SIGUNIANG: SHARP AND POINTED IN INNER CHINA

MICK FOWLER

I felt a sense of rising panic. It was early in the morning and dark. The others had successfully crossed the road and disappeared into the seething depths of the packed bus station. Meanwhile I lay prostrate in the busy road having collapsed under the weight of my enormously heavy bags. Curiously though none of the drivers seemed in any way annoyed at the problems I was causing. In England I could have expected blaring horns, verbal abuse and probably more. But things are different in China. In Chengdu (I subsequently discovered) it is illegal to use the horn. Also the drivers are apparently so used to controlled chaos on the road that my behaviour was accepted as (reasonably) normal. I crawled frantically to the side, dragging the bags behind me whilst trying unsuccessfully to achieve the impossible and watch out for the traffic whilst searching for the others in our group. Adrenaline flowed freely — and we hadn't even set foot on the mountain yet!

The mountain in question was Mount Siguniang, at 6250 m the highest peak in the Qionglai Shan range in Sichuan Province. I had first been drawn to it by one of Tamotsu Nakamura's spectacular photographs in the 2001 American Alpine Journal. Closer research revealed that the north face was unclimbed and the mountain had been climbed only 3 times, twice by Japanese sieged ascents and once by the globe trotting American Charlie Fowler who made a remarkable solo ascent from the south in 1992. Amazingly it appeared not to have been attempted by the Chinese whose mountaineering culture is very different from the West and focuses almost exclusively on 8000 m peaks. Also it appeared that no British climbers had ever visited the area. All the necessary criteria were present to give me a big urge. I had to go.

And so came April 2002 — Paul Ramsden, Mike Morrison, Roger Gibbs and I arrived in the village of Rilong, the closest settlement to Siguniang. We were greeted by a huge blue motorway style sign saying 'Siguniang' complete with a large arrow pointing up the Changping valley towards the mountain. At least there was no doubt that we had come to the right place!

Up until about three years ago it was a challenging journey on unmetalled roads to reach this point but in China Government backed projects can change things remarkably quickly. In the late 1990s the Siguniang area was designated a AAAA rated tourist attraction. Whether they liked it or not Chinese holiday makers were to be directed here. Prisoners were brought in to concrete the road and projections drawn up advising startled locals to expect 1,000,000 visitors a year by 2005. The scheme is now in full flow with several enormous neon light flashing hotels under construction. There are also plans for a road up the Changping valley and a chairlift up a nearby mountain. All this where, just five years ago, there was nothing but a small Tibetan village. Unsurprisingly relations between the locals and the Government are not exactly very good.

Photos 55 to 59

Having examined the various tourist souvenirs on display we resisted any temptation to buy offerings such as gem studded human skull tops or human leg bone flutes and set about heading off into the mountains. An imposing entrance check point, complete with roof observation platform, barred the way. I was glad that we had brought along our star interpreter 'Mr Lion' from Chengdu. He had been recommended by Craig Luebbens, the American icefall climber, and turned out to be absolutely invaluable. A modest payment to the park officials and we were off, firstly along a dirt track past a burnt out monastery and then onto an amazing duckboard track through the forest. It soon became clear that the Chinese authorities like duckboards; little side spurs shot off in various directions leading to viewing platforms and picnic areas. After an hour or so the duck boards ended and a shiny sign indicated that we had arrived at 'Withered Trees Beach', a shingly riverside beach with, unsurprisingly, some rather withered trees. This point seemed to mark the end of the road for the average Chinese tourist so, to add interest, a couple of camels had been brought in. Their exact significance was mystifying but they were very friendly and one put it's tongue in my ear as I posed for 'look at me on holiday' shots.

Difficult as it was to leave such attractions behind we splashed bravely onwards up muddy tracks through the dense forest. Clearly we had past the furthest point reached by all but the most adventurous tourists.

After several hours of squelching through mud and squeezing between trees the track emerged suddenly into flat open pastures where a motley selection of Yaks showed absolutely no interest whatsoever in us. Paul though was gesticulating wildly up to our right. It appeared that our intended objective could be glimpsed for the first time. And despite the clouds, it could be seen to be disturbingly steep.

