NILKANTH WEST RIDGE

MARTIN MORAN

FEW MOUNTAINS HAVE AROUSED such interest yet consistently repelled their suitors in the manner of 6596 metre Nilkanth. Since Frank Smythe dubbed her the 'Queen of the Garhwal' in 1931 she has held her reputation as one of the most beautiful of Himalayan peaks, an icy spire standing in virginal isolation just 10km from Badrinath temple. Despite these ample qualifications only two ascents of the mountain have been recorded.

The first, by a party of the Indo-Tibetan Border Police led by S.P. Chamoli, in 1974 started at the West Col but deviated on to dangerous glacier terrain of the North Face and took a somewhat improbable line to the summit. The second, in spring 1993, was unequivocal in style and route, being of the nature of a mass assault. A multi-national Army expedition fixed some 4000 m of rope and put 33 members on the top via the North-East Ridge. A dozen other attempts have all failed, many of these expending their energies on the long and tortuous South-East arete. The deaths of 6 Japanese in an avalanche under the North-East Ridge in September 1993 only served to reinforce the image of the peak as difficult, dangerous and capricious in its moods.

But the mountain's West Ridge struck me as different. When I walked past the mountain en-route to the Satopanth Col and Kedarnath in 1998, I was instantly convinced that this was a feasible route. The initial pinnacles looked broken, a big rock buttress at 5900m had the coloration of solid granite or gneiss and the final arete was not sustained in angle or in sharpness of edge. And I was thinking not only for myself but also for a small experienced group of paying members. Whether the impression was engendered through oxygen depletion or absurd optimism, my conviction lingered long enough to book the peak for May 2000.

The Ridge had been inspected by Edmund Hillary on his first Himalayan expedition in 1951, using the Satopanth Glacier to reach the West Col. Others also had a look but nobody made significant progress until 1993 when British climbers Chris Pasteur and Duncan Tunstall used the southern approach from the Panpatia Glacier which, unlike the North side, has been open to foreign parties for a decade. Pasteur and Tunstall by-passed the West Col and the pinnacled ridge above it by climbing a rock band and snow couloir on the South-West side. On their second day of climbing they gained the crest of the West Ridge at c.5850m, but Pasteur was suffering from severe altitude sickness and they were forced to retreat.

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Only when back home in Britain did I revalue my initial assessment of the ridge. To guide a new route on such an enigmatic mountain you have to foresee and forestall every possible mishap and tactics must be honed to the last snow stake. You can't just rely on inner faith and mutual strength as you might with a long-trusted partner. Loose rock, bad belays, long traverses, double cornices, sheet ice, insufficient rope... the list of potential snares fast accumulated. Sometimes, late in the night, I turned uneasily on my pillow and my pulse thumped through the temples as these fears mounted. But always, next morning I'd scan my pictures of the ridge and regain some belief in my initial intuition. Yes, it did look a magnificent route. The day of reckoning could not come quick enough!

Our team comprised myself, fellow guides Andy Nisbet and Jonathan Preston, who had been with me on the first ascent of Nanda Kot's South Face in 1995, and clients Julian Abery, Robin Bennie, Eddie Gillespie, John Leedale and Casper Venter. Our complement suffered a rapid diminution when Julian's leave from work was cancelled at two week's notice, and by Robin's defection to shorter objectives in the Panpatia area and an earlier return to his beloved fiancee.

The trek to the Panpatia Glacier from Hanuman Chatti in the Alaknanda valley is short, only 16km in distance with 1600m of ascent, yet immeasurably sweet as befits a peaceful Garhwal valley that rises through stone-roofed settlements, forested gorges and meadows bedecked with flowers. Punctuated by bouts of sickness and diarrhoea, we managed to stretch the march to three days, although Casper's wife Sarah later proved that it could be done in 6hours when fit and unladen!

Though Panpatia base camp nestles pleasingly at c.4100m in the lee of a lateral moraine among boulders, glacial outwash and the last vestiges of grazing grass, the site offered no escape from the imminent challenge of Nilkanth's South Face which towers overhead. The debris of ice avalanches from a band of giant seracs at 5400m on the face reached down to a terminal tongue just 150m above the camp. To get to the West Col we had no option other than to make a diagonal ascent close under the seracs. Any route further left and safely beyond their reach was barred by an unbroken fringe of ice cliffs on the hanging glacier dropping from the col.

The diagonal line I called 'Bomb Alley', the serac plugged in the cliffs above became 'the Full Monty'; the ramp was of no great steepness, but for 500m ran the gauntlet of the seracs. To minimise the danger we devised a route up a projecting grassy spur bounding the alley on the left. The spur merged into a jumble of ice blocks, smoothed slabs and rock debris at 4600m. On our first serious reconnoitre of the route Andy and I stood on the top of the spur in hot sun dangerously close to midday.

