Tengkangpoche Part 2 - Potential Energy
Part 2
Click here for Part 1 and Part 3
Our tea house was a mud-lined building which squatted into the hillside of the Thengbo valley. Low clouds scudded over juniper bushes slowly browning with autumn. A stream burbled past some excellent bouldering. If it weren’t for the yaks grazing nearby and the occasional glimpse of snow-covered summits high above, it could’ve been the Scottish Highlands. This sense of familiarity, of home, relaxed me... only for the distant mountains to emerge from the clouds, reigniting my nerves.
Matt and I stooped through the door and blinked in the darkness, greeted by Tsongee Sherpa and her wide smile. A stove smoked yak shit and we sipped sweet masala tea. ‘This’ll do nicely for the next month!’ we agreed.
We were still adjusting to the friendliness of Sherku Sherpa, our obligatory trekking guide. I explained that we were all friends - he could relax. Sherku nodded, but still arranged the condiments around us as close as possible at every mealtime, and offered ‘tea, coffee, whatever you want,’ whenever we looked up.
The last three days were spent hiking to our tea house. Further into the mountains, past the precarious airstrip at Lukla (where I imagine the pilot has to think ‘let’s just give this a shot and try to land here’), everything has to be carried uphill on the backs of men and women. Sherpas use a wide strap over their foreheads to carry enormous loads. Matt and I sat by the trail and watched as a giant fridge-freezer hovered past us, two spindly legs staggering beneath it. We were dumbfounded. ‘Machines!’ I said. ‘It’s unbelievable, they’re so impressive. Imagine an entire village being carried into place.’
‘How much would you have to be paid to do that?’ Matt asked.
‘I think a fridge-freezer would flatten me, money or not!’ I replied. We could only stare in disbelief as the incredibly heavy (bundles of rebar) and incredibly unusual (flatscreen televisions) zig-zagged slowly into the hills.
I was also impressed at how many local people had climbed Everest - and how often! ‘I’ve climbed to the summit six times,’ one young shop owner in Namche Bazar told us.
‘And I’ve climbed it twelve,’ said another, happily. They chuckled as they animated dragging their clients along, or at the risks involved. ‘Much danger!’ one of them said, then laughed as if it was a bonus.
‘How much would you have to be paid?!’ Matt asked again.
‘I’m glad I’m not going towards Everest right now, money or not!’ I replied.
Just before we left WiFi in Thame village, Quentin messaged me saying he was rather upset that we might try Tengkangpoche. He’d seen a post by our agent with the caption ‘Tengkangpoche Expd.’ I explained that we had put that mountain on our permit because it was easiest and cheapest, and it was just one of the many options we had in mind (including the mountain’s north face, rather than its pillar). I also said we didn’t want to ‘steal’ his mountain and I respected that he had put a lot of effort into it. Since I had no idea if we’d actually climb anything, I suggested it was better to talk again at the end of our trip. In the meantime, our decision-making would be influenced by conditions and motivation: the priority is always to come back safe and have fun.
Once in Thengbo, the quietness allowed us to focus. We switched off our phones - an act I really enjoy during my trips - and began to feel the rhythm of the mountains. We scoped our surroundings through our budget binoculars. Down valley, Kwande appeared like a fortress: a bulk of rock and ice. Kongde Ri rose in a jumble of walls, like a ‘double Grandes Jorasses.’ At the head of the cirque, Tengi Ragu Tau stood tall and imposing. And straight in front of us, Tengkangpoche soared. It reminded me of Les Drus in Chamonix - a pointed spire ready to blast off, almost ripping the fabric of the sky.
We stood outside our tea house in the cool of the morning, coffees in hand. ‘Angel’ by Massive Attack thundered through the speaker, a dark and brewing song which built into a screaming electric guitar, like a storm of energy. ‘Belter,’ Matt commented.
‘Monster,’ I replied. Our fingers traced imaginary lines up the mountains, but our uncertainty left them hanging in the air to float with our unfinished sentences. ‘If you go up that ramp system, maybe you can turn that corner…?’
Eventually we drifted back to earth, our eyes and minds not yet ready to be amongst the summits, not yet daring to believe. Instead, shouldering packs, we trudged up the valley to acclimatise.
