Our six-week journey into a remote corner of Nepal had brought us to this: a beautiful but heavily corniced ridgeline leading up the last few hundred metres to an unclimbed summit.

Paul Ramsden, one of the most accomplished expedition climbers in the world and veteran of over 30 Greater Ranges expeditions, had enticed us here with a unique proposition. A remote 50km valley in far north-west Nepal, jammed full of unclimbed peaks, but guarded by a steep-sided gorge that had repelled many previous teams. How could any of us turn it down?

We were here for the adventure of a lifetime. One thing Paul emphasised, above all else, was that ‘this is a trip where you might not do any climbing at all’. But the lure of getting to explore an area relatively untouched by humans, with even the slightest possibility of trying an unclimbed summit, was too great. We were all in. Happy to play open hand: no expectations, nothing to lose.

Two days’ drive north from the nearest airport along winding, potholed roads. Seven days’ trek through the foothills of the Himalaya. Jungle, insects, sounds, and colours overwhelmed us. We took relief from the end of the monsoon heat, swimming in glacial rivers and lounging on warm slabs of granite. As we neared the Salimor Khola Valley, it began to get colder. The seasons were changing.

The challenges of passing the gorge looked inestimable. We knew it would be asking too much for the porters to carry loads through, so we established base camp below the gorge, at 3,800m – not ideal for acclimatisation, but an acceptable launchpad for excursions up
the valley.

With scant information about other teams find-ing a way through, the gorge had been the question mark for the whole trip. Everything hinged on this. While Paul tried to find a route on the south side of the river, I followed Matt up a vague trail leading to cliffs. The trail turned into exposed, narrow ledges, and we eagerly continued into an arid, desert-like landscape. White peaks glittered overhead.

We’d found a way through. We were elated. Everything on the table. Game fucking on.

***

Tim and Paul had found a line they were excited about: Surma-Sarovar, an unclimbed 6,600m peak midway up the valley. Meanwhile, Matt and I pondered our options. In another valley, Tim had spotted a vast wall of steep, compact rock, bisected by a streak of white. The line ran 800m up to a ridge, which in turn led to an unclimbed summit. Looking at a photo Tim had taken of the line, Paul seemed impressed in his calm yet enthusiastic way. ‘You don’t see features like that in the greater ranges very often.’

Would the ice be good enough? Would we be able to find decent spots to bivvy? Would the rock above be climbable? The only way to find out was to get on the thing.

Matt and I carried impossibly heavy packs, stuffed with everything we’d need to survive a week on the mountain. Camping below the foot of the route, we spent that afternoon watching for any signs of rockfall on our planned approach and trying to spot a route through the heavily crevassed glacier.

Our minds struggled to switch off. Sleepless hours stretched out ahead of us. Finally, at 3.00am, we began the approach to the face – and ice pitches at the base of the gully beckoned.
‘Safe!’ – my call down to Matt, belaying me from the bottom of the pitch. I was relieved to make it up without incident. I’d found the ice thin but climbable. Only a few half-protruding, tied-off ice screws had offered any protection. ‘Climbing!’ he called up.

Reaching a steepening about a third of the way up the gully, we still had a decent amount of the day left. Initially it appeared that the right-hand side might give easier passage, but upon closer inspection the left side offered more hooks and protection. As Matt arrived at the belay I pointed my gloved hand. ‘That looks like the most obvious way,’ I said. After some discussion, he agreed – although higher up it looked steep.

He tried. Thinning ice and overhanging compact rock repelled him. As he lowered back down off a marginal piece of gear, Matt looked back at me and we both nodded in agreement. We’re done for the day.

I woke from deep sleep to a noise like thunder and a sense of pressure in my ears. Disoriented, it took me a moment to realise what was happening: a powerful torrent of spindrift was slamming into the tent. ‘What the fuck?’ Matt cried as we both lunged upright in our sleeping bags, using our bodies to add structure to the shelter and stop it from being squashed. One side was bulging inwards – dramatically, terrifyingly.

It was about 2.00am. During the night, spindrift had begun funnelling down the gully and collecting in the void between the tent and the slope. Now we had to do something or the tent would collapse. There was little time for discussion.

While I braced myself against the tent walls, Matt extricated himself from his sleeping bag and jumped outside to clear snow. Seconds later, a huge avalanche of spindrift hit us. Snow poured violently through the vents. Within moments the poles snapped under the force and the tent imploded. I managed to swim to the tent door and get my head outside, but the weight of the snow pinned me in place there.

‘Matt!’ I shouted. I couldn’t see him. No answer. Has my best friend been pulled off into the gully? Am I now alone on this mountain? ‘Matt! Where are you?’ Moments passed. The freezing weight of snow entombed my body, making movement impossible. Then: ‘I’m here!’ he called back.

Snow poured violently through the vents. Within moments the poles snapped under the force and the tent imploded.

