from his attempt the previous year.  His partner was photographed standing on a rather flat spot right under the bottleneck. The place we stood, however, was steep and very different. I looked to the right and there, it seemed, was last year's route.  I approved of Vasili's discovery; after all, he had been this far before.  He had seen the north and the normal route, each side twice, and this trip was his fifth. Vasili was on K2 four times, unsuccessful on all four. What  misfortune for a man clearly capable of topping difficult mountains like Mt. K2. Max, his partner, was searching for the way ahead along with the two Nepalese sherpa, Mingma and Pemba. I left Vasili still deep in his own thoughts. No ropes were fixed and a faulty move or a slip would send a climber down to his death. I had to stay focused on every step I made. Sometimes the ground got easier, sometimes steeper.  There were times the snow was so soft I'd sink in up to my knees, while at other times my newly sharpened crampons would hardly bite into the frozen surface. Behind me, the shadow of a person was closing in. The climber would make repeated stops, firmly planting the two ice axes for security. As the  person got closer, I noticed it was a woman.

Crevase nigtmare


Woman on K2

With only one female on the entire mountain, it had to be Gerlinde.
She used no Oxygen, so her repeated stops made sense to me. It was grueling work at this altitude and in such a dangerous and inhospitable place. She sat down just above her two temporary ice-axe anchors, and realized that in the middle of the night we got somewhat lost. Dave, just below, soon caught up with us. He sat down, leaning on his right side, his skis strapped to his backpack. I was hoping Dave would choose to summit 'only' instead of having to haul an additional 1.5Kg on his pack for the descent. But no, Dave real mission was to ski down K2 and perhaps the summit was a mere bonus. One must understand one's love for skiing and Dave has inside him this passion, burning like an eternal flame.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
"Fucking great, dude, climbing K2 with a full moon!" It was not quite a full moon but big enough to light our path; however, we needed a very clear view of where we were going. Some climbers suggested we wait til daybreak, but we found the fierce cold forced us to keep moving. I could see a faint light on the horizon and judged it would be still at least 30-45 minutes before there would be light sufficient enough to see all the way up to the bottleneck. The serac was silhouetted against the sky but no details were visible. I was climbing alongside other climbers but only when I was close enough could I identify the climber. I had Dave in my vicinity and that was all I cared about. The ground was getting steeper and steeper so I suggested we start fixing the rope. Pemba, carrying 200m (yards) of Korean rope, pulled it out to hand over to Mingma. I cut the wrapping rope and handed one end to Mingma.
From here the rope couldn't be touched by anybody.  I belayed Mingma for a good 15 minutes and when the rope was about finished, I gave him a gentle tug. He did not seem to get it that the rope had no more slack and that he had to fix the anchor; instead he kept pulling. I hoped he'd get on the  radio to clarify the situation, but Mingma just continued pulling on the rope. I had Pemba radio him several times without any luck, so we started to yell to him. But Mingma, 200 m away, couldn't hear us. Then Dave suggested we let go of the rope, suspecting Mingma was perhaps in a bad spot, with nowhere to put the anchor.  It made sense so I let go of the belayed rope. Mingma was pulling it slowly and soon we saw the rope disappear. We had no choice but to keep  climbing without the aid of rope. The sky was lighter now, so we could see more details of our route. We climbed for another 50m and found the rope once again--this time the rope was limp.


Mingma Sherpa open the Bottleneck

Mingma found a place to anchor the rope, offering us a secure line for climbing. Not only had he fixed the rope but also opened the trail for us. Dave, for some reason, was getting closer to Mingma; later Dave admitted he hadn't trusted Mingma's ability to properly make the anchor. It is well known that a bad anchor could spell disaster for those who use it, so Dave wanted to make sure this wouldn't be the case. Mingma was encountering deep snow and his progress slowed to a crawl. His strength at this altitude was a bonus for all of us. I was thinking how fast I would be if I were to break trail on my own, just like Mingma. But since I knew there would be lots of disappointed folks down below, I was grateful Mingma was the one who broke trail. He seemed to wander a little of a straight line, so sometimes we had to yell to him which direction to take. The immensity and scale of the mountain makes it all too easy to stray. He would find an outcropping of rock and place the anchor there.  Since it required a piton and needed to be properly placed, Dave was just next to him to help place the crucial piton in the proper crack.  Then Mingma would continue the trail breaking with a thin lifeline behind him. Then another rock, another anchor, and Dave.