Directly above was poised a large boss of decaying ice studded with boulders, somewhat akin to a glacial fruit cake. This was spitting sizeable cherries at an average interval of ninety seconds. I went as close under as I dared and watched the cannonade. To the left the hanging glacier blocked the way; to the right an easy traverse led on to the simple slopes of Bomb Alley. Carrying a pack we estimated we would take about 30 minutes to get past the danger zone. If we went before dawn both the 'Cherry Cake' and the 'Full Monty' were likely to be dormant. The risk was worth the taking. We fixed a rope at a rock step on the grassy spur before setting off on an acclimatisation trip up the Panpatia Glacier.

Three days later Andy, Eddie, John, Casper, our high altitude porter Heera Singh and myself were back at the more sensible hour of 5am, but with big loads of some 20kg. Since the ramp was merely 35 degrees in angle with no crevasses we could move unroped at a pace dictated by either individual fitness or level of fear. Fuelled by the former our South African whippet Casper was soon far ahead. Propelled largely by the latter the rest of us struggled behind as best we could, and the Full Monty failed to notice our passage.

My frame of vision now focused on the rock walls above and left of the serac, upon which was mounted a precocious chandelier of ice, some hundred metres in height. Since the feature appeared to have no obvious means of attachment to the rock, was now bathed in sunlight and spouted a considerable waterfall from its base, my doom-laden thoughts naturally reasoned that Nilkanth's 'Breach Icicle' was another guillotine ready to snap. While I made a wide arc round its base with a fluttering heartbeat Scotsman Andy sauntered under it, doubtless contemplating its likely climbability.

Beyond 'the Breach' lay a broad glacier basin, glorious in its spaciousness and self-evident safety. Here, at 5100m, was the ideal site for Camp I. We staggered into its centre, struck dumb by the glare of the sun, and pitched our tents. The next two days gave fruitful reconnaissance, thorough acclimatisation, and good eating from our stocks of shortbread, Scots oatcakes and freeze dried chicken. There was no need to go to the West Col itself, for an easy gully to its right gained the West Ridge nearly 100m higher at c.5550m just beyond the first detached pinnacle.

While Andy, Eddie and Heera ferried a load of ropes and hardware up the gully, John, Casper and I climbed to a shoulder at 5700m on the opposite side of the col. From this vantage, the whole layout of Nilkanth West Ridge could be studied at leisure for the first time. Through binoculars we plotted a possible way round a second and third pinnacle, then up the edge of a big snowfield on the south side of the ridge, which was where Pasteur and Tunstall reached their high point. Higher a fierce buttress stood athwart the ridge but gullies and runnels on its right side offered prospects of gaining a snow shoulder at the base of the summit ridge.

Next day we went up the gully to tackle the pinnacles. I felt a rare thrill setting off on the first pitch on to unclimbed terrain, weaving up through horizontal bands of crushed sediments, some solid and resistant, others soft and loose. Since the buttress lacked clear features we had to guess the likely line, a rightwards diagonal which had the merit of avoiding the risk of stonefall to those following. On the third pitch, after some memorable moves over a bulge of solid gneiss I found myself on a slanting ramp which we had spied the previous day. Andy now took the route round the ramp and behind the first pinnacle. A long and often loose pitch led across the head of a couloir to a cracked wall on the third tower. Andy did a fine lead up the central crack, fixed our last rope and came down with reports of a decent bivouac site at a rock shoulder.

Having fixed four ropes for our return we descended to base next morning. During a couple of days rest we were joined by Jonathan to make a team of six for the decisive attempt, which, once beyond our high point, would be made in alpine-style. Our essential security would derive from fixing secure abseil points with double anchors at every stance for our eventual return. Thus we returned with just a single rope per climbing pair but burdened with an extensive rack of pegs, nuts and slings.

Base camp alarms were set for 3am on May 28th. Rain fell for most of a sleepless night and by reveille I was even praying we might be spared the trials of Bomb Alley. A peek outside revealed a starry sky and by four o'clock we were once more staggering uphill through the boulderfields towards the grassy spur. With a light covering of fresh snow and a hard frost our second ascent of the Alley seemed safer and more sure than the first, though no less purgatorial. Heera carried for us to Camp I then returned immediately to base while the route remained in shade.

Jumaring is not my most-loved technique in mountaineering. At 10am on the following day we were all trying to coax bodies plus 18kg loads up the fixed ropes, none of which hung free and straight. Quickly wearying of swinging sideways under the rope stretch I opted to rock climb, pushing up the single jumar attached to my harness as I progressed. On the final crack pitch the limitations of my method became manifest. The fixed rope was not sufficiently tensioned to allow me to slide my clamp with one hand, and on grade IV+ ground you can't take both hands off the rock. Only a wasteful and exhausting struggle got me up to our high point at the rock shoulder.

