Days of Joy and Sorrow

Bernadette McDonald

Three years ago, I began working on a book about climbers from Pakistan and Nepal. The title of the book is Alpine Rising: Sherpas, Baltis, and the Rise of Local Climbers in the Great Ranges. It will be published in March, 2024 by Mountaineers Books.

To understand the evolution of local climbers from silently supporting foreign sahibs to basking—sometimes wilting—in the glow of the spotlight, my research took me all the way back to the end of the nineteenth century and up to the present day. Some of these stories may be troubling, even shocking to many twenty-first-century ears. In a world that is more divisive than ever, there can be a dearth of compassion and patience for multiple attitudes and historical perspectives. Navigating the truth is a difficult and complex process and involves memories that are sometimes selective, often patchy, but always worth hearing.

I have grown to know many remarkable individuals. One of them—Ali Sadpara—was the initial inspiration for the book. But this book is much more than Ali Sadpara’s story, and it’s more than any superstar climber’s story. It’s also about climbers with names few have heard; climbers from remote villages; climbers who were quiet, trusted partners; climbers whose expectations rose with their growing experience. Ultimately, it is about climbers who are transforming mountaineering in the highest mountains on Earth through their abilities to forge new ground, to guide and mentor, to create successful businesses, and to realize their personal dreams.

One of the chapters in the book is about mountaineers from the villages of Hushe, Sadpara, Machulu and Shimshal. Together with my trusted interview partner, Saqlain Muhammad, I have done my best to listen and learn from these climbers who are living and working in the heights. This is their story.

July 18, 2021. Broad Peak was crawling with climbers: Russians, Koreans, Pakistanis, Belgians, Canadians, and more. After summiting with Korean team leader Kim Hong-bin, Muhammad Hussain, known as ‘Little Hussain,’ was on his way down with five other Pakistani climbers. It was almost midnight, dangerously late in the day to be so high on a mountain.

The descent was going smoothly until Little Hussain heard a woman calling for help. Russian climber Anastasia Runova had fallen and was trapped about thirty metres below the summit ridge on the Chinese side of the mountain.

“I went down . . . and saw that the terrain was a bit sketchy,” Little Hussain said. “I fixed a rope and approached the woman and communicated with her. She was scared and wanted to be rescued.” Together with his fellow Pakistani climbers, he helped her back up to the ridge, and by 8:00 pm, Anastasia was starting down the normal descent route with the assistance of three other foreign climbers. An Explorersweb account of the incident later dismissed Little Hussain’s efforts: “Reportedly, a porter helped Anastasia back up and they began to descend.”¹

But the crisis on the summit of Broad Peak had only begun. “The unfortunate thing that happened next was that Kim mistakenly rappelled down to where the woman had been stranded and ended up getting himself into the same predicament,” Little Hussain explained. “I held my head, dejected.”

He tried to pull Kim Hong-bin back up to the ridge, but he was too heavy and Little Hussain was running out of energy. At midnight Little Hussain called down to Hong-bin that he needed extra help.

He radioed Camp 3, which was at 7000 m. Two Russians—Anton Pugovkin and Vitaly Lazo—responded to the call.

They dressed, rounded up some first aid equipment, and started back up the mountain. Anton came across the descending Anastasia and, after injecting her with the anti-inflammatory drug dexamethasone, helped her down to Camp 3. Vitaly continued up to Little Hussain, where he discovered a chaotic scene: “After saving the girl, Little Hussain wept, because he was so tired that he could not save Kim—he had no strength left. Hussain asked people to help, but all the ‘heroclimbers’ were exhausted and passed by.”² They could see Hong-bin, who had been standing most of the night, alone, stranded, waiting for a rescue.

“Kim, can you hear me?” Vitaly called down. A faint voice drifted upward in response. Vitaly immediately began setting up a rope rescue system.

Little Hussain was both impressed and relieved: “He was exceptional and set up such a sophisticated rope system. He descended to Hongbin and gave him some water and tied him to some ropes and gave him instructions…We would pull him three to four feet before he would go back down. The Russian would go back again to guide him. But it was not happening.”

Then Hong-bin’s jumar jammed, and somehow detached from the rescue rope. To the shock of both Little Hussain and Vitaly, the Korean climber disappeared down the Chinese side of Broad Peak.