Mingma was approaching the upper part of the bottleneck and instead of going straight up it, he went to the right--hugging the right-hand side of the gully. Although it made no sense for us below, Mingma knew better. We could see him swimming in deep snow, making  even less progress. After getting at the top of the bottleneck, he turned left and disappeared from sight. In another ten minutes we got the go-ahead to climb on. I decided to wait and let other climbers go ahead, Dave stayed behind as well. Pemba went first.
Behind me was the "wonder man", Mr. Kim, jumarring on his own, just like he said he would do. He had a custom-made jumar with a custom-made metal device that had velcro strapped to his wrist. The combination of these two devices allowed Mr. Kim to disengage the jumar with a single move--it was all about a screw and a slotted hole, simple and efficient. He stood next to me when I asked him if he was OK, he gave me a positive sign with his distinctively Korean body language. Mr. Kim could not give me a thumbs up or down, he has no fingers.  With the two sherpa ahead, crucial to his climb, Mr. Kim was just fine, the weather being better than we all could hope for.  All he had to do was  change his jumar at the anchor points. The sherpa help also included taking pictures during the climb, since Mr. Kim couldn't even do that. That left me thinking of my brother Claudio's suggestion to have a helmet camera. I had seen a video from such a camera, filming while on a dirt bike, and the quality was quite acceptable. "Mr. Kim, "you need one of these toys."
Sergei and Santiago climbed on as well. As I look down, I notice a climber in a yellow down jacket without any pack, not using oxygen, but too far away for me to be absolutely sure of his identity. As I waited he came close enough for me to make a positive identification. It was Gerfried.  Frankly I was surprised to see him this early on. Along with Louis Ruseau and Sepp, Gerfried started from C3 in the middle of the night, now he was getting "in the front lines", saying, "Every climb I ever made, I had to make some sort of breaking trail," but this one was nothing we'd ever imagined before. 

