Journey to the Karakorum

The air was steaming, and the airport was chaotic in the summer of 1996 in Islamabad. Order seemed to be absent as travelers rushed the ticket desks and scrambled to find their bags. Out of the commotion arrived out Pakistani guide, who helped us with our bags and took us to a waiting van. My wife Vicki noted that he was more attentive to me than her, a motif that would repeat itself a number of times in this Muslim country.

Why were we in Pakistan? In those days it wasn’t a place many Americans visited as the young Pakistani women we befriended on the plane had told us. We had come as clients of Mountain Travel/Sobek to hike to the basecamp of K-2, the second highest peak in the world. For many years I had wanted to do this trek, which was considered on of the great hikes in the world. Finally we had decided to take the time, pay the money, and dedicate ourselves to being fit enough to walk over arduous terrain for many days.

Our guide brought us to our hotel where over the next day we met the other eight members of our hiking group. We had hiked in Nepal some years earlier with our head guide Sergio Fitz-Watkings, an experienced mountaineer from Mexico. We liked and trusted him. We knew one other member of the group, Barbara Futran from Squaw Valley, California. Barbara, who had been in Nepal with us, was a champion skier and marathon runner. She had been on the K-2 trip years before. She loved it so much she was back for more rock, ice, and extreme weather!

Before returning to the airport to fly to Skardu, the jumping off point to reach the trailhead, we had to outfit ourselves. We had brought all the hiking gear we needed, but our guides recommended we hike in a Salwar Kameez, the native garb of Pakistani people. Light and airy, not unlike pajamas these outfits were comfortable and cool in the 100 degree heat we encountered. It was sacrilegious for women to wear shorts in populated areas, so the outfits were practical in many ways.

The flight to Skardu was interesting. Specially trained pilots flew between the high mountains into Skardu. The town had a frontier feel with its dirt roads, open shops, and curious people. It is odd to be in a town where there are no women visible. Men drink coffee, chat, and work their shops while the women are nowhere to be seen. If we did see a female, regardless of age, we were warned not to take her picture. I did take a picture of some beautiful children who became our self appointed guides around Skardu. No one sanctioned me, but on trail a soldier stopped me from taking a picture of a bridge, the other subject we were “forbidden” to photograph.

That night our lodging was the Shangri-La Hotel, a beautiful facility on a lake a few miles from primitive Skardu. The contrast between the hotel and downtown Skardu was sharp to say the least.

The next day a number of jeeps arrived to drive us the 5 hours it would take to reach our first campsite at the beginning of the trail to K-2. The bumpy ride took us through numerous military checkpoints and small villages filled with curious children. I found the people of Northern Pakistan to be very friendly and polite. The fact that there was only one prison with a couple of inmates in this part of the country tells one something. The family social structure is so strong that very few people break rules.

Eventually our caravan of jeeps arrived at the trailhead to K-2! But first we had a problem! Our jeeps came to barriers on the road where avalanches had deposited tons of rock. We would walk around the rubble until we reached more jeeps that were permanently stranded between avalanches. We would drive to the next pile of stone, get out, walk around the rock and get in another jeep!

Finally we arrived at our first campsite. The porters set up our tents; we turned in early, and began the trek the next day. After some miles we came to the last outpost, the town of Askole. The town consisted of a number of interwoven stone huts that seemed to merge into each other. For years I had been reading books about the hostile natives of Askole who threw rocks at trekkers. As I walked by the village I didn’t see any rocks, but to the contrary people were waving and smiling at us. At one point a couple of teenaged boys approached me wanting to know, if I wanted to buy something. I pointed to the colorful hats they were wearing. They immediately beckoned me to follow them. I hesitated for a few seconds, had a good feeling about the boys, and followed them down into the homes. We walked for several minutes, and I realized I would have trouble finding my way out to the trail, if a problem developed.

The boys took me to their home, pulled out a family hat, and we transacted business. The price was right for both sides, and we all left smiling as they escorted me out to the trail, where I hustled to catch up with our group.

After leaving Askole our group of 10 trekkers, 2 guides, and many Balti porters began walking in earnest in the 100 degree heat. Our trail followed the fast flowing Braldu River, which emanated from the Baltoro Glacier, many days walk ahead. Our first night we stayed at Payou Camp, a primitive campground, where most of the trekking companies stopped. We ate, washed some clothes, and turned in early, as it was clear the days ahead would be arduous.

Back on trail the next day the heat was intense, but the walking was terrific. As we gained in altitude more and more mountains began to appear. This was exciting for me, since I had been reading mountaineering books for most of my life. I recognized many of the peaks by sight, and I looked forward to sharing my experiences with my friend John McCarron, a serious mountain climbing psychologist, who then resided in Telluride, Colorado.