No one else in the party looked particularly sprightly as we surveyed the stony plinth that was to be home for the night. While there was space enough to move around unroped, a palpable sense of exposure and vulnerability spread through the party, especially when an afternoon storm drove snow flurries across the site. Casper slid his lean frame into a rock coffin, John and I perched our bunks one body roll from a 200m vertical cliff, while the other three made residence in a goretex bivouac tent pitched on boulders at a 30 degree angle.

Our 'crow's nest' provided an appalling prospect across to the snowfield which viewed face on in gloomy mist looked close to vertical. Casper lost his habitual bounce and looked seriously apprehensive for the first time on the trip. Eddie was plagued by a sore throat and had tired rapidly during the jumar ascent. John was more used to adversity than the other two, never especially loquacious and always determined, but even he looked a little grim that night.

May 30th dawned misty with a continuing gentle snowfall, excusing us from making any radical moves. We could not expect another decent bivouac site until the upper snow ridge was reached at 6100m, a long day of climbing above us. After a sleepless night Eddie decided he was too exhausted to continue, and Jonathan accompanied him down the fixed ropes while we four tested the true angle of the snowfield. To Casper's profound relief the slope was no greater than 50 degrees. Fixing belays in rocks on the left as we went, we climbed 5 pitches up the edge to a point where we must traverse hard right under the base of the big buttress. The sun broke through and dispensed a fierce heat as we returned to the shoulder in more cheerful mood. Jonathan rejoined us and we prepared for the decisive climb with greater confidence and proper resolve. There could be no more delay; tomorrow we had to gain the summit ridge.

Cauldrons of milky vapour boiled in the valleys, a pall of black cloud was gathered to the west and cumulo-nimbus giants fired forked lightning over the foothills. Dawn on the 31st brought a lurid gleam of white light over the Panpatia peaks before all sunlight was extinguished. We were nearing our high point of the previous day when snow began to fall. There was little said. We expected the worst but all realised we had no option but to continue until a full-scale blizzard dictated retreat.

Andy led John across the traverse, while Jonathan, Casper and I followed their tracks on the second rope. For two pitches the snow surface was fluted but firm, but as we rounded the base of the buttress the angle steepened over 50 degrees and ice progressively asserted its grip on the terrain. In the prevailing murk our line looked nothing like as obvious as during our binocular inspection a week ago. Slabby rocks and vague couloirs predominated, while the buttress soared to our left in a maze of cracks, seams and iced grooves.

This was an appropriate moment for the sun to appear. Behind a veil of mist the storm clouds had dispersed with astonishing speed and the day was now set fair. Improved visibility allowed Andy to steer for a deeper gully, which looked to twist rightwards where it became boxed by steep walls and icicles. Solid progress was achieved on mixed ground of Scottish grade II and III standard until Andy ran out of steam after leading a 65 metre pitch through the rightward kink. I took over in front, with Jonathan leading the second rope.

The couloir continued rightwards in a succession of thin grooves. Although the angle was no more than 55 degrees the ice was thin and brittle, requiring repeated swinging of axes to make a decent nick. As the hours wore on my spirit wearied, and I decided to cut out of the gully and make a leftwards ascent on rocky ground, hoping that it might meet the top of the buttress where the snow ridge began. A projecting ledge of rock allowed me to neatly outflank a threatening overhang and with rising hopes I hauled myself up 45 metres of rock steps and grooves towards the skyline.

With a final pull I emerged from the sombre confines of the face and stood on a level arete of snow from which the summit ridge rose in a series of open slopes and risers. At that moment I knew that we would climb Nilkanth, even though the 6596m summit was still some 450m above. Undoubtedly the most welcome sight after 16 pitches and 10 hours of non-stop climbing was a wind hollow in the snow just 15 metres down the far side of the arete which would make the perfect site for a final camp, We'd been thrice lucky, the storm had cleared, our route had unfolded according to plan and now we had bed and board for the next two nights.

Summit day brought none of the weather vagaries of the previous two. From a sea of cloud the massive hulk of Chaukhamba rose magisterially against a powder blue sky. John and I had slept outside, and our bivouac had been tolerably warm; it was only when I had to get up and drop my salopettes at 5am that the reality of a minus 15 air temperature cut home. Casper, Jonathan and Andy were somewhat better insulated in the tent, but had the chore of cooking.

Naively expecting that the summit ridge would be a benign offering of continuous snow we left our four ice screws in the tent. Twenty minutes later we were teetering on front points on glassy ice at 55 degree angle. Andy and Casper pushed on using hammered axe picks as belays, while I went back for the screws. After this initial riser the crest eased back, then made a second sweep up to a shoulder, at which point a massive snow meringue, some 80 metres high and overhanging the north face in a curling cornice, came into view. Andy and Casper were already far ahead, working ant-like up the right side. Jonathan led our following rope in three full pitches over its convex crest, to gain a levelling, 100 metres beyond which lay a horizontal ridge forming the summit of the mountain.