Earlier Updates are below


Summit Push. Part One: The light of my headlamp is facilitating my upward progress, I just left C4 alone, Dave is due to start any moment. I am taking it easy hoping he will catch up soon, the path is straight up and I am about to make the first turn. The Kazach climbers Max and Vasili have started ahead with Sergi, the Russian veteran who is on his 4th K2 summit attempt, one more light is visible about 100 m (yards) ahead of me. The almost full moon is shining on the icy slopes of K2, stars are in the zillions. The windless night gives me a sense of luck, I'm feeling lucky.
Then, it's dark.
Sudden darkness is something unwelcome, but at 8000 m, is very dramatic. The hard snow under my boots gives way, I am falling like an eternity, then stop. The light of my headlamp and the moon and  stars are all gone, I try to move but can't. Panic and an adrenaline rush reach my inner core. I manage to rip the Oxygen mask off my face. My body is jammed into a crevasse, the backpack is keeping me hanging. My right leg is jammed against one of the walls, the left is hanging with nothing under it. My right elbow is slightly above my head, I am still holding Lakpa's ice axe in my right hand. My breathing has gotten fast and heavy, I could feel my heart beating faster. I am scared I will fall even deeper.
I've fallen in the crevasse before but never over my head, now I don't even know how deep I am.
I try to jam my left knee on the wall but without  success, the crack is too narrow. I pulled on the ice axe but the soft snow above offered no support, in fact the shaft of the axe came at my head. I reached my arm over the shaft and have it under my armpit. I rest for unknown number of seconds, then I pulled on the ice axe.  The lights came on. I could see the myriad of stars. What a wonderful view.
Now that I know I am not so deep, I could relax for a while. Having my right leg jammed against the wall was crucial, I pushed on it along with my right arm and came to see even the Moon. My head now is just above the rim of the crevasse. The tightness of the crevasse is keeping me from breathing normally. I try one more time to get out but fell in above my head  again. Once again the Moon is gone. My head is tilted back and I am once again staring at the stars. Will I fall even more? My physical energy is draining fast. Still holding the ice axe, I pulled once again. Success. Once again my head is above. 
I could see a climber about 60 yards ahead, resting. 
"Heyyyyy!!" I yelled, "here!"
His headlamp turns down toward me, he could definitely hear me.
"I need help, I am in the crevasse".
The light moves again. It seems the climber is turning down but then stops, it seems, and starts to climb again. I turn my head down looking to see if my partner, Dave, was coming. I could see his head lamp still near the tent. Dave was too far away to hear me and a good 15 minutes from my cage.
Okay, George, if you want out of this ice cage, you will have to do it yourself.
The snow and ice that fell on the back of my neck was melting and I started to feel cold.
I thought I'd rest for a minute and then try to put all my energy into a bold all-out move to get out, just like a rock climber puts all his energy into a bold move in order to overcome a difficult obstacle.
I wished I had the second ice axe handy but it was strapped on my backpack.
Leg muscles are very powerful and in mountaineering we use them more than any other muscles. Still with the right crampon jammed against the wall, I pushed as hard as I could ever push; it worked. Perhaps filled with adrenaline but gripped by fear and panic, I wasn't very effective in getting full power behind my leg. With my left hand freed and my chest  above the crevasse I could at least breathe normally. I swung my ice axe and tried to use it as the tool it's made for, an anchor, but the soft snow offered no purpose. I tried again in a different place, again and again with the same result. No ice, no hard snow and you are out of luck. I grabbed the middle of the axe shaft and slammed it through the soft snow.  The shaft went deep into the snow, I pulled back and, success, the technique worked. With only my hips inside the crevasse, I started to feel life again.
I decided not to stand up, I was afraid the snow would collapse, so I kept my entire belly on the snow and crawled and crawled in a swimming motion for about 2 meters (yards). When I thought it was safe I stood up, still breathing very hard.
I look back to see what the fuck was that.
And there it was, my guardian angel.
The luck was in the shape of the crevasse, it was not vertical but at an 80-degree angle;   looking down on it reminded me of a sherpa saying:
"You fall down on it, you will go all the way to America."
Well, that would have been great for me, getting home so fast.
I can't imagine the death climbers die when they fall in the crevasse. I would prefer an avalanche instead.
I regained my climbing composure quickly and as I kept on climbing I remember the acclimatization trips and in particular the trips to ABC. Dave would always come behind me and I always found the soft bridges in the glacier that would sink me to my hips and fill my boots with icy water. In one instance I almost fell under the ice of an icy pool of water, and that was scary. The weight of my body seems always to be too much for the bridges, and Dave had many laughs at my misfortune. What is it this year that I found all the holes that existed on K2?
This year is my second attempt on K2.
Last year's tragedy of 11 deaths largely overshadowed the success of its multiple summits, and I was glad I was not on the summit push with them. This year is different, with fewer climbers and lots more snow.
The rock fall last year was something I would remember for the rest of my days. This time, no rock falling at all.
Part Two:
Not one single time this year did I have a close call with rock falling, compared to last year when my group had several very close calls.
Once I was climbing with Mingma and Rinjing just below C1, I was climbing above Rinjing when a rock the size of a football went just inches by his left cheek. Since he only saw it in the corner of his eye, he didn't even have a chance to be scared.
The second incident happened above C2 when we were coming down. With Rinjing down climbing above, with me in the middle and Mingma below us.
