Young Men On Fire: Bugaboos Western Canada
YOUNG MEN ON FIRE!
“Last call for Mister Jerry Gore! Would he please proceed to Gate No. 23 immediately, his flight is ready for departure.” The voice on the tannoy rang loudly in my ears, increasing my sense of frustration and anger. I looked at Jackie, and I saw behind all her common sense self, tears of fear building inside. We had been married less than two years and I knew, despite her tough, practical exterior, she was hurting badly inside.
“Look, this bloody fax machine isn’t working. I’ve got to go.” I turned away from her in the direction of the Departure Lounge and immediately felt her distress leap out at me, as she thought I was going without even kissing her good-bye. I was off on yet another trip to the mountains. I would be involved in a dangerous environment for the next month at least and Jackie was 3 months pregnant. The facts ran between us screaming to be heard, as obvious as if we had placards around our necks. The fax only served to intensify the situation and I slapped the grey machine in anger before collecting my gear and headed towards the Departure Lounge.
I kissed Jackie, gave her a shrug of helplessness and hurried off, totally enmeshed in my own selfish web of desire and dreams. The next 10 minutes were a blur as I fought my way to the plane. I had a ton of climbing hardware that I would use for my next adventure loaded up in my bulging carry-on. Security tried to take it all, claiming that 40 pitons (6 centimetre long “fat “nails) 16 camming units used to jam into rock fissures, 50 karabiners (metal snap links), a hammer, and ski sticks, plus the rope around my neck were not appropriate hand luggage. Unfair or what?! I passed up two good opportunities of a fight en route but decided on the plane instead. This was 1994 and airport security was a bit different in those days! As I collapsed into my seat, I suddenly thought of everything I had just left behind, and suddenly felt very insecure. What had driven me to leave a lovely new wife, a gorgeous 16th century cottage with amazing views over the Welsh mountains of Snowdonia and a secure dream job doing just what I loved? This was not going to be a fun trip! I crashed out, as much emotionally as physically exhausted from months of preparation, training and work.
The climber I was flying out to meet was a tall Canadian called Warren Hollinger. I had only briefly met him during a chance meeting in Yosemite earlier in the year. During the flight I reflected on that opportune evening in May when Warren had chanced by our tent late in the night. Dave Anderson and I had just got down off a fairly epic “winter” ascent of a classic Big Wall on Yosemite’s El Capitan granitic monolith. This huge monster stands proud at the entrance of California’s magnificent mountain rock garden. I first saw El Capitan’s 900-meter SW face in 1980. I was only 19 at the time when I first saw El Capitan by the light of a very full Star Treky moon. It blew me away and catapulted me on a journey of technical alpine climbing that continues to this day. My passion for climbing had already started with an ascent of Mt Blanc aged 17 but when I started in Yosemite, I soon realised this was me. It has remained my go-to spiritual climbing home in times of crisis.
Dave and my Base Camp Team had rigged up a great feast in celebration and many beers had been consumed. Dave and I were even made Honorary Texans in praise of our efforts by a couple of Southerners sharing our camp site. Very embarrassing! Eventually everyone crashed and I was left musing over a half finished can. Camp 4 climbers’ campsite, a starlit night, the end of a Big Wall route, lots of larger and a full stomach. Jackie was asleep in our tent, security on life was high, the perfect chemistry combination for contemplation.
I thought about all my friends, I thought about the ones that had gone, and I thought about the game; the physical effort, the insecurity, the selfishness, the hype, the real spirit, and all the other elements that go to make a great climb. Two points surfaced quite clearly. The first was very obviously the constant need to keep it all in proportion. Balance was the key. Loose that and it all gets kind of distorted and wrong. The second point was simply where does it go from here? The mountains were the easy bit. Canada, Patagonia, Greenland, Pakistan – the walls are there but you’ve got to have the drive and that comes from synergy and I know one thing, I don’t like soloing on the Big Stones. Some climbers do and it simply amazes me. Imagine spending 10 days alone on a kilometre-high vertical slab. You can’t afford to drop everything, fall any big distance or sustain any serious injury. Because if you do only you will be able to sort it out. Every rope length of vertical movement is a physical and mental tough mudder. But there is no after event shower, massage, banquet, or even the celebratory hugs from your friends. You are really alone in space, an astronaut on an unattached tether far from mother earth. I was in my zone, a long way from the office, responsibility, and work. Jackie was my spaceship and close by so I felt free to spacewalk. I was surrounded by the best of nature a climber could want. And I felt a very deep sense of freedom.
