The high peak of Bojohagur, in west Karakoram, was a challenge that tempted this small British team and the Japanese, who were on the mountain at the same time in 1984. Anthony Saunders presents his experiences in a lighter vein, but one can feel shivers at the level of climbing they were doing.
It was in 1984 that a contingent from the North London Mountaineering Club set out to attempt Bojohagur, a high peak in the Western Karakoram, and this is a part of their story.
Bojohagur Duanasir is the second highest peak of the Ultar Group and lies just 8 km north of Karrimabad. This proximity coupled with its elevation (one of the world’s highest unclimbed peaks at c. 7329 m) excited our initial interest. The idea was proposed in 1982, and, a team of six (or rather, three of two) grew from the early discussions and, strangely, remained unchanged. We were Mick Fowler, Chris Watts, Mike Morrison, Dr John English, Phil Butler and myself as leader. We are referred to by initials below.
We travelled by bus to Gilgit in 20 hours, this included time off for fanbelt trouble, and food stops. After a night in the hotel and a morning in the bazaars a four hour journey brought us to Karrimabad, and another hotel night. We hired 10 porters for the ascent to base. Only a few hours long, the shepherds track approached base interestingly through the spectacular Ultar nala. High on its vertical sides the incredible water courses, weeping. Like the legendary dragon, the serpentine glacier slept with its snout at the entrance at the gorge.
Base was too low at a little over 3000 m but rather pleasant, it was as far as we could persuade the porters to go, and besides, it felt a safe distance from the mountain, from the monstrous lower seracs of the Hunza and Ultar glaciers which balanced on a ring of steep cliffs, relentlessly grinding their way down, tumbling over the cliff like lemmings.
The Ultar glacier originated in what we came to know as ‘Death Valley’, a giant cirque defined by Ultar to the east, Bojd to the north and a long ridge on its west. The original sports plan was the product of our ignorance. We knew a little of the south side from photographs.
The following day we turned our attention to the formidable task of establishing a safe route on to the glacier.
The most lethal section of the route appeared to be the start of the ‘Hanging Snout’. It was necessary to cross a ravine with a cascading torrent, which sprang from a cave in the side of the snout and frequently spouted boulders as well as water. We were able to avoid this sort of injury by night climbing all the dangerous bits.
As PB and AS were prospecting among the less likely gullies leading towards the upper fields, MF decided to solo up to join them. Unfortunately he was caught in the open by the sun, and forced to spend the remainder of the day at the Dump. A necessary condition of life dictates that misfortunes do not occur singly. Accordingly he had brought with him food and stove but no pan. Being rather desperate for liquid he eventually succeeded in setting his helmet alight trying to melt snow in it. A later claim states that the failure was due entirely to the paint. ‘It was going all right until the paint began to burn.’
Meanwhile the weather deteriorated and avalanches flushed down the gullies with obvious enthusiasm.
While MF was busy boiling his helmet, CW, MM and JE started to re-cross the Hanging Snout. The expedition acquired its first casualty. While traversing a serac a crampon point broke, and plunged JE, back first, on to boulders 20 ft below. He was in extreme pain. With difficulty and fixed ropes the others coaxed and bullied him across the traverses and abseils of the ‘Snout and Ravine’. When JE had his injuries X-rayed, five weeks later in England, he was told he had a broken back.
In search of a little peace the remaining five climbers staggered up to advance base, during the night. Climbing gear, clothes, and some food had been cached there. On arrival we discovered the tent had been blown away by an avalanche from Death Valley.
The goats had got among the contents. A helmet and a karrimat were missing. Another helmet had the leather straps eaten off it. MM and JE’s entire supply of hill-food had been raided. Perhaps worst of all, AS found the animals had urinated on his clothes. He was to stink of goat to the end of the trip. Three days later the four had hauled the unnaturally heavy sacks to the col. Although the climbing was straightforward there was an ambience of seriousness. The sun reached us just before we reached the col. At 7.30 a.m. precisely the gendarmes overlooking the snowfields released man-eating rocks, which loped past hungrily. Porridge snow-avalanches slithered after in hot pursuit.
Our bivouac was a projecting slab the size of a single bed, stuck to the ice at its pillow end. With us, our rucksacks, ironmongery, and ropes, it was messy, crowded, uncomfortable and irritating. We slept piled on top of each other. Sometime during the early night MF shifted his uncomfortable legs. Unhappily CW had been held in balance by their weight – and he now found himself catapulted into space. The belay ropes tightened with a jerk. Everyone complained loudly about CW’s lack of consideration.