Already the sun was close to its zenith and, feeling enervated by the intense radiation, we were immensely relieved to see the top just a short walk away. Casper and Andy were out of view for a few minutes then reappeared coming down over the brow of the ridge.

"They must have made it," I said, but they quickly dashed our hopes.

"We went up to the ridge, but it's a knife-edge," said Andy. "The highest point is at the far end where there is a cornice. We must have been five metres lower, but there was no way we could traverse the crest to get to it."

Sure enough, allowing for the tricks of perspective, we could tell that the far end was the top. If we couldn't go along the crest, then was there a way to climb diagonally across a steep slope under the edge to gain it? I put the proposition to Andy.

"I don't think the rope will be long enough to do it in one pitch."

"But we could tie both ropes together to give us 100 metres."

"I still don't think the ropes will reach. It's further than it looks."

Meanwhile Casper declared that he was going no further for fear of getting frostbitten feet. Not realising the potential cold at 6500m he had brought single skin leather boots on the expedition.

Despite this seeming impasse, I was determined to give the diagonal line my best effort. Never again would I be standing 30 metres below the top of Nilkanth! Andy belayed me from a snow stake and John and Jonathan waited their turn, while Casper warmed his toes and rested in the sun. As soon as I swung on to the slope the North Face fell away at 55 degrees, slipped over a serac some couple of hundred metres lower, and disappeared to the depths of the Satopanth Glacier. The grip factor was mitigated by the firm texture of the new snow, but as I traversed I realised I couldn't place any protection until I was sure I was more than half way to the top. Otherwise the knot joining the two ropes would get jammed in the runner.

As my first 50 metre rope ran out the snow thinned to a few centimetres in depth with hard ice beneath. While Andy tied on the second line I placed a solid ice screw. The cornice now looked really close; the rope would surely stretch. In a few moves my nose was level with the crest and after a final traverse of 15 metres I clambered on to the crowning point of Nilkanth. I yelled my delight to the skies, then simultaneously belayed and filmed Andy, John and Jonathan as they climbed to join me. Behind the backslaps and handshakes, my throat tightened as emotions of joy and relief mingled with a sense of utter isolation as I thought of my family back home.

Now we had to pay for pushing so hard for the top. A merciless afternoon sun beat us to pulp on the descent of the meringue. The snow gave way under our steps to reveal an icy underlayer that we hadn't noticed on the way up. It would have been all too easy to skate and slide off the convex south-west slope. Even with all willpower focused I could barely kick my steps. John's face was a mask of fatigue; he was utterly drained from the summit pitch. Andy did a magnificent job as anchorman, descending last without the security of a rope from above.

We gladly sacrificed two ice screws to abseil the final ice slope. My dream on reaching camp was to lie in the warmth and make brew after brew of hot drink, but the sun chose to sink behind a bank of evening cloud the moment we arrived. Having been baked dry on the descent we now shivered in an icy mist preparing our night's bivouac.

All night my sleep was plagued by worry about our first abseil for we had not found any anchors on the ridge and the first properly equipped stance was over 50 metres down the buttress. This was the only missing link in our chain of descent. The bone chilling process of packing up was tempered by another splendid dawn over the northern Garhwal. At 6.30am I took our gear rack and scrambled on to the crest, anxious to establish the crucial abseil point. Discovering a solid outcrop five metres down the other side I drove two pegs deep into a horizontal crack, and the pyschological breakthrough of the day was made. We were safely on our way home!

Twelve hours later as the last rays of sun cast an evening alpenglow over distant Trisul we touched down on the glacier. Heera had come up to meet us and he took my pack, while we five sauntered down to Camp I in a state of transfiguration between heavenly uplift and earthly need. Save for a brisk promenade down under the Breach and the Full Monty at dawn our Nilkanth adventure was over. The end could not have been more timely, since rainclouds gathered next morning and enveloped the Garhwal peaks for the following eight days.

The West Ridge may well become the normal route up the peak in future. Save for the initial objective danger, the climb was relatively solid and sure in line. Nilkanth deserves greater popularity and success, but let's hope it never becomes strangled by fixed ropes. In realising our dream, for better or worse, we may have helped to dispel the enigmatic reputation of this wonderful mountain.

SUMMERY

First ascent of the west ridge of Nilkanth (6596 m) in the Garhwal Himalaya by John Leedale, Martin Moran, Andy Nisbet, Jonathan Preston and Casper Venter, period 28 May — 2 June 2000.

 

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