Thucydides said “The secret of happiness is freedom. The secret of freedom is courage.” I love this quote because for me it describes what climbers are all about. We take incredible risks not just on the rock but in our own personal life decisions. We are not trapped by the normal human issues such as jealousy, greed, depression, worry, mistrust, ideals, complexes, and competition. But most of all climbers are free from fear. Fear of dying or fear of failing. We are not obsessed about having the best house, the fastest car or the most luxurious holiday. Fear stops people from achieving or even getting close to freedom. As I age, I realise I am not afraid of pretty much anything. And this attribute allows a strong sense of freedom, both physical, psychological and spiritual. And I feel very privileged and it is to climbing that I owe my gratitude.
There was a stirring around branch height, and I looked up to see a dark figure drifting across through the trees. At 1.93 metres with a Mohican cut Warren does not have to try too hard to get noticed. He proffered a beer and we started to talk. He had recognised me and being the amiable sort had come over for a chat. The subject got around to goals and ambitions pretty fast, and we both seemed to want the same things – Big Walls, adventure, altitude, and abroad. There was only one mountain face that fitted the bill, but how to build the foundation to achieve that aim, that was the question. Listen, I said, we need a trial run. If I’ve learnt one thing, compatibility is everything. We need to get out there a little, see how things run, and if it works, we plan the next stage. Warren nodded and the Bugaboo Range in the Canadian Rockies floated into view. Quick trip, mountainous and remote, new route possibilities, 1,000 metre rock walls and easy to organise – perfect!
Jackie and I flew back from Yosemite to be greeted to some life-changing news. I had been offered a Directorship in my company. If accepted it would involve leaving our idyllic mountain Welsh cottage for a life in the Cotswolds. I would have to leave my life of trail running on mountain crags, paragliding over the peaks of Snowdonia, woodland MTB and adventurous sea-cliff climbing. And settle within the confines of a quintessentially English village dressed in the ubiquitous Cotswold honey-coloured limestone. Market towns, antique shops, rolling hills, pretty sheep and some of England’s greatest palaces, castles and country houses. How could I resist? The afternoon I got the call I drove through the Snowdonia National Park my eyes streaming tears of sadness and joy.
When I was 25, I sat down with my father to take stock of my life and to decide a future direction. After many hours of banter, we came to the decision that I wanted to pursue a life of business mixed with climbing. We worked out that my goal was to become a Marketing chief of a company in the UK’s Outdoor Industry. Manufacturing or retailing, we didn’t really know then but marketing outdoor gear we thought would allow me the lifestyle I craved. Not a climbing bum, not a fat executive but a melange of both worlds. And that is exactly what I had just been offered, as I blubbered my way through the Welsh mountains. I knew I had to accept this new challenge, but I also knew I would mis the place, the people and the life. My sense of freedom was already beginning to withdraw within. The Cotswolds! Land of sheep, royalty and polo. For f…’s sake!
We moved house and moved south. Jackie was already pregnant, and I carried her out of our Welsh cottage on a mattress and drove her recumbent for the 4 hours it took to our new honey house. We settled in in June, and I flew out to Canada in August. It had been a busy Spring, and now my summer was just about to ballistic!
The Bugaboos are situated in the Purcell Range in British Columbia. They lie to the West of Banff Town site and the very heart of the Canadian Rockies. Since the Palliser Expedition of 1857 – 1860 which first traversed and named the Purcells for Goodwin Purcell these ranges have attracted some of North America’s leading mountaineers. Harmon, Longstaff, A.O. Wheeler, and the renowned guide Conrad Kain visited the Bugaboo massif in 1910. They were the first pioneers of this huge mountain mouth of jagged giant’s teeth.