We were very tired being pinned down in C2 for two days and two nights by a vicious storm. As we came down, Rinjing somehow dislodged a big rock that passed me without my even noticing it.  It started rolling, bouncing and gaining speed, the big boulder landing just one meter from Mingma, crashing on the rocks below and shattering into a dozen pieces.
With such velocity and weight, Mingma would never have survived
the impact of what seemed like a terrestrial meteorite.
We were lucky, once again.
But that was last year on Mt. K2.  This year the snow and ice kept the loose mountain together. Climbers felt safe in that regard.  I did too.
At the time we learned that the weather on Aug 4 would be favorable for a summit push, we were readily prepared for the challenge, although the meeting we had in regard to the teams' collaboration did not bear much fruit. Along with the majority of climbers I proposed that we have the two sherpa and perhaps other climbers in position to help fix at least the bottleneck.  The idea was swiftly rejected by some without taking the time to analyze the benefits of it. The display of Ego was noticed by most of the climbers and in one of my previous dispatches I gave a fair warning of "I told you so." 
I offered my idea based on serious consultation with Mingma and Pemba, the two strong Nepali Sherpa, who assured me they were willing to do it if a couple of other climbers would assist in carrying the ropes and hand to them.  It was a generous and brave gesture, confident of their strength, fitness, and skills.  They were just as disappointed by the rejection.
I discussed it with Dave and told him that once in C4 everyone will be out for themselves.  The experience taught me that above 8000m this always happens--subzero temperatures make the body cold, the mind numb,
judgment impaired, and decisions based on a natural instinct for survival
will lay the ground for the inevitable.  
I always said that the success of Everest summits is largely based on the help of sherpa. There they fix the ropes on the entire mountain, ropes that we all jumar on, most of the time, all the way to the summit.
"If and when I return to K2 I will bring four sherps with me"  said Christian, the Austrian "sky-walker" and speed climber.
Chris, as we called him, never climbed with sherpa, but for K2, Chris understood the importance of having them around.  I thought this was more than a compliment, coming from a guy who is clearly one of the fastest on the mountains.
Chris was also one of the staunch supporters of the idea of having sherpa fix the bottleneck one day ahead of the summit day.
At the time of our meeting, the Japanese team had not decided whether or not they would join us for the summit push, and the next day one of their members became seriously ill and had to be airlifted from BC. Assisting the evacuation, the Japanese team delayed their departure from BC by a day, and knowing their pattern of climbing we knew they wouldn't be on the summit push with us.
Dave and I left BC just before noon on Aug 1 and made it to C1 relaxed and without any event.  But it took us 5-6 hours to get there due to the slushy deep snow and of course a bright sun made it all the more difficult for us to proceed. Sergei and his Pakistani partner were there in C1 and resting. Vasili and Max were to catch up a day later, and did. The two young Kazachs have seen plenty of K2 before, although none of their earlier K2 attempts were successful.
The next day the mountain was getting more crowded.  Santiago and his Pakistani partner would arrive on the same day as the Kazachs.
On the Cesen route the International team along with Gerlinde were aiming for the same Aug 4 summit day. Occasionally we'd listen to the common radio channel to learn of their progress. Chris, the BC manager who was in charge of communications for all K2, was doing an incredible job. He always spoke clearly and with a crisp understanding of the situation.
"Not too bad for a Canadian" he said when the climb was over.
Chris was also serving the entire K2 BC and in several instances he helped patch things up for us when our other resources were not working, including personally walking to our camp to pass on information to our base. Chris was a great asset this year.
We thank you so much, Chris.
Our trip to C2 went smoothly, but at the foot of the House Chimney, Dave decided to free-climb the technical rock crux. I was ahead of him when I noticed his climbing moves. Dave did not give me any warning he was going to try to free-climb the chimney--I guess that's how he is.
I got my SLR Nikon ready and started to take pictures of his various positions, he would raise his head, smile or even wave.
I always thought Dave was a smooth rock climber, his moves always calculated and crafted using his own climbing style and skills. He touches the rock a lot, feeling it.  But now, with heavy ski gloves and fingers numbed by the chill of Mt. K2, his tactile skills were severely impaired, so he was wiping the snow off the rocks and pulled on them higher and higher. To be safe, Dave had his ascender (jumar) clipped onto one of the fixed ropes and was advancing it for security. He topped out the chimney without any faulty moves.
"Dude, you just free-climbed the House Chimney. Congratulations, Mr. House", I said to him, referring to Mr. House, an American K2 pioneer who eventually discovered the crack and climbed it. It would become, forever, the way to the top on a route that was called the Abruzzi Ridge or Spur.
Dave offered a smile in exchange for my compliment.
Dave free-climbed the House Chimney with his Karhu skis strapped on his back pack. Perhaps no one ever free-climbed the chimney with skis on the back or free-climbed it since its first ascent.
But skis are intended to do what they are designed to do, ski on them, and Dave was carrying them to ski K2 from the top, a feat no one has ever accomplished.  In talking with Christian, who is an acquaintance of Hans Kamerlander, he said of him, "His skis are still on the shoulder" (C4).
This year two other daring climbers came to conquer the same feat, but early in the season one of them, Italian Michele Fait, fell on the Cesen route and was fatally injured.  Fait died perhaps in a matter of seconds, his body was retrieved and flown out of the mountain.
In the beginning I thought this was bad luck and hoped Dave would give up the idea.
But Dave was not deterred.
"Dude, you have a good camera, this will bring sick shots from the mountain, I know it's heavy but I'll help carry it," Dave told me more
than once.  I knew my Nikon SLR was capable of getting perhaps the best pictures on the mountain but its weight was a serious deterrent.