***
With more red blood cells, we returned to Thame village for WiFi and hot showers. (I’m used to a remote base camp without luxuries, whereas this ‘tea house style’ was a treat!). A weather window appeared on our forecasts; Tengkangpoche’s north-east pillar seemed to be the most suitable objective. Of all the available peaks, it was in the best condition, with dry rock and little snow; it also looked like the most impressive and obvious. Our minds were slightly intimidated, since Quentin and Juho had found a lot of hard free and aid climbing. We were also somewhat hesitant, since Quentin had tried it twice before and invested a lot of effort, but we reasoned we’d ‘have a look’ with low expectations. Matt and I packed our bags with quiet apprehension, minimising gear as much as possible. I was optimistic - we had a good partnership - but apprehensive. Could we climb so many hard pitches, day after day?
By first light the following day we stood at the base of the pillar. Sherku had kindly carried a bag up the grassy slopes too. Now, with everything inside, our packs weighed about 17 kilos (!) each. I worried we had too much junk, but reasoned that big routes need big bags.
We scrambled up easy slabs until steeper ground called for the rope. It was strangely reminiscent of Idwal Slabs in north Wales, comforting me. Our double boots clunked loudly against the compact granite. Matt led, stretched out on smooth ripples of stone. ‘Shit!’ he shouted, skidding and tumbling down the rock. Thankfully his fall was stopped by his last piece of gear. ‘Sorry man,’ he said as he dusted himself off.
‘You rocket!’ I teased when I saw he was fine.
Moving together along ledge systems and zig-zagging up the face, the terrain grew steeper and the walls began to loom. Transitioning to crampons and axes, we raced up snow and ice through a feature we’d nicknamed ‘the smiles’; two upward arcs of snow we saw from base camp. Above, the impressive rock walls were cut by large snow terraces, like thin layers within a cake. We hoped we would find comfortable bivies at the terraces.
Around noon, we reached a snow terrace where previous teams had bivied. ‘We can’t stop here… it’s only 12!’ Matt and I agreed. I’m all for taking it slow and stopping early on these Himalayan marathons, but sleeping there seemed counter-productive. We shrugged on our giant red backpacks again and weaved back left. Just before the next snow terrace, one long mixed pitch had me hot and pumped, cursing the strangely compact-yet-loose granite. I left my backpack on a piece of gear about 15 metres from the belay, so Matt had to second the pitch whilst dragging it. ‘You rocket,’ he replied, and we smiled.
Stomping out our first bivy in the snow, the sun painted the surroundings in gold. Mt. Everest, Makalu, Cho Oyu and hundreds of other impressive peaks smouldered. ‘I guess that’s Everest!’ I said, pointing to the highest peak. ‘You think?!’ Matt teased. ‘It looks strangely close… funny to see it in reality, and to think it’s made of snow and rock, just like everything else.’ We also saw Quentin’s backpack from his attempt in the spring, sympathising for him and Jesse; they’d put in a good effort but had had bad luck with the weather. We looked inside then left it alone. Diving into the tent, we tried not to think about the 300-meter headwall looming above.
The next day we aimed to fix our single and tagline ropes up the lower headwall. After an hour of glorious sunshine, we shuddered in fridge-like temperatures again. ‘It looks like the Dawn Wall,’ I thought ominously. I started aid climbing up sporadic crack systems, patches of ice and my limited aid experience making things slow. On the second pitch, after about 20 metres, I saw an in situ copperhead and gingerly weighted it. Using my axe to pull up, I suddenly felt a crunch. The axe ripped, I slumped onto the copperhead and - effortlessly - it pulled out. I was caught by a good cam some way down the wall, but scraped my little finger on the rock in the process. Blood dripped out of a deep cut and I could wiggle the nail around.
Bandaging it back at the bivy, we were quiet. ‘You rocket!’ Matt said. ‘Let’s keep climbing for now’ we agreed, jumaring back to my pitiful highpoint. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen off and scraped my little finger - of all things! My ego was the most bruised, but we were also concerned about the risk of infection.
Matt led three more pitches until, late in the afternoon, we had the inevitable conversation.
‘What do you think?’ Matt asked. Climbers always start an awkward conversation like this; the words are heavy, loaded with subtext. Whenever the situation gets bad, this is the weighted start to a painful conversation of whether to climb or bail.
‘I can only jumar with a giant mitt, and my finger hurts but it’s ok. Sorry mate. Shit. Maybe we could keep going, but you’d have to lead a lot? I guess it really needs a doctor’
‘I think it needs medical attention. You don’t want it to get infected and we have about five more days to go.’
‘Mmmm. I think you’re right… Double shit!’
We rapped down to our bivy, pulling the ropes. The following day we descended, taking all our gear with us. With heavy legs and quiet thoughts, we walked to Thame in search of a doctor.