The Bugaboos are renowned for a large collection of technical mountain spires and
is a popular venue for hard core rock wall climbing? As the climbing information sheet on the Bugaboos states, ” modern techniques enable faster ascents with reduced exposure to the frequent lightning storms, opening up the possibilities of new lines in an area where the elements of glaciers, major routes on firm rock, significant altitude and violent weather combine to create world – class challenges. “The guide book to the Bugaboos goes further, describing the 950m. West Face of the North Tower of Howser as ” truly awesome “, and only for the ” truly adventuresome ……. looking for the ultimate in difficult alpine rock climbs”. One thing became certain, both Warren and I, from opposite sides of the Atlantic, independently came to the same conclusion as we were planning the expedition; the western flanks of North Howser was where we wanted to be.
Warren was at the airport to greet me. Despite having last seen him only a few months earlier I did not recognise the goatee-bearded skyscraper. Imagine it. I just left my new wife expecting our first child, a new and very challenging job, a totally different working and living environment and all for a guy I couldn’t even hug he was so bloody tall!
He took me jet lagged straight to a local bar. Many beers and lost pool games later we enter his parents pristine house on the outskirts of the city. “Clean as you go. Leave no mess” she ordered us, not in a nasty way but very clearly! I was offered another beer and then was taken down from his parent’s world to Warren’s. The basement was a huge den of mountain equipment. As I watched, slightly swaying, Warren poured endless bottles of Yukon Jack into large Nalgene plastic bottles. And poured a large mound of what looked like dried rocket salad leaves into plastic bags.
“So, Warren I can’t see much food. So how err…. How are we going to get up this wall?” I asked full of school-boy innocent.
“Hey man. We’re just going to float okay!” He smiled and kept pouring. OMG what had I done? I opened another can and busied myself with the enormous task of packing all the necessary gear for a technical mountain climb that would involve every aspect of modern alpinism – ice gear, rock gear, free climbing, artificial climbing, hanging tents, haul bags, rucksacks, pee bottles, water bottles. It was a long list.
We finished packing about 23.00hrs, packed up Warrens old VW camper and ran out onto the Trans-Canada highway heading west. I’d like to say it was a comfortable drive, but it so wasn’t. Warren’s van was old. So old that it could only be driven at night otherwise it would overheat. There was no heating anyway, so we just dressed up in all my cold weather gear – down jackets, over trousers and woolly hat! It was bloody freezing!
An hour into the 6-hour journey I noticed my partner’s head doing the old rubber necking.
“Hey, Warren, you go”? He mumbled that he was feeling a bit drowsy and could I take over?
“Yeah sure. No worries. I’ll just fly across the Atlantic, drink way too many beers, gulp back tears of sadness and loneliness and fear at leaving my home and just start driving in a strange vehicle…. On the wrong side of the bloody road”! I thought to myself cursing myself.
“So, Warren, am I insured for this” I questioned.
“Insurance man. I don’t do insurance”.
What do you mean you don’t do insurance?
Well like car insurance is 400 bucks. A Gore-Tex is about the same. No contest. Can’t afford both.”
I dropped the hand brake and trundled off, slowly!
10 minutes into my illegal voyage I started to realise I had a major problem. Warren had set this decrepit vehicle for his gargantuan size. So, my feet hardly touched the pedals. I mentioned this to warren, and he said, “sure no worries”. He shifted over placed his massive mountain boot on top of mine to anchor it and back to sleep. “Thanks Warren”!
We arrived early the next morning in differing states of readiness! Warren immediately started running chicken wire around the base of the vehicle. I questioned what he was doing, and he answered, “So you guys don’t have porcupines in the UK”?
Err no I don’t think so. So, what do they do.?
Well they have a liking to brake fluid right so if you don’t protect your undercarriage you will regret it. End of a big trip you jump in your car and shoot off and you don’t stop!!” He chuckled to himself and carried on fencing.
“Jackie!!!! Helllppp!”
Walk-ins are tedious affairs at the best of times but this one was especially so as we were load carrying across glaciated terrain often in pouring rain, carrying 100 litre haul sacs with loads up to 40kg. It reminded me very much of my time in the Royal Marines. Bloody ‘orrible! It took us about a week to get all our kit the 25K’s from the roadhead to the bottom of the wall, what with getting lost in thick pine forests, relaying gear from dump to dump, and avoiding storms by bivying out under dripping boulders. Twice we went round the clock as we endeavoured to get our quarter ton of gear to the base – long days made even harder by our constantly nagging stomachs; a few handfuls of muesli for breakfast, a fruit bar for lunch, and a packet of freeze – dries each for dinner definitely did not reward our aching bodies after long days of uphill struggle with our unwieldy baggage.
