Nevado Cayesh: a pinnacle in the Peruvian Andes

Nevado Cayesh (5,721m.), a pinnacle in the Peruvian Andes, derives its name from a Quechua Indian word “Caye” meaning “to call”, and indeed for me it did just that. Described by John Ricker as “possibly the most spectacular peak in the Cordillera Blanca”, I first saw a photo of the mountain whilst leafing through his guidebook to the Range. I became captivated and decided to make it the basis of a climbing documentary for the BBC’s “Mick Burke Award”.

Further research revealed some interesting facts: up to the time of writing Nevado Cayesh, lying in the Southern Region of the Blanca, one of the most popular climbing areas in South America, had received only two successful ascents. Both of these would have easily qualified for the title “Epic”. The first ascent in 1960, involved a truly horrendous climb along the peak’s overhung, corniced and heavily mushroomed South Ridge, by three intrepid New Zealanders.

The second ascent took place in 1984, with a superbly technical and serious route up the East Face by Messrs. Richey and the self-styled Rhody Loadies. The crux of this five-day horror-show was centred around tiers of ice ceilings projecting out horizontally thirty feet, at mid-height on the face. The suspended icicles which decorated these tiers were surmounted amidst graphic details of axe hooking on pockets, with icicle tie-off’s for protection!

After reading Richey’s account, the film very quickly became the main aim upon which I focused all my attention. Cayesh slowly withdrew to the back benches, like some retired and thorny politician, only to rise at off intervals and thrust a hoary old finger at me. A reminder of just what I was getting involved in.

Interest was really set alight, however, after receiving information gleaned from César Morales Arnao in Lima. Cesar was, at that time in the mid-eighties, THE most famous Peruvian mountaineer and most acknowledged source of information relating to mountaineering in the Andes. He sent me a full break-down of all previous attempts on Cayesh, and from this I began to realise the possibilities that existed on the west side of the mountain. It appeared that, despite numerous attempts by American and European teams, only Stu Allan’s party in 1973 had come close to success on this sector of Cayesh. After a multi-day adventure across the West Face, his two-man team reached a high point on the South Ridge and descended from there.

The whole of the North West Face lay untouched and was quite clearly up for grabs. I decided to keep the idea in mind but make a final decision when we got out there. As usual, conditions on the hill dictated events………..

1985 was a big year for me. In March I hit the UK headlines when I led a team of marines from 45 Commando in an exciting but bloody freezing night-time rescue of a snow-bound family in temperatures that had fallen to -50C.  The Norwegian family, which included a 10-month old baby, had run into a snow drift three miles from the border post with Sweden and had been marooned in their car for nearly 6 hours, before my team and I using tracked BV Volvo vehicles managed to reach them. For my sins, I received the Commandant General’s personal commendation for bravery, awarded annually to the Royal Marine who best displays the cherished and proud values of the corps.

Sadly, my deployment to Arctic Norway in ’85 was my last active tour with the Royal Marines. At the end of April, I left the service as my short service commission had finished. And 6 weeks later my expedition team of nine departed for Lima.

The aim of our venture was to make a film about an attempt on Nevado Cayesh to be filmed as an entry for the BBC’s prestigious Mick Burke Award 1985.

Six teams were selected to compete for the award and the BBC provided each team with a camera, some film, and a “very” small amount of money. Then it was up to us!

Two years in the planning, aged just 24, I had assembled a strong team of 4 climbers including Roger Payne and Iain Peter. Our film team consisted of my first ever alpine partner Richard Thorns and his sound recorder Steve Derwin, and our Base Camp managers consisted of a brave non-climbing Scot duet spearheaded by George Raynes. We even had an expedition Doctor, RN Lt. Simon Travis, who I got to know during my commission in the Royal Marines.

Our film team reached Base Camp at the foot of Nevado Cayesh, around June 1985. We soon realised that the face was still badly choked with early season snowfall. It was agreed that it would take at least two weeks to clear, so went for the unclimbed West Face of Milpocraju (5,420m.) to the south and filmed it in its entirety.

By the time we had returned to Cayesh, bad weather had come in again. We initiated two major assaults but were soundly repulsed both times. My climbing partner, Al Hinkes, and I reached a high point at the second attempt following a continuous 24-hour push. After re-ascending the obvious couloir lying to the left of the face, we reached an impasse eight pitches above the col, where the snow ridge meets the skyline.

