The roof of the world (part 3)
* Scroll to to the bottom for an annotated map of the full trek, based on GPS data
Day six — Thursday, 23rd June 2023
We are up at four a.m, the intended departure time for Gondogoro La, avoiding the snowmelt that comes with the late morning sun. Ali and Musa are nowhere to be found.
Unsure of what to do, we pack up our tent and mill around for a couple of hours. Finally, Musa turns up, and asks that we wait for sunrise (when the solar-powered telecoms tower wakes up) so that he can call our fixer back in Skardu.
Musa speaks with HQ, then finds Ali and hands him the phone. I have no idea what threats, promises or overtures were made, but they both return expressionless.
“Ali says he will take us now to Gondogoro La. No extra fee.”
It is well past 8am when we leave Concordia, and having missed our weather window a long day of wading through slush awaits us. The four of us walk in silence.
With no fixed ropes in place, we are the first climbers of 2023 to attempt the pass — the snow on the approach is completely unbroken and we sink up to our waist at every other step, an exhausting endeavour at 5,000m above sea level. At some point I step into a crevice, sinking up to my armpits with my feet dangling in mid-air, but as we are roped up I am able to wriggle out unperturbed.
After about nine hours we decide to call it a day and break camp some way short of the pass, electing to resume our journey at midnight once the snow has had a chance to re-freeze. With only a single two-man tent between the four of us, we lie down in hashtag-formation and attempt some sleep. I set my alarm for midnight.
Day seven — Friday, 24th June 2023
With solid snow underfoot we move rapidly, our headtorches casting ghostly shadows against the frozen white cliffs all around us. As the dawn breaks we reach the base of Gondogoro La, and pause to don crampons and harnesses.
Ali, in the lead, breaks out a bundle of snow stakes that appear to have been fashioned from aluminium window frames, and a bundle of “rope” that is literally a plastic washing line (borrowed from another expedition, since his original rope allegedly fell into a crevice along with Ali’s donkey). It is too narrow and slippery for either my belay device or prusiks to latch onto, so I ignore it and free solo behind him. The pass itself is about 50–55 degrees steep and with firm snow pack a rope was not really necessary.
By now we are approaching 5,600m of elevation and my pace starts to slow. I count fifteen steps, then stop for a break, rinse and repeat, and by about ten in the morning we reach the top.
I have never been one to hike “for the view”, but this one in particular threatened to change my mind. In one sweeping panorama we see four 8,000m peaks — K2, Broad Peak, Gasherbrum I and Gasherbrum II, along with the lower peaks of Gasherbrum IV, Gasherbrum V and Masherbrum (K1). It was breathtaking (in the non-hypoxic sense), and even Musa cracks a smile.
On the other side of the pass lies the worst descent route of my life. There are permanent ropes on this side, but at almost 20mm they are far too wide for my belay device, so I rig up an Italian hitch and start abseiling. Unfortunately the cliff face is directly south-facing and by eleven in the morning it was a giant pile of slush, and since the abseil took a diagonal route, I found myself literally swimming, spread-eagle, through wet concrete in order to traverse right-to-left.
It takes us about as long to get down as it took to ascend. We are also terribly dehydrated, there being nowhere to fill up our water in almost twenty four hours (eating snow does little to help). At the bottom of the cliff we bust out the stove to melt some ice, but boiling water takes a long time at this altitude, so after half a litre each we resolve to continue downward in the hope of finding a river or meltwater.
We reach Khuispang camp at 5pm, after sixteen hours on the go. With our suncream frozen from the night before we are sunburned beyond belief. At Khuispang we meet the rescue team, who have finally arrived to fix ropes on the northern side (it is they whom the Italian trekkers were waiting for).
Day eight — Saturday, 25th June 2023
Today will be the longest day of the expedition. I feel surprisingly sprightly for someone who has not drank coffee in over a week, though my feet are threatening to blister. There is nothing to do but continue onwards.
After about two hours we finally step off the crevice-ridden glacier and onto the cliffside paths of Hushe Valley. It is green and lush and would not look out of place amongst the summer Alps, full of pretty wildflowers and gentle streams. I almost forget that we have thirty kilometres to cover today. Almost.
Having eaten all our food rations my pack is down to eleven kilos, but the cumulative effect of altitude and fatigue are taking their toll and I lag behind Musa and Bartek. Nothing other than dogged determination keeps me going. What other choice did I have? I stare at the ground and think only of putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, ad infinitum.
A hundred million hours later we reach Hushe village and the trek is over. I am insanely relieved, although when I remove my boots I discover that my socks are full of blood.
Being the first tourists of the season to cross the Gondogoro La pass (the village sees few foreigners otherwise), children run out to greet us and a few of the men ask for selfies. No small part of me wishes that celebrity had come at a different time in my life, preferably when I have had a shower more recently than eight days ago.
This is Musa’s home town, and he generously invites us to his home where we meet his father, brother and son (the women do not join us). They have a pretty guest room that sits on the upper floor of their house — it has its own separate entrance and does not link to any other room.
Musa’s brother is also a trekking guide. In the off season, they both earn wages as cooks in an Islamabad restaurant, away from their families for months at a time. Before we depart for Skardu, Bartek and I pool together our gear and donate a pair of mountaineering boots, crampons, harness, ice axe and technical gloves, all things that Musa will need on his journey ahead. “We are very happy, boss,” says Musa (he always referred to himself as ‘we’). “Next season, we will become High Altitude Porter, Inshallah.”
Another Toyota Landcruiser pick us up for the long ride back to Skardu. I am desperately looking forward to passing out for the six-hour drive (if only it were that easy).
After two hours or so, the road leads directly into a gigantic ravine with a massive torrent of water flowing through it.
“There is no bridge here,” says Musa.
“I can see that.”
“Two weeks ago, much rain,” he continues. “The bridge, it falling into the river.”
We dismount and slide ten meters down a muddy cliff. From there we cross the raging river on foot, reach the other side, and then clamber up the muddy bank, aided by random strangers armed with a stick.
“Last one hour, the school children from Hushe are crossing this,” says Musa, “so we know is no problem for us.”
On the other side, another Toyota has driven up from town, and is waiting to pick us up. My flight leaves tomorrow.