'Looks exciting', was the general thrust of his exclamations. I had to agree.

The horses left promptly for Rilong and suddenly we had to fend for ourselves. First task was to ferry loads up the debris of an enormous avalanche to an idyllic base camp at just under 4000 m. Then the least popular part of any high altitude trip-acclimatising. True to form the weather was indifferent but after four days lying down at up to 5100 m listening to snow drum against the tent we pronounced ourselves ready for action.

In fact though breaks in the cloud on our acclimatisation jaunts had provided us with superb views of Siguniang's north face. We had been a bit concerned that conditions might have changed since our research photographs were taken and all important ice streaks might not be present. Without them the face would consist of very smooth granite walls which we were not equipped for. But we need not have feared. Closer inspection revealed that not only did the summit seracs look relatively benign but the huge granite walls of the north face were split by an ice-choked basalt dyke, invisible from below. This looked to provide an orgasmic line which we spent endless hours staring at through Paul's binoculars.

'Ice or powder snow?' It was impossible to tell but it would make a big difference. In at least one place the ground was overhanging. Overhanging ice would require big arms (over to Paul!) Whereas overhanging powder snow would be....er... interesting. We would have to wait and see.

Deciding what to take on a climb is never easy, particularly in the line of food and gas. Working on the basis that we always carry a bit of extra flab I tend to veer in favour of using reserves and minimising on the food. But this can have a startling effect on body shape! Paul, who is a good culinary type chap, likes his food so it was only natural for him to take the lead in sorting such things. After half an hour or so I was called to inspect the end product.

'What do you think?'

I am usually the one arguing to cut down but this time such thoughts were clearly unnecessary. With a cereal bar for breakfast, two boiled sweets each per day and a small packet of 3 minute noodles for the evening we were not exactly going to get fat. 'It's very light' Paul enthused. It struck me seemed that our bodies might well be too by the time we'd finished. I checked my blubber layer... .all OK; I could afford to use up some reserves.

We strained awkwardly up the small glacier beneath the face. However much you cut down sacks somehow never feel light when starting out. Jack Tackle, the renowned American climber, had been here in 1981 and had recalled that the approach to the 'meat' of the route looked dead easy. Things seemed to have changed somewhat.

'Perhaps he is just very good' I gibbered whilst teetering insecurely up smooth rock slabs.

The slabs gave way to an ice slope and suddenly it was time to find somewhere to spend the night. Comfortable options were not immediately obvious. In fact they seemed non-existent. Paul looked forlornly at the steepness surrounding us. Nothing was less than 50°.

'Well? This is your department.'

Reputations are funny things. We had done most of our climbing together in the English Peak District and had never actually climbed a multi-day route together. Paul had clearly formed the view that I was an expert at miraculously unearthing luxury ledges in inhospitable terrain. In fact though I am not. I just have a lot of experience of spending the night in uncomfortable positions.

There was nothing for it but to snuggle up to the base of a rock buttress and start cutting a ledge of some sort. Paul looked shocked at my inability to come up with a better solution. The end result was a snaking 12' long, 10" wide ledge that we tried our best to lie nose to tail on. By dint of pushing balled socks into the bivi bag fabric and larks footing them into ice screws we did manage to secure ourselves in a vaguely comfortable manner. But the endless tide of spindrift somehow found its way into my sleeping bag and by morning uncomfortable balls of ice had begun to form within the insulation. But bivouacs could be a lot worse and we were at last underway.

The first ice dyke pitch was mine. After an hour or so I realised that Paul was shouting up to me.

'Think you can do it? It looks even steeper above.'

He was obviously not impressed with my efforts. To be honest neither was I. Initially it had seemed as if the ice would be soft and twangy - ideal for secure placements. Gradually though it thinned and became brittle. Large plates broke away and the angle increased. Projecting bits of rock, which looked potentially helpful from below, turned out to be rotten basalt which did not take protection well. I gibbered. Suddenly my rucksack seemed ludicrously heavy. Placing a dodgy ice screw I extricated myself from the straps, hung it from a screw for Paul to sort out later, and applied myself to the problem. Paul's comments were unsurprising. I was very slow — and I knew it.