However it was the only camera I had with me, so I had no choice but to take it with me as high as I would go.
In C2 we tried to be as comfortable as possible, we eat and stay hydrated. The night was calm and we rested comfortably.
The night sky is filled with heavenly lights of the obvious Milky Way stream, with its myriad of stars, beacons across the sky. The display of light was magical. Away from city lights the starry night sky becomes as inspiring as it was for the Egyptian pharaohs when they decided to build the pyramids.
We were however in a less hospitable place to be much inspired by this beautiful display of light.  I look only for signs of weather.
The cloudless sky was a good sign that we may get a break and climb the next day without tiring in high winds or storm.
When I departed C2, and in the first hour into the climb, I was already tiring. Then slowly the body adjusted itself to the grueling effort and higher altitude.  I finally got my rhythm and climb to C3 without any problem.
The camp sat right next to a large crevasse, so being careful not to wander around was a must.
( Dave climbing just above C3)
The Kazachs had an early start and I was grateful the trail was broken for me. Stepping onto a broken trail is a huge advantage.  Being first, in front, is very tiring. But the two young men were not deterred. They would get a break from time to time waiting for Sergei, the Russian K2 veteran, and when he got close by, they would continue their march.
The two sherpa, Mingma and Pemba were also ahead. The almost featureless landscape to C4 was never ending. I had not gotten this far on K2 before, and the sherpa were saying it would only take 2.5 to 3 hours to C4.  The snow was very deep and it seemed to take an eternity til we reached a big steep wall guarded by a very long crevasse.
(Querban, Santiago's climbing partner)
The rope was fixed on the wall but that was days before. Since Mingma and Pemba were first,  Pemba fixed that rope, and because he was the only one who ventured that high on the Abruzzi Spur, he was ahead trying to lead us to the shoulder. I slow down when I notice there was a problem.  The sherpa were wandering around but not upwards. They went right, then the middle, then left. Nothing.
On the far left a ramp offered a way over the crevasse but it was too far off the route that Pemba had climbed before as well as nearly vertical blue ice. At one point Mingma almost fell into the crevasse. He began to complain that the pressure of the rope after the fall  must have injured his chest.
There was no other choice now but to try the ramp on the far left. Pemba took his ice axes, screws and a rope provided by the Kazachs. Like  a spider spinning his web, Pemba climbed, leaving the yellow tether line of rope behind him. He climbed to the top of the wall and moved the existing rope anchor, facilitating our climb. We were stuck for almost two hours, a mere 30 minutes from C4.  Again the sherpa with their strength and skills
facilitate our upward progress.
When I got to C4, Dave was waiting for me with his camera ready.
"Camp 4, buddy," he exclaimed laughing.
Not knowing what to expect, arriving in C4 is very dramatic. The last pitch is between 65-70 degrees and you can't see the camp until your head is literally above the top of the steep wall. Then, there it is, another mountain
I thought, the entire pyramid with its infamous bottleneck at the foot of it, the traverse and then the summit dull ridge with its very prized crown summit.  I thrust my ice axe once more, pull up and drop on my back, exhausted, Dave's camera was filming my pitiful state of exhaustion. He was laughing at the dramatic way I was displaying my state of fatigue.
I was not faking anything.
I was totally spent.
I lie down in the snow and stare at the cloudless sky. I just did not want to see this "other mountain" I'm supposed to climb the next day, in the dark.
It took me several minutes to get my breathing normal again, then, I look again.
"My God, Dave, this is another mountain.
He laughed.
I noticed Mingma and Pemba busy preparing the platform for our temporary shelter, they'll use our tent along with Mr. Kim, the Korean wonder man, the man without hands, lost in a climbing accident on Denali.
An occasional cloud makes the "other mountain" ahead disappear. I wanted to see the details of the bottleneck, the immensity of its scale made me judge incorrectly its steepness and difficulty.  But the bottleneck was the part that looked easy, above it was the not less infamous "traverse" with the killer towers of the serac that collapsed last year while climbers were under it. First it broke the ropes the climbers had fixed for a safe descent and once more, taking several climbers with its boulders down into the abyss. The description given by eye witnesses was too graphic for publication. I was going to stand under this same gigantic serac and I was going to take my own chances, just like they did last year.
(Upper part of "the bottleneck", "the traverse" and "the serac" and a dark blue sky.
Maybe I was hoping the weather would not be so hot, for obvious reasons. The top part of the mountain looked smooth, so I thought that may be a good thing, having easy ground at the end of the upward journey will help preserve the energy for descent.
I turned my attention to the routine, getting into the camp and ready for the chores of high camp, hydrate, eat, rest.
High altitude food never appealed to me, so I asked Munna, our cook, to have several plastic bags filled with chicken and mutton packed.  The bags were frozen, so all we had to do was immerse them into hot water, then enjoy. We were on the last portion, implying that one attempt will be possible.
The two sherpa and Mr. Kim found our food innovative and very tasty, I remember Pemba would hand feed Mr. Kim since he had no hands to help himself, like a chick bird he'd open his mouth and, food delivered. The nutritious food would offer a delayed boost of extra energy, the slower digestion would enable us to keep the precious nutrients in our bellies longer.
The sun was getting closer to setting and the display of light, along with the shadow of the summit pyramid projected to the end of my visible horizon, it offer a photo-op I can't resist.  Fainted beacons of the rainbow's color spectrum. The highest peaks and in particular the neighboring Broad Peak, G I, G II  and G IV were lit in a warm evening sun glowing like a jewel that they are.

