ARWA SPIRES

AL POWELL

"WHAT'S THE COL LIKE?"

"No problem - took us an hour with one axe."

"Great!"

Kentons previous experience with the Arwa Col had obviously been a benign one. Unfortunately, eighteen months later conditions were a little different. Four pitches up, out of screws and clipped to a couple of hammered picks, I turned to take the rope in. Just in time to see Dave perform an elegant back flip before disappearing down the slope in the company of a large spindrift avalanche. Although a fine place for a spot of amateur bungee jumping, there was one drawback to my mind. I was shortly to become the belay. The impact arrived, Dave stopped, but his rucksack didn't.

Five days later we struggled up the final powder slopes of the col at midday, leaving KC and Bubba to enjoy the ice with 80 kilos of big all gear somewhere below. They eventually gave up hauling after the pulley system ripped apart a three screw belay. But the view as they say, made it all worthwhile. The N face of the Arwa Spires - hundreds of metres of awesome granite, cleaved by two searing couloirs.

Dave and I were the first to get a crack at the face, more by luck than sound judgement. We pitched 'The Coffin' opposite the face and tried to wriggle inside. This was the first proper outing for my homemade bivi tent and we were beginning to appreciate why it weighed less than a kilo. It may have been fine for a one night mountain marathon back in the UK, but wrapped in all the clutter necessary for a week on a Himalayan climb the rapidly frosting up roof felt uncomfortably near. Dave had brought along his own secret weapon too, a stove made from an old cake tin which sputtered to life as we hurried to make a brew in the evening shadows.

The following morning a brisk bout of trail breaking had us soon warmed up for the main event. The right hand couloir began steadily but steepened rapidly, an event which coincided with a distinct thinning of ice cover in its bed. Combined with spaced protection and regular doses of spindrift, we were in for a memorable day. The line never eased but continued at a challenging grade, as in the far distance two tiny dots appeared on the col. We observed Ian and Kenton with interest from alternate belays. At one point, in a burst of reckless genius they hurled the haul bag down a steep slope on the glacier. It tumbled for several hundred valuable metres before coming to a rest on the ice.

Colour Plates 2-3-4

Glorious evening light bathed the walls of the nearby Arwa Tower, which sported a fine plume of fiery cloud from its crest. It became apparent that the hoped for bivi ledges were just that - a hope. Kicking my toes against the rock in an effort to regain some feeling, a request for more RPs floated down from above. Dave was engaged in the task of constructing a belay for the night. More dull thuds indicated the placement of blade peg. Duly tied off to the RPs, which were in turn clipped to a size 00 cam, the whole ensemble could have been used to good effect by many a spider training school.

With a bum seat cut in the ice, we unfurled The Coffin again for its first mode II operational trials. Having endured a good ribbing from Rab Carrington whilst scrounging the necessary materials to make it from his factory, I was determined the vertical pitching option would be a resounding success. After struggling through the lengthy process of cramming inside, we did finally appreciate the extra protection afforded us from the elements. With the biscuit tin fired up and running, we even came close to a fug up.

Day two gave an early opportunity to admire the belay as I clambered past on the first pitch. Thirty feet up and gasping for breath, one axe ripped. The other crept forward a little before settling in the snow. Suddenly the tangle of crabs and rope below looked far less appealing, but a couple of urgent crampon manoeuvres regained the necessary balance for a longer bout of panting. At the first piece of trustworthy gear I abandoned the sac and continued less encumbered to the next good belay.

A couple of options presented themselves. Steep thin ice with no gear, or steep mixed ground of unknown difficulty. Having convinced myself the mixed ground looked safer, it seemed best to convince Dave it also looked easier. This took a little effort. Watching Dave from below it took a little believing too, but in usual Wills style he pulled out another awesome lead. So awesome in fact that I wimped out and jugged the rope, citing time saving tactics as an excuse for weak arms.

The next bit looked thin and aid climbing has never been my forte. In fact this was the first time I had ever been presented with two etriers at once, let alone a fifi hook. I figured a bit of advice wouldn't go amiss, so asked the Guru.

"Any tips before I start?"

"Ermm.."

"Shall I just make sure the first placement's bomber?"

"Yeah - good idea!"

An extended display of bottom stepping ensued, amid tangles of tape, string and errant crampon points. Finally arriving at more familiar terrain I abandoned fiddlesome RPs and knifeblades, trusting instead to the well practiced technique of direct aiding on axes. This brought a small stance within reach and all the excuse needed to stop. Glancing around at our surroundings and the approaching dusk, it became apparent that the tiny perch was about to serve as a bivi site - neither an appealing or in any way avoidable proposition.

Our second night saw a new mode III pitching system employed on The Coffin. Unfortunately this lay way outside its design specifications. Spindrift poured down onto the stove as the folds of fabric draped between us flapped incessantly. I had a torrid time, but it paled into insignificance when compared to Daves' miserable ordeal. It was hardly surprising that he gave me the lead again the following morning.

Working on the principle that if you sling enough loose blocks one will surely hold, I made my way to the steepest section of the couloir. Having arrived at the belay Dave swung into action with axes and etriers flailing, but uncharacteristically ground to a halt after 20 feet. It began to dawn on us that this huge pale wall was in fact a recent rockfall scar. Above lay a 120 degree overhang of unstable blocks. Dave retreated, I advanced - but fared little better. Ice ripped, holds snapped, rock crumbled - for us it was the end of the line.