Little Hussain had been a close friend of Kim Hong-bin’s, who, because of frostbite, had been climbing without fingers since 1991. He had climbed with him on Gasherbrum I and had wanted to be with him on Broad Peak, his final 8,000er. “It was not meant to be,” Little Hussain said. “That day was filled with joy and sorrow. I had saved the Russian woman, which made me happy but was unable to save Kim. I was very sad. Saving the Russian lady was suicidal for me because it was dangerous and risky but I had to…My reward will be in the next life, since saving one life in Islam has a lot of meaning.”

Anastasia Runova was not the first climber that Little Hussain rescued from a dangerous situation, nor would she be the last. He has executed six high-altitude rescues and seven body recoveries to date. Little Hussain should be a celebrated hero in both Pakistan and abroad, but as he explains, “I am not educated and cannot promote myself. There is no secure future for me. My children are studying but they struggle to get enrolled into good schools and that saddens me.” His story is repeated over and over in the high mountain villages of Pakistan’s Balti region, but few outside the area have heard such tales. Rescues and body recoveries are a necessary part of high-altitude work for these men. They pursue this work to earn money for their children’s education, and their success is based on longevity. “God willing, I can continue climbing another ten years,” Little Hussain says.

Thanks to the recent explosion of interest in climbing in the Karakoram, he will have no problem finding work. Since guiding 8000 m peaks has become commercially viable, the area has been awash in international clients. Almost all those clients require highaltitude assistance. While many of the guiding agencies come from Nepal, it’s Pakistan’s northern mountain villages that now provide many of the high-altitude staff. Men like Little Hussain.

Little Hussain is from the village of Machulu in the Hushe valley. An idyllic place, with terraced fields defined by neat rows of tall, stately poplars, houses creep high up the hillsides until only the undulating summer pastures remain. Lording over the grazing grounds are grey, cathedral-like rocky minarets and spires, topped with a dusting of snow.

Slim and carefully groomed, he started working in the mountains in 1998 as an assistant cook. He quickly advanced to carrying loads for a Korean womens’ climbing team on Gasherbrum II. When one of the high-altitude porters became ill, Little Hussain kept going up, all the way to the summit. “Given that no one else was employed in my family, I had to summit GII, where I raised the flag of my country,” he said. “I prostrated there and thanked God and asked Him to give me more opportunities.”

God obliged. But Little Hussain’s ambitions aren’t limited to climbing. “The dream is to set up a proper school,” he said. “I, along with Muhammad Ali Machulu and Ali Raza Sadpara are the most experienced climbers [in Pakistan today]. We can pass on our knowledge to the next generation.”

Unfortunately, Little Hussain’s dream will likely remain that—a dream—since official government support seems muted at best. Pakistan’s federal budget tells the story: it spends eight percent on educational needs; only one percent on health needs; but a whopping 25 percent on its military. There is little commitment from the highest levels of government to Pakistani climbers; this set of priorities means no proper training facilities, negligible life insurance, and no pensions when they become too old to climb. Fellow high-altitude climber and school planner Muhammad Ali Machulu has pointed out that most of the money earned on Pakistan’s mountains goes to Nepali guides and outfitting companies. Muhammad Ali would know: he has been working in the mountains for thirty years.

“I got into this field because my household was not good financially and I was the elder son,” he explained. “What should I do now, I thought to myself? I have no education, but my father fed me well and I turned out to be healthy.” He took that good health to some on-the-job training on 8034 m Gasherbrum II. An angular piece of geometric perfection, the summit pyramid is guarded by walls of towering ice, fields of tumbling seracs, and labyrinths of gaping crevasses. One long, bony spine of rock leads upward. Muhammad Ali summitted on his first try and has repeated it four more times. Like Little Hussain, he is scarcely known outside the tight community of Pakistani climbers. “I am illiterate,” he says, a simple but profound explanation of a limitation that holds many gifted local climbers captive.

Like many Pakistanis, Muhammad Ali fixes ropes and hauls loads for foreigners who are ‘collecting’ the fourteen 8000 m peaks. He would like to climb all fourteen as well—the goal hangs in the rarefied air like a one-way ticket to financial freedom, since climbing all fourteen is attractive to sponsors. But it’s unlikely to happen, because without an education Ali can’t promote himself to prospective sponsors. He will never climb the fourteen 8000ers without sponsors.

