Mountaineer, Adventurer & Inspirational Speaker Nigel Vardy blogs on experience climbing in Nepal

February 19 2010




In 2002 I wandered past Ama Dablam and stared in awe at her beauty. It was only three years since I had suffered severe frostbite and was on my way to climb Island Peak – ‘enough of a challenges for now’, I thought. Time passed, expeditions came and went and then one day…

I was sitting in Papua after climbing Carstenz Pyramid with Sibusiso Vilane, one of South Africa’s most prominent climbers. He had been up Everest twice, almost completed the seven summits and wanted a new challenge. Unbeknown to me we had briefly met during my Island Peak trip and almost without a word, agreed that Ama Dablam was our next challenge. Over the next two years we kept in touch and I flew down to Johannesburg to catch up with Sibu and meet his family in Swaziland, but that’s another story…

Months passed, then I received the unfortunate news that Sibu had to pull out. It was a great shame as he is both an excellent climber and good friend, but life goes on and I ploughed ahead with my preparations. I left for Katmandu in October 2009…

The team assembled in Tamil, where little had changed. We were a mixed bunch of guides and climbers, with about 30 years between our respective ages who were soon landed at the airstrip in Lukla and heading into the hills. I was surprised of the teams’ experience, thinking I would be a middle of the road sort of bloke. I soon learned that after Ben, the guide, I was the most traveled…

Passing through Namche and onward to Base Camp, we got our first views of the peak. She stood majestic, towering over Kunde and Kumjung, silhouetted by deep blue cloudless sky. I sat down wondering what the hell I was doing, tackling such a beautiful beast. Losing your fingers and toes makes life hard enough, but to take on one of the classic Nepali ridges was something else.

We entered Base Camp to awful news – an Austrian climber had suffered a cerebral oedema close to the summit, and it had taken two days to rescue him. During that time he had suffered severe frostbite to his hands. Only when you have been through something yourself can you truly appreciate the depth of feeling and emotion that it provokes within you heart. He was flown out the next day, confused and with his hands bagged. I can only wish him the very best for the future.

After a days rest and Puja ceremony (great chanting, throwing of beer and rice), we began our assault. Climbing the SW ridge is a huge logistical exercise as much as a climb – ferrying supplies up and down, acclimatising and in my own way, gaining peace with the peak. She looked beautifully alluring, ghostly and damn huge. Again and again I questioned my right to even face her, never mind climb her. Having the support of my fellow climbers and guides gave me much needed confidence as we took on the ridge.

Unfortunately we lost two members of our team through illness, taking the original team of seven down to five. It’s always sad to lose people from an expedition, but good to know that they are safe. Recovery from any illness is hard enough at sea level, never mind in the heavens.

After a grueling crossing of the boulder field, we reached camp 1. It sits perched on crazed and fantastic rocks just under the true start of the ridge. Tents are pitched wherever you can get them on previously leveled slabs above the long scramble into camp. It is protected from the worst of the weather and is the most comfortable encampment on the route. I was sharing a tent with Ian and Allun, two lads full of life and laughter, and though cramped, we worked well together. The stove burned with a reassuring roar as the brews began to flow and food soon followed. We had been eating piles down at base camp, now it was time to slim as consumption began to fall due to the altitude.

The ridge between camps 1 and 2 is epic. Soon after leaving camp 1 you clip onto the un-assuring fixed ropes which adorn the ridge like lazy, sun bleached cobwebs. At time you rely on them totally, hanging out and tiptoeing across bare slab, but when you see some of the fixings, you do wonder why. Typically they are made of three ply nylon with a little kernmantle thrown in for good luck. The pace was too hot for me to handle and Ben stayed with me as the others assaulted the rocks to Camp 2. Occasionally I would catch them at some obstacle, but again and again they were away in the distance as I lumbered on behind.

The final few hundred feet into Camp 2 are dominated by the fabled Yellow Tower. Only a few hundred feet high, it is vertical, hugely exposed and if you have vertigo (hint, hint), bloody terrifying! It hangs over a few hundred, nay thousand feet drop into a rocky oblivion where chances of fall survival would be almost nil. Top marks to the guys who led this pitch, as even in my most capable days I would have struggled at sea level, never mind altitude. I clipped my jumar onto the fixed line and just went for it. Believe me it wasn’t pretty watching me struggle and fight with the ropes and my ever nagging mind, but after what seemed forever I stood at the top and scrambled into the famed camp 2 – balancing quietly on the top of a huge pinnacle overlooking the ridge below.

The pictures you see in magazines do little to prepare you for this ‘Eagles Nest’ of a place. I collapsed into the tent and opened the rear zip from to throw my bag through, suddenly realizing that a sheer drop was staring at me. All over camp were fixed ropes to clip into, even if you went for a slash or further fun! The mountain towered above us from this point, and folk sat about discussing the summit push. I just wanted to sleep, but was repeatedly disturbed by folk on their mobile phones. Yes I know, five and a half thousand metres up a ridge and people were sending texts and chatting. What is the world coming to? I slept badly, awaking in the early hours to the voice of an American climber suffering with altitude sickness and going on and on about it over the radio. I was taught to send short, concise messages to save airtime and battery power. This guy was almost on a chat line!

Morning came and I scraped myself out of the tent into another sunny day. The grey tower stood above me and above that camp 3 with its perilous position under the fabled Dablam. Again we fought upwards, everyone off at breakneck speed, whilst I hobbled on, escorted by the patient Ben. The grey tower was at least a little easier and above it we clipped on crampons ‘at last!’ I thought. I feel much happier with spikes on my feet and almost kept pace with everyone else. I even ended up in front as we teetered across thin shelves that I would think nothing of on a Via Ferrata, but the ubiquitous three ply kept me swinging out over the abyss.

