Sajama, at 6542m, is the highest mountain of Bolivia. An enormous extinct volcano, the standard route to the summit involves mostly straightforward glacier travel above the high camp at ~5675m, which can itself be hiked from rough 4×4 accessible parking at ~4875m. Whilst technically simple during the normal May to September climbing season, Sajama is enormously prominent and hugely exposed; the mountain experiences frequent, violent windstorms. I ascended to the summit of Sajama, via its normal Northwest Ridge route and accompanied by Bolivian mountain guide Marcelo ‘Chelo’ Gomez, on August 5th, six days after arriving in La Paz.
I visited Bolivia in the summer of 2025 with the primary objective of making an ascent of 6485m Illampu, a gorgeous tectonic pyramid far north of Sajama. I had been interested in attempting Illampu for many years, ever since seeing its complex summit looming on the front cover of Yossi Brain’s Bolivia guidebook, and reading about its challenging, airy routes. Illampu kept coming into focus for me; it came up in conversation in various basecamps, a friend had stories of his first ascent on one of its harder direct lines, and Brain’s cover photo continued to inspire me from the bookshelf.
Illampu, adorning the cover of Brain’s guidebook
Ultimately my 2025 trip was quite disappointing; I failed rather low on Illampu, vomiting into the Bergshrund at the base of the route as my highpoint. Food poisoning from a rest day in La Paz, after Sajama, proved too persistent to shake, and left me weak and compromised for the majority of my time in Bolivia.
My visit to Sajama National Park was intended only as a preparatory warmup for Illampu, and indeed, I had never intended to attempt Sajama itself on this trip! My original plan going into the summer was to ascend lower and easier 6000m walkups, then head to Illampu once properly acclimated for more technical climbing. Looking back, it is remarkable that I summited Sajama at all, and as I write with the benefit of hindsight, Sajama stands in my mind as a proud, memorable ‘consolation prize’ outcome to the summer. At the very outset, my flights to Bolivia were delayed by over 30 hours, time which I was forced to spend waiting around in the San Salvador and Bogota airports. It is interesting to note that it is quite possible this time wasn’t entirely wasted; given the Bogota airport stands at 2550m, I reckon that spending a day sitting around there may have contributed to preliminary acclimatization. I ultimately arrived in La Paz two days later than planned, and frenetically rushed through my early acclimatization schedule so as to maintain enough time for a proper Illampu attempt. I had planned to spend a few days sport climbing near La Paz for active acclimatization – this became one day, the afternoon of my arrival! The sudden elevation gain was ruinous, and whilst I managed to onsight a few scrappy routes, I found myself getting totally gassed, lightheaded and dizzy, when linking more than a few moderate movements together. I was not acclimated well at all, and due to time-frames throughout the duration of the entire trip I never really adapted fully.
Further delay struck on the road to Sajama town from La Paz. Apparently a conflict had broken out between police and smugglers, and the two lane road was blocked by both a burning car and a burning 18-wheeler full of contraband! This bizarre, incredibly sketchy scene cost us several hours, and had us arriving into Sajama much later than planned. Far behind schedule, there was nothing to do but grin and bear it, and adapt the plan towards seeing if I could move faster. I aggressively pushed, in the hopes of expediting my acclimatization. Ironically, ‘pushing it’ often meant sleeping early, eating loads of food, hydrating more than I normally would, napping a lot, finding every opportunity possible to take downtime and maximize recovery. It seemed to work, as I managed an uncomfortable summit of 6052m Acotango, a volcano adjacent to Sajama, on my fourth day in Bolivia. Prior to this trip, my fastest time to 6000m ‘from sea level’ had been 8 full days, when on Pik Lenin in 2017. Starting with ‘day 1 from sea level’ in Bogota Airport at 2550m, I managed to ascend to 6000m in five days from sea level on this trip.
From the summit of Acotango, Sajama immediately caught my eye and tugged at my sense of ambition – it’s an impressive, ruggedly gorgeous volcanic cone from all aspects, and when viewed from high on Acotango takes on a surreal, alien aspect. The southern Bolivian volcanos are remarkably prominent to begin with, but it is their unique environment which largely contributes to making them so unusual to look upon. Standing above desolate Altiplano, there is no mountain range or obstruction of any sort to the clarity of their figure, and with uniquely low humidity and clean air in the remote high-elevation national park, the range of visibility is incredible. Atop Acotango, thoroughly thrashed by elevation, viewing Sajama and Los Payachetas, the twin volcanos Parinacota and Pomerape, all three peaks took on a sort of ferocity to my eye. They’re so clear, abrupt, and ‘factual’; their landscape looks like it shouldn’t exist, but it unapologetically does exist, and the mountains look close enough to grasp if merely reaching out. Could an ascent of Sajama be made by investing an additional day and a half, if returning to La Paz directly from the summit? Chelo assured me that we could pull it off, given my pace on Acotango. On return to our hostel in Sajama town, I immediately went into hibernation mode, taking a two hour nap and managing ten hours of sleep overnight.
Sajama, from Acotango summitLos Payachatas, from Acotango summitLos Payachatas and Sajama, from Acotango summitLos Payachatas and Sajama, from Acotango summit
The climbing on Sajama was fairly accessible the entire way. Reaching the high camp involves a short drive and an easy trek, and the route to the top is never steep or exposed. Fields of sharp penitentes – snow ‘blade’ or ‘wave’ formations unique to equatorial mountains – did pose an interesting obstacle above high camp, but were not difficult to navigate. The high camp itself was comfortable, with numerous established tent platforms and rock walls, and the route had a well broken boot pack from frequent climber traffic. I summited Sajama on my 7th day from sea level (counting Bogota as day 1), or on my 6th data from La Paz – an absolutely unprecedented rapid ascent for me, personally, and this pace of ascent made for a significant challenge due to inadequate acclimation. On summit day I struggled to maintain output, was especially sluggish when ascending the final ~100m, and felt intensely miserable atop the summit plateau! The summit is broad and featureless, scoured raw by harsh wind, and felt unpleasantly cold in the early morning – we departed out tent at 2:55 a.m. and reached the top at 7:15 a.m. My pace felt miserably slow at the time, but I did pass almost all but one of the climbers who left earlier and were on the route ahead of me – it’s very hard to gauge how the balance of fitness and terrible acclimation impacted my speed.
Sajama summitSajama summit, with CheloSajama summitLos Payachatas, from Sajama summit
Views from the top were clear, but I was so slammed by altitude that I wasn’t able to properly enjoy them! Sajama’s early morning shadow stretched out far below us, reaching all the way to Los Payachatas. I took photos from all perspectives, Chelo took my photo, and another Bolivian climber took a photo of Chelo and I – we quickly began to descend. The climb down was very quick, and we found ourselves in high camp at 9:15 a.m. From there a quick descent to our car, and a long drive, took us back to La Paz on the same afternoon as the summit. It’s surreal how rapid access to high peaks can be in South America, as compared to the great ranges in Asia where significant, multi-day approaches are often required.
One rest day fit into my remaining schedule, and within this singular day of downtime I managed to pick up fairly severe food poisoning in La Paz. In spite of Immodium, I was sick and weak for the remainder of the trip, and had a tough time even getting into the highcamp for Illampu. On Illampu I managed to reach the base of the route, the bergshrund, where I repeatedly vomited, felt thoroughly miserable, and decided to bail. Ironically, the Illampu leg of my trip which was responsible for stimulating such a rushed pace on Sajama, was significantly more expensive and time consuming than Sajama, and was ultimately far, far worse of an experience than the pre-acclimatization ‘warmup’. Food poisoning when traveling is often out of our control, but I found myself wondering how awesome the trip might have been if I’d just gone solo and spent the entire time within the Sajama region!
Perhaps a return to Bolivia is in my future? It might make sense to go for a longer time-frame on the next visit, with a partner, and incorporate more sport climbing into the trip – the rock around La Paz is certainly interesting, and there appears to be quite a lot of potential for a ‘mixed’ rock and altitude trip! Illampu is still on my radar – possibly with a warmup on both of the Los Payachatas volcanoes next time?
Images
Road delaysRoad delaysRoad delays5000m, Los Payachatas in backgroundLos PayachatasAcotangoFrom Acotango summitAcotango summitAcotango, from Sajama high campPenitentes, below Sajama summitAbove high camp, SajamaLlama crossing
Here is a schedule and trip report for my unsuccessful July 2024 attempt on 7134m Pik Lenin.