Part Three:

(Summit pyramid shadow and glowing giants)
None of the Cesen route climbers arrived yet, and it was getting toward the sunset when Gerlinde arrived. Later two more climbers made their way into camp.
I see the look on their faces, perhaps just like mine only 2.5 hours before.
"Dave, they don't look very enthusiastic," I lament to Dave.
They are f**ked, is too late", exchanged Dave.
The tired climbers pitched their tents and started to make water. We will listen to the radio and learn that they'll start between 11 PM and 2 AM. In consultation with Mingma we decided that perhaps between 12 and 1 AM will be our time of departure. But it won't be until 2 AM that we begin our quest, the summit. At this altitude the plans are not always on schedule. Just to get the boots on takes a ridiculous 15 minutes. Everything and every climber is in slow motion at this altitude. Trying to rush things will only bring rapid breathing that eventually will slow us down or even stop a climber from proceeding upwards. Oxygen will help, of course, its benefits are known to be a fact of science but is disapproved of by some climbers who want to be "purists". I, too, adopted this purist approach at one time, and I admire those who climb oxygen-less. But after having trouble remembering details of my own oxygen-less ascent of Mt. Everest and being told by my family that the memory I used to have is no longer there, I began worrying of the possibility of a self-inflicted, premature Alzheimer's. With two young children, I started to wonder if I would some day be able to walk my daughters to their weddings or would they be taking me by the hand every day, even to the kitchen.  Once the brain cells are lost, they are gone for good.  So I decided a long time ago to use Oxygen in the saw-called "death zone".

Here I reached C4 without Oxygen, but as Vierstus put it: "Ascent is voluntary, but descent is mandatory."

George D.




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