It's the day after our successful summit attempt; amazing feeling still remains. I got the photo's I wanted. The proof! The reminder...
A 0130 start and in pitch black headed up the south face of the mountain. My head torch quickly failed me. I'm thankful to my caving experience as I felt no discomfort and happily continued with the light of those in front and behind. Mindu lead the group of six at a slow and steady pace, I was astonished and humbled that he actually chanted softly up the windy path. With the rhythm of his and therefore our/my pace the steep incline was barely felt and I found myself smiling inwardly enjoying every step... Ah Rigpa!
Early on and from my place third from the front, a smell of something dead and digested regularly wafted back down the line. By the fifth or sixth time everyone was aware and quietly assured that the emanations were from our chanting Buddhist Sherpa. At one stage, when the group had become vocal about our leaders atmospheric offerings, repeated moans of disgust and accusation sequenced their way rearward. Until, the stench still so powerful crunched into the sixth, Phenzo, coursing the shocked guide (different to Sherpa) to bend double and offer his breakfast to the mountain in waves of pious supplication. Mindu barely noticed if at all and the rest of us laughed our way onwards. Until Mindu's next offering which, in fear of Phenzo's demise, shut us up completely; as if to remind us that Phenzo's plight could befall anyone of us and taking pleasure in another’s discomfort was just bad Karma.
By now the track had become more of a scraggy scramble and the light provided by others was blindingly insufficient. Phenzo asked and Dawa gave over his head torch in place of my now dead one. We pushed on until Andrea (Italian; fellow client) could tolerate the incline no more and insisted that he return to base camp, which he did in the company of Phenzo. Maybe it was altitude sickness, maybe simple unfitness. Our six was now four. I feared for a moment that in the absence of Andrea, until now our slowest member, it would become me who set the pace. Quickly these thoughts were replaced by ones of task at hand.
With a steady assent and constant reminders to "please be careful" we made it to the crampon point.
Until now this point meant little to us tenderfeet but became blaringly obvious once there. The track suddenly became a rise of slick solid ice that only twelve or more two inch spikes strapped to ones boots offered the confidence to continue, that or ice skates. In the biting gloveless cold our crampons were fastened tight, a linked rope line was connected to each of our harnesses and onto the rink we climbed.
See part 2 for more...
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