Atrocious weather – high winds and heavy snowfall throughout my time on the mountain – prevented me from climbing any higher than ~6100m on this attempt. Despite no summit, my main objective in this climb of Pik Lenin was thorough pre-acclimatization for 7010m Khan Tengri, where I was very well prepared and ultimately successful. Although I failed to summit Pik Lenin this time (and didn’t even enjoy myself much!), the time spent was still highly worthwhile; I was so well acclimated afterwards that a rapid ascent of Khan Tengri was possible for me. Take a look at my far more detailed Khan Tengri trip report for a broader discussion of the pre-acclimation strategies which I have now successfully employed multiple times.
Rather than its own goal-oriented expedition, this 2024 attempt on Lenin felt more like an warm up mission, and a very boring one at that. The foul weather kept me camp-bound, and there was loads of downtime with very little to do. Happily, Ak-Sai’s services are top notch, and I was comfortable throughout the endless waiting, waiting for good weather which never came. The following trip report, rather than a more interesting narrative, is essentially just a rough edit of the point-form journal which I kept while in the camps. I hope that it will be useful in some capacity.
Images and details from my successful 2017 Pik Lenin expedition can be found here.
Pik Lenin, from 4400m camp.
Schedule and Calendar
Here is a calendar outlining my acclimation routine and climbing activity throughout my 2024 Pik Lenin climb. I have also charted out the elevations used for my acclimation rotation – with the subsequent Khan Tengri expedtion added on. This attempt on Pik Lenin was predominantly an exercise in acclimation, and despite no rotation above 6100m, the routine I followed was sufficient for a solid acclimatization suitable for ascending into the low 7000m range.
3 am arrive Bishkek, and direct to a Bishkek hotel.
Massively jet lagged! I slept all day long.
6.28
Flight to Osh was delayed. Slept all day and went grocery shopping at night; happily the day prior I had seen that everything stays open until 10 pm, likely due to the summer heat?
6.29
Osh 850m to BC 3620m
Awake at 2am. 8am flight to Osh, 40 minutes.
Drive to Lenin BC, hot in the car!
Much faster than other experiences. About 5 hours from Osh, arrived at 4pm.
BC is luxurious; awesome food spread, comfortable mess hall, hot showers available 24/7, and now has fast internet with a local SIM card. I used the carrier ‘Mega’ and had full bars, an extremely fast connection in my tent. Unrecognizable to the BC infrastructure of 7 years ago, when I ate in a yurt or in a group tent.
Ak Sai has stepped up their service offering. I was deeply impressed by the quality of the new Ak Sai operated Moskvina Basecamp in Tajikistan during my 2023 Pik Kommunizma expedition, and I was equally impressed by their improved 3600m Basecamp facilities on Pik Lenin.
6.30
Short acclimation hike to 3950m, on the Pik Petrovsky ridge. Going to 4000m is not really worth it for the additional distance involved.
7.1
Rest Day in 3600m Basecamp.
7.2
8:50 am depart 3600m BC.
12:25 pm arrive 4400m camp. Time of 3:35.
Steady rain and wind in the early morning had me nervous about making the hike up, but the weather cleared completely after breakfast. This was a major relief; hiking to 4400m camp in heavy rain would be truly miserable.
I gave the horses 27kg of equipment and food, and carried about 10kg myself.
I departed 3600m BC at 8:50, and arrived at 4400m Camp at 12:25, a time of 3:35. I was surprised to be an hour faster than my 2017 time, as I didn’t feel that I was rushing. Indeed, I stopped twice to take quite significant tea breaks.
Lunch at 4400m camp was an all-you-can-eat buffet, available right after I arrived. I was astonished and delighted by the quality and variety of fruit on offer! While 4400m camp offers the same infrastructure as I experienced in 2016 and 2017, the food has improved significantly – especially as it is now buffet style.
7.3
Short acclimation hike. I departed 4400m camp at 9am, arrived 5100m Pik Yuhin at 11am, time of exactly 2 hours.
11:50 start to descend and 12:35 arrive, in time for lunch. 45m descent time. I took a nap in the sun at the top of Pik Yuhin, good for acclimatization.
7.4
Easy walk to the base of the route up the glacier. Forecast called for heavy snowfall, and as such I felt undecided on next steps. I also felt some urgency in my need to find someone to rope up with for the icefall!
7.5
Rest day.
Heavy snowfall, as forecasted. I had been tempted to ascend today, but upon seeing the weather at 2:30 am I decided to bail, and immediately went back to sleep.
7.6
Rest day.
A departing Swiss and Dutch couple gave me their remaining electrolyte tabs, wet wipes, and hand sanitizer. Their generosity put me into an excellent mood!
Deep snow makes for an unsafe route on the glacier; nobody goes up, nobody comes down. I felt happy to be in 4400m camp, and not trapped higher on the mountain.
7.7
Rest day.
Many groups decided to abandon their expeditions today, due to the poor forecast and the boredom of incessant waiting. I opted to wait patiently; I’d budgeted significant time for my summer mountain goals, and while very bored in 4400m camp, I felt that I could tough it out for a few more days. Ak Sai now has fast WiFi for $5 $USD per hour, and I made a point of using it once every other day to help kill time.
7.8
3:25 am depart 4400m camp.
10:45 am arrive 5400m camp. Time of 7:40.
With a favorable weather forecast, I finally committed to moving up to 5400m camp. I teamed up with a pair of fit Belgians so as to have three on the rope for the icefall – a best practice given the number and magnitude of crevasses on route.
I followed my normal strategy for acclimatization rotations, and packed an absolutely enormous load to carry up. I hoped to bring everything I needed to 5400m camp in one shot, thus enabling me to carry only a tiny, light daypack up when it came time for my summit attempt. My backpack was painfully heavy.
We departed Ak Sai’s 4400m camp at 3:25am, and arrived at Central Asia’s 4400m camp at 4:05. We arrived at 5400m camp at 10:45am, a time of 7:20 from Ak Sai’s camp or 6:40 from Central Asia’s. In 2017, with a similarly loaded pack, the climb to 5400m camp took me 7:40 from Central Asia’s camp – not a bad improvement!
On arrival in 5400m camp I was lucky and grateful to find a perfect tent platform waiting for me. Exhausted, my shoulders, back, and legs thrashed from my heavy backpack, I pitched my tent and immediately took a nap without unpacking anything else. After 90 minutes of sleep in the mid-day heat I spent an hour properly anchoring my tent, unpacking, and brewing a whey protein hot chocolate. I had no headache, nor any other symptoms of AMS; so many days waiting in 4400m camp had definitely provided me with a good base of acclimatization. For dinner I tried a freeze dried meal, but it was so revolting that I was only able to eat half of it. Luckily I had plenty of cheese, sausage, nuts, and chocolate to eat.
7.9
9:35 am depart 5400m camp.
12:55 pm arrive 6110m. Time of 3:20.
Depart 6110m at 1:35 pm.
2:30 pm return to tent at 5400m camp, time of 55m.
I went up on an acclimation rotation, hoping to tag at least 6000m. On my prior Pik Lenin expeditions, this single rotation to 6000m had been sufficient acclimatization preparation for a summit attempt.
High wind and deep snow near the summit of Pik Razdelnaya made for slow going. I opted to stop at 6110m rather than climb into the fierce wind and go all the way to the summit. I felt well enough at 6k, but would have preferred calmer weather. Back at 5400m some green tea, sausage, and cheddar cheese served as my recovery meal. I had a headache in the evening, which was resolved with an ibuprofen.
7.10
8:40 am depart 5400m camp.
11:55 am arrive Ak Sai 4400m camp. Time of 3:15.
2:05 pm depart 4400m camp.
4:45 pm arrive 3600m BC. Time of 2:40.
I woke up feeling quite well, and prepared a breakfast of whey protein hot chocolate, sausage, and mixed nuts. As I’ve undertaken more expeditions, I’ve come to rely less and less upon cooked food while at high camps. Cheese and sausage are reliably easy to eat, although not available in every country. Mixed nuts also offer remarkably high calorie/weight value, and are usually palatable when sick from altitude. Freeze dried food is majorly hit or miss for me, and can feel utterly inedible. It’s also expensive, heavy to deal with if uneaten once prepared, and time consuming to cook.