Frequently we came to a stream that had to be crossed. Our guide Sergio and some porters would make a chain across the water, enabling us move across the slippery rocks. The current was often very strong, and a mishap would have meant trouble. Later we came to a large tributary of the Braldu. A permanent cable traversed the river, and our porters attached a basket to it that was big enough for one person. The process of pulling people across the river took much of the day, since one hundred people needed to cross. We made camp on the opposite bank of the river, and the next day we continued on our journey to K-2.

A day or two later I became sick, as most of the group did at one time or another. I slowed down and walked mile after mile by myself. At one point the trail had washed away, and the route became treacherous. A false step would have meant a fast slide into the Braldu some fifty yards beneath me.  A porter a couple of hundred yards ahead of me saw my hesitation and came back to help me around the trouble spot. I was grateful for his kindness.

On and on I walked. I caught up with Vicki at the beginning of the Baltoro Glacier a long mass of rock, snow, and ice. I limped along the best I could feeling nauseous and depleted. Vicki keep feeding me energy drinks and medication. After many hours we reached our camp for the night. I lay down in a tent that had been set up earlier and went to sleep for three hours.

The next day I felt much better, and the walking became even more spectacular. High famous Peaks such as the Trango Towers were clearly visible. It was like walking through a mountaineering hall of fame! The going was tough though, as the glacier steadily gained in elevation. The weather also had shifted. The hot desert temperatures faded away as we gained altitude, and now we walked in cold air and occasional bursts of rain.

Our native porters were friendly and helpful. They carried all the food and tents. Several goats made the journey to the glacier. At night the porters slept huddled together in a rock circle with a plastic tarp over their heads. They frequently sang Pakistani songs into the late night.

What kinds of people take these trips? In our group were two physicians, a nurse, a retired stock broker, an attorney turned math teacher, a realtor, two engineers, a retired chemist, and a wireless salesman. The average age was probably in the fifties, and most of the group had led active outdoor lives. On the whole we all got along and were brought closer by the harsh weather, difficult terrain, and primitive conditions.

There were a number of other groups from different countries on trail also. We kept intersecting with another American group, which was traveling with a budget British company. They started out looking fresh and eager like us. However, over time we noticed they gradually looked more and more haggard. They said their food wasn’t very good, and I wondered about their entire operation. I talked with one man named Larry, and a week into the trip I noticed that Larry had a bandage wrapped around his head. When I asked what happened, he said a flying stone in an avalanche, which had rained upon his group, had hit him. Larry had an Afro type of hairstyle, and he was forever dubbed as “Larry the hair guy” following his unfortunate brush with granite!

As we moved closer to Concordia, the junction of the Baltoro and Austin-Goodwin glacier, the mass of ice which is the route to K-2, I found myself spending more time with Dennis Cote from Montreal. A shy man, Dene’s personality sparkled as the trip progressed and he felt more psychologically safe.  His dry, irreverent humor was a treat. It was if I were walking along with Johnny Carson or Jay Leno. When we finally did reach Concordia, Dene and I would tour the different camps talking to the trekkers who had come from around the world to hike to K-2 basecamp. We kept tabs on “Larry the hair guy” who seemed to be looking more disheveled every day in addition to meeting new people from other cultures.

Our group had finally reached Concordia, the junction of the Baltoro Glacier and the Austin-Goodwin Glacier, the ice and stone highway to K-2. The day after our arrival was a rest day, and the weather was variable. One minute it would be sunny and clear, and the next we would be enveloped by a blizzard. I enjoyed lying in my tent and gazing at K-2 eight miles distant. Clouds were constantly whirling around the summit sometimes obscuring my view and other times illuminating it. I could make out the famous Abruzzi Ridge, the route used by the first successful party who climbed the mountain. I drifted in and out of sleep with the mountain framed in the triangle made by my tent opening. The whole experience had a surreal quality to it.

That night I slept fitfully, though I was warmly ensconced in my Marmot winter sleeping bag. At one point I had to use the bathroom tent, and I reluctantly walked the 100 yards across the rock in a snowstorm. Within the tent I slipped and in the process of self rescue I bent the poles of the tent. Quietly I walked back to my tent in the cold, windy night.

The next day we headed out for a day hike to K-2 basecamp. The day after that, weather permitting, we were slated to hike over a high pass to begin our trek out to Skardu via another route. It would be a rigorous hike. On the way to K-2 we passed Broad Peak, another 8000 meter peak. It was famous in its own right and had its own

 history. Throughout the morning messengers scurried back and forth informing everyone about climbers on K-2. Rumors were rampant. Some Koreans had fallen to their death. A German was lost. It was hard to know what was true.

At one point Sergio approached me and said he thought I should go back, as I looked too tired. He pointed out that tomorrow would be difficult, and he worried I wouldn’t have the strength to make the climb over the pass. At that place we were at approximately 16,000 feet, and tomorrow we would be going higher. I was tired, and I trusted Sergio’s judgment, so Vicki, a friend, and I headed back with one of our porters in the lead.

