Pushing It - Lessons from Trying and Bailing in Pakistan

This piece first appeared on UKClimbing.com on 18th October 2023

Base Camp, with the K6 peaks in the background.

For my seventh trip to the Greater Ranges, I teamed up with Tad McCrea. He's a tall, strong Californian and likes to loudly say, 'RESPECT!' We chose the Charakusa valley in Pakistan. I'd wanted to visit for a long time, attracted by the ~7000-metre peaks like K6, K7, and Link Sar. But surrounding the idyllic, flat base camp are everything from granite bouldering, cragging, big walls, and alpine routes of every flavour.
Without a fixed objective, Tad and I kept an open mind about which routes and mountains we'd like to climb. We packed for all sorts of adventures. Just hours before our departure date, we received worrying messages from our agent, Ali Saltoro: 'Can you postpone your flights?' Alarm bells rang.
'Dude!' Ghafoor greeted me in Skardu, one of the last towns before the more inhospitable life in the mountains. He's another agent and is primarily used by Americans, hence his happy greeting. After agreeing to be our agent, he had passed us to Ali Saltoro, which created all sorts of problems and no doubt contributed to the delay in our peak permit (an expensive and pointless formality which is usually sorted months in advance.) Ghafoor was not stressed. 'No problem, dude. Permit comes when it comes.'

Soon, we reached Hushe, the last village before our journey into the mountains, but weren't allowed to continue because we still hadn't received the permit. We were at the mercy of the Ministry of Tourism, and receiving our first lesson of the trip: be cool.

'This is Pakistan,' we mused about the unique issues in this country. It's a wonderful, wild place, but the bureaucracy can sometimes be infuriatingly slow. At least we weren't battling the Ministry for two weeks, like expeditions of old. We acclimatised between bouts of sickness, but the permit continued to give us more headaches than the altitude. This was the second lesson of the trip: shit happens (sometimes unexpectedly!).
When Tad and I finally arrived in the Charakusa base camp, we eagerly pitched our tents on the smooth gravel, amongst purple and blue flowers. But we were soon distracted, gawking at the sharp mountains surrounding us. This was one of the most impressive arenas of pointed peaks I'd ever seen, every granite spire ending in a defined summit. The K6 and K7 massifs loomed like jewels in the crown.

'HA!' Tad's laugh rang out around our base camp, full of joy. I continued brushing crimps on the pull-up boulder nearby and smiled. As we discussed how to acclimatise, we found the mountains more complicated than they had appeared in photos. Seracs threatened huge portions of most faces, and ridge lines were capped with snowy meringues poised to fall.
From the glacier, we watched line after proposed line avalanche. 'There goes the north face of K6,' I said as a particularly big slide fell down the last remaining line I had considered. At least the evidence was concrete and it was easy to rule these objectives out, but plenty more existed. This was the third lesson of our trip: when shit happens, be cool.
Tad and I acclimatised on the accessible Solu Peak (~6050m), with the idea being to sleep 1000 metres lower than the target summit. Five nights later we dumped our packs into the dust at base camp. Much had changed here. We'd previously been the only team in the area, sitting and eating on the floor of the kitchen tent. Now there were three other teams in base camp: a French and an American group hidden 500 metres away, and Americans Jeff and Priti sharing our area. They brought two Mess Tents, chairs, tables, a different cook, and all sorts of electronics and luxuries. Our standard of living improved greatly.

I'd never shared a base camp like this before; normally I prefer to enjoy the mountains with just my climbing partners. But everyone was welcoming, friendly, and had different objectives, so we got along well. Unexpectedly, even our Liaison Officer was helpful, intelligent, and not demanding. We re-read Voytek Kurtyka's book 'The Art of Freedom' by Bernadette McDonald, enjoying the quotes:

"Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final." Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours.

"Those who sacrifice efficiency over beauty get what they deserve." - Tom Robbins.

"If true compassion for others is awakened, you start ignoring your own misery." - Voytek.

"If the dream turns into public ambition, it's very bad for the dream." - Voytek.

Bouldering at Base camp. This was an excellent way of keeping some rock fitness. © Tad McCrea

After resting and eating for a few days, we trained like bastards. We pulled and pushed and gasped on the boulders, now more comfortable with the altitude. We wanted to be questing high up there; we needed to be alpine climbing. A micro-window of good weather appeared, so we scouted K7's south face. This had become one of our main objectives, since it looked cool, safe, and involved hard climbing.
Starting up the couloir taken by Hayden Kennedy, Urban Novak and Kyle Dempster during their attempt in 2011 and ascent in 2012, we climbed until the way split in three. We veered right to a 120-metre high icefall because it looked too attractive to pass. Between snow flurries, we enjoyed the chewy ice, marvelling at its steepness. We rapped down and returned to base camp, satisfied that we'd gained knowledge about the approach, the mountain, and that we'd made the most of the poor weather.