'Ice might be better higher up.'

I did my best to sound positive whilst feeling anything but.

From the belay things looked slightly better. For a start I wasn't breathing so heavily and could assess the situation more rationally. Secondly it did seem that the next section, although at least as steep did actually have thicker ice which might well take decent screws.

Firstly though Paul had to get himself and two sacks up to the stance. This required a phenomenal effort and led to the unusual sight of the Ramsden body breathing so heavily that it was decided that I should lead on whilst he recovered. Starting fresh with no sack made a big difference. It almost felt a bit unethical really. But by late afternoon (amazing where the time goes when you're 'enjoying' yourself) the first really steep section was behind us and it was time to start thinking about where to spend the night.

From a distance it had looked as if there should be reasonable ledges at convenient intervals on the left side. Close up though things didn't look so encouraging. All ledge lines on the left sloped outwards at 50^o or so and had a thin covering of powder snow. It was difficult enough to find a place to stand comfortably let alone spend the night. The smooth monolithic granite on the right offered even less in the way of luxurious opportunities.

Eventually I found a vertical corner where I was able to place a good nut and stand in balance. By now a storm had developed, spindrift obscured everything and Paul was obliged to take my word about the belay being good. We stood there for a few minutes waiting for a break in the weather. I was tired and cold and slumped regularly onto the nut.

'Tent over the head?'

It took me a moment to register what Paul was suggesting. I had been optimistically waiting for a lull that would enable us to use the tent as a double bivouac sack. I had never before used it as a large bag over the head although I had read about Joe Tasker and Dick Renshaw spending a night like this on the north face of the Dente Blanche back in the 1970's. It all sounded very unpleasant and I was not keen to emulate their experiences. But it had to be admitted that the weather was particularly grim and any attempt to get into the tent fabric from the top was inevitably destined to end with the tent and everything else full of spindrift.

'Could be as unpleasant as your Tawache bivouac'

It was nice of Paul to remind me of the most uncomfortable night of my life. There Pat Littlejohn and I had squeezed claustrophobically into a narrow icy wind tunnel 6000 m up the northeast buttress of Tawache (6542 m) in Nepal.¹ Spindrift had poured into the tunnel all night, we never managed to get into our sleeping bags and the 'one on top of the other' position was not exactly very comfortable. Surely this couldn't be that bad? ..... or perhaps it could.

 

I stood there miserably, making negative noises about the difficulties of belaying securely with a bag over one's head. But I knew that I was tired and cooling down rapidly. We had to do something quickly and in the conditions I was bleakly aware that I couldn't offer a better suggestion.

Wrapping a large nut in the tent fabric Paul larks footed it into our solitary belay and clipped himself into the sling on the inside of the tent.

'Different world in here' he announced cheerfully.

I looked dubiously through the gloom at the tent fabric wondering why I apparently enjoy mountaineering so much. The tent was well used and I feared that any serious strain on the already experienced fabric could have unfortunate results.

'Are you getting in or what?' came from somewhere deep in the fabric.

It was dark outside now and the urgency in Paul's voice brought home to me the fact that I was moving lethargically. It was time to double check the safety of the arrangement and make a move.

He was right. It was a different world inside. A world where we hung like a bunch of bananas from a single sling whilst the fabric flapped against our faces and the entrance zips flailed disconcerting around our ankles. Extreme care was required as anything we dropped would disappear straight out the bottom of the tent. As if to prove the point my sleeping mat had miraculously disappeared by the time I came to search for it.

Conversation drifted as we intermittently dozed. We had been unable to get our sleeping bags out and had opted for hanging/standing in our climbing clothes supplemented by down jackets. Nevertheless, despite —20°C or so outside, we did not feel worryingly cold. What I mean of course is that it was bloody freezing - but, remarkably, frostbite was not a major concern. Good stuff this modern gear.

So much in Alpine Style mountaineering is down to the mental side of things. It is so easy to get demoralised when the weather is nasty and retreat comes easily to those whose will to continue is not strong. In comfortable surroundings my view is clear cut — it's obvious isn't it ? — you just carry on up unless there are good reasons to go down. In the thick of foul conditions it is sometimes more difficult to think so clearly. Frankly though it is clearly unrealistic to expect to climb non-stop for a week or so and not suffer any bad weather at all. The key to success is balancing the pros and cons of staying put (bad news unless the bivi is comfortable and you have plenty of food), pushing on (could be rash if there's nothing welcoming to aim for) and retreating (may be sensible but certainly won't get you up).