The final approach to camp 3 was over windslabbed neve onto a small plateau. Our guides had built camp and looked relaxed as we fought for every inch into camp. Miraculously I was the vanguard of the party and collapsed into the tent, tearing off my crampons and sorting out the stove. Outside the wind was beating across the mountain and above us stood the menacing layer caked Dablam. From a tiny shelf at base camp, she had become a monster cliff, looming over us. One by one the lads came in and a chaotic evening of cooking and trying to sleep ensued. As I lay entombed in my down bag all I could hear was the sound of the tent bouncing left and right under the tremendous strain of the elements. The plan was to be out for 4am. Well, that was the plan…

At 3am the alarms sounded. Allun, Ian and I crept out of our bags as the tent continued to flex and bounce. Screamed voices ricocheted through camp debating the issues of the day – the summit, and mans ability to fly unaided. Eventually we got out at 5am with voices form the Sherpa’s that the wind would be easier the higher we got. Now call me daft, but…

One by one we clipped onto the fixed ropes and set off. The morning was clear and the wind buffeting. I soldiered on accompanied by Dowa Sherpa and watched as the others disappeared into the distance ahead. With all my might I fought, for hour after hour to make it to the top. The sun rose, the wind blew, I flew over and then heard a call for me on the radio. I fumbled with the set, not wanting to expose my stumped fingers to the cold. It was Ben. The main party had made it to the summit, been greeted with poor views and bitter cold, and were heading down. As I pushed the radio into my jacket I saw them heading down. Within minutes Ben had reached me, but was the bearer of bad news. ‘Nige, the wind is awful and we’re out of time. I need you to turn back mate’. Even sitting writing this story now, those words run icy through my veins. All the work, all the effort seemed wasted, but I was shattered, cooling fast and could see the weather closing in. It was only 150 vertical metres to the top, but I knew Ben was right. How a heart faces such tragedy is hard to bear, but bear it I did and I turned around and began my decent. Dowa was determined to make it to the top and sped off at speed, summit bound.

Slowly I abseiled and slid home towards camp 3, my head down and heart broken. Camp 3 appeared below me, offering respite and refreshment, but as I got closer a scene of devastation revealed itself. The tents were smashed. Poles jutted from the torn cloth and we were forced down to camp 2. My physical body was failing, but thankfully my mind held, indeed strengthened for the battle ahead. I worked my way through the broken mass of ice and down towards the rock. One by one the lads passed me by one their way home, wishing me well and commiserating me at the same time.

My hands began to fail me and I began a long abseil with a safety rope attached, just in case. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was to play a major role over the coming minutes. I laid back and began to walk down when I became party to one of those cartoon moments I used to watch as a child. The rope suddenly went slack and for a moment I stood in mid air awaiting Wile E. Coyote or Tom and Jerry to come by. I gulped and hurtled down the slope with little control. Snow and ice plumed past my face and all I could see between the powder flying up were rocks galore below me, aching to smash my legs and ankles at best. After the rocks I would be airborne. My axe was locked in my harness and I knew that frontpointing my crampons would bring certain back flips. You may be asking ‘what about the safety rope?’ That was attached to Ben who was only a few feet above me as were falling together. The anchor had failed and we were attached. Wherever I went, he was going too. After about 80m we came to a gradual halt. A combination of soft snow, rucksacks digging in and Ben grabbing another rope and burning through his gloves managed to hold us. Teetering on a 75’ slope lying on your side is hardly safe, but it was better than the moments before. I controlled my hyperventilated breathing and considered my options. Only a few feet above me lay Ben with his crampons pointing towards my head. Before me and only a few feet away was a mass of old ropes and relative safety. With extreme delicateness I stepped across and grabbed a handful of rope, pulling the safety line behind me. My thoughts were ‘thank God’, Bens were ‘sorry about that!’

Down we went, eventually entering camp 2 after abseiling in the dark for an hour or two. There’s something nerve wracking about descending into the pitch black, hoping that something exists on which to stand. Still, modern head torches pierce the darkness well and thankfully the night was clear. I found my tent and met Allun and Ian, both laid out, dozing. They held little interest in eating where as expedition after expedition had taught me that food was paramount. I fired up the stove and got going…

Descending back to base camp should have been easier, but the weather closed in and brought classic Scottish conditions of wind and snow. I fumbled down the Yellow Tower and across to camp 1, again watching the lads sprint away. Ben and I sat in camp 1 with a well needed brew and then set off on the final leg. The boulder field was unwelcome, particularly as snow covered the rocks and made any route hazardous. I plodded on, keeping focused on the fact that base camp wasn’t far away and there would be rest and comfort. The conversation became more and more bizarre the lower we got, and my legs got slower, but a welcome recharge of tea brought up by a Sherpa got me home. I fell through the mess tent door, surprised that I was only 45 mins behind the rest. Being a sensible chap I immediately began rehydrating on San Miguel (classically brewed in Katmandu), before sleeping like the dead.

Back in the UK I sat considering my climb and what Ama Dablam had meant to me. I was physically exhausted, but mentally stronger than I had been for years. Ok, so I hadn’t made it to the summit, but so what. If we only climb to stand on the pinnacle then we will be very disappointed in our mountaineering lives. The journey, experience and friendship we share are paramount. The summit is a bonus, but for some a bonus which costs them dear. I could have indeed, stood on the top of Ama Dablam, but the journey home was perilous enough with the time we had. What would another couple of hours done?