Our descent from 5400m camp was much slower than I had managed in 2017; three on the rope and one section made more comfortable with a rappel slowed us down. Ak Sai’s camp is also almost an hour past Central Asia’s on the moraine, and the final stretch of chossy rock is quite annoying in late morning heat.
I met the living legend Carlos Soria in 4400m camp; he had apparently just arrived with a Spanish team. I shook his hand and wished him good luck! Lunch in 4400m camp was an otherwise very pleasant reprieve from my high-altitude food.
Hike down to 3600m BC was uneventful, but for a heavy hailstorm which lasted about 30 minutes. BC was luxurious compared to camping higher, and the hot shower was especially welcome.
7.11 – 7.13
Rest days in 3600m BC.
I spent three days resting in 3600m BC, waiting for the deep snow higher up to melt and for the weather forecast to improve.
7.14
8:55 am depart 3600m BC. 12:10 pm arrive 4400m camp. Time of 3:15.
I took my time getting ready after breakfast, until my Belgian friends began urgently calling me, telling me that the Ak Sai truck was waiting for me. I was only partially ready, and still needed to drop my luggage in storage, brush my teeth, prepare water. I tried to hurry, but still took at least ten minutes… When I got to the truck a large crowd was waiting only for me; very unexpected and embarrassing!
The truck departed at 8:55 am, and drove us to the cliffs where the hike begins to steepen. I hadn’t taken the truck the last hike from 3600m to 4400m – indeed I had departed at 8:50 am and arrived at the cliffs *before* the truck! I paced only 15m faster with the ride. Despite a similar timing to my first hike up, I felt incredibly fresh and energized this second time. Three days of rest in BC had supported great recovery and robust acclimation.
7.15
3:25 am depart 4400m camp. 9:25 am arrive 5400m camp. Time of 6:00.
Awake early, we were treated to a cloudless sky bright with stars and a visible Milky Way. We made it to 5400m camp in approximately 6 hours from Ak Sai’s camp, or roughly 5:15 from Central Asia’s.
High wind as we entered the ‘frying pan’ was extremely cold, and balance was tricky at times. Likely sustained at around 40km/h. This tapered off as we reached camp, tired.
I found my tent in superb shape, undisturbed, perfectly anchored, and nicely set into about 10 cm of snow. It was warm and cozy inside, very well insulated from the wind.
My hard Kyrgyz cheese from Bishkek was amazing, totally fresh and unspoiled. I carried 1.5 kg of it up, and was able to eat large quantities right away. Major thanks to the Ak Sai Basecamp manager who helped me refrigerate it while I was rotating and resting in BC.
I felt myself developing symptoms of a cold: a very sore throat and runny nose. I was hopeful that it would resolve overnight, or at least not get worse.
7.16
I spent the entire day in tent, eating, reading, and resting. Wind was so severe that there was absolutely no way to move higher, and the prospect of descending also seemed risky. My cold symptoms were more or less the same; I decided to see how I felt the next day, and hopefully ascend.
7.17
10:20 a.m. depart 5400m camp. 1:40 p.m. arrive 4400m camp. Time of 3:20.
My sore throat had developed into a full-on head cold. I decided to descend, rather than risk the throat infection getting into my lungs. I’d been similarly sick several times prior at altitude, and knew that a lung infection could set me back multiple days.
Weather was also absolutely awful, with high wind and yet more heavy snowfall scheduled.
We departed 5400m camp at a late 10:20 am, slow getting ready and digging up the tent while not feeling well. Arrived at 4400m camp at 1:40pm, a time of 3:20.
Depart 4400m at 3:20, arrive 3600m 6:40. Many, many breaks on the way down, moving at a leisurely and relaxed pace.
7.18
5:20 pm depart 3600m BC and return to Osh.
7.19
Day spent in 850m Osh.
7.20
Flight to 650m Bishkek.
Images
Pik Lenin from 3600m BCPik LeninPik Lenin from 4400m campPik Lenin4400m campPik LeninThe base of the route at dawn5400m camp5400m camp
Thoughts on Pik Lenin
This was my third time climbing on Pik Lenin, and the earliest in the season I’d ever been on the mountain. My main goal for the 2024 summer season was 7010m Khan Tengri, and my time on Pik Lenin was predominantly intended as acclimatization. That said, I did want to summit Pik Lenin a second time, tried my best to do so, and was shut down completely by weather conditions.
As acclimatization, my time on Pik Lenin served me very well, and I was able to make a rapid ascent of Khan Tengri – standing on the summit just over a week after departing the Pik Lenin basecamp. I feel that extensive rest intervals at 4400m camp, plus a three day stint in 3600m camp, produced a thorough ‘foundation’ of very good acclimatization. The quality of the facilities also likely helped, especially the hot showers in 3600m camp, and the abundant all-you-can-eat food provided in both 3600m and 4400m camps.
I would definitely return to Pik Lenin for another acclimation round in the future. If seriously keen to summit I’d definitely avoid starting any earlier than the last week of July. Weather was truly awful throughout my time on the mountain in 2024, characterized by high winds and enormous snow dumps. If I hadn’t summited Lenin previously, I would have been enormously disappointed and discouraged by the experience; conditions were simply not conducive to summiting.
No 7000m mountain is ‘easy’, and in poor conditions even the most moderate 7000er can become all but impossible.
Khan Tengri from North Inylchek GlacierKhan Tengri at sunsetKhan Tengri from North Inylchek BasecampKhan Tengri from Chapaev Shoulder
Khan Tengri is the high point of Kazakhstan, the second highest peak of the Tian Shan range, and one of the five 7000m snow leopard peaks. At 7010m Khan Tengri is also the world’s northernmost 7000m peak, although there is some contention as to whether its altitude should be considered 6995m on account of a significant ice cap adding to the peak’s geological elevation. Its northern latitude means that weather on Khan Tengri is unstable and often severe, and that climbers encounter a thinner atmosphere than is found at comparable elevations further south.
Khan Tengri is an exceptionally beautiful mountain on account of its prominence, its pyramidal shape, and its remarkable geological composition – the upper peak from ~6000m is a marble pyramid steep enough on its north face to remain mostly free of snow. Viewed from the north on a clear day, at sunset this pale yellow-gold marble catches the light of the setting sun and glows in a fiery, blood red hue. When viewed from the south Khan Tengri presents a perfect snow pyramid reminiscent of K2 in Pakistan or Alpamayo in Peru. The first time I experienced Khan Tengri’s sunset alpenglow I could only gape in awe – it is one of the most glorious, impressive peaks I have ever laid eyes upon.
The Goal: An Independent 7000m Snow Leopard Summit
I had been keen to make an attempt on Khan Tengri for many years prior to my 2024 expedition. Khan Tengri is a mountain which, early on in my mountaineering progression, seemed utterly out of reach for me. I first laid eyes on images of the route in 2015 when Edgar Parra, a friend and mountain guide from Ecuador, had shown me photos from his ascent. For many years, Khan Tengri stood in my mind as a mountain which I thought I’d never be skilled or strong enough to climb, let alone independently (which I define here simply as ‘unguided’). With time and experience it began to seem more realistic, and possible for me to safely take a shot at. A variety of climbers I’d met over the years, including several friends, had recommended the northern route to me, emphasizing its viability for an independent or ‘solo’ (if such can be considered possible, given the fixed ropes) climb, its relatively good protection via seasonally maintained fixed lines, and its challenging, rewarding character. I had similarly been warned that the south route was unacceptably risky, due to significant serac and avalanche exposure.
After successful and highly rewarding experiences on Pik Kommunizma and Manaslu in the summer through autumn of 2023, I knew that I would be keen for another big mountain goal in 2024. While I shifted my focus entirely to rock climbing after Manaslu, and kept it there for the following six months, beginning in the early spring of 2024 I also committed time and energy to a training regime for mountaineering.