Taking only bivvy bags and relying solely on our hanging portaledge tent for accommodation proved to be a big mistake. Basically, we did not have a normal tent to sleep in and so relied on little caves we found en route to the start of our wall. These caves actually proved to be life savers but not in the way you’d expect. The first was flat and sandy and as we settled in and I started to cook Warren lay out his roll mat and started to organise his bed. He did the usual stretch out, feeling for any sharp points with his back. As he shifted about, he felt something uncomfortable and immediately pulled back the mat.
“Awesome man. Motherload!”. What the heck is he talking about now I thought. Turned out he had just unearthed a full, unused can of Kodachrome. Warren had forgotten to bring any film and yet now he had a partner for his empty Ricoh camera. To get good shots on a climb it is essential both partners have cameras. And now we did!
Third night in we stopped at yet another smelly cave. I was getting a bit nervous now as we were well past any human trails and deep into bear country. During the whole 2-week adventure we saw no other humans, but we knew there were plenty of bears around as we saw plenty of evidence! This new cave was huge, and we also saw signs of previous human occupants. It was my turn to cook again and so began the usual evening ritual. Once fed and watered Warren and I got ready for another wilderness night of howling animals. The Canadian Rockies has quite the collection including elk, moose, mule deer, white-tailed deer, pronghorn, mountain goat, bighorn sheep, black bear, grizzly bear, grey wolf, coyote, cougar, bobcat, Canada lynx, and wolverine. In the bugaboos not so many but boy whatever they were there was quite a racket at night during the walk-in. I loved the amazing alpine wilderness of course, but as I quickly started to drop off, I was woken by a very excited Warren.
“Hey Jerry, look at this!!” He had ben fidgeting away under his pillow – the usual sleeping bag stuff sack full of his clothing used that day. And guess what? He had found a little clay pot pipe!
“Cool man. That’s another thing I’d forgotten!” Warren was made up. Totally! He filled the pipe and lit up as a smoky haze drifted across to me. Life was good. I swear even the animals piped down!!!
Eventually we got established right under the South West Buttress of the North Tower. Looking up at the massive 1000m. face above us it appeared to be everything I had hoped for; a classic big alpine style wall of similar steepness to the Nose of El Capitaine, though in reverse. The first half was vertical to overhanging, and the top gradually angled back until it finally hit the summit ridge. I spied our line. Right up the centre of the buttress lay this outrageous dihedral that seemed to go on for miles. We nicknamed it the Sundial Tower as we could just make out through binoculars a semi-circular formation of cleaved granite. Above this there appeared to be a huge roof composed entirely of very large hanging blocks – scary! From then on it looked liked the angle eased a little as the line continued directly to what we imagined would be a point on the summit ridge very close to the true North Tower summit. We did not know it at the time, but that knife edge ridge was half a kilometre long! We were really excited as it looked like a perfect Directissima with an evenly balanced combination of hard free and aid rock climbing. It was 25th of August and we are running out of time as the best period in the Bugaboos finishes at the end of August, and we only had five more days of our meagre rations. But the real overriding factor, and one that brought fear to our hearts, was the fact that we were down to our last bottle of Jack Daniels! We were really going to have to move on this one.
The 28th was our first full day on the Wall and we managed to fix six pitches of technical climbing. We were beginning to move well as a team and I even began to enjoy myself as we slowly left the valley floor and rose up into the sky. The vast forested interior of British Columbia rose up in front of us and charged headlong into the far horizon, a sea of desolate unclimbed peaks, interspersed by deep river valleys, and the faintest hint of incipient ox-bows. Warren led the last rope-length around 20:30 and as he took off from the belay, I knew we would go into darkness and accepted my fate gladly, relishing my lofty perch and not wishing to return to that other reality below.
As we began to abseil down in the dark, I could discern quite clearly on the horizon an ugly red stripe flashing under the heavy clouds. I knew a thunderstorm was approaching and the pulsating scarlet welt that so violently invaded our peace dramatically reinforced our vulnerability. We were 250 metres up a blank wall, in the middle of a wilderness. No- one knew we were there, and I was hanging off two small camming devices stuffed into a tiny crack in the middle of this huge open-book corner. I started to descend wondering what events we would have to endure before this adventure ended.
