THE DESCENT OF LUNKHO

DR. R. A. NORTH

Paradoxically, the descent was totally enjoyable. All my senses were enthralled by the exhilaration of the place. No longer did an overwhelming objective dominate our plans ; it was as though, suddenly, we had been released. Down beneath us, a host of minor peaks were jostling for our attention, lost in the wider view. The magnificent flame of Uparisina, which had for so long overlooked our lives, lay extinguished below. The glaciers of approach, tedious and dirty, lay unrolled in true perspective. The Oxus Valley held away the mass of the Soviet Pamirs to our north: behind us the Chhutidum glacier drained down to Chitral.

At the point where the north ridge abutted on the main frontier crest we bade farewell to peaks and glaciers of Pakistan and dropped away down the snows of the ridge. Lunkho and Kohe Hevad rose around us, quick to regain their stature as we scrambled downwards. Glissading, sliding, scurrying down in our efforts to overtake the dusk, ours was the joy of a wider view than merely upwards. There was a satisfaction in this downward plunge, and there was relief. No more attempts to be made on Lunkho, no more the disappointments of retreat, never again to lift one weary foot above the other. Only our footprints in the deep new snow told now of the dyspnoeic upward struggle—and these were already filling with the plumes of powder swirling across the ridge.

So precipitous was our descent that we regained the snow cave less than two hours after leaving the summit. I collapsed inside and left Ian in the entrance tunnel with the primus stove and the sun dropping behind the Pamirs. I luxuriated in my cocoon of down, suspended in that twilight state betwixt sleep and wakefulness, when a minute can pass slowly by, or a lifetime be lived in a second.

‘Six thousand miles away, nine months ago, Ian and I had first met in a crowded smoke-filled and rather dirty Edinburgh bar. It was the evening of an international rugby match. He had invited me to join his expedition to the Hindu Kush. Several hundred letters and phone calls later we left Edinburgh on the last day of June, four of us and two tons of equipment m a Ford Transit Down in Dover we onloaded three hundredweight of McEwan's Export from bond and awaited Jim's arrival. He was in the Afghan Embassy in London with five passports: it was a day of rail strikes. A few minutes before sailing time a London taxi arrived at the quay and out fell Jim, briefcase, rucksack and beard. Next day we were in Switzerland, Paul joined us, the Transit began to boil its petrol, and we crossed the Simplon Pass at night. Bikinis in Trieste, the long military road through Yugoslavia, the storming of the Dragoman Pass, and 80 hours out from Calais we crossed the Bosphorus. We drank tea in the Teheran bazaar, offending hospitality by offering payment, swam at a luxury hotel in the western Afghan desert, and we were in Kabul. There came the excitement of gaining permission to visit the Wakhan, the furtive exchanges with the Yugoslavs and Austrians also bound for Lunkho, and the innumerable visits to government offices. Wild gecko hunts led us up steep crags beside the Kotcha river, bridges crumbled beneath our wheels, roads lost us, and with them, police stopped us and the heat exhausted us. The wily Afghan porters tricked us, making one day's journey in two, stole from us and became liked and admired by us. The complete supply of toilet paper was stolen, Baksheesh Charlie drank the washing-up liquid, cunning old Fakir gestured his intent to return to the valley and his wife. We had made Base Camp (12,500 ft.) beside the Ishmurgh glacier.

'Jim's omelettes, Dave's cough, the purple primula above the valley floor . . . Avalanche threat at the col turned back the second attempt: a short sharp blizzard repulsed the third. We had bivouacked at 18,000 feet and watched the sun play hide and seek with Piz Communisma-then retreated in snow-storm and ice-field, over precipice and bergschrund, into the wrong valley. Back at Ishmurgh the Austrians were leaving, telling us of their success on Lunkho weeks before. We had been forestalled from another valley: my regret, Ian's chagrin, Paul's " the bastardsStill 4,000 feet short of the top, Ian and I had snowholed on the fourth attempt. Ian was struck by stonefall, ravens attacked our food dump, I was poisoned by unburned paraffin as we sat out the heavy snowfall. After two nights we clambered down through the storm, hour after hour of hidden cornices and snowed-up rocks, and failed to find Camp I. We bivouacked frozen-footed and exhausted amongst Lunkho's avalanche debris, a hundred yards from our tents, and we wandered disconsolate down to Base Camp under clouded skies.