We had climbed well into the night and finished up beneath an overhanging, loose rock wall. With no hope of a bivvy, and the prospect of very technical aid-climbing ahead, for which we had neither the equipment nor the experience, retreat was our only option. The incentive of Nevado Cayesh remained, but it was time for newer pastures. This time the delights of the Imantata Disco were calling, and our large team of Brits bade a fond farewell. We all trekked down to Huaraz, the Andean version of Chamonix, and most of the team departed for home leaving just Al Hinkes and I with a couple of weeks spare. My degree studies at Loughborough University were not due to start until September, and Al seemed to be in no rush. So, we agreed to rest up in Huaraz for a few days and then have a crack at a potential new route on the beautiful 500m. SW Face of Nevado Churup (5,493m.). Once the main team left, Al seemed more occupied with eating chocolate cake and socialising than preparing for another climb. So, I left him to it and started organising the gear and food for our new technical climb.

The night before for our departure for Nevado Churup Al admitted to me that he was just not psyched and instinctively I knew, straight after he told me, that I would still be going. The only difference was that this time I would be climbing alone. Climbing solo is certainly more dangerous and goes against all your natural instincts. And I had never considered climbing on my own before, because for me sharing the experience of the mountains is what it’s all about. But right then, on that restaurant floorboard where I stood, I felt I had the confidence to tackle this mountain on my own, and just followed my faith. In early August, climbing mostly at night, I soloed a direct line on the face right to the very apex of the peak. The snow and ice lay at an angle of probably max. 70 degrees. But I was so focused I hardly stopped to take in the sheer exposure and vulnerability of my precarious position. My life hung from the tips of my two axes, each one buried into the frozen water by no more than a few centimetres.

The pink shades of a sun-kissed summit greeted me as I surveyed the Cordillera Blanca range spread out before, the jagged peaks appearing like the serried tips of a vast army of spears saluting my arrival. The descent was disastrous and dangerous. I had to abandon my rope after the second abseil and descended the face alone. I collapsed into my tiny base camp less than 24 hours after I had left. Despite my exhaustion my only thought was “Al will be so jealous”. But sadly, once back in Huaraz, I realised he was far from that pitiful emotion. He had already teamed up with American Al Untch for another attempt on Nevado Cayesh. I have to be honest and say I am happy to report that on this occasion he failed once more, and my mountain of mountains remained aloof.

That was the conclusion of events for ’85. By the time I had returned home it was already clear in my mind that I would make another attempt. Cayesh had become an obsession, a calling that I felt compelled to answer. The following year I went back. I had been summoned once more, but this time I was prepared to do battle on my own terms….

They say a route only really begins to affect you after it is finished, not before. I experience this now amidst the damp, sleazy squalor at Base camp. I am filled with the continual reminder of events and places already witnessed. Same story, same feelings, only the numbers change, and the rules are bent a little more.

The rain outside the tent continues, and I turn the music up. My partner Terry Moore, puts another brew on and I drift off……

“My freedom, my prison cell
My tempting to destroy
My fantasies my lost control
My confusion disillusion……
My loneliness my aching brain,
My pounding in the head,
Machismo my manhood,
My wanting just to scream”

The pictures come back slowly –
The long trudge up the glacier is endurable. We had already left gear for the wall climb four days ago and our packs are light for the first time in weeks. Terry is obviously well rid of the dysentery that has been troubling him and he storms ahead, the old glacial rhythm well established. I stumble on behind, trying desperately to find mine, but to no avail.

We reach the bergschrund at the foot of the face by early afternoon, time enough to fix the first pitches across the gap and up to the first rognon. This will allow access to the ice couloir and start of the real technical difficulties. We are well pleased with our work and retire to our palatial bivvy tent. It’s a billowing mass of specially designed Gore-Tex, floating in a sea of whiteness, but securely anchored in a hollow hewn from the frozen terrain that holds us. The hardened snow is testimony to the appalling fact that the Blanca has recently come through five weeks of perfect weather. We have missed it all and know only too well that time is not on our side. The weather will surely break soon. The sunsets each night play mercilessly with our fantasies. We brew and drink mechanically. We are each lost in our own private world and the discussion remains short and clipped, until our bivvy sack finally enshrouds us, together with our fears.