The 29th began dreadfully. It snowed all day and I got really depressed and homesick. We forced ourselves to eat only a part of our daily allowance and we finished the whisky in a haze of greed tinged with despair. Were we ever going to get up this wall? It warmed up a little by mid afternoon releasing some huge boulders from the hanging glacier above us. Massive lumps of rock cascaded down frightening us silly and stopping only metres from our bivvy. Sometimes an ambitious one would even jump right past our front door! By evening I started to perk up a little as the barometer seemed to be rising and we promised ourselves that no matter what it was like tomorrow we would go for it. I realised this was actually a time to be savoured. The ropes were fixed, and we were all ready and packed. This was the climbing moment, the real buzz right before stepping into the unknown. This was the moment Warren and I had dreamed off since that boozy night at Camp 4. I was out on a new route on a beautiful alpine wall. I had great kit, I was in good shape physically and my partner was proving to be a really skilled mountaineer. I had firmly shut my family box and the mountain adventure casket was wide open. This was why I climbed. For these moments and experiences.
30th August: The alarm went off at 3:45a.m. and within the hour we are off. I get to the stance by 6:15 and start putting my rock boots on. Warren arrived at the stance 20 minutes later, only to see a huge boulder sweep down, cutting the line he had taken across the glacier. He had missed death by minutes.
The day unfurled in a more orderly fashion after this and the highlight for me was leading a lovely intricate pitch of free climbing. Warren finished the day with a brilliant lead by torch light through the huge jammed blocks at the top of the Sundial Tower. It was a dangerous and exhausting lead as he had to lean out on the overhanging roof with the 10Kg wrack of gear around his shoulders pulling him backwards. His stomach muscles cramped up constantly throughout the 2-hour long climb. Considering we were both soaked by now as it had been sleeting on and off for most of the day, he definitely got my “Hero of the Day” Award!
By 22:15 we reached easier ground and were forced to haul our heavy 100ltr rucksacks hand over hand up to a small bivvy ledge. We got everything secured by midnight and finished brewing by 02.00hrs. Another 24-hour day, a great way to start a Big Wall route – totally knackered – but at least we had cracked the Sundial Tower!
31st August: Up by 08:00hrs. to clear skies and what looked like a really independent line directly above us. The day passed relatively quickly as we each led three rope length at a time up this really fine arete. We reached a bivvy in darkness – what a surprise? Basically, Warren found this metre-long diving board that stuck straight out from the Wall, and I guess he thought setting up a doss there was the quickest option. Wrong! We finished brewing by 01.00hrs and Warren got very little sleep as he could only get one buttock cheek on the ledge at best, and as there was a 650-metre vertical drop directly underneath there wasn’t a lot to stop him falling off. Being considerably smaller I had a far better time of it. But to really rub it in, every now and then I would curl up into a ball, exerting just enough pressure to nudge him off. I can’t repeat the strangled cries that emanated deep from within the confines of his pit as the security line came taught.
1st September: Up at 05:45hrs to a really bleak Patagonia-type day. It was blowing a Hooley, bloody freezing, beginning to snow hard, and generally turning to custard on all fronts. We vacated Eagles Ghetto Bivvy, as it became known, and I took over the lead as we were still on technical ground and Warren’s rock shoes were far too cold in these conditions.
After 2 or 3 pitches I found myself on easier terrain and by midday we had reached the summit ridge. We were still in whiteout conditions but feeling positive as we had cracked all the technical climbing and had effectively finished the new line. I continued leading along the ridge and as soon as there was a clearing, I looked over into what I thought was the East Face. Actually, it turned out to be the North Face, but we didn’t know this at the time. We re-attached the shoulder straps to the haul bag and continued along the gendarmed ridge very slowly.
200 metres on and we reached an impasse below the summit block. I tried several options on the rock, but it was no go. So, we changed into plastics and Warren led off onto the snow over on the North Face, and then up a steep slab/ramp. Things slowed down a lot now. With zero visibility we were climbing blind and going purely on instinct. The climbing was very delicate, the crampon claws on our mountain boots scratching on bare rock, our ice axes flailing helplessly on the bare rock surface.