We took stock at dawn. We had drafting tape, and karrimat. A little creative tailoring would provide CW with a makeshift boot. During the early afternoon we discovered a sort of bergschrund. It was a possible bivvi but inside the ice-shelves sloped awkwardly, ice-fronds and spicules encrusted all surfaces so that all movement was accompanied by a tinkling class of noise. Though windless it was far colder than outside.
‘Do you want to bivvi here?’
‘It is bloody cold.’
‘There’s no wind. Best place in a storm.’
‘Then let’s return when there’s a storm.’
The breathclouds measured the sentences. We would freeze here.
‘Come on Vic. This is a death trap.’
‘Grumble, Grumble.’
Haul monster sacks back to the lip. Squeeze out of tiny entrance. Spindrift and gloom. Nowhere in sight. But we were smiled on, two pitches and a small rock buttress looming in the mist, of uncertain size, provided small ledges – one each. On the third morning I felt too ill to continue. We ate breakfast and packed up in a state of deep depression. Phil dropped his karrimat. Gently the sun emerged the sky cleared. It was the morning after the storm — an invigorating miracle.
‘Come on Lob, its your pitch.’
‘But your head?’
‘Ignore it, we can’t waste the weather, you can share my karrimat.’
The headaches dissipated after the first pitch, never to return. I had been suffering from a severe attack of hypochondria. Depressed internally by the very real external threats, the ageing body had busied itself inventing excuses for descent.
The route followed an ice-arete above the bivouac for several pitches, till it ran against the base of seracs guarding the upper peaks of the ridge. Our ninth day brought easy climbing and bad weather. We sighted our route during the brief cloud clearances. By midday we were strung out along the top of an enormous ice-cream roll, in the middle of an electrical storm. Things were beginning to look distinctly ugly. Through the gloom I could see Phil in spasms, jerking, and knew he was being played on by the static electricity. My turn next.
I lay cowering, rucksack pulled over my head. The first invisible stabs reached my end of the rope. I clipped the ice-pegs and karabiners to a long sling and hurled them from me. Next I threw my axes as far as their slings would allow, and tried to bury my feet so the crampon points would not become lightning conductors.
On neighbouring peaks the lightning flashed and boomed. Any moment, I thought, any moment now. I knew then how it felt to be a mouse teased by a cat. The world seemed likely to end with both a whisper and a bang. I supplied the whimpering.
The following day we rose with the first grey light which grew into a beautiful dawn. We left 5 gas cylinders and 3 novels in the Snow Cave, and slowly climbed to the top of the ‘Ice-cream Roll’, apprehensive and happy. By 9 a.m. we could see the final obstacle for the first time. An impressive face at an apparently easy angle, behind it the summit ridge. By calculation the face could not have been more than 400 m high, but it still looked enormous. It was now apparent that the route from the next saddle would be a matter of time and snow conditions. By the end of the first difficult pitch the cloudless sky had transformed itself to dark and threatening. The rising wind and loose snow-flakes gave notice of the impending gloom. The inevitable argument at rope length ensued, both contestants pulling towards their respective nearest easy ground. With only one rope and one stove, splitting up was out of the question, so the forces for life won the day. Not having enough supplies to sit out another storm it was essential that once we had decided to descend we wasted no time. We started down at midday on day 10.
Our twelfth bivouac was particularly miserable. We cut a ledge in the soft ice. Small, wet avalanches flowed over and around us all night. Somehow the ropes, gear and clothing managed to become simultaneously wet and frozen. It was during this night that the music started, or rather, the rational resolution of the random noise of the wet snow slurrying past. The over-tired brain found it easier to interpret the accidental rhythms. I lay back happily listening to the celestial harmony.
‘Can you hear the music too?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Oh dear,’ I thought.
I dropped the subject, but the music stayed for the next three days.
Needless to say, the sting was in the tail. The Hanging Snout had changed for the worse during the intervening fortnight. With impressive displays of enervation and lethargy we forced ourselves across the glacier, falling asleep at half hourly intervals. One sleeping interlude took place at the edge of the ‘Dangerous Ravine’.
‘Come on Vic, wake up.’
‘Huh! Oh dear.’
‘The sooner we cross the ravine, the sooner we reach base camp.’
‘Mumble, mumble . . . the sooner we get down there the sooner we’ll be in the main line of the stone fall.’ But I was too tired to wait for twilight. Ominously, the music began to consist of funeral dirges.
We were thin and tired, we had tried our best. It was felt everyone had contributed their utmost; the contributions were recognised and appreciated. We had been friends before the trip and we were still friends, closer perhaps. There are plans for the same team to climb again in 1986.
Excerpted with permission from Legendary Maps from The Himalayan Club: Commemorating 90 years of the iconic institution, Harish Kapadia, Roli Books.