‘The end of the summer came. Snow lay thick at 12,000 feet. Only 10 days remained for us in Wakhan. We reoccupied Camp I, Ian dejected, I with wet feet; yesterday we gained the snow cave, after 12 hours of non-stop climbing. Deep dark blue stretched above me, a long narrow white ribbon dropped beneath me, an icy west wind bit me. Waist-deep snow, cold steep rocks, bursting lungs, heavy feet, it had been all strife, but it was all over.'

I awoke with a sudden awareness of my painful left foot. I had not removed my stockings on the previous evening and gingerly did so by the early grey light which filtered through the roof of the cave. The stockings were wet and seemed adherent to my skin. Blisters had formed on the left toes, which were tense and swollen. After the coffee my boots went over the stove. The foot was so swollen that it would not fit the boot, but the removable felt inner was frozen solidly within the leather outer. The boot was especially frozen at the toe, and the two parts were quite inseparable: hammer and pitons and the primus stove failed to help. I recalled instances of boots being cut open in such circumstances, but we were without a sharp knife. After two hours Ian succeeded in his struggle by allowing a candle to burn within the upturned boot.

I was despondently aware that the descent might be difficult, New snow still covered the rocks and my feet were in poor shape, Even in good conditions the descent to Camp I might take eight hours. I knew that the frost-bite was not severe but feared that the unavoidable trauma of two days' climbing on thawed tissues would greatly aggravate the damage. We moved together, Ian clearing new snow from the steps, myself hobbling awkwardly behind on my heels. It was an unreal day-all the ingredients were there. The weather continued perfect, we knew the route well and moved together in harmony. Yet after the months of planning, the weeks of climbing, all toward one objective, there was an emotional relief: we were at one with the environment for the first time since our arrival. The afternoon heat was at its peak as we leapt the bergschrund into Lunkho's northern cwm and stumbled on Camp I.

The tent seemed sympathetic to our state, teetering on the edge of collapse, most of its support having been melted from the snow by the intense heat. Seracs were crashing from the north face of Lunkho, causing large avalanches to spread out across the floor of the cwm. Ian collected more equipment from the camp and we plodded off to the head of the icefall, intent on reaching Advance Base before dusk. He was a long way ahead of me down the central moraine of the Ishmurgh glacier, and waves of pain were rising from my feet. I kept seeing Jim striding up the glacier to meet me, arms outstretched to take my pack, but he never reached me. Shortly after dark, fan's light beckoned me across the moraines towards Advance Base. There was no sign of Jim or Pat, but the soup was on the boil.

Ian was hidden beneath a mass of tent and rope, carrying a heavy load down to Base Camp: I picked my way gingerly down the glacier beside him, taking many rests. Lunkho disappeared from view, finally, unemotionally. Base Camp was deserted, but our anxiety was allayed later that day when Pat and Jim came down the glacier with large loads. They had gone up to await our return and had missed us on the glacier. I was aghast at the extent of the damage to my toes, which were already beginning to demarcate on the left foot. The trauma of the last two days had taken a heavy toll, and I feared that the toes were beyond salvation.

The Afghans proved to be extraordinarily strong. I was borne valleywards on the shoulders of a single porter, his colleagues taking care to see that my feet were not bumped. When the terrain eased, men were sent to collect stout boughs, and a stretcher was fashioned. On the next day a horse met us which had been brought up from the valley. Several days after my incurring the frost-bite, the expedition arrived in Kabul. I was 24 hours away from Scotland and a surgeon's knife, sinking back into the cushioned seat of a VC 10, sinking back into oblivion and retrospection.

‘It was a beautiful morning at Advance Base, clear and fresh with an opal sky. Jim and Pat sat in the sleeve of their tent as Ian and I prepared to leave for the icefall and Camp I on the fifth attempt. Perhaps he sensed the resolution in our minds, perhaps it was his greater years and family at home, that Pat reminded us not to "push our luck" on Lunkho. "Don't worry. Pat," I replied, "I certainly don't intend to lose any digits over it."’

The toes of Dr. R. A. North - four weeks after exposure

An avalanche at camp I with section of Lunkho’s north face

North Kohistan: looking South-West from the slopes of Pt, 17,800 ft on frontier ridge due south of Kakhari

Photo: Rob Collister

North Kohoistan: looking west from camp on 17,000 ft col at head of Kachikhani glacier. Unclimbed peaks on skyline

Photo: R. Metcalfe

West face of Kakhari-route just beyond right skyline

NORTH FACE OF THE HINDU KUSH MAIN RANGE FROM THE ISHMURGH VALLEY

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