We spent the next few hours trying to dig out the tent and our belongings, but a continuous flow of spindrift undid our efforts. Eventually giving up, we dug out a tiny ledge to perch on and huddled together for warmth, our feet dangling into the blackness of the gully below. It was in these moments that I fully appreciated how glad I was to be doing this with Matt – sitting there in the freezing cold, in the darkness, on a tiny ledge, with no shelter, and spindrift pouring down around us. ‘It’s insane, isn’t it?’ he said after a while. ‘The suffering we put ourselves through voluntarily.’ I laughed. The situation was so shit there was nothing we could do but laugh. It made light of what would otherwise have been a miserable few hours until dawn.

In the morning the volleys of spindrift finally subsided and we were able to dig everything out. Gearing up again, Matt tried the right-hand line, but after 20m of climbing the ice became too thin and he had to back off. With a broken tent and no way of climbing further, we admitted defeat and began descending the way we’d come.

Getting down is always hard. It needs your entire focus. However, we were able to start discussing options in spare moments at abseil stations. ‘We’ve got six days until the porters arrive,’ I mentioned as we stripped an anchor, ‘just enough to try something else.’ Matt nodded. ‘It’ll have to be nearby.’

We’d seen a vast beast of a south face on the other side of the valley, guarded by a maze of seracs and cornices. At the far left end it might just be possible to sneak through, gain the ridge, and follow a tenuous path to an unclimbed snowy summit.

It was our only option. In a tired haze, we staggered down to base camp with 24 hours to mentally recharge, patch up the tent, and eat like kings.

***

Heavy. Everything felt so heavy. Mentally, were we motivated? Probably not. But we’d have kicked ourselves for spending the final six days lazing around at base camp. So we went.

After a day of approach, the first day’s climbing was one of the most demanding I’d ever had in the mountains. Icy runnels and steep, loaded snow slopes. Over 1,000m of vertical in bad weather and on tired legs. As the daylight faded, we at last reached the ridge. Then, on day two, a narrow mixed ridge – sparse protection, run out, no room for error. High consequence. And that was before the snow and cloud returned. With increasing concerns around poor visibility and a high chance of making a mistake and falling down the south face, we decided to bivvy on a small ledge. We’d push for the summit in the morning.

Conditions on the mountain were cold and wet. Each morning we woke to find everything inside the tent thickly coated with crystals of hoar frost. Getting moving again was always the hardest part of the day. As we fired up the stove to melt snow and prepare breakfast, the frost melted into our down jackets and shared double sleeping bag. Our kit was getting more saturated, its ability to keep us warm diminishing. ‘Well, isn’t this character-building stuff?’ I said in a sarcastic tone, downplaying the level of our suffering.

It had snowed heavily overnight, but the next morning was perfectly clear – a sunrise in hues of pink and orange. So we set off towards the summit, and delicately toed a line between the heavily loaded snow slopes on our left and the monstrous fragile cornices to our right. Matt led, ploughing a trench through the soft snow, his psyche drawing me onwards.

Then, with a few hundred metres to go, the summit slope ahead of us avalanched. That slope was our route to the top. Where it slid, it revealed blue ice underneath, but a dangerous amount of snow still clung precariously to the face.

We only had four ice screws. Even if we were able to safely reach the ice, climbing it would be slow. Matt, braver and bolder in the mountains, called across to me, ‘I don’t want to die on this thing.’ I could feel the sincerity in his voice. He was more experienced in this environment, and I trusted his judgement and motivation to keep pushing onwards. Once they ran out, I knew the game was up.

My first feeling was one of complex, nuanced relief. I’d been worried that we might end up disagreeing on a big decision – that one of us could end up feeling we’d let the other down. But there was no disagreement. ‘I think I’m done. I’m happy to turn around,’ I admitted to him, and he nodded. ‘It’s the only sensible choice.’

People often think that these are hard decisions to make, torn between summit fever and an awareness of your own mortality. This, however, felt like an easy decision. We’d had the adventure we’d come here for, and we were satisfied that we’d tried our hardest on both mountains. Continuing any further would have felt like a roll of the dice too far.

Matt’s words soon after making the decision stuck with me: ‘To come here and have such an adventure, but not actually reach the summit, not tick the box… that’s heartbreakingly beautiful.’ His words, although delivered calmly, were full of emotion. He was right – the journey and overall experience are far more important than reaching some arbitrary point.

We arrived back in base camp deeply exhausted but content. Tim and Paul arrived just hours later, having had a similarly full-on adventure reaching the summit of an unclimbed 6,600m peak nearby. The next morning we began the week-long hike back into the real world.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 29

Thanks Matt, Tim, and Paul for being such fine company for six weeks and for sharing the kind of adventure that’s hard to find in life nowadays. Thanks to Mountain Equipment, the Alpine Club, the BMC, and the MEF for their generous support towards the trip.
Words and photography by Hamish Frost // @hamishfrost // hamishfrost.com