With no partners available on an aligned timeframe the expense, extreme physical toll, and guide support of a second 8000m expedition undertaken without friends did not seem particularly viable to me. At the same time, Pik Kommunizma had renewed my enthusiasm for the 7000m snow leopard peaks, and based on the advice of friends I felt confident that Khan Tengri could be doable if going alone. At this point I had summited three of the 7000m snow leopards, had climbed on those three peaks five times in total, and had done so independently – whether with friends or all alone – each time. I committed to an early start at the very beginning of the season, paid my deposit to Ak-Sai Travel, who now operate both the north and south basecamps on the Inylchek glacier, and prepared to return to Central Asia. I would warm up and pre-acclimatize on Pik Lenin, before shifting to Khan Tengri via the North Inylchek basecamp.
I pre-acclimated for Khan Tengri by making an attempt on 7134m Pik Lenin, the basecamp of which is also accessed from within Kyrgyzstan. I had previously summited Lenin in the summer of 2017, and in 2016 had also made an unsuccessful attempt; this was my third time on the mountain. I had a very rough time of things on Lenin on account of sustained inclement weather – enormous snow dumps and high winds – and never made it higher than ~6100m. Nonetheless, my time spent moving up and down Lenin, and resting at elevation, served as adequate acclimation for a rapid ascent of Khan Tengri. I summited Khan Tengri on my 7th day in North Inylchek. I did not feel as thoroughly acclimated as I wanted to be, largely due to my ‘low’ highpoint on Lenin, but my acclimation was definitely sufficient and served my goal wonderfully. Had I made it to the summit of Lenin during pre-acclimation, I believe that my subsequent time on Khan Tengri would have felt much easier than it did.
Pre-acclimation via expedition enchainment is a majorly effective strategy for tackling big mountains. It requires a significant time investment, which is a deterrent for many, but significantly improves odds of success and quality of experience (minimizing AMS and discomfort) at altitude. Climbing a ~7000m peak before a lower but technically demanding peak in the ~6000m range effectively mitigates altitude as a factor for the second climb. Climbing a 7500m peak and spending weeks in basecamp before an 8000m peak prepares the body with a thorough acclimation ‘foundation’, making a no-o2 ascent more realistic. At the time of writing I have successfully enchained four major expeditions above 7000m:
7134m Pik Lenin as preparation for an ‘overnight’ solo ascent of 5642m Mt. Elbrus, with no acclimation rotation on Elbrus.
7134m Pik Lenin leading into a rapid 5-day ascent of 5947m Alpamayo, where we skipped high camp and gained the summit on day 4.
7495m Pik Kommunizma as pre-acclimation for an ascent of 8163m Manaslu, where a single rotation to ~6650m was sufficient for my summiting without the use of supplementary oxygen.
7134m Pik Lenin prior to 7010m Khan Tengri, where I was able to summit on my 7th day without any rotations above ~4500m.
Pik Lenin is uniquely ideal for this purpose. It is inexpensive, quite high, highly accessible, very comfortable due to a developed basecamp, geographically close to me (I live in China), and relatively straightforward to rotate up and down on. When climbing Lenin it is notably easy to gain 5000m on nearby Pik Yuhin; this may be one of the most efficient and comfortable places to tag 5000m anywhere in the world. Lenin is a slog most of the way, but in spite of that I’d totally go back and spend time on Lenin (yet again!) in preparation for other peaks.
Schedule and Calendar
Here I have put together a calendar outlining my acclimation routine and climbing activity throughout my 2024 Pik Lenin and Khan Tengri climbs. I have likewise charted out the elevations used for acclimation rotations, culminating in an ascent.
Long, full-day drive to Karkara at 2200m. Many stops made the ride far lengthier than expected.
7.22
Helicopter ride for ~40 minutes through the valleys and into the mountains, to North Inylchek basecamp at 3960m, with first views of the Tian Shan range.
After lunch I went for a hike to crampon point at 4050m. Time of 45 minutes to get there, crossing moraine and dry glacier. A large river crossing was bridged with a wooden platform, which must be found via a specific ice valley. The river is fierce and powerful, quite dangerous, and must be crossed with caution.
North Inylchek Basecamp is small, rugged, spartan. Situated upon moving glacier, there are no permanent structures – indeed, the tents shift and slowly flow over time. My sleeping tent developed a distinctive slant and a troubling instability throughout my short stay in it. Food was consistently excellent, and Basecamp staff were friendly and professional. Yet, the camp feels cold and desolate when compared to Moskvina or to Lenin’s BC and ABC. There is no greenery, little life, much shadow and ice.
Khan Tengri presides above camp, majestic in its geometry. On clear evenings it glows orange and red at sunset, magnificent and ominous. Surrounding peaks are sharp and severe, numerous 5000m teeth rising alongside Khan Tengri, steep and pronounced. The Tian Shan are serious business, and very few of the visible mountains would be easily ascended. The proximity of the Inylchek glacier is startling; it is always underfoot, and its exposed ice lies a few short meters from camp. Climbers in camp visit it frequently for the washroom facility. Puddles of meltwater form, freeze, and drain throughout the day. Rivers of pure glacial water materialize at noon. The glacier is the highway which leads to the base of the route upward, and the foundation upon which camp is temporarily constructed.
7.23
2:20 pm depart BC. 3:35 pm arrive crampon point. Time of 75 minutes. 6:30 pm arrive Camp 1, 4540m. Time of 4:10 from BC.
I packed 6 days worth of supplies and all of my equipment for higher up. I had decided to go heavy and get the carrying over with in one shot – a strategy which has worked well for me in the past. I hoped to potentially even make my way into position for a summit attempt off of this heavy carry.
Soft snow made the heavy pack quite grueling to manage throughout steeper sections of the easy climb to Camp 1. I wished that I’d left earlier in the day; soft snow bridges were more than a bit dodgy. I used my jumar twice on fixed lines, making the slush easier to manage.
Camp 1 is small, but I had no problem finding a rock platform for my low-profile one-person tent. One benefit of a small tent is the ease of pitching in tight spaces!
7.24
9:20 am depart 4540m Camp 1 10:05 arrive Crampon Point. 11:05 arrive BC. Time of 1:45.
I woke up to steady, wet snowfall, and very poor visibility. I decided to bail rather than waste gas and food waiting around in Camp 1. Conditions were very damp. Ascending in such conditions would be miserable, and it would be hard to dry off properly once back in my tent.
I descended fairly quickly, although fresh snow slowed me down as I pulled ropes out and looked for the optimal path down. The moraine was lovely in the snow, and the flags which mark the way to the wooden bridge across the glacial river were much easier to see.
It was quite hot; I sweated inside of my water resistant layers and was thoroughly soaked once I got back to BC.
I was pleased to make a heavy carry to Camp 1, as I would never have to make that section of the route with a huge pack again. At the same time, I was disappointed not to get my equipment and supplies up to Camp 2, as doing so would have set me up nicely for a fast-paced summit attempt later.
7.25
Depart BC at 10:10 am. Arrive Camp 1 at 13:10 pm. Time of 3:00.
After spending all of 7.24 in Basecamp, during sustained wet snowfall and poor conditions, the forecast shifted for the better. I agreed to move up on a similar time schedule as two other independent climbers, Lucas from Germany and James from the UK, and meet them in camp 2 on the 26th. We would then share a tent and stove in Camp 3 on the 27th.
I ascended in a light breeze and full sun, making a good pace whilst subjectively ‘taking it easy’. Conditions were much better than my first climb to Camp 1, as I left much earlier in the day. Having a lighter backpack was also quite enjoyable!
I observed two enormous serac collapses off of Khan Tengri’s shoulder, to the climber’s left of the north face. These did not threaten the route or its approach. It was very pleasant to arrive at Camp 1 with my tent pitched and food ready to eat. Conditions were flawless in camp, sunny and warm with a light breeze. I was easily able to dry my boots in the sun, and take a comfortable nap.
I ate well all afternoon and evening, and slept for over 9 hours. Light snow fell overnight, exactly as forecasted.
7.26
9:30 am depart Camp 1 4540m. 16:05 pm arrive Camp 2 5550m. Time of 6:35.
The route from Camp 1 to Camp 2 covers steep terrain, with several ice and rock steps. The rock steps and an exposed rock traverse were fun, and not strenuous for me, but the steep ice was brutal to front point while hauling my heavy backpack. I felt great with breathing and altitude, just absolutely slammed by the weight of my enormous pack. There were almost no places suitable for stopping to rest, due to the sustained steepness of the terrain. I had trained well for this expedition, but mostly via running rather than load hauling. This definitely contributed to my intense discomfort in managing my heavy pack while on steep terrain. Unfortunately, the remainder of the climb was like this; steep, and difficult with a big bag.