***

Another window appeared on the forecast, the rumour rippling through base camp like this was Chamonix. Unlike the other teams, Tad and I weren't paying a weather forecaster, mostly because Rob Smith had kindly agreed to send us basic updates. I prefer simple information, since in my experience about 75% of the time the forecasts seem to be inaccurate (these are the big mountains, after all). Nonetheless, it's great to have an idea of the weather.

Tad and I packed our bags, meticulously questioning every item. Modern equipment is incredible: we were probably one kilogram lighter than the same equipment from a decade ago, just thanks to new designs and technologies. I enjoy refining and experimenting with my gear - although this is best done back home in the Alps!
We didn't have a clear plan of attack about what we wanted to do in the mountains. Instead, we had options which would become apparent to us as we climbed. Ambitious attempts and ascents involve so much 'unknown' and often take multiple attempts, so we had to stay flexible. We remembered another important lesson: always have an escape plan.

My journal from the attempt reads:
Day 1. We approached the base of K7's south face amongst snow and sunshine, laughing at the supposed fair weather. Pitching the tent beneath the couloir, in the same location as last week, there was no evidence of our previous platform; the snow had accumulated over a metre on this slope. We pretended to sleep as the weather flickered, just as my mind alternated between psyched and scared.
Day 2: Our boots kicked rhythmically into the ice as we launched into the couloir, heads filled with thoughts of 'up!' It's always easier to focus on the activity of climbing when moving, but occasional waves of spindrift thundered down, making us sprint for the sidewalls.

Steep, chewy ice. We took around 8 ice screws, which is more than I would normally take on an alpine route, but this time anticipated a lot more ice. © Tad McCrea

'Just tell me when there's ten metres of rope left; I don't want to stop until I have to,' I said to Tad. He was strong, and we punched through sheer steps of ice quicker than our reconnaissance attempt the previous week. When the couloir split, this time we chose to go straight up, opting for a more direct path towards the summit. Soon, we were beneath a 100-metre high icefall with vertical sections.
But the sun was shining strongly this morning, sending sudden spindrift and blocks of ice down. 'Shit,' I said obviously, as we hunkered at a belay to the side. It was as if we were at the wrong end of a grain silo which was emptying on us.
I tried to find a safe line up through the icefall but got hit several times by chunks of ice. The pain was a flash of heat and stung like hell. But I later learned another lesson: this was not 'real' pain. It was temporary and was felt most sharply in the mind. I swore some more, and down climbed back to the belay. To continue climbing risked experiencing real pain.
Tad and I found shelter, waited, and debated. The spindrift and ice thundered down; the safest thing was to wait until the cool of the next morning. We felt a little annoyed our momentum had been cut short. We learnt it was best to have started very early.

We slept well, partly because we had taken inflatable mattresses instead of foam ones. The mats were warm and comfortable, but I wondered if a younger me would have been impressed that we'd prioritised sleep and recovery, or called us soft. I told myself it was the former, and we set the alarm for Very Early.

Day 3: Steep ice! I shook my arms intermittently, warming my fingers and shifting the pump in my forearms. Beneath my boots, the icefall dropped almost vertically down to Tad; this was wild! It's rare to find such steep and prolonged ice in the mountains, and I was glad we'd taken so many ice screws. The pitches were brilliant and I whooped in delight, such climbing meant we were pushing the limits of our comfort and risk slightly. The ice was chewy and my picks sunk deeply the first time I swung. At the belay, I hauled the bags and massaged my forearms, occasionally breathless at our altitude of ~6100 metres.

Getting pumped at around 6000m on steep ice. © Tad McCrea

Hitting the col at the top of the couloir a few hours later, I shivered. The weather had changed from hot sun to heavy Scottish spindrift. We considered one of our original ideas: to summit K7 via the east ridge. In the clouds, snow, and freezing temperatures, it looked hard and didn't appeal. 'We could always try K7 Central nearby…' we discussed. The peak had been nicknamed 'The MoFo' by Steve House. I agreed that the spire was impressive.
We looked down from the col. On the other side was a large flat glacier - you could land a plane on it! 'Wait a second, is that…?' Tad said. In the distance, between the clouds, we could see two figures who had just popped up from the north face of K7. It was Jeff and Priti Wright just coming onto the flat area, at exactly the same moment as we had arrived. 'HA!' Laughed Tad.
Jeff and Priti had made a long loop around the northern side of the mountain, just like in 2022, and were on their 10th day out from base camp. What a coincidence! K7 Central won our motivation; we threw our ropes down the slope and rapped to the glacier, soon surreally camping on the flat.