Now in the Alps this may have been described as a route finishing at the end of the natural climbing possibilities, but such euphemisms for 'we didn't get to the top' hold little water in the Himalaya. With nothing to do but rig the abbs we made our way down despondently down, wondering whether all that effort had really been worth it. It obviously had, but didn't feel so at the time. All that hard won ground coming whizzing by to mock us.

On reaching the final snow slopes we came across Ian and Kenton. They were just concluding the load haul marathon by installing a portaledge at the foot of the Central Buttress. Whilst down on the glacier Pete and Andy arrived, preparing for an attempt on the East Ridge. Our goal for now however, was to rest at base camp and reconsider the situation. The interminable moraines gave way to gravel plains and patches of autumn russets. Icy platelets and lacy fringes clung fast to the rocks around the stream. Winter was obviously on it's way and we were going to have to race it to the summit - but not before a little recuperation.

Our blue tarpaulin and cluster of tents nestled in the boulders had a homely feel about them, but the main problem with spending time in base camp was that now both health and happiness lay in the hands of our barmy cook, Latpak. His unpredictable whims and behaviour, when combined with a near total absence of cooking skills lead to some bewildering meals. The usual fare of sabzi cooked 2 hours previously, then left to go thoroughly cold before serving was occasionally spiced up with delicacies such as prawn crackers and porridge for breakfast. Despite nobody taking sugar in there tea, we were served what tasted like three tablespoons per cup until the sugar ran out early. Requests to eat outside in the sunshine or failure to drink a morning cuppa often resulted in such a sulk that Yogi, our unflappable LO had to swing into action and smooth relationships out again.

To our surprise Ian and KC appeared the following night, beaten off by a combination of bad weather, illness and exhaustion brought on by the load hauling. Conditions on the summits had taken a turn for the worse, with strong winds and snow battering the face. Pete and Andy were obviously having an entertaining time on the ridge as two days stretched to three without sign of them.

Picking through cold noodles and tea in the mess tent our spirits were in need of a lift, so a couple of tins of fruit were rustled up for after dinner treats. Just as the tins were opened, shouts came from the darkness. Two crazed albinos staggered into camp, sunburnt and beaming in the torchlight. Pete and Andy had summited the previous day in a white out and now proceeded to wolf down our peach halves amid tales of waist deep snow and aiding in blizzards.

With their return, base camp took on the appearance of a mountain retreat for Klu Klux Klan members, as in an effort to dampen the already extensive effects of the sun, the boys took to wearing white face masks made from cut up T shirts. After one or two particularly gruelling meals, the threat of a lynching hung in the mess tent for hours.

Given our limited time remaining, we decided to join forces for another ascent of the ridge. The long approach soon brought home just how much strength we had lost from the previous attempts. Heavy snow and low temperatures left us in need of another rest day before even starting the climb. Dave was suffering the medical after effects of too many cold sitting bivis, so reluctantly headed down as we broke trail back up the glacier.

Winter made a strong bid on this morning, as toes numbed and duvets were donned. The Bensons trench warfare efforts had resulted in a deep furrow up the flanks of the ridge, which we happily followed to the crest. Ditching one rope in a sac, we decided to make an afternoon dash for the second camp half way along the ridge. Ian looked happy, but a little unfamiliar with the rope work:

"Have you done much moving together then?"

"Er - well, a bit of scrambling in the UK."

This was obviously another chapter in the Bubba reverse alpinism school. He had made a career out of climbing A5 routes or ED4 before trifling with the basics, but as usual it seemed to be working. Tiptoeing along sun fringed crests, feeling the caress of warm granite - all a far cry from the rigours or the N face. This was coming dangerously near to enjoyment, which is all too often an alien concept on Himalayan peaks. As the sun crept out of sight and shadows began to lengthen, we arrived at the 5 star camp Pete and Andy had described.

A fine flat platform nestled between two towers provided just enough room for our small mountain tent. The struggle to ram three people inside however, left walls bulging and a deep appreciation of how sardines must feel. The night passed peacefully enough apart from Kenton's frantic claustrophobia attack, which left us bruised and confused as he thrashed wildly toward the door. Next morning we sped upwards, ditching all extraneous gear at the camp. Allotting two hours each to the lead produced various styles at the helm. From Ians 'Follow Me And Don't Stop', to KC with 'This Is War' and my own 'Sorry Boys - I'm Trying To Be A Guide'. Ian took the lead at the final obstacle, a steep wall the Bensons had aided in the snowstorm. With dry rock to hand he free climbed the pitch, whooping out loud in the breeze. Despite our success the final 20ft tower proved smooth and holdless, so we were happy to celebrate at it's base leaving the mountain with at least one secret still intact.

Perhaps the most curious episode of the whole ascent however, occurred just before the summit. Belaying Ian on the final pitch we were surprised to see a small rodent about the size of a pet hamster running around between the rocks at nearly 6200m. Being no experts on the local fauna we were nothing short of amazed that anything could survive up there on a permanent basis. If anyone knows it's possible identity, I would love to hear from you. Until then, in England at least the legend of the Himalayan Hamster continues to grow.

SUMMERY

Climbs on the remote Arwa Spires. The team stopped 7 m short as the final tower proved to be smooth and holdless.

 

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