Terry was a legend in the RAF Mountain Rescue world before ever I met him. Always kind, soft-spoken and patient, I had got to know him during a two-month expedition to climb a new route on Manaslu North (7,157m.). Terry was a member of the summit team which survived a huge snowstorm burying the tents at our top camp under a meter of snow. After climbing to the North Col of the main peak, Pat Parsons, Charles Hattersley, Doug Borthwick and Terry reached the summit via the kilometre-long, technically difficult south ridge. When they got back to Camp 3, they discovered it had been swept away by yet another avalanche. They finally found shelter at the Snow Cave after 20 hours on the move.

I had climbed with Al Hinkes both in India and in Peru and looking back I realise now we would never had made a good team. Al’s single-minded, totally independent and often selfish character was the reason he became the UK’s first mountaineer to summit all 14 of the World’s 8,000m. peaks. Al deservedly received an OBE for his endeavours and continues to be a very strong climber. But he was just not my cup of tea. I knew Terry in comparison, would make an excellent partner both in terms of his physical and technical ability, but just as importantly for me, I knew he would have the maturity to support me emotionally if I needed it. One thing I had learnt about myself is that I am, surprisingly for some, emotionally weak on some levels. I work best with partners who have the sensitivity to accept and deal with this. Terry did very naturally, and our partnership developed into one of the best I have ever had the good fortune to enjoy. We bonded so well to the point where often we did not even have to discuss something. We would just do it, knowing the other was in full agreement. Quite amazing to experience. I loved Terry like a brother but, like most males, never actually told him. Hopefully, if true to form, he already knew!

The first full day on the face and we reach the col after six hours of struggle. I find a good ledge, protected from the menacing icicles above by an overhang and we prepare for the night. The drinks, a mixture of Duocal Carbohydrate and rehydrated baby food, are passed back and forth as we slowly regain the valuable fluid lost during the day.

I begin to think about tomorrow and what it might bring. We should reach or get close enough to last year’s high point to determine whether or not the rock band will go. I am convinced there is a line there somewhere and have gambled this whole saga on that lone hope. Have I only been deceiving myself? I look across at Terry and grin. He is immersed in his own thoughts and ignores me totally. I hope for his sake I am right.

Day 3 arrives. Long pitches are run out to the left, across the face, over very steep mixed ground.  The high point is reached finally, and dismay quickly replaces expected hope. Back to square one. I have no choice but to go for our only other option, a vague line of weakness above the bivvy site, and one that we think will penetrate the rock band.

I shoulder my rucksack and begin work on the shattered dyke that splits the roof over 60 meters above me. Almost immediately I am spat out like some unwanted indigestible scrap, and I lie sprawling at Terry’s feet. The sack is ditched, and I re-ascend, muscles quivering for the renewed fight.

The first pitch goes well enough, with some aiding to start, followed by wide bridging up fairly solid rock with good protection. Terry jumars up, and I begin again. This time the problems are more intricate. A tension balance across the face of a giant block leads me to the bottom of another vertical crack system, which splits the main overhang in the band. We anticipate that this will be the crux, above which it will be possible to gain access to the huge amphitheatre in the middle of the face; from reconnaissance shots taken by early New Zealand attempts we were able to identify a series of ice ramps that appeared to lead up to the top serac barrier. Although extremely steep, this staircase of ice seemed a key element in the jigsaw of pieces needed to complete the picture. Above this, however, was No-Man’s land. Whether we would encounter those same tiers of ice ceilings that Richey so vividly described, was impossible to ascertain from below. It would definitely be a case of suck it and see!

From below the roof I look up at a large block of suspended icicles, one of the many that litter the face. The crack yields begrudgingly, until a return to face climbing on small incut holds. The line leads up to a little niche between a large overhang on my left and a further crack system up to my right. I rest awkwardly feeling the strain slowly build and the long run-out beginning to affect me. A fall now would simply be disastrous – unthinkable – but always right there buried deep inside my subconscious. In situations like these you just have to blank such negativity. Focus on that and you will fall. To deal with exposure and bad protection on difficult terrain you have to have a term climbers call “head”. In other words, you either have the mental capacity to deal with the risk and climb knowing every move takes you further away from safety or you can’t climb such routes, and either back off or die in the process. Having already lost a number of friends to mountaineering, I know this pursuit takes no prisoners. It gives hugely, but it can also take away in the blink of an eye.