Day 4: We slogged like slugs through heavy snow. The glacier rose into a few pitches of ice, then to a col beneath K7 Central. Greeting Jeff and Priti, I took off my sunglasses and began climbing. The visibility was barely 60 metres, with snow falling, and I preferred to clearly see the ice. A few hours later we were cosily huddled in the tent, but my eyes began to feel like they were full of sand. 'Hmm… I think I've made an L,' I said to Tad. 'No worries, dude,' he said, remaining psyched and optimistic. Jeff and Priti arrived later that evening.
Day 5: Tapping the tent poles, snow slid gently down the walls. We laughed at our 'good weather window.' Unzipping the door, K7 Central was a giant pyramid which filled the view. The 200-metre granite tower would ideally be dry, so you could rock climb it. Instead we saw cruddy snow filling the cracks… but we also saw a line of weaknesses which might take us to the top. The coffee didn't help us much this morning, our minds slow. Sometimes these big alpine routes involve managing your mental and physical decline, dealing with the altitude and cumulative fatigue, until you ideally reach the summit.

Sore eyes! Always keep your sunglasses on. © Tad McCrea

The crux of this route was, as usual, a combination of factors. We were running out of time, our international flights fast approaching. We 'could' miss them but it would be very expensive to buy more. The weather window was clearly nowhere near as good as forecast and was said to get steadily worse. Plus, my eyes were sore and I'd obviously slightly damaged them from not wearing my sunglasses yesterday. I'd made such a stupid mistake! Tad was strong but wasn't psyched to lead everything; the last part did look very hard, requiring a bigger rack than ours. The crux of this mountain is certainly these last 200 metres.
We knew all this, but we knew we still wanted to try.

Jeff and Priti had decided to bail and wished us luck. We invited them to join and also suggested a relatively safe descent route. Incredibly, they went down the couloir directly under K7 Central. This is one of the most dangerous things I've ever seen, with huge seracs threatening the entire route, and they were doing it for the second year in a row.
Tad started up K7 Central. Soon we were a few pitches up. I was annoyed that I wasn't able to do more of my share of the leading; it would take me much longer and be less safe since my eyes were feeling very weird. At Tad's highest belay we started the horrible discussion of bailing. Although it can be (and in this case was) the wise decision, I really dislike bailing. To come so far, to invest so much, and then to bail so close! If we'd had more time, I think we would have rested that day, got fired up again, then attacked the next day. Or if the weather window had arrived a few days earlier…
Anyway, we bailed. In a climbing sense, this isn't a story with a Hollywood ending. But actually… it is.

Starting our descent. We used a lot of ‘ghost V-threads.’ © Tad McCrea

As we rappelled back to the tent, I made peace with our attempt. It's best not to second-judge decisions made in the mountains. I think we made a good call, a safe call. It's important to come back - and as friends. Perhaps we should have continued up K7 first, rather than being 'distracted' by K7 Central? Was it counter-productive to have several options? I think it can be sometimes, and to have clear focus is usually an advantage… but in this instance I think it's only clear in hindsight. We acted with the best information and intentions throughout.
Back at the tent, we abseiled back to the flat glacier on the east side of the mountain, then trudged to a col leading to the glacier beneath K7's south face. We abseiled again, pounding in pitons as we raced the night (it won, obviously). It was with relief that we reached the snow and crashed into our tent around midnight.
The next day, fuelled by double coffee, we walked back to base camp. We overtook Jeff and Priti in the last hour back to home. I breathed a sigh of relief—they'd had a smooth descent.

Priti and Jeff, Tad, me and Ibrahim. © Tad McCrea

Our base camp cooks were happy to see us. A few hours later, ten porters arrived as scheduled. It felt strange to be leaving. Had we spent six days or six weeks here? I could stay in the Charakusa all summer, but I was also keen to see my girlfriend Christelle and return home.
Before the sun had even risen the next morning, porters were shouldering our bags and silently walking downhill, towards the nearest village. The whirlwind journey towards home had begun.
Reflecting back home, I think we should consider our attempt properly. The goal is always to climb the route in good style to the summit, and descend safely. Anything less is something else, even when going 95% of the distance (as Tad and I did on K7 Central). The top itself isn't the prize, otherwise we could just get a helicopter up there.
On this mountain, the last 5% is certainly the hardest. But this doesn't mean our efforts were wasted; quite the opposite. We still climbed and climbed for six days, worked well as a team, navigating steep ice and scrappy mixed. We found a unique way to helter-skelter around K7 to reach the Central summit. I'm pleased with our efforts.
We could have started earlier some days, been faster at getting out of bed, and I could've avoided snow-blinding myself. We could have had a better weather window and had better conditions. But life is full of 'could haves' and, in ambitious alpine objectives, the chance of reaching the top is slim. You just have to try as hard as possible. Hopefully, next time, we'll have more luck, and will learn from these small lessons imparted throughout our trip.
Thanks for a great adventure, Tad!