Warren eventually finds a large stance just below the summit ridge. I come up on a really tight rope, totally knackered after my spell carrying the haul bag. Warren tells me he has already had a glimpse of the top through the gloom. We are both really excited, but it is already past 19.00hrs and night is drawing in fast. I sense the urgency of the situation. We decide to make a dash for the top and to bivvy where we were.
I lead off practically running over the mixed ground and run out of rope 25 metres from the top. Warren comes through and gets to the summit just as we hear the first BANG! We realise we are right in the middle of a lightning storm and I start to panic inside. I take a quick shot of Warren and almost instantaneously there is a large flash of lightning close by. I think of all the warnings about sudden electrical storms in the Bugs, and realise we are in great danger. The wind roars all around us and I feel sick inside. What on earth can the mountain throw at us after enduring so much already? We run back towards the bivvy hardly bothering to belay each other. The storm is going crazy all around us and there are splashes of lightning flying in all directions. Some hit the rock right in front of us and explode in a fount of sparks, the sharp smell of burning filling our heads with fear. I feel like I’m running across a battle ground with an unseen enemy firing directly at me. With adrenaline surging through our bodies we stumble back to the bivvy, terrified of the unknown and sensing danger in the darkness and noise all around. We know we have to get under some sort of shelter fast and tear at the haul bag to get to the flysheet.
We collapse onto the snow holding the fly over us and BANGGGGGG! There is a loud ringing in my ears, and I look back at myself and feel totally numb and outside my body. I feel my heart stop and my body shudder to a halt and then re-start, like I have just been sledgehammered. I fall backwards onto the snow, winded and in great pain. The flysheet is blown away by the wind and a large rush of smoke gushes out from under the sheet. We have both received a direct hit from the lightning and our clothes and bodies are burnt. The first thing that I am really aware of is Warren screaming. He can’t move at all and he has suffered a very bad second degree burn to a large area of his back, and the whole of his left knee. He yells at me to see if I am alive.
There is an awful noise of thunder everywhere and an horrific smell of burning flesh and melted nylon. I have second degree burns on my left buttock, and on my right thigh it looks like someone has stamped out 15 cigarettes. My right forefinger is badly scorched, and I have no feeling in it. Warren has a four-centimetre-wide hole in his left arm, the entry site of the electricity. I try to stand but collapse. Warren can’t move at all and continues to cry and groan. I pray openly and loudly, ” Help us Lord God, help us!” I repeat the same words over and over, unashamed of my fear or my faith. We are lying completely open to the elements, on the highest point in the Bugaboos, in total darkness, seeing only the occasional flash as the storm continues to rage. Warren is still screaming as he tries to move his leg, but the heat from the lightning has welded his Gore-Tex salopettes and thermals to his skin and every movement tears his flesh.
After about 10 or 15 minutes I manage to struggle to my feet. I begin to pump Warren’s good leg up and down to get some life back into it. But he still can’t move. I leave him for a few minutes and stamp around on our small platform praying and screaming into the blackness. I can now feel everything in my body except my right forefinger and become terrified of loosing it, thinking it would stop me from climbing again. After about 30 minutes I manage to get Warren to his feet. We are still in shock and cry openly to each other. We hug each other, although I have to be careful because of Warren’s back. We are both really cold by now, very frightened, and the storm is still right over us.
The decision is made to stay put and risk another strike, rather than abseil down the face in zero visibility and in a semi-hypothermic state. We keep shouting to each other that lightning never strikes the same place twice – an old wives’ tale as we later find out. We strip off every piece of metal on our bodies and get into our bags. The storm retreats and we start a brew. We start to talk over our situation and what has happened to us. Warren describes how, as we got hit, he saw my eyes turn into two red balls and my hair fly up, as the whole of my face just lit up. We manage a weak brew between us as there is no more food and crash out.
