K2 (40 page)

In the morning, Rutkiewicz felt groggy and her balance was off, but she recognized the urgency of getting down the mountain. Parmentier set off first, but both Liliane and Maurice Barrard seemed completely lethargic and moved very slowly. The climb to the summit without supplemental
oxygen, sandwiched between two nights spent with four people crammed into a small tent without sleeping bags at 27,200 feet, had taken its physical toll. Soon the gap between the Barrards and their two teammates widened. At Camp III, at 25,250 feet, Rutkiewicz caught up to Parmentier. Several Italians and the Frenchman Benoît Chamoux were there as well, heading up on an attempt they would abort the next day, in the face of a gathering storm. At Camp III, Rutkiewicz and Parmentier waited for the Barrards, but they never arrived. Their teammates were still not overly concerned, since the French couple were carrying the tent and could presumably have pitched it wherever they found themselves by nightfall.

In the morning, Rutkiewicz headed down, as did the Italians and Chamoux, but Parmentier insisted on waiting for the Barrards. It took the Polish woman three more days to reach advance base camp. By then, her hands were frostbitten and she was near collapse.

In a big dome tent at the Italian base camp, Jim Curran joined the vigil for the French climbers. Chamoux had tried to talk Parmentier into descending with him, but after the man had refused to abandon his teammates, Chamoux had given him a radio.

Eventually, Parmentier had started down in an all-out storm. At base camp, the listeners waited and waited beside the radio. Finally they heard a faint voice: “
Ici Michel, ici Michel”
(“Michel here”). Still above the top of the fixed ropes, Parmentier was lost in the storm. (One more example of how willow wands marking the route can make all the difference in the world.)

Chamoux got on the radio and did a remarkable thing: he tried to talk Parmentier down, giving him the “beta” of the route from memory. Curran captured some of the dialogue: “Keep right, keep right, don’t veer to the left, then straight down for perhaps two, three hundred metres … over.” Turning to the others in the dome tent, with the radio off, Chamoux said, “He has perhaps a fifty-fifty chance that he finds the ropes. If not….” Curran fought back tears.

Hours passed. Parmentier’s voice was weaker with each short burst of
broadcast. But at dusk, after one more exchange, Chamoux turned to the others and said, “He has found piss stains in the snow.”

The piss stains led the played-out climber to the top of the fixed ropes. Two days later, Parmentier staggered down to advance base, where Chamoux met him and helped him the rest of the way to base camp.

The Barrards never made it down the Abruzzi Ridge. A month later, an Austrian team discovered Liliane’s body at the foot of the south face. Maurice’s body was found two years later, in a crevasse on the Godwin Austen Glacier.

In the appendix to Curran’s
K2: Triumph and Tragedy
, Rutkiewicz later coolly pondered the possibilities:

At base camp, Parmentier was overcome with anguish about the loss of his partners and about the duty of getting in touch with their families. But Rutkiewicz, in Curran’s opinion, was so blasé, she seemed in some kind of denial. He wrote in
K2: Triumph and Tragedy
,

Yet at the same time, he noted, “I remained in awe of the strength, skill and determination of the first woman to climb K2, and amazed that the experience had not left her, temporarily at least, satisfied.”

Curran wrote that passage five years before Rutkiewicz would vanish on Kangchenjunga, but I think he hit the nail on the head. A disturbing fanaticism seizes many of the climbers who decide to go after all fourteen 8,000ers. That’s a frame of mind I did my best to avoid during the eighteen years it took me to complete my Endeavor 8000, which is partly why, among my thirty expeditions, I returned from ten of them without a summit in my pocket. It’s easy to see how a fixation with getting all fourteen peaks climbed becomes an ambitious climber’s driving motivation. As soon as he or she knocks off one peak, plans for the next one go on the front burner. And in some cases, I believe, the climber’s sense of haste is compounded by pressure from sponsors or the media.

The end of June 1986 had not yet come, and already K2 had taken four lives. The pattern of catastrophe during this “dangerous summer” would be utterly different from the tragedies of 1939 and 1953, which struck within the ranks of the only team on the mountain at the time. It would be different, for that matter, from the 2008 disaster on K2 or the 1996 debacle on Everest, each of which burst forth in a single dramatic two-day event—the freakish storm of May 10–11 on Everest, the serac collapse and benightment of August 1–2 on K2.

Instead, in 1986, one bad situation after another would develop through the summer, scarring the mountain with a series of isolated tragedies. Around each death, a collective grief would briefly bring members from the different expeditions together, as in the funeral service for Smolich and Pennington or the base camp vigil for the lost French climbers. But then the teams would go back to their separate missions.

Benoît Chamoux had been deeply concerned about the fate of his compatriots, and he may have saved Parmentier’s life by talking him down to the top of the fixed ropes. But only a week after that hair-raising
episode, Chamoux set off again up the Abruzzi in quest of his speed record. Climbing in loose association with the Italians, whose fixed ropes and blazed tracks he took advantage of, on July 4–5 Chamoux essentially soloed the mountain, climbing all the way from base camp to the summit in the astounding time of twenty-three hours. Instead of stopping to camp, he climbed straight through the night, taking short breaks to gulp down food and swallow drinks. He reached the top at 5:00
P.M
. on July 5, spent half an hour there, then headed down into his second night. After a short sleep at 24,900 feet with the Italians, he bombed on down to base camp the next day.