The weather was sunny and warm for most of the way, shifting into cloud and wind as I approached Camp 2. The entire route is fixed each season, and I kept my ascender on the lines for the majority of the climbing. With the ascender on, the route felt secure and reasonably well protected, but remains relentlessly steep. Without fixed ropes, the route between Camp 1 and Camp 2 would be an order of magnitude more strenuous, and I would not have felt at all comfortable soloing the vast majority of it. This would be a theme for the remainder of the route from Camp 2 to Camp 3 and then to the summit; if not already fixed this would be a very challenging and involved mixed route with what appeared to me to be fairly mediocre protection. Make no mistake, the majority of climbers – myself included – are only ascending Khan Tengri from the north due to the presence of the fixed lines.
Lucas and James met me at Camp 2 as planned. They arrived well before me, coming directly from Basecamp with light packs given that they had already deposited their tents, equipment, and supplies in Camp 2. I pitched my tent between theirs, and would leave my tent and some spare supplies here when the three of us moved up to Camp 3 together with a shared tent.
7.27
8:30 am depart Camp 2. Arrive 6100m Chapaev Shoulder at 12:45. 13:25 pm arrive Camp 3 5860m. Time of 4:55.
More steep, sustained climbing from Camp 2 to Camp 3. Many rock and ice steps, but the fixed ropes made for secure climbing with the jumar on as a backup. The route up and over Chapaev shoulder is quite demoralizing, as it seems to go on forever – climbing still higher even while Camp 3 is clearly visible below! This aspect of the north route, paired with relentlessly sustained steepness, contributes to its (deserved) reputation for being difficult. Chapaev’s shoulder represents an additional ~250m of ascent and descent which must be covered – both on the way up and on the way down.
Views from the top of Chapaev shoulder were superb, and we spent fifteen minutes taking photos and looking at Khan Tengri’s west ridge under clear skies. The descent down to Camp 3 was very quick on firm snow. Camp 3 is a tiny snow ridge dropping off into large cornices to the north, and a steep face to the south, but we quickly found a flat space for our shared tent.
The forecast for 7.28 was promising, calling for 35 km/h wind with light snowfall in the morning and heavier snowfall in the evening. Lucas, James, and I decided to commit to a summit attempt.
7.28
Awake at 12:30 am. 2:45 am start. 12:20 pm Summit. Time of 9:35. 3:50 pm return to camp. Time of 13:05 round trip.
Khan Tengri’s summit, and summit cross.
The route to the summit begins with a low-angled snow climb, but rapidly steepens. The majority of the route to the summit is relentlessly steep. There is almost nowhere to stop without anchoring off, and only a handful of small, level ledges. Two of these are sometimes used as high camps, and both were occupied by very tightly-pitched 2-person tents. James left our tent first, and Lucas struck out ahead of me. Lucas climbed impressively fast, and I wouldn’t see him again until ~100m below the summit. I caught up to James where the route steepened, and climbed more or less on pace with him until the couloir, where I moved on ahead of him.
The weather for our summit day was very much sub-optimal, with intermittent high winds and sustained snowfall throughout the ascent. Around 4 am I began to fear that the forecast was entirely incorrect, and that the projected evening snowfall had shifted forward to early morning. Beginning at around 8am there were two hours of vicious wind and driving snow wherein I seriously thought about bailing. I pushed through in the hopes of the weather shifting, and although high wind continued, the snow eased off.
I climbed in my down pants, down storm parka, and all of my base and mid layers. My base and mid layer system for the upper body was: 150g merino t-shirt, 150g merino long sleeve, 200g merino long sleeve, Patagonia R1, Patagonia Nanopuff. For my legs, my system was: 200g merino underwear, 150g merino leggings, 200g merino leggings (yes, two pairs of merino leggings, layered), Patagonia softshell guide pants. I use a Feathered Friends Volant storm parka, and Feathered Friends Volant down pants for 7000m peaks. I wear a single heavyweight merino sock. Gloves were an issue for me on summit day; due to constant manipulation of my jumar and personal anchor I was not able to wear my 8000m storm mitts during the climb. I wore a Polartec liner glove inside of the storm mitt mid-glove, a ‘crab claw’ with bifurcated index finger. If I were to return to Khan Tengri I’d purchase the warmest, heaviest five-finger glove I could find and leave my mittens behind.
Without my storm parka’s hood closure, a thick Polartec buff face mask and my goggles, my face would have become too cold to continue – I had to minimize any skin exposure to the air. I quite frankly would have majorly benefited from wearing my full down suit in the frigid, windy conditions we experienced – but carrying it up to Camp 3 in the nice weather lower down would have been miserable! Khan Tengri was a bloody cold climb; I had more gear than I thought I’d need, used all of it, was still cold, and am glad that I was especially cognizant of protecting my hands and feet while moving. The ‘wiggle step’ is an important technique to master; wiggling the toes and fingers in line with every single rhythmic rest-step higher.
Dawn eventually cracked the frozen night sky open, revealing Pik Pobeda in the distance. Pobeda’s summit glowed warmly, while its enormous massif spanned across the horizon below. A fearsome mountain, Pik Pobeda is the hardest and most dangerous of the snow leopards, the ‘gatekeeper’ to finishing the five. Sunrise did not, unfortunately, bring warmth. Khan Tengri’s normal summit route follows the west ridge, which does not catch morning sun, and the wind was too intense for daylight to make much of a difference.
At around ~6800m, I roughly approximate the elevation here, I reached the couloir where the ridge traverses north onto the mountain’s upper slopes. There was a significant bottleneck here, as the handful of climbers ahead of me worked their way past the sketchy pair of core-shot fixed ropes. Unanchored in the middle, the ropes protected the traverse from a deadly fall, but did not serve to keep a climber comfortably on route. They were very loose, difficult to jumar in a controlled manner, and majorly slowed down the people ahead of me. I reckon that I waited for almost 45 minutes for my shot at this short ~15m of the route; when it was my finally turn to climb I used my axe for balance and delicately cramponed across the traverse with the ropes held as taut as possible. On the way down, rappelling this section was also annoying, and one of the slowest sections to navigate.
Above the couloir I finally gained Khan Tengri’s upper slopes, and was greeted by the glory and life-bringing warmth of the sun. The sunshine revitalized me, filling me with hope and renewed motivation. Immediately overheated, I anchored myself to slather sunscreen onto my face and remove my down pants. Taking the pants off would prove to be a mistake, as I needed to put them on again when intense wind resumed less than an hour later. Above the couloir is a fun rock step on beautiful marble. Fresh fixed lines made for perfect protection here, and I racked my axe so that I could free climb. I made use of a hand jam, stemmed, and pulled some easy rock moves with my jumar as backup. This section of rock was by far the highlight of the route for me – class 5 climbing and a hand jam above 6800m!
The final slopes to the summit are moderately angled, but were arduous in their own way due to intense wind and cold. Snow quality was acceptably firm and the route up was easy, but weather made for significant discomfort. I met Lucas here, on his way down from the summit, and we exchanged words of encouragement. Near the summit are several large boulders, and enough small, flat areas for a few tents. Some ambitious teams do apparently camp up there, although the prospect of hauling gear up makes me shudder.
When I reached the top, I let out a shout of triumph. It had been a long push, in poor conditions, and I was delighted and relieved to have made it. Each meter was fought for and hard earned. The summit day was physically and mentally difficult. A lot of this can be attributed to the impact of weather conditions, especially wind. The summit plateau was excruciatingly cold, due to intense and sustained winds. I was only able to stay for a few minutes and hastily take photographs of Pik Pobeda, Khan Tengri’s summit cross, and the surrounding terrain. A friendly Ukrainian climber who was already on the summit when I arrived generously removed his gloves in order to take my photo for me. I climbed the final ~10m up the ice cap, to the true high point of the mountain, the controversial final meters which designate Khan Tengri as a 7000m peak. James arrived as I was headed down, and we quickly took a selfie together.
The descent to our high camp tent felt endless; rappel after rappel after rappel, mostly on iced and knotted fixed lines. I made a concerted effort to remain focused and intentional in my actions, double check my systems, lock my carabiners, and generally be as careful as possible. I was fatigued, mentally and physically, and knew that mistakes would come easily should I allow them.