I place a small knifeblade and tension once more across the rock. Fifteen feet of balancing on the one-inch front points of my crampons and I am across. The ground suddenly eases, and I become immersed in a sort of open chimney. Relief floods in, as I make safe and prepare for the abseil. Darkness stops play. It is a useful excuse because I am really knackered anyway. Exhausted but pleased with our day’s work, we scuttle back to last night’s lair like hermit crabs ready to retreat back inside our own mobile home.

Day four is unzipped to reveal the usual concoction of mist, cold and biting wind. A late start and a series of long exhausting hauls sees us ensconced in the chimney, yesterday’s highpoint. Terry leads out a couple of fine pitches, and we are in the amphitheatre, gaping at the amazing gothic architecture that surrounds us. Huge walls of rock lie suspended, interspersed with graceful arches and columns of ice. Bach would definitely have had a field day up here, if he could only work out the organ arrangements!

Out to the left, a traverse across rock slabs leads to easy ground and a beautiful sight. The start of the ice ramps is just around the corner, guaranteeing further progress. A gift from the gods, and not the last on this route by any means. Terry miraculously finds a tiny ledge big enough for two bums, and we set up shop once more. Ropes fixed, gear racked and hung, bodies secured, and we are in and sitting pretty. I relax for the first time that day. The exposure and general situation make for a fantastic bivouac, more like front row seats at the Albert Hall. We sit captivated as a theatre of light and colour opens before us. Sunset yields hope, but cold and blackness take its place and we soon tire of the entertainment. Cracked hands and faces are encased in folds of fibre pile, and the night wears on, the ritual pattern of restlessness, shifting and shivering enacted to the full.

Summit Day, and we are up early for a change. I begin work on the ramp straight away, equipped only for ice, just a small daysack for the second. We lead out pitch after pitch of perfect 70-85 degree green ice. Eventually, I come up against a short rock wall, beyond which the dreaded ice ceilings appear dramatically above. A veritable Creag Y Rhaead’r at 5,000m., but without the Vaynol Arms lurking beneath.

Terry joins me at the stance, and we decide on a plan of action. The first option is tried and quickly terminated as I retreat very carefully from a thin snow bridge, giving a frightening glimpse of the North Face through a curtain of frozen water – horrendous! No way, no how. Option 2 is less threatening, in fact it’s nothing short of sheer bloody genius. After carefully searching the morass of icicles and seracs that now confront us, Terry has managed to discern a route up and through the barrier itself. He points it out, and I begin to trace his verbal route over the ground. Hope flickers again as I set off.

The first problem is a shattered rock band, either side of which lie thick ice flows. The rock is verglassed, but at a fairly easy angle. Crampons are whipped off, at the edge, and I climb very slowly across on sloping holds, desperately regretting our decision to leave rock gear behind. The pitch ends abruptly at the start of a honeycombed wall of ice, at the start of our journey through the seracs. Although initially low-angled the ice rises up at me, and then strangely leads off and round a window of ice, ending in two very nice tied-off ice screws. The first good protection for some time, and with it the realisation that I am now on the summit snow fields. The emotion and potential ecstasy of success is starting to build in my addled brain.

I am surrounded by fantastic ice formations, but by the time Terry has joined me I can see the route ahead and feel the certainty of success rising within. Terry leads through and races for the top. The sensation at the summit is too much and I sink to my knees – three year’s ambition fulfilled as the tears cascade down mountain-worn skin.

The abseils back through the ice ramps are lengthy and expensive, as we gaily kiss goodbye to drilled stakes and titanium screws. Ice screw retrieval systems had not been invented at this time! We reached the start of the ramps by early evening and resolved to spend another night on the face. The wind that had continually plagued us each evening is strangely absent. We enjoy an hour’s relaxation, sitting above the sea of cloud which bathes the face 300m. below. Ambition has been halted, if only temporarily, and a sense of real contentment seeps in. Day becomes night once more. All sound has gone and some words from another world come slowly to mind:

“Love silence, even in the mind….
True silence is the rest of the mind; and is
to the spirit, what sleep s to the body,
Nourishment and refreshment.”
William Penn