Chamoux’s performance was dazzling; in itself, it almost mocked the notion of climbing an 8,000er by going from camp to camp on successive days or retreating to base to gear up for another attempt, as we had to do in 1992. (“‘Gobsmacked’ was the only word to describe our reactions,” Curran wrote.) That summer, Chamoux was in fantastic shape. Only two weeks earlier, he had soloed Broad Peak in a comparable dash, an exploit that had honed the acclimatization he would need for K2.

Chamoux’s twin killing was one of the first examples ever performed in the Himalaya or the Karakoram of what I would later call a “twofer” (as in “two for the price of one”). It turns out to be the most efficient way to go after 8,000ers, provided you can keep that edge of fitness and not get worn down by the sheer exertion of it all. In 1995, I would pull off my only “threefer,” climbing Makalu, Gasherbrum I, and Gasherbrum II in a span of two months, though I had a two-week break back home between Makalu and the Gasherbrums. (I would actually have accomplished a “fourfer” had we not stopped less than 350 feet short of Everest’s summit just before my Makalu expedition.) In 2003, J.-C. Lafaille notched his own threefer, climbing Dhaulagiri, Nanga Parbat, and Broad Peak in succession (the last two with me), although the pulmonary edema that felled him on the summit of Broad Peak might have been partly caused by the sheer intensity of his campaign.

One of the members of the Italian team who also reached the summit on July 5 was a Czech, Jozef Rakoncaj, who three years earlier had
climbed K2 by the difficult north ridge. Rakoncaj thus became the first man to climb K2 twice. That’s a remarkable achievement, too. Twenty-three years later, only two other men have climbed K2 twice. Yet I doubt that many K2 aficionados are aware of Rakoncaj’s feat, or have even heard of the man.

Meanwhile, Jerzy Kukuczka was gearing up for his monumental alpinestyle attempt on the south face—not by the Magic Line, but along an equally serious and committed route to the right, or east, of it. Kukuczka and his Polish teammate, Tadeusz Piotrowski, had bought their way onto a massive international team led by the notorious Dr. Karl Herrligkoffer—in the same way that Scott and I bought places on the Russian expedition in 1992. Herrligkoffer was the German martinet who had sued Hermann Buhl after the Austrian had disobeyed his orders and gone to the top of Nanga Parbat solo in 1953. Seventy years old in 1986, Herrligkoffer had led more than twenty expeditions to the Himalaya and the Karakoram.

In
K2: Triumph and Tragedy
, Curran pondered the enigma posed by the German expedition leader:

Kukuczka apparently shared that disenchantment. About the rest of the motley international team, he later wrote, “Unfortunately, most of the members did not show enough sporting spirit to attempt even K2’s normal route. I couldn’t believe this since on Polish expeditions we always try to attempt something different.”

Kukuczka had a right to his national pride. Starting in the 1970s, if any
country’s climbers consistently tried really hard new routes and pushed them to the limit, it was Poles, despite their scrawny expedition budgets. They were and still are especially adept at winter ascents on the highest mountains.

In early June 1986, a team of six—Kukuczka, Piotrowski, three Swiss, and a German—started working their way up the south face. The climbing was so difficult and so scary that one by one all three Swiss and the German dropped out. Not until July 7 did the Poles launch their two-man alpine-style assault. To go as light as possible, they carried only four pitons and a 100-foot rope! Kukuczka led every pitch.

This was by far the hardest climbing that had been performed to that date on K2, and it took its toll on those tough men. Kukuczka spent a whole day mastering a single desperate pitch. The men had accidently dropped a gas canister, so their stove was useless. The first night, all they had to drink was a small cup of water from snow melted over a candle.

On the second day, economizing further, they left behind their tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, and even food. All they carried was a pair of bivouac sacks and their cameras. In doing so, they made a commitment to go up and over the top, then descend the Abruzzi Ridge, instead of downclimbing the difficult line they had ascended. That was a bold yet somewhat desperate move. By late afternoon, Kukuczka and Piotrowski reached the summit snowfield, where they actually came upon the empty packets of powdered soup left by Maurice Barrard. Kukuczka reached the summit of his twelfth 8,000er at 6:25
P.M.
, Piotrowski a bit later.

Descending with a single headlamp, the men had to halt when the bulb abruptly burned out. They dug a hole in the snow at around 27,000 feet and settled in for a second bivouac, “shaking with cold,” Kukuczka later wrote, “until the morning.”

Growing weaker, desperately thirsty, the men were able to descend only 1,300 feet of the Abruzzi Ridge on July 9. They worried about losing their way on a route they had never ascended, since they had no good
knowledge of its landmarks. They endured another bivouac, a night of “absolute torture.”

By July 10, the two men had gone almost three days without food or water, and their bivouac sacks were full of holes. But that day they spotted the tents of a Korean party far below, and so knew they were on route. Below the Shoulder, at about 24,500 feet, very near the slope from which Art Gilkey had been swept to his death in 1953, in Kukuczka’s telling, “When I asked Tadeusz for the rope, I discovered that he had forgotten to bring it with him from the bivouac.”

Rappelling was no longer an option, and the men had not yet reached the top of the fixed ropes. In their exhausted state, they would have to downclimb every foot of the way, each man on his own. Kukuczka wrote in
The American Alpine Journal
,

In shock, Kukuczka continued the descent alone. He was so addled that, as he approached the Korean tents, he later related, “I was under the strange illusion that somehow I might see Tadeusz there alive.”

The tents were unoccupied. Kukuczka found a radio, but its batteries were dead. “There was a little gas cookstove and I drank and ate,” he would recall. “Then I fell into a deep sleep and woke up the following afternoon. I had slept for 20 hours.”