Back at the tent, I clocked my round-trip time at 13:05, not very fast at all. I believe that inclement weather slowed me down significantly. I also lost between 30-60 minutes due to the small bottleneck at the couloir traverse fixed lines. I also could definitely have trained with better specificity; my calves persistently felt like an athletic bottleneck on Khan Tengri. I was not fully prepared for the amount of front-pointing and sustained steep terrain, and had been especially worn down by the struggle of managing my enormous backpack during the steep load carries.
7.29
10:55 am depart Camp 3. 1.5 hour rest in Camp 1. 18:00 pm arrive Crampon Point. ~3 hour rest at Crampon Point. 21:50 pm arrive BC.
James, Lucas and I slept in, and took our time eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and packing up. A massive avalanche woke Lucas and I in the early morning – it swept the southern route below Camp 3. A serac collapse off of Pik Chapaev had triggered the slide, a common occurrence given Chapaev’s topography above the southern route’s approach gulley. Lucas and I turned our radio on to listen for any distress calls from the south: nothing. On return to basecamp we would learn that one man had died in this avalanche, and that two others had been seriously injured.
The climb from Camp 3 back up Chapaev’s shoulder was slow and annoying – yet more jugging on the jumar. Happily this ~250m climb would be the final use of my ascender on the route.
Endless rappelling on the way down. Chapaev’s shoulder is around 6100m high, and the base of the route sits at roughly 4000m. Accounting for some sections of smoother terrain and short sections of walking, I figure that I easily rappelled 1800m in total. Many fixed ropes were icy, pulled too tight by snowfall or glacial shift, or were knotted in awkward places mid-rap. Diagonal rappels and raps on loose scree or deep snow began to add their toll both physically and mentally.
In Camp 1 we stopped to pack our tents and spare supplies, and take a much needed break from rappelling. We stopped again for several hours to regroup as a trio at Crampon Point, drying our boots and socks in the sun and gazing at Khan Tengri’s splendor.
We were all exhausted, and the final easy dry glacier crossing to basecamp felt like a bit of a death march. On return to basecamp – manna from heaven! A hot meal, a cold Coca Cola, and the Sauna facility were all ready and waiting for us! Never before have I slept so well after drinking a full liter of cola.
7.30
Rest day in Basecamp. I felt quite alright this day, not particularly worn down, albeit with a very healthy appetite. The weather began to deteriorate, and we were grateful that we had summited when we did.
7.31
Helicopter scheduled for today, but cancelled due to foul weather. High wind and steady rain all day long.
8.1
Helicopter at 11 am back to Karkara camp. Long drive back to Bishkek, total time of ~6.5 hours with minimal gas station stops.
Images
James and I on the summitDeparture helicopterNorth Inylchek basecampIce bath in basecampApproach to crampon pointAscending Chapaev Shoulder, from C3The summit ridgeJames, reaching the summitPik Pobeda, from Khan Tengri summitKhan Tengri’s summit crossSummit daySummit dayPik PobedaSummit daySummit dayPik PobedaPik PobedaPik PobedaCamp 3, Coca Cola in handSummit ridge from Chapaev ShoulderSummit ridge from Chapaev ShoulderApproaching Camp 3Approaching Camp 3Khan Tengri at sunsetAbove Camp 1Above Camp 1Above Camp 1Khan Tengri at sunsetClouds over Khan TengriThe Tian ShanThe Tian ShanThe Helicopter
Thoughts on Khan Tengri
Khan Tengri via North Inylchek was a difficult climb. The terrain and demands of the ascent, even with fixed lines in place, represent a totally different scope of ascent than Pik Lenin or Pik Korzhenevskaya, the other two ‘lower’ 7000m snow leopard peaks. Weather was difficult, and extremely cold on summit day. Load carries on relentlessly steep terrain posed a real challenge, and are something which I will endeavor to train for with better specificity in the future. I was delighted to summit Khan Tengri in an independent style, and in good time due to pre-acclimation. Pik Lenin had been a total wash, a boring grind of a climb with days upon days spent waiting out foul weather, and having that time pay off with success on Khan Tengri was a joy. North Inylchek is a spartan base camp, but food was both sufficient and good, the sauna was delightful, and the staff were highly capable. Ak Sai runs a solid operation, and I have been very impressed by their basecamps at Moskvina, Pik Lenin, and the Inylchek glacier. Ak Sai’s pricing is of quite good value, in my opinion, if just paying for basecamp.
Khan Tengri is one of the most beautiful mountains I have ever climbed, or even seen! This is a special peak, one of the world’s most remarkable, unique in its character. The marble cap of the upper mountain is unlike anything I have ever seen elsewhere – I’d love to hear a geologist go into greater depth as to its formation and nature. Witnessing the blood red glow of Khan Tengri at sunset is indelible, a powerful experience which will never leave me.
Editing this journal as I am, in late September of 2024, it is interesting to compare my physical state after Khan Tengri, with that of my condition after Manaslu – Khan Tengri was subjectively a ‘harder’ climb than Manaslu, yet Manaslu was much ‘harder’ on my body and mind. After Khan Tengri I felt pretty good, had an appetite and energy, had lost about 4kg of body mass, was able to rapidly begin regaining lost weight. After Manaslu I was physically ruined, suffered from short term cognitive fatigue or impairment, had no appetite for about a full day, and had lost about 7kg of body mass. My rock climbing performance took roughly three months, around 12 weeks, to fully recover from Manaslu. As I write, I subjectively feel that my rock climbing performance has taken only about 6-7 weeks to recover from Khan Tengri.
I am of the firm belief that the southern route to Khan Tengri’s west ridge (the northern and southern routes share the same summit ridge) is unacceptably hazardous, exposed to severe and unavoidable objective risk in the form of serac-induced avalanche off of Pik Chapaev. We saw or heard numerous slides on the southern side of the route, and multiple fatalities and grievous injuries occurred in 2024. I am compelled to put this to writing, phrased in strong language: If planning to climb Khan Tengri, you should prepare for the northern route. Do not play dice with your life on the southern side of the mountain.
I climbed to the true summit and absolute highpoint of 8163m Manaslu on September 21st, 2023 with a commercial expedition organized by Imagine Nepal, and 1:1 guided by Pasang Dawa ‘Pa Dawa’ Sherpa. I did not use supplemental oxygen at any time during my ascent or descent.
This is a written trip report for my climb. For photographs, take a look at this post.
Manaslu’s East Pinnacle, from 4900m BasecampManaslu’s East Pinnacle, from 6650m Camp 3Manaslu’s East Pinnacle, from 4900m Basecamp
The Goal: 8000m Without Supplementary o2
An 8000m summit without the use of supplementary oxygen had been a major personal goal of mine for a long time. The economic expense, training rigor, time commitment, and uncertainty surrounding my ability to physically handle 8000m had deterred me from making any attempt pre-Covid, with the rationale that I could continue to build more 7000m experience first. Uncertainty, especially, was in hindsight a major factor for me; how would I handle the elevation without o2, and how could I know or fully prepare without just committing? The high-friction environment created by Covid policies in China, where I live, suddenly put a hard stop to any possibility of my getting onto an 8000er, or even mountaineering at all, for three and a half years. Near the end of Covid I arranged to take a one year sabbatical from work, thus satisfying the time commitment involved, and commenced a structured training regime.
With no stable partners keen to make early plans, and absolutely not confident in targeting my first 8000er alone, I resolved to accept the cost of climbing guided with a commercial operator. Manaslu, whilst still very expensive, was the cheapest 8000m peak one could climb guided, and its normal route was very straightforward for me to research and get a sense of – especially so given excellent content published by Explorersweb. I chose to climb with Imagine Nepal for a number of reasons. Imagine Nepal stood out to me as a local Nepali operator, as the operator responsible for rope fixing, and due to their solid track record in climbing to Manaslu’s elusive true summit – and not a ‘false’ foresummit – during the two seasons prior to my attempt. The choice worked out for me, and Imagine Nepal was as fine an operator as any on the mountain; basecamp provided excellent rest and recovery, Pa Dawa was an absolute unit of a guide and partner, and all logistics and transfers were smooth and professional.