The literacy hurdles aren’t the only challenge for modern Pakistani climbers. In many remote villages, reliable drinking water and secure food are lacking. Almost half of the kids in these communities do not attend school and the literacy rate is less than 60 percent. Children must leave their villages for a complete education. Boarding schools cost money—money their parents often earn at extremely high risk. “People our age are dead,” Muhammad Ali points out the stark reality “Our mountain companions have a short life span, because they work risking their lives.” The mortality rate of Muhammad Ali’s generation is truly shocking.

But still, he continues climbing, trying to balance the financial pressure with the risks, the rewards, and his family’s concerns. “We do not tell the whole truth to our families,” he admits.

If you continue up the valley past Machulu, you reach the village of Hushe, where climbing legend Little Karim was born. There is nothing after Hushe except rock, ice, and snow. Hushe’s 780 inhabitants have a life expectancy of only 53 years. Most people dwell in rock and mud houses along the main street or in a labyrinth of alleyways nestled between the rushing waters of the Hushe river and the arid slopes of its steep banks. Hushe residents live off their wheat fields and vegetable patches, their livestock, and most importantly, their mountains. Gateway to some of the most dramatic mountains in the Karakoram—Laila Peak, K6, K7, Murtaza Peak, and the big one, 7821 m Masherbrum—Hushe is home to more climbers per capita than any other village in Pakistan.

There are dozens of Hushe climbers whose résumés would make them celebrated heroes in Western countries. Men such as Hassan Jan, who has worked in the mountains since the age of seventeen, and as a high-altitude climber since the age of twenty-eight. Apart from all his summits, he has done plenty of high-altitude rescues and climbed with many of the world’s most famous alpinists. Today, at almost fifty years of age, he is pragmatic about his future. “My plan of summiting the five 8000 m peaks in Pakistan is complete,” he said. “It was my dream to summit all fourteen of the 8,000ers, but now the time is finished to do this task.” Instead, he continues with highaltitude work and runs a modest training programme in Hushe.

Helping him is Taqi Hushe. Born in 1976, Taqi ignored his father’s advice to go to school, and instead, began work as a porter. He regrets his decision. As he advanced through the ranks of kitchen help to porter to high-altitude climber, he racked up summits for twelve years before beginning to question his future. “I thought, ‘Till what age will I work as a high porter?’” He turned to his neighbour, Little Karim, for advice. Unlike most in Hushe, Little Karim had travelled widely and had a worldly view. He said, “Allah gave all these mountains to us as a gift. The mountains are like gold for us.” He advised Taqi to start a mountaineering school.

Easier said than done. Having invested his own savings, and after overcoming endless red tape and daunting organizational hurdles, Taqi created the Hushe Welfare Mountaineering and Climbing School. “Together with a few others, we started by giving the aspiring climbers training which we had learned by ourselves in the mountains,” Taqi explained. He bought used ropes, tents, sleeping bags, and climbing equipment and took a team of young climbers to Broad Peak in 2013. There, he met renowned Italian alpinist, Simone Moro, who encouraged him and offered to sponsor the school for an expedition to K2. In 2021, Taqi led an independent Pakistani team to the summit of K2.

Taqi’s goal is to train young climbers and elevate the profile of Pakistani mountaineers. But literacy still proves to be a barrier. “I can’t express my words and vision in front of influential people,” he said. He dreams of replacing the old equipment left over from foreign expeditions with new, state-of-the-art gear for his teams. “Climbing is not tough,” he blithely stated. “The only difficulty is resources.”

One Hushe climber who benefited from Taqi’s school is Ali Durrani; he led all-Pakistani teams on Broad Peak and K2. Ali doesn’t use supplemental oxygen on his climbs and even enjoyed a cigarette at the summit of K2 in 2021. But he lacks technical ice climbing skills, or as he called it, “blue ice training.” Ali is ambitious, but he’s also practical, which is why most of his climbing is in support of foreign teams. “We are poor people, 90 percent of our people are impoverished,” he explained in an interview in 2021. “And due to COVID we did not earn in 2020.”

But it’s not only COVID-19 that has interrupted the earning potential of Pakistani climbers. The terror attacks of September 11, 2001, sent a chill around the world, particularly in the Pashtun tribal areas along the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. This region had strong connections to the Taliban fighters who retreated from Afghanistan to regroup for future wars. As a result, the numbers of climbers and trekkers coming to the Karakoram dropped significantly after 9/11.