Here our situation was unpleasant and uncomfortable but our gear was (relatively) dry, we were safe and we had plenty of food and gas. There was no real reason to go down. Nevertheless the night was excruciatingly uncomfortable, the ground ahead looked distinctly uncompromising and the regular roaring sound of spindrift avalanches was a constant reminder that our nice ice line was not a good place to be in bad weather. How was Paul feeling I wondered? We had climbed quite a lot together in Britain and failed without even getting started in Nepal. This was our first multi-day route together and our first really nasty bivouac. I thought back to the tone of his comments as I dithered on the first ice streak pitch. Had he underestimated the difficulty of the pitch? Was my slowness such that he was close to suggesting retreat? Most importantly what did he think now we had passed the thin section and were faced with steeper, albeit thicker ice?

We exchanged the usual 'hope it looks a bit better in the morning' type comments and prepared for a long night. My throat rasped for it was impossible to light the stove and melt snow in the confines of the flapping fabric.

At some point I suddenly became aware that it was getting light outside and Paul was lifting the zip section to peer out the bottom. The steady swish of spindrift on fabric gave me a good idea of what it was like. He made no comment. I lifted my side and we peered around together. It was a grey, bleak and uninspiring day with very little in the way of visibility. Perhaps there was slightly less spindrift than the night before but there wasn't much else to comment positively about. Paul was the first to speak. It was exactly the sort of moment when the morale of the party hangs in the balance.

'How about we move up a few pitches and see how it goes? We might at least find a better bivi site.'

Bliss! Paul was of course completely right and I was on board immediately. Somehow I found him making positive noises and me agreeing much more of a boost than the other way round. There is something wonderfully refreshing about a realisation that two minds are working as one. Suddenly the day seemed much brighter. Onwards and upwards it was. Actually it wasn't upwards because the day had to start with an abseil to get back on line but you know what I mean.

The weather in this part of the world is nothing if not varied. After a couple of hours of 'full' conditions the sky brightened, the sun came out (everywhere except in the deep frozen confines of our chosen line!) and thoughts of simply moving up to a better bivi spot were abandoned.

The parting clouds revealed spectacular scenery. We were in a sort of mega version of the Dru Couloir with Yosemite style granite walls on either side. Above us the ice steepened to vertical capped by an apparently overhanging mixed section. It all looked very disturbing. And, although we didn't need one now, I noted a total absence of good bivouac sites.

Back down in base camp it had seemed a good idea to cut down the weight and bring only 6 ice screws. Now, faced with using two at each belay, that only left two for each 60 m pitch. Somehow that didn't seem very many - but Mr Ramsden was to come into his own.

'Abalakovs' he announced.

Somewhat to my embarrassment I was fully aware of the test reports showing how strong Abalakov threads were but I had never actually used one. This despite promises to myself after descending a mountain in the Nepal Himalaya entirely by using a (very memorable) retrievable ice screw technique. Abalakov was a Russian climber who came up with the bright idea of using two ice screw holes to make his eponymous thread. They are used mainly for abseil anchors but Paul's plan was to use them as runners to supplement our meagre collection of ice screws. And he was a star at it. I hung back on the belays and marvelled as he progressed steadily up the near vertical ice which choked this section of the fault line.

Time passed quickly. A challenging mixed pitch (much more my cup of tea) followed and then it was already time to search for a bivi site again. 'Searching' is, of course, a relative term. Altitude and difficult ground resulted in such slow progress that we could only sensibly 'search' the immediate area we happened to be in when dusk was upon us. And there was little on offer.

'More steep ice today Michael'

Another night of sitting/hanging had passed uneventfully but wearingly.