All night we listen for sounds and around 02.00hrs I see a flash on the horizon and know another storm is coming in. Warren is awake in an instant, and together we watch our fate. He tells me to count the numbers from the flash to when we hear the thunder. I am so frightened that I stop counting between one flash and the next. Warren berates me saying we haven’t heard any thunder from this new storm. We start arguing. I am so confused. Is it coming closer or not? There are no flashes for two minutes, then suddenly a huge one really close. We are petrified. The second storm comes in, flashes everywhere and real thunder. If we are hit again will we survive? I want to live so badly, I want to eat again and love, and laugh, and hug my wife. I am so scared that I shiver and cry once more. It is so exposed up here, nowhere seems safe. We don’t know whether to hide, crouch down or stand. We can’t abseil, and we are not on the summit ridge, so where is safe? As my mind runs through all these horrible thoughts the storm slowly subsides and the night goes quiet. There are stars and I relax a little. The cold dark shadow of a mysterious force has left us. We have hope once more.
Up by 06.30hrs. it is still snowing, and another storm is coming in fast. I am immediately paralysed with fear. We pack the sacks and check the rope. Out of the five ropes that we started with, there are now only two, one of which has had to be shortened due to abrasion. The only complete rope has three large burns revealing the core. Warren repairs them hastily with duct tape and I race off to the first belay at the top of the East Face. Warren comes over to the belay and I begin the first abseil and slowly descend the mountain. I am very worried about the ropes as they are totally soaked and beginning to freeze. Warren shouts down at me ” do we go down or stay, the storm is on me? We could be hit again”. I am still really determined to go down as I know it is now or never.
I do the first rap, find a small stance and Warren comes down. Everything is white. It is a real snowy hell. It’s my job to do all the abseils first and set them up. On the very first one the rope jams and I have to climb up to free it. After that they go pretty easily, and only a few hours later I reach open ground, and amazingly just above what looks like snow and ice – the glacier. We can’t believe. It is so close, but we are still in heavy mist and going on to the glacier in these conditions would be crazy. So, we wait. We are totally desperate to get off and I wait for only twenty minutes before abseiling off the rocks and down onto the ice. We are right at the base of the East Face and only metres from the start of the upper Vowell glacier.
The final abseil sees me hanging vertically as I lower myself slowly twirling in space as I lower down to the bottom of a crevasse, only to find it is hollow. As the snow bridge collapses around me I swim frantically to the front wall and throw my axe into the ice and pull over. I go down a little more and take a stance. As Warren abseils into thin air he screams. This is not his terrain and he is taken by surprise as the haul bag unbalances him and turns him upside-down, the heavy sack tearing at the wounds on his burnt back. I pull him to safety, and we relax a little. Although the seracs above us look threatening we try to sort out our situation by taking a look at the photographs we have of this face.
We realise that the large crevassed glacier we are now on runs right underneath all three Howser Towers to the mountain col which is our route home. With visibility down to ten meters I start to lead across the glacier towards the col. Feeling for crevasses with my ski sticks I move forward carefully but realise that it is too dangerous to continue. I move down the snow slope a little away from danger and the miracle unfolds in front of me. Like the Red Sea parting a cool wind issues from our col and amazingly the mist begins to clear. If it hadn’t cleared, we could not have moved and would have been forced to sit tight and wait for the inevitable hypothermia.
Within ten minutes we can see the Col and I scream at Warren that there is a window and that we have to go for it. He climbs down towards me and we start to scuttle our way towards the light.
As darkness falls, we reach safe ground and the security of the Kain hut. Suddenly everyone is helping us, and we are eating hot food and drinking cold beer. As the Rangers dress my wounds, I start talking to one of the girls who is helping us get sorted out. She had come up to stay at the hut for a few days and she had brought with her a few books in case of bad weather. I lifted up the first one from the pile. It was written by Norman Maclean, and as I glanced at the title, I laughed out loud. What a brilliant name for our route. All the way down we had debated over what it should be called, and here was the answer handed to us on a plate, ” Young Men On Fire “.
Postscript: On returning to England, and after researching this whole subject I realised that we had been extremely fortunate to live through our experiences, as statistically one in five cases of lightning strikes are fatal. Not only had we cheated death, but we had also cheated the notorious unreliability of the Gatwick facilities; The fax we had so anxiously been waiting for at the Airport, prior to my departure, was the application form for a life insurance policy! Elizabeth Anne Gore was born five months later and as I held her tiny body up to the window, I looked up at a sky full of sun and brightness. I smiled inside!