Equally catastrophic was the 2013 massacre of eleven climbers in the Diamir valley on the west side of Nanga Parbat. The terrorists were never prosecuted, tourism in Pakistan collapsed, and climbing expeditions dwindled to a trickle for a time. The Gilgit-Baltistan Police department subsequently created a special unit designed to accompany and protect foreign expeditions in Pakistan, but the economic impact on peace-loving and welcoming communities far from the terrorist tensions was devastating.

One reliable source of employment is the ongoing war with India. Many young men who grew up in Pakistan’s high mountain villages are now working with the army near the Siachen glacier, where they live six months at a time in a state of perpetual readiness to defend. Subsisting in rudimentary plastic igloos at 5400 m, they guard the border with India in a stand-off that has lasted decades, learning many mountain skills in the process.

Hushe mountaineer Yousuf Ali, who is now in his early fifties, spent his younger years fighting along the disputed Line of Control between India and Pakistan. The life-altering experience prepared him for the high-altitude work he’s done ever since. He has climbed many Pakistani giants and has carried loads on so many expeditions to Gasherbrum II that he can’t keep them all straight in his mind. “Even though I summited K2, the Kargil War was much more difficult,” he said. Probably an understatement. American alpinist, Steve Swenson, recalled seeing the results of that war when he was in northern Pakistan in 1999. “I watched busloads of bloody, bandaged Pakistani soldiers fresh from the battlefield,” he wrote. “I had never seen such a vivid display of the horrors of war. Witnessing these wounded young men, many of whom looked like they were teenagers, overwhelmed me.”³

And yet, Yousuf remains a patriot. “I want to serve my country as long as I can,” he said. “Dying is not a problem as long as it’s for a cause. I want to do something big in life.” Many would argue he already has.

Like Yousuf, Haji Rosi continues climbing well into his fifties, not only because he loves to climb, but because he needs to climb; he has seven children. Working on expeditions since 1988, he now refers to himself as an “old high porter.” He explained, “My family says I am old now and cannot reach summits, but even as old as a lion gets, he does not lose his footing.”

Many Pakistani climbers are optimistic about their future, confident their line of work is gaining more respect, more pay, and more support to counteract the risks. Fazal Ali from Shimshal does not share that optimism. Maybe because Shimshal has seen more than its share of tragedy in the mountains, going back to Amir Mehdi’s 1954 experience on K2.

Fazal is a highly accomplished climber, including three K2 summits, one without supplemental oxygen. He is also a patriot. “To raise the flag of Pakistan on these mighty peaks is a major factor,” he said. But pride for his country isn’t enough. Fazal has climbed with famous foreigners for years—alpinists such as Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner, Edurne Pasaban, and Ralf Dujmovits—and he believes that, with the right financial support, Pakistanis could equal their accomplishments.

He pointed out that the best Pakistani climbers, like Rajab Shah, might receive the Presidential Award for their climbs, but are rarely compensated with more tangible rewards. Presidential Awards don’t pay the bills. Instead of awards, Fazal Ali lobbies for life and injury insurance for professional high-altitude climbers.

“Our people are strong and fit,” he said. “I have worked with strong foreigners, and no one is more capable than our Pakistani climbers.” But when he’s not on expedition, Fazal does not return to a personal fitness coach, a climbing gym, a training programe, and a sponsor contract. Fazal returns to Shimshal. “I maintain my fitness by working in the fields,” he explained.

“Our people are strong and fit,” he said. “I have worked with strong foreigners, and no one is more capable than our Pakistani climbers.” But when he’s not on expedition, Fazal does not return to a personal fitness coach, a climbing gym, a training programe, and a sponsor contract. Fazal returns to Shimshal. “I maintain my fitness by working in the fields,” he explained.

Both men grew up in Shimshal before the jeep road was built. Qudrat used to walk for days to his high school in Gilgit—a distance of over 200 km. On the way home, he would pick up bits of work as a porter from Passu to Shimshal.

Shaheen and Qudrat insist that the focus of their mountaineering school is safety, instilling the mindset needed to excel in the profession. “This includes knowing when to turn back,” Qudrat told Pakistani writer Kamran Ali.⁴ As usual, the problem is money. The building that houses the mountaineering training school was funded by Simone Moro and other Italian sponsors, but the training is selffinanced by Shaheen and Qudrat.