Acclimatization Strategy: Expedition Enchainment
Enchaining expeditions, climbing multiple high elevation peaks in a row with the goal of robust long-term acclimatization, is a tactic which I have made productive use of several times. In the past I have enchained Pik Lenin with Mount Elbrus, and Pik Lenin with Alpamayo, for excellent outcomes. The primary difference between a lengthy singular expedition within one region, and a link up for acclimation carry-over, is in the loss of exposure to elevation midway due to travel and transitions. I am not aware of any well-established science to the persistence of acclimatization, nor its rate of degradation once removed from a hypoxic environment. However, I know from prior experience that I am fine for roughly a week at sea level without any significant loss of acclimation, and I also believe that – if smoothly executed – transitions at low elevation can function as good recovery intervals for the body.
Prior to Manaslu I undertook a significant expedition to the Pamir in Tajikistan, where I successfully ascended 7495m Pik Kommunizma, another long-term goal of mine. This climb, unguided and with friends, was deeply significant for my subsequent success on Manaslu. I had plenty of time in Tajikistan to refresh myself on my mountaineering systems and habits, get back into the rhythm and challenge of high altitude climbing, and most importantly was able to rigorously acclimate before setting foot in Nepal. Thorough acclimation was absolutely critical to ascending Manaslu without bottled oxygen, and I am certain that without Pik Kommunizma, plus significant time resting in Tajikistan’s 4330m Moskvina basecamp after that ascent, I would have needed at least one additional acclimatization rotation on Manaslu. The schedule followed by climbers making use of bottled oxygen is absolutely not suitable for a no-o2 ascent, as it involves a quite limited scope of acclimation.
I had spent an unpleasant night at 6950m camp on Kommunizma before ascending to 7495m, which provided serious stimulus for my body to adapt for even higher. The risk I faced was in losing this deep acclimation by spending too much time at sea level; I thus opted to remain in Moskvina Glades Basecamp for over a week after Kommunizma, and tried to get back to altitude as quickly as was possible upon reaching Nepal. As part of this strategy, I opted to save money by trekking into Manaslu basecamp, clearing 5150m Larke Pass and spending several additional nights above 4000m. The approach trek had me back to elevation much faster than a helicopter would have (helicopters fly in somewhat last minute, only when basecamp is fully constructed), and I also felt that the trek served to reinforce my base acclimation from living at 4330m Moskvina Glades. Nutrition and rest during most (I’ve heard horror stories about the Makalu approach!) approach treks in Nepal are a non-issue, due to well established tea house infrastructure, and an approach trek on a popular route (as in the Khumbu region) serves as a very low intensity acclimation interval. I felt quite strong from the get-go on Manaslu, with no issue sleeping at 6650m C3 on my first and only rotation, and no issue sleeping or eating at 7430m C4 during my summit push. The ability to rest and eat properly at these elevations set me up with a superb foundation of energy and motivation for my summit attempt.
My complete acclimation schedule, including Manaslu’s summit, is visualized below. Dark blue shows sleeping elevation, and light blue indicates the daily high point:
Day-by-Day Climbing Schedule and Route
Here is a calendar outlining my schedule throughout the approach hike and climb. I tracked output as minutes spent moving, whether ascending or descending.
September 1st – 5th
Approach trek.
The approach began with a long drive split over two days, from Kathmandu to the trailhead for the Manaslu circuit trek. I saved a significant amount of money by undertaking the 5 day approach trek instead of helicoptering into basecamp. This also served to reinforce acclimation nicely; on September 4th I cleared 5150m Larke Pass, and I spent two nights sleeping above 4000m during the approach.
Weather was quite unstable and rather poor throughout the approach. There was intermittent rain, high humidity, and one full day of torrential rain where we decided to hunker down in a tea house and just wait. The approach trek was otherwise pleasant enough, with very well broken trails and comfortable tea houses the entire way. The approach hike ended in Samarguan, a small village with guesthouses catering to both hikers and climbers.
A donkey train took my equipment separately, and Pa Dawa and I only carried day packs throughout the approach hike. The donkey with my bags was delayed, and my equipment made it to Samarguan just the day before we hiked up to basecamp! Luckily I had packed a thorough day bag, with everything that I needed (except an umbrella!).
The terrain throughout the approach hike was lovely higher up, especially the mountains surrounding Larke Pass and the high alpine lakes outside of Samarguan. In nice weather the Manaslu circuit would be a worthwhile hike unto itself, although the nearby peaks are less stunningly pronounced than those in the Khumbu region. Unfortunately, Manaslu did not reveal itself to me throughout the approach hike, and remained wreathed in clouds on days where I would have had good views in clear weather. I would not set eyes upon the mountain’s profile until the day of my first rotation to elevation.
September 6th – 8th
Active rest days in Samarguan, followed by a move to 4900m Basecamp.
I went for an afternoon hike up to an alpine lake on one day, and a much longer hike up to a high temple on another. The hike up to 4900m basecamp was slow but easy, on a well beaten trail. The route to basecamp was crowded with porters, hauling equipment up both for climbers and for basecamp infrastructure. We stopped for local milk tea halfway up, and took our time hiking at a relaxed pace. The weather was truly atrocious, rainy and very wet, and gave me cause for concern as to the conditions we would face higher on the mountain.
Manaslu is a very wet mountain, apparently due to the topography of the nearby valleys. On arrival basecamp was wreathed with mist and fog, there was incessant drizzle, and an umbrella became a truly critical piece of equipment. If attempting Manaslu, bring an umbrella for use on the lower mountain! We immediately went to the meal tent of our basecamp, where hot drinks and a space heater insulated us from the wet. My personal tent was spacious, and with double walls was insulated from condensation.
In reflection, the mood was somewhat grim those first days in basecamp, with very wet weather and heavy precipitation casting a shadow over our perceived chances for a smooth climb on the upper mountain. Moving between rest tents and meal tents was tenuous, exposure to the rain and cold making it difficult to stay dry and comfortable. The initially foul weather did eventually stabilize into one of the best seasons Manaslu has ever seen, with an enormous multi-week weather window of low winds and zero precipitation.
September 9th – 10th
Rest days in 4900m Basecamp.
I got to know the other climbers climbing with Imagine Nepal, meet more of the local support staff, and get a sense of the basecamp environment. I made daily forays higher, up to ‘crampon point’ at the edge of the glacier, in an effort to push my acclimation a little bit. Satellite internet service was available, and I was able to keep in touch with family and friends.
Weather was awful, constant drizzle and high humidity. It was difficult to stay dry, even inside the vestibule of my tent. I found myself wearing my down pants every day in basecamp, to deal with the penetrating humid cold.
September 11th
4900m Basecamp to 5750m Camp 1.
Manaslu revealed itself to me for the first time today, as the clouds parted and the mountain appeared from the mist. A rainbow appeared in the humidity over the peak, crowning the pinnacle – a false foresummit summit visible from basecamp – with colour.
My first day on the upper mountain, gaining the glacier and Camp 1 at 5750m. The lower icefall above basecamp is broken and heavily crevassed, and the route to Camp 1 was winding and somewhat indirect. The climbing was extremely easy, on very gentle slopes throughout, just with quite a bit of crevasse navigation via fixed ropes. There were numerous sections which would have been incredibly dangerous to cross without the fixed lines in place.
September 12th
5750m Camp 1 to 6250m Camp 2.
This section presented the ‘lower crux’ of the route, with a complex icefall navigation and several steep ice steps to ascend. The entire route was fixed, so the 80 degree to overhanging ice cliffs within the icefall required only easy jumaring. Regardless, each ice step was crowded with climbers, and they presented bottlenecks to movement. Porters carrying oxygen and heavy loads of equipment to the upper camps had to ascend slowly, and some climbers appeared very uncomfortable managing the steep terrain.
Camp 2 was still being established when we arrived, and there weren’t many tents up yet. Our group placed our tents, and enjoyed the rare clear view over nearby peaks. I felt quite good on this first foray above 6000m, although my pace from Camp 1 wasn’t particularly quick. I had a healthy appetite, and rested well through the afternoon and overnight. Many climbers planning to utilize o2 stopped at 6250m Camp 2 and descended to basecamp the next day – this would be their only acclimation rotation, and they would use oxygen from the low 6000s onwards for their summit attempt. I had heard that this was the standard tactic for oxygen-supported attempts, but was nonetheless surprised to see it employed at scale; an ascent of a 7000m peak typically requires more acclimation than this!