That night we had a big storm and heavy snow fell on the pass. The Pakistani co-leader, a position legislated by the government, wanted to try to go over the pass, as the logistics had been set up for that plan. However, Sergio prevailed, as he was convinced such a plan would put our lives at risk. Once the decision had been made, we broke camp and headed back down the Baltoro Glacier.

The trip out seemed to go faster. Of course we were going downhill, so that made a difference. As much as I loved the trip, at a certain point I wanted it to end, as eventually the altitude, extreme changes in weather, and hard physical exertion began to take its toll. The cohesiveness of our group, due partly to our competent leader, created a context of good will and humor that made the hike out more fun than drudgery. Even consistent rain storms weren’t demoralizing us.

After many days we hiked into the sun and were met by the jeeps. They took us back to the Shangri- La Hotel where Vicki and I had our own small building. After tent living for many days, this new home was luxurious. We ate great food, relaxed by a lake, and let our bodies recover from the hike.

In Northern Pakistan the adventure never really ends. Bad weather grounded our plane, so vans were called to drive us over the Karakorum Highway back to Islamabad. The drive would take 24 hours over some of the most radical terrain found anywhere. My stomach could attest to this as I spent a good part of the trip vomiting into a plastic bag as our van went down steep terrain with drop offs thousands of feet below.

The drive was split in half by a stay at a town along the way. We were now in a “lawless territory” so no one left the hotel. I believe this was the area where the famous American adventurer, Ned Gillette and his wife Susie Patterson, were shot by a bandit in their tent some years later. Susie was seriously wounded, and Ned died there.

Our night thankfully was not so eventful, and the next day we headed out for the capital city. That day we reached our hotel, where we swam, relaxed, and packed for the long flight home. I thought the rest of the trip would be cut and dry, but I should have known better.

The final afternoon we went shopping for rugs. Over tea the shop owner told us the history of the rugs we were viewing. He was gracious and dramatic. Macy’s and Nordstrom’s people could learn something here. It wasn’t a matter of buying a rug but how many! The experience itself was worth the cost of the beautiful rugs, which were reasonably priced.

The next day we went to the airport. Our seats had been given away. The airport personnel said we hadn’t confirmed out tickets, but I was never able to find if this was true of not. No amount of counter pounding or loud voices would prevail, and the group trudged back to the hotel as our guides tried to figure out what to do. Eventually we went to the central office of Pakistan International Airline, where we were reissued tickets. The problem was our plane would be leaving a couple of days later from Lahore, not Islamabad. Vicki and I were going to Boston, and we need a new connecting ticket from New York to Logan International Airport. The ticket agent said we were all set, and we all went back to the airport where we flew to Lahore. We settled into another five Star Hotel for more rest until we went to the airport. Had the adventure ended?

In Pakistan there aren’t enough jobs, so at the baggage check in there were about seven stations one had to pass through. People kept stamping my papers for reasons unknown. At one point a man tried to grab my rugs yelling, “Pakistani rugs can’t be taken out of the country!”  I thought this was an interesting statement, since to the best of my knowledge; rugs were a main export item of Pakistan. By now I was tired of bureaucratic hassle, and I was longing for walking in a snowstorm on the Baltoro Glacier. I grabbed the rugs and yelled I was taking them. That seemed to do the trick, and the man failed in his attempt to shake me down.

When we arrived in New York, I relaxed, but this wasn’t a wise move! First the customs man screamed at us for carrying rugs in burlap bags, which is how the Pakistani people send you home with their rugs. He quickly took out a sharp knife, and before we could say anything, he cut away the burlap, leaving us with two rugs to carry. We bought a duffel bag, and moved on.

When we went to the ticket counter to check in for our flight to Boston, the agent informed us that our ticket was a piece of paper that had no relationship to a flight! Apparently the agent in Pakistan wanted to get rid of us, so he gave us a pseudo ticket. It looked like a ticket, but no, it was worthless. We bought another ticket and flew to Boston.

As we approached my home city, I thought of our adventure. The bureaucratic hassles had mirrored the rigors of the trip. Nothing has been easy. Someone I met said, “That’s a big bite”, when I told him what we were doing. Such a description succinctly seemed to sum up our adventure.

There are times, when sleep is elusive, that it all comes back. In the twilight of my consciousness I hear the chanting of the Balti porters, I feel the hot sun at Askole and the biting cold of Concordia. I lay in my tent, and I watch the kaleidoscope that K-2 provides as the clouds, snow, and wind dance on its summit. I listen to the sound   of rain falling on my tent as I drift off to sleep.

Poem

The Orkney isles

I heard the waves of thunder on stone,

I saw green hills high above the ocean dark,

High in the sky the white gull soared,

I felt the cold of misty rain.

The cry of the white swan pierced the night,

Across the moors on dark winds,

I looked to see the North Star,

I felt the presence of holiness across the land.

When the sun came to the morning, we walked across the fields,

We walked to the place of the North Sea

We felt the wind around us,

We felt the rains dance before our eyes.