Simone became involved because he was impressed with the gender equity. “So open minded, girls and boys were treated as equal,” he observed. The school taught, led, and sponsored eight Shimshali girls—Dur Begum, Farzana Faisal, Shakila Numa, Tokht Bika, Hafiza Bano, Mera Jabeen, Hamida Bibi, and Gohar Nigar—on the first winter ascent of 6050 m Manglik Sar. Qudrat also summited a 6000 m peak with his daughter, Sohana, and plans to climb an 8000 m peak with her. But Shaheen isn’t encouraging his children to follow in his footsteps. He said their diet and lifestyle are vastly different from the much harder life he had, creating an enhanced risk factor for them, particularly if they want to climb as a profession.

Most Pakistani climbers are clear-sighted about the evolving highaltitude scene in Pakistan. “I used to hear about foreign climbers early on, about them opening routes along with Pakistani high porters who would accompany them, but this has now changed,” said Shimshal climber Abdul Joshi. “Since the profession became commercial, things are different…Pakistanis and Nepalis do the work, but recognition is given to those who have paid money. Practically these foreigners are not climbers at all because they cannot do anything on their own.” There was a note of bitterness in his comments.

The tiny Balti village of Sadpara radiates layer upon layer of colour: the lush green of poplar forests, the tawny gold of ripening grain fields, the towering sandy-hued peaks that encircle the valley. Each autumn the valley explodes in brilliance as thousands of leaves shimmer in the low-angle sunlight that filters in over the ridgelines, now frosted a startling white. At 2600 m, Sadpara is an ideal training ground for climbers. In fact, almost twenty climbers currently working in Pakistan’s highest mountains are originally from that region.

One of the first climbers to make a name for himself was Hassan Asad Sadpara, the first Pakistani to climb six 8000ers, including one outside his country—Everest. And he did all except Everest without supplemental oxygen. Before he died of cancer in 2016, he achieved the dream of many Pakistani climbers—an education for his children.

His brother, Sadiq, first learned to move on steep ground by carrying loads of wood on his back across the slippery slopes above the village.

His introduction to climbing took place in 1999, when he summitted Gasherbrum I on his first attempt. For the next twenty-two years, Sadiq worked as a high-altitude climber, with teams from Poland, France, Italy, and others. He has climbed all of Pakistan’s 8,000ers, including Gasherbrum II a whopping six times. But he still needs to supplement his income with a small shop selling used mountaineering gear, growing and selling potatoes, and herding his livestock.

His introduction to climbing took place in 1999, when he summitted Gasherbrum I on his first attempt. For the next twenty-two years, Sadiq worked as a high-altitude climber, with teams from Poland, France, Italy, and others. He has climbed all of Pakistan’s 8,000ers, including Gasherbrum II a whopping six times. But he still needs to supplement his income with a small shop selling used mountaineering gear, growing and selling potatoes, and herding his livestock.

Ali Raza Sadpara, the mountaineer recognized by Little Hussain as one of the best in Pakistan, had climbed 8000 m peaks a staggering seventeen times—more than any Pakistani, living or deceased. Black hair—and lots of it—peeked out from under his hat, down the side of his face, culminating in an impressive beard. A wide grin softened his expressions.

An only son, Ali Raza was encouraged by his father to go to school and avoid the temptations of the mountains. But the school was destroyed by fire when he was in second grade, abruptly ending his education. Ali Raza joined his friends in the hills. “As children we were shepherds, which helped us acclimatize in the future,” he explained. “Small peaks of 4000 to 6000 m are located here, so we used to climb those hills on a daily basis tending to our livestock.” One thing led to another, and when he was sixteen years old, he worked as a low-level porter on the Concordia glacier. “Seeing K2 and Broad Peak made me think I could also climb these mammoth mountains,” he said. The following year he carried loads on Gasherbrum II, and two years later, he got his chance.

“In 1986 I worked as a high-altitude porter on K2…I did not even know how to wear a crampon or how to use the other equipment.” He subsequently went on to climb with people from all over the world.

“After working with us, the foreigners see that we are as good as the Nepalese,” he said.

There is one area of high-altitude climbing he learned to avoid: winter. “With Muhammad Ali Sadpara—Sadpara’s most famous climber—I went on a winter expedition to Broad Peak,” he said. “We attempted it thrice but failed. The wind picked us up, and although we were on the ropes, it blew us away. Thankfully the ropes did not break. We lay there for two hours before the winds died down and we could finally reach Camp 2.” Seeing the harsh winter conditions on Broad Peak, Ali Raza decided to forego the pleasure in the future. Otherwise, as he succinctly said, “death becomes inevitable.”

