Relax - This Will Hurt
Ally Swinton on a classically poor bivy - Day 3 (6300m) on The Great Game, Koyo Zom (6872m), Pakistan.
The rope hadn’t moved in an age. I watched the blood-red sun slowly melt into the horizon to pass the time. All around me, mountaintops burnt like dying flames in the last light.
I looked down at brooding, scraggy clouds which hung over the valley. Far below, the long tongue of a glacier was already in shadow. Cold. Dark. Night approached. The setting sun drew all warmth and all life from the visible world and I shivered, zipping up my jacket. The hush of dusk settled into the mountains.
It doesn’t matter where: this could have been Le Dru in Chamonix, Mt. Alberta in Canada or Latok 1 in Pakistan. It always feels the same, the urgency at the end of the day. Hurry! It’s getting dark! But then I remember to relax a little: we’re committed to our fate now. We’re in for the ride, climbing into the night.
I faced west, looking to the delicious, life-giving fireball that our earth spins around. I tried to soak in those final moments. Even though the sun didn’t actually reach me, I tried to imagine what it was like to be warm, to be calm. Still - it could’ve been worse. I thought of the story about two climbers on the final pitch below Cerro Torre’s Patagonian summit: ‘as the leader set off from the belay, the sun began to set. As the leader shouted ‘safe,’ the sun began to rise…!’
In recent years, the fast-approaching night now signifies a calming. I used to worry. I used to be concerned about the unknowns of darkness. Stress levels would rise, the fear growing in my stomach like butterflies fighting to escape. What happens now? Where will we sleep? How will we see? Now, I worry ever-so-slightly less. ‘Everybody be cool,’ remember? I’ve accepted the evening, and we climb into the night.
(I’ve also come to realise my short-term memory (or ‘selective’ memory) really helps for alpinism. I tend to forget the terrible nights, the hot aches and the slow pace, and instead only remember the good times - how easy!)
In fact, what will happen has already happened - has already begun. If we were going to have reached the top today, we would’ve done it by now. If this route was going to be over, we’d have finished by now. There’s always an extra ridge, an unexpected final crux (classic ‘alpine bullshit’ again). So we’re still here, the rope still hadn’t moved, and the sun has kissed us goodnight. Which means it’s now time to embrace the worst part.
Of course, climbing at night is painful. There’s a cold, biting deep into layers. There’s an uncertainty of which way to go, head-torches panning the rock above like a lighthouse faintly flashing in a storm. There’s the hoping, wishing for a flat place to sleep - but finding nothing. After being awake for about 24 hours, my thoughts slow down, clouded by tiredness. After 30 hours, my brain creates funky images with the lichen growing on the granite.
***
‘It’s not this way,’ are some of the worst words you can hear whilst climbing in the dark. I also dislike, ‘this’ll have to do.’ One winter, Pete Graham and I were near the top of the Walker Spur on the Grandes Jorasses when a sudden storm rolled in. My headtorch poked feebly into the darkness. Fat snowflakes swirled hypnotically. ‘I can’t see shit,’ I shouted to Pete, although he couldn’t hear shit either. I looked down at my feet and the sloping micro-ledge which I stood on, and resigned.
‘This’ll have to do,’ I announced when Pete joined me. We simply sat down, slumping onto the ledge, pulling our yellow bivy bag over our heads. This custom-made bag was created by Rick, Pete’s dad. For some reason, it was so small it could cover our heads or our feet - but not both at the same time. We chose heads.
The wet fabric flapped against my face like a loose sail in a storm, drumming to the beat of the wind. Pete kept falling asleep whilst I tried to feed him a Snickers bar, and I wondered if we’d be frozen into this terrible perch. We pulled mushy sleeping bags over our boots and I began to worry.
A sling pulled hard against my harness, stopping me from slipping off the shitty ledge. We sat like grim gargoyles, exhausted from three days of climbing this mountain. Unable to keep my eyes open, my head slumped forwards…
…I must be in Cornwall - the rural, coastal south-west of England - and I must be dreaming. A cliff-top path is being battered by an autumnal storm. The sea rages into giant breakers. I could be 12 years old, which would make my sisters ten and eight; Douglas is six. Anchored in arm to our parents, we penguin-waddle along the cliff-top path in a mixture of fear and excitement. The wind fills our jackets and we feel as if we’re flying, like our kites on the beach.
Atlantic surf crashes into the coast, white spray booming. I can easily imagine a ship wrecking against these rocks. Wind pulls tears from my eyes, streaking down numb cheeks. My body - still on the Walker Spur - is in the same storm, but my brain is re-living a childhood memory.
More rain arrives on the cliff-top path. I tighten my hand in Dad’s. Fat drops smack wet waterproofs. ‘It’s just a storm’ he shouts. ‘It’ll pass, sooner or later!’ A gust slams my hood down over my eyes…
…and suddenly I wake like I’ve been hit by lightning. Pete huddles next to me. Out. Cold. My head-torch shines into the yellow fabric, still slapping me in the face. I switch it off and imagine I’m sport climbing in the sunshine. This will pass, I think.
By morning, the storm has blown itself out. Ice crystals cover our jackets, the sleeping bags, the rock. We joke we were just waiting for Scottish winter conditions. We sit upright and crack out of our icy shells. Dusting ourselves off, we look to the summit ridge just 60 metres above. Sunlight beckons. Our faces crack and we can’t help but smile.
***
Actually, I can’t decide about climbing at night. Sometimes it feels like the end of the world, full of fear and uncertainty. But then again, lost in the small circle of light from my head-torch, climbing at night isn’t all bad. Often, the thought of night is worse that it’s bite. Once the inevitable lack of sleep has been embraced, I can usually relax. And from the (dis)comfort of a bivy, I can look out from the mountain and watch the stars filling the sky. Just as soon as I’ve picked out the stars I recognise, I collapse and fall asleep. Then I wake to find they’ve moved… and just like that, the night has passed.
A selection of (un)enjoyable moments…
