This article first appeared in the Army Mountaineering Association Journal 2020/2021

Climbing amongst the world’s biggest mountains left me breathless - although only from the altitude. As my two Slovenian friends, Luka and Aleš, climbed towards me near the summit of Latok 1 (7145m), I glanced around at the giants which I should’ve been able to see in the distance. K2, Nanga Parbat and other famous high peaks were somewhere around us. They should’ve unfolded like a magic carpet into the distance, layers of jagged teeth jutting through Pakistan. Instead, thin clouds veiled the longed-for views; we could have been in Scotland. Snowflakes fell on my down jacket and collected in the creases. Mountain Equipment later reminded me it’s a down jacket designed for the Alps in winter - not for pushing above 7000 metres in a blizzard. Hand over hand, I pulled up the half rope which joined me to my friends. There was no belay on the summit snow slopes.

Reflecting on climbing a first ascent on Latok 1 in 2018, I realised our ascent was a culmination of nearly a decade of alpine climbing, thankfully (luckily) well-structured and progressively more adventurous. I had climbed as much as possible in all aspects for many years, sculpting my life by the simple act of ascent. Consciously - and sometimes sub-consciously - I had dedicated my life to climbing: I’d worked in industries which complemented this lifestyle, such as outdoor instructing and rope access. I’d forgone a stable income or even a reliable place to live. These didn’t feel like sacrifices, but I suppose they were in some way.

After reaching the summit of Latok 1, and once we’d descended (over the course of dozens of abseils, two days and one night), I allowed myself to feel some satisfaction from the sacrifices paying off. Plus, I was now able to get drunk after just one beer!

Aleš and Luka the day before launching on Latok 1

But what does climbing mean? It’s a relatively pointless activity, particularly when you venture into the mountains. Yet the style in which you climb matters - ask a mountaineer what they’d think if someone took a helicopter ride to top, and then declared themselves ‘the best.’ Thus, Luka, Ales and I were shocked to be awarded the 2019 Piolet d’Or award (the Golden Ice Axe) for our route on Latok 1. I appreciate when friends say ‘nice one,’ and recognise the years of training and dedication which stands behind such a climb, but it felt strange to have someone rank our ascent above others and to call us ‘the best.’

I was unable to accept the Piolet d’Or in the autumn of 2019 because I was back in Pakistan, this time with four British mates. We’d talked about how cool it’d be to share a Base Camp with a big group, to explore a quiet area of the mountains, and to share the collective energy towards an objective. Thankfully, Will Sim put our shit-talking into action, and ‘re-discovered’ the Hindu Raj range. This long-forgotten and wild area is an extension of the Karakoram, which is itself an extension of the Himalayas. A few teams had climbed on a mountain called Koyo Zom (6872m) in the 1960s (even a British group!) but otherwise, these peaks of golden granite and curving ridge-lines had been left to the remote shepherds and famers of the Yakhun Valley. Since this was the far north of the country, on one side of the valley lay Pakistan; the other Afghanistan, with Tajikistan and China close by.

As I progressed through British trad grades over the years, and transferred this ability into ice, mixed and alpine climbing, I knew several things. Firstly, I’m partly motivated by difficulty - I don’t want to slog up snow slopes, I want to climb! My psyche is for big, high and inspiring mountains, the harder the better. I realised a while ago that in order to meet my expectations, I needed a decent standard of technical rock climbing in order to create a solid foundation, which I could then take to impressive mountains and high altitude.

Where better to become a solid trad climber than the UK? Our island is famous for fish and chips, rainy weather, and amazing trad climbing. Thanks to our diverse rock types, which are often fractured and not as bountiful as European limestone, we protect our little cliffs and fiddle in wires into their cracks. I was ‘based’ in North Wales for around five years, which gave me time to progress through the grades, both onsighting and headpointing classic climbs above the sea or in the mountains.

Gogarth, on the north-western tip of Wales, is one of the best trad sea cliffs in the world. It’s a pumpy, atmospheric and physical place, all crashing waves and unlikely climbs. For many years, as I ticked my way through classic routes at Gogarth between alpine expeditions, I wondered if I could take the difficulty of Gogarth to high altitude. Could I combine the technical challenge of E6s and E7s with the big mountains? Would that be too audacious, or too hard?

In Pakistan, our team of five watched the north-west face of Koyo Zom as it set on fire in the evening light. From the bergschrund, an icefield shot into an enormous headwall of granite, reminiscent of Gogarth’s Main Cliff - only five times as large and at 6500 metres above sea level. We imagined threading our way through sections of ice and rock, before - somehow - breaking through the headwall and onto the summit slopes. It looked improbable, hard and pretty outrageous… but exactly what I wanted (and feared!) most. We had to try.

As with all expeditions, the journey from concept, months beforehand, to acclimatised and ready to launch for a route is very uncertain. As it turned out, Ally and I were psyched for the north-west face of Koyo Zom, whilst Uisdean, John and Will went for the north-east ridge. We waved goodbye after acclimatising and hoped to meet on the summit again.

On our third day, Ally and I craned our necks up from the belay. The enormous headwall overhung us and we could see an unlikely line through the ‘3D’ climbing of corners and fins, just like at Gogarth. As the sun came round onto the face in the afternoon, I gingerly pulled on my rock shoes at 6200 metres, and began questing upwards. I bridged between corners, placing encouraging gear as I went, whooping in disbelief at our position. I wiggled out a loose stone and threw it over my shoulder; it fell in space for about a thousand metres before hitting the glacier below. ‘Get some!’ I shouted as I space-walked. Before long, however, I was sitting on a cam and breathing heavily - my body was fully aware of our altitude!

Ally and I reached the summit on our fifth day of climbing. Hypoxic and euphoric, bent double with heaving lungs, we embraced on the snowy crest of Koyo Zom. White-capped peaks stretched into the horizon of Central Asia, and I imagined long-forgotten deserts, nomads and blank areas of the mountaineering map. It felt like the highest of highs: to climb a tricky new route at high altitude.

Our descent from Koyo Zom is another story. After losing 1000 metres in altitude, we reached a large glacier and bivied. The following day, Ally and I roped up and walked down the glacier. It quickly became intense, with saggy snow bridges and our feet punching into crevasses. In an unlucky instant, Ally fell through a snow bridge and rattled down a crevasse. I managed to pull him out using a 3:1 pulley system and give him first aid. Despite the remoteness and unlikely prospect of a helicopter rescue, I knew Ally needed attention to a bleeding head wound, trauma to his leg and his arm. I pressed the SOS button on our Garmin InReach.

In the ensuing 27 hours, I looked after Ally as I’m sure he would look after me. I’ll simply say the night was incredibly long and stressful. I’m glad Ally has a tough head - both figuratively and literally! The helicopter rescue, recovery and eventual reunion with the rest of the team in Islamabad, many days later was also an experience.

***

Ally’s accident reminded us that the most important thing is to come home safe, and I’m glad our time in the mountains ended well. Overall, our expedition was a very enjoyable experience and we’ve remained good mates. But now, we have a new dimension to climbing - we find ourselves ‘locked’ in our own homes, fighting the unseen enemy of covid-19. Our freedom, appreciation of nature and the outdoors, and the physical and mental challenges of climbing are genuine treasures and I hope we can all enjoy them again soon. It’s been an interesting pause for reflection: ‘how much do I enjoy climbing?’ I’ve realised it’s been a constant chord throughout my life, and especially so in the last decade. I’ve been lucky to have travelled, trained and tried my hardest on some of the most inspiring climbs and mountains around the world. Many of us have taken this for granted. However, I can be sure to fully appreciate the harmony of these treasures now!

The Chord