Optimistic about the field of mountaineering, Ali Raza encouraged three of his four sons to climb high. At fifty years of age, his only regret was his lack of sponsors. “Had I got them I would have climbed the fourteen 8000 m peaks,” he said. “I only managed to summit mountains in Pakistan, and I did those seventeen times.” In a 2021 conversation, he indicated that he had three to four more years of climbing left in him, and he had some specific plans in mind. “If I get a sponsor, I think I can climb all five of the 8000 m peaks in Pakistan in a single season.” But he added that if that wasn’t possible, he was happy to think of others in his village. “Making way for the next generation is critical,” he said.

The following summer, Ali Raza was training for a K2 expedition when he was critically injured in a fall. He died in the Skardu hospital a few weeks later. Pakistan’s mountaineering community was shocked by this premature death of one of Pakistan’s finest climbers, a man committed to coaching the next generation.

Pakistan’s superstar climber Sirbaz Khan was devastated by the news about his friend, fondly referring to Ali Raza as ustaadon ka ustaad—teacher of teachers.

When you consider the number of world-class climbers hailing from small villages like Sadpara, and the amount of experience resting in people such as Ali Raza and others, it seems terribly unfair that Pakistani climbers still have to learn on the job. Yet that’s the case, since there is little organizational or financial support for training programmes.

Murtaza Sadpara started climbing in 2021. “I had no training whatsoever,” he said. “I just had this desire to get into the field so I climbed Gasherbrum II with Ali Raza. He taught me as we proceeded up the mountain. Next year I will summit K2. I will try to learn a few things by then.” He added, “To stay fit, I break rocks for a living.”

Imtiaz Hussain Sadpara, nephew of Muhammad Ali Sadpara, also started to make his living breaking rocks to build roads—a brutal job that paid poorly. His first job as a high-altitude climber was in 2017 at the age of twenty-nine on Broad Peak. He reached the summit with his uncle. When he returned to Base Camp, additional clients who had not yet summitted asked Imtiaz to go back up with them. Ali Sadpara told him, “If you can do it, then go for it.” So Imtiaz did, climbing Broad Peak twice on his first expedition.

When he climbed K2 in 2018, Imtiaz was surprised that the work was easier than on Broad Peak. “I was with the rope-fixing team, together with one Sherpa and two Pakistanis,” he explained. “On Broad Peak, there were a lot of supplies that had to be carried up. On K2, we only had ropes to carry since we were with the fixing team.”

To date, Imtiaz has climbed Broad Peak three times and K2 once, all without supplemental oxygen. But when asked about his real love, he said, “I want to go on routes where there is rock climbing.” There are countless opportunities for first ascents or new routes on the steep, technical, 6000 and 7000 m peaks in Pakistan, but first ascents of more difficult, lower peaks don’t pay. Sponsors don’t exist. Consequently, and despite his personal passion, Imtiaz’s workplace is on the normal routes of the 8000 m peaks.

Another of Ali Sadpara’s nephews, Muhammad Sharif Sadpara, spent his youth with the Pakistani Army on the Siachen glacier. After fifteen years Sharif was looking for something different; his uncle suggested mountaineering. In 2021 he summitted K2, on his first attempt.

“I had heard about the Bottleneck and I asked the Sherpa ‘What is this Bottleneck and where is it?’” he said. “He told me we had crossed it ninety minutes ago.”

It’s a shame that dozens of world-class climbers from places like Hushe, Machulu, Shimshal, Sadpara, and more, are still unknown. These are strong, motivated, ambitious mountaineers. But their training is basic. Their second-hand equipment is outdated. Their families are poor. They look to their Sherpa counterparts in Nepal with envy. What they would give for the same training facilities, the same sponsorship opportunities, similar education levels—an equal playing field.

Summary

A few years ago, Bernadette began to research the lives of support staff in the Great Ranges, ie Himalaya and Karakoram. The resulting book, Alpine Rising: Sherpas, Baltis, and the Rise of Local Climbers in the Great Ranges will be published in March 2024 by Mountaineers Books. One of the chapters in the book is about mountaineers from the villages of Hushe, Sadpara, Machulu and Shimshal. Together with her trusted interview partner, Saqlain Muhammad, she has listened and learnt from these climbers who are living and working in the heights. This article is their story.

 

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