It was morning again and Paul was indeed correct. There was yet more steep ice ahead. Usually I like ice climbing but the repetitive and exhausting movements at this altitude were beginning to take their toll. It was all becoming a bit like hard work. The steepest pitch, late in the afternoon, was perhaps the last straw. The weather, which had been threatening for some time, turned to snow and Paul was forced to thrash purposefully upwards through a shielding curtain of heavy spindrift. The main force of this was behind him - which was helpful in a way but also served to emphasise the size of the ice cornice that crowned the pitch. I huddled inside my goretex jacket whilst the occasional exertion packed grunt filtered down from above. Suddenly the rope went so tight I sensed he might be off. The visibility was such that I couldn't see if he was hanging anywhere . .but there was no sound of cursing so there seemed nothing for it but to start climbing.

The technique that we had settled into over the previous three days involved the leader climbing the steepest pitches without his pack whilst the second followed wearing his and manhandling the leader's if it had jammed anywhere. Leading was more mentally wearing but seconding involved greater exertion, especially when the going got really steep. And so when I reached the overhang it was little surprise to find myself gasping uncontrollably and gulping in huge lungfuls of spindrift. With strength failing I clipped into a less than perfect placement. Twice the ice failed and twice I dangled free marvelling that my heart could beat so fast. It was a superb lead by Paul and a vital one which pulled us out of the main dyke section and put us in sight of the summit seracs.

Here the ground beside the dyke was more broken and there was at last a chance of getting the poles in our little tent - not that this should be read as implying any degree of comfort. We attempted to build up a platform of sorts with loose blocks. To begin with this looked to be working well with a good 2/3 of the tent floor on the ledge. Once we were inside though Paul's end collapsed which meant that his head was some two feet lower than his feet. As I was the other way round this made things more comfortable for me but apparently not so for him. Fortunately my end was so narrow that his turning round wasn't really an option so to ease his predicament I promised to stretch my legs (and kick him in the face) no more than 20 times in the night.

'Can you get a brew on?' This muffled request came from somewhere below me and seemed not unreasonable. One of the difficulties with the bivis we had experienced so far was that we had not managed to use the stove anywhere near as much as we would have liked. The end result was severe dehydration and all our snack type foods, that didn't need cooking, consumed already. Only noodles remained ..... the prospect of which did not exactly cause the taste buds to over salivate.

Usually we hang the stove from the centre point of the tent. Here though the angle was such that it hung dangerously against the side wall. Deciding to opt for an easy solution to the problem ('typical' I hear my wife say) I lit the stove, wedged my cup between the windshield and the fabric, and settled back to focus on my Harry Potter book.

Before long disgruntled noises coming from the other end suggested that the undisputed stove and cooking expert of the team was less than impressed with my efforts. It was the globules of molten plastic landing on his sleeping bag that caused him most grief but the tent filling with foul, acrid smoke didn't go down well either. I had to admit that all was not quite as one might expect at home but, as I pointed out, the end result was (remarkably) no holes in his sleeping bag, the tent fabric intact and the snow melted. With the only serious casualty being my mug I argued that the main aim of the exercise had been achieved and the effort should be judged a success. But I was dismissed and amidst much squirming, Paul took over stage two of the evening activity - noodle production. Meanwhile I returned to the delights of magical happenings at Hogwarts, content that my children would be pleased that I had, at least, gone some way towards familiarising myself with Harry's adventures.

Our inability to understand a word of written Chinese prompted a few surprises on the food front. Much as Paul applied himself magnificently, vindaloo noodles are not to be recommended as high altitude bivouac food. Maybe it was his inverted position that caused the problems but he seemed to have some difficulty digesting these and complained of his worst night yet. He did though manage an 850 ml pee in our calibrated pee bottle - a trip record which he assured me was easier to achieve whilst semi-inverted. For my part, I felt relatively comfortable but flapping tent fabric, swishing spindrift and a partner who kept moaning about me kicking him in the face, were not exactly conducive to a good nights sleep. I could only manage 650 ml.

Only one more pitch of ice streak remained, a fact that I felt grateful for as I struggled to overcome ring sting and early morning lethargy. Above us now was the line of ice cliffs marking the lower edge of the summit icefields. Back down in base camp the binoculars had revealed an easy looking line of weakness but now, as so often happens, things didn't look quite so easy. Firstly the line of weakness turned out to be a slanting vertical section on a series of overhanging ice walls. (The fact that it caught the sun when the rest of the wall was in shade had given us a completely false impression). And secondly the serac ice itself was truly awful, dinner plating in large uncontrollable sections. Paul set off with gusto but soon ground to a halt.

'Nightmare! You going to have a look?'

I wasn't, I had great faith in his ability and the problems were all too apparent. Outflanking the ice cliffs on the right was quickly agreed as the best option. But all this was taking time. After abseiling out of the seracs and traversing laboriously rightwards it was dark again by the time we were struggling up the easier angled, but iron-hard, serac ice bounding the right edge of the cliffs.

Paul is an Alaskan veteran who has partaken in the currently fashionable idea of climbing non-stop until you either drop or reach the top. Being a bold young man he suggested surging on into the night. But I was feeling middle aged, cold and tired. In true traditionalist form I lectured forth on the dangers of combining exhaustion, darkness and nowhere particular to head for. I won — not so much by reasoned argument but by the fact that the brewing storm suddenly broke with a vengeance, the shallow couloir we had to cross became a roaring torrent and further progress was clearly impossible.

The problems with bum ledge sitting bivouacs in bad weather are numerous, a notable one being that, however careful you are, spindrift rapidly accumulates between the bivi bag and the slope and pushes your bum off the ledge. Those bits and pieces that inevitably end up at the bottom of the bag then pull the fabric tight against the head for maximum discomfort. The higher the head the greater the pressure on it. A helmet is invaluable in such situations. Here though, it was not just the discomfort that was a problem. We were getting increasingly worried about the strength of the tent seams and daren't let anything drop down into the bottom. To ease the pressure our boots ending up hanging inside at face level - a face full of snow packed cleats for a pillow adding memorably to the discomfort level. Despite the fact that we managed to get into our sleeping bags I voted this as our worst night yet. Paul though felt that having molten plastic dripped on him, vindaloo noodles to eat and sleeping half inverted hanging off a ledge was slightly worse. Either way the weather was such that using the stove was out of the question which meant nothing to eat or drink. The night's pee record was only 300 ml.

But we were only 50 m from easy ground. And dawn brought shards of blue sky and no precipitation. The way across the couloir was open again and we kicked hard to bash blunt crampons into hard ice and make toe screaming progress.

And then suddenly it all changed; the angle kicked back and our concern changed from the force of the spindrift to the stability of the slope. But luck was with us. Ice cliffs provided secure belays and the cloud was burnt off to reveal a glorious day. A lot of panting, a short corniced ridge and then there we were! The culmination of all that planning and effort. Siguniang is more than 500 m higher than any other peak in the immediate area. The sky was clear and the view vast. Range upon range of apparently untouched snow covered mountains stretched into the distance. Potential unlimited. I sat down, suddenly feeling very tired.

The plan now was to descend the unclimbed north ridge. Thankfully the clear weather at least allowed us to locate the top of it. If it had been misty I fear that much summit snowfield wandering would have occurred. As it was we were soon engrossed in a very different sort of terrain to that we had become used to. The ridge clearly caught the prevailing wind and was decorated with spectacular fragile snow formations. Fortunately much of it was very steep with the result that we could abseil right through these formations rather than having to try and traverse over them. This had been our reserve objective if the ice streak had gone all wrong, but it would have been a nightmare to ascend. On the bright side it was easy to cut into and fashion a reasonable platform for the tent.

Somehow though our little tent was not providing quite the degree of protection that I liked. Closer inspection revealed that the fabric around the floor seams was now so thin that the wind was blowing straight through! Even I had to agree with Paul's increasingly persistent comments that it was past its best. I think it fair to say that we too were feeling past ours. Eight days of noodles and not much else made for a lethargic final day of abseiling and a slow return to base camp. It also led to a record weight loss and the Ramsden body breaking a personal best by not defecating for 12 days.

Such are the immediate pleasures of Alpine Style mountaineering. The real lasting enjoyment is, of course, retrospective — and lasts a lifetime.

SUMMARY

The first ascent of Siguniang (6250 m) in China. The ascent made in the Alpine-Style by a two member team.

 

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