September 13th
6250m Camp 2 to 6650m Camp 3.
Camp 2 to Camp 3 is a very short route, quite direct and steeper than the terrain from basecamp through to Camp 2. I was able to make the ascent in just over two hours, pacing slowly and carefully so as to avoid heavy breathing and overexertion. Camp 3 is situated on a natural plateau below a gorgeous ridge of ice cliffs, well protected from the slopes above. Due to high precipitation Manaslu is notoriously avalanche prone; the upper camps below the large plateau at ~7400m have historically been hit with slides, and this season’s Camp 3 placement was intended to help mitigate that. It was a gorgeous location, with incredible views both down and up the mountain.
Our small group – three other Imagine Nepal clients, two Sherpa guides and myself – were the first climbers besides the rope fixing team to reach Camp 3 this season, and the route higher had not been opened or fixed yet. We placed our tents, and spent the afternoon looking at the route to Camp 4 above us. This would be the highpoint of my first, and only, acclimation rotation. There was no means of reasonably ascending higher, as the way to Camp 4 was bogged in deep snow. A rope fixing team of half a dozen strong Sherpa guides were to open the route and fix it in its entirety, in a few days once that snow consolidated.
I rested very well at Camp 3, with a healthy appetite and no difficulty sleeping. This elevation was a solid ~300m lower than the high camp on Pik Kommunizma, where I had spent an unpleasant night almost a month earlier. I was uncertain how much acclimation I had retained from my time on Kommunizma and in the 4330m Moskvina Basecamp, and was quite relieved to respond well to the elevation at Camp 3.
September 14th
6650m Camp 3 to 4900m Basecamp.
A big descent day. The large ice steps were all smooth enough to rappel, on account of well-fixed ropes. Descending was a slog, but relatively fast; only 4 hours from Camp 3 to basecamp. There was no rush, given an entire day budgeted for descending.
September 15th – 17th
Rest days in 4900m Basecamp.
I focused on good nutrition, lots of sleep, and calm mental focus throughout these three days. I was feeling very uncertain as to whether or not my acclimation would be sufficient for a no o2 ascent, and consulted online with several friends and partners who between them had a wealth of 8000m experience. I also received helpful perspective from Pakisani mountaineering legend Sirbaz Khan, who was climbing under Imagine Nepal’s logistics, and from Imagine Nepal’s leader Mingma G. Their combined advice and experience put me somewhat at ease; I decided that I should be well enough acclimated to make a solid attempt.
September 18th
4900m Basecamp to 6250m Camp 2.
The first day of my summit push was one of the longer ones, as I opted to skip Camp 1 and climb directly to Camp 2 from basecamp. The intention was that this first big output day would be offset by a shorter day two, ascending only from Camp 2 to Camp 3, a more reliable (shorter term) weather forecast for the proposed summit day, and a better two night rest interval in the mid ~6000m range. Slower climbers departed a day earlier, and included Camp 1 in their push. This tactic seems to be quite standard on Manaslu, as it gives guides better flexibility with their clients. One strong climber I’m aware of departed basecamp a day after I did, and climbed directly to Camp 3.
On Pik Kommunizma I had taken the opposite side of this strategy, and opted to add a day so as to make for two shorter and easier first days rather than a huge single day’s push. By my reckoning, this decision is really contingent first upon weather reliability and second upon confidence in one’s physical fitness.
September 19th
6250m Camp 2 to 6650m Camp 3.
A short, easy day ascending 400m to Camp 3. We took our time on this day, and tried to move at a low intensity pace.
September 20th
6650m Camp 3 to 7430m Camp 4.
More than the summit day, Camp 3 to Camp 4 felt like the crux of the route. We departed Camp 3 very early in the morning, making most of this ascent in the dark. Many climbers began to use oxygen on this move, and some continued to the summit in a single push on account of superb weather. My understanding is that most climbers who start on o2 from their Camp 3 departure continue to use it, at a low flow rate, overnight at Camp 4. The route from Camp 3 to Camp 4 is long and very sustained, relatively steep the entire way, and mentally feels endless due to the visual illusion of false tops throughout. Due to foreshortening of the mountain ahead, each rolling crest of the route looks like it might be the last – but isn’t!
This was a long and arduous day, and the first day that I used my down suit for an entire day. At almost 800m of elevation gain, Camp 3 to Camp 4 is comparable to summit days on many other peaks, and easily as taxing. The route is much, much steeper and more strenuous than Camp 4 to Manaslu’s summit. In total, this ascent took me an incredible 12.5 hours of output. We began very early in the day, so as to maximize rest time in Camp 4 before the summit attempt. This worked out very well for me, as due to my good acclimation I was able to both eat and sleep comfortably at 7430m Camp 4.
September 21st
7430m Camp 4 to 8163m Summit.
Awake at midnight, Pa Dawa and I began moving at approximately 1 a.m. I had trouble getting one of my crampons on, as the bulky chest and stomach of my down suit made it difficult to see my feet in the dark. Pa Dawa helped me, and I couldn’t help but think of all the anecdotes of ‘commercial climbers who can’t even put their own crampons on’! I kept my down suit hood up as we climbed up into darkness, my headlight inside illuminating only a small bubble of light on the snow in front of me. We greeted other Imagine Nepal climbers on their way out of camp 4, but with supplemental oxygen they quickly outpaced me. The down suit is a remarkable piece of equipment, highly versatile for venting and layering. I had a perfect micro-climate inside of the suit, and few issues with cold. My toes did become quite cold in the hours before sunrise, but I was able to manage by applying a focused ‘wiggle step’ technique – adding a full toe wiggle into my rest step rhythm at the conclusion of each step up.
The terrain immediately out of camp 4 was gently sloped. The majority of the route to the summit was similar, with the exception of one ~100m section of steeper terrain without fixed ropes. Most of the climbing to the summit only involved sustained rest stepping without use of a jumar, periodically switching the wire gate on my leash across fixed rope anchors. I left my ice axe in camp 4, and climbed to the final plateau below the true summit using two trekking poles. I climbed to the summit itself with only a jumar, empty handed.
A few hours into the summit push Pa Dawa, who climbed using o2 from 7430m C4, told me “You’re moving too slowly. I will run out of o2 if you continue at this pace. You must either go faster, or use o2”. This sparked a fierce intensity in me, and prompted me to push myself quite hard; I had resolved to either summit without o2 or to retreat, but not to use oxygen for ascent. I placed my full mental focus into my breathing and my rest step output, stopped only to drink or apply sunscreen, and made each stepping movement as efficient and as precise as possible. The elevation was enormously challenging for me, and I struggled with my breath and output rhythm every step of the way.
Sunrise brought a burst of energy and enormous stoke. We were already at or close to 8000m when the sun hit, and the morning light brought both warmth and a clear view of the route to the top. Other Imagine Nepal clients, new friends whom I had shared many meals with in basecamp, were descending from the summit, and we met at dawn below the final fixed ropes. They offered encouragement, and were proud to see me climbing without o2.
Sunrise, ManasluSunrise, ManasluSunrise, ManasluSunrise, ManasluEarly morning, below the summit
The final section of the route to the true summit was nowhere near as severe as I had expected it to be. A great boot track had been broken in, traversing past the false summits and then ascending steeply on fixed ropes to the true high point. While the anchors, a loose piton and some pickets, were a little bit dodgy, jumaring up to the high point was neither difficult nor particularly exposed. The view from the top was unambiguous; there was no more mountain, nor any higher pinnacle, to ascend. The weather had been flawless from camp 4, with almost no wind and clear skies, and the summit area was no exception. I was even comfortable removing my gloves. On the summit I waited a few minutes to take my turn standing at the top, chest and hands above the final snow cornice, but was very keen to begin descending immediately. Pa Dawa persuaded me to wait while he prepared two magnificent videos: one of the view from the true summit, and one of me on the top. I took several photos, but most were poorly framed – Pa Dawa’s photo and video at the summit were welcome images of the environment, of my state at the top, and of the view.
On the way down from the summit I sat down to rest at around 7600m and vomited until my stomach was knotted empty. Between C4, the summit, and my return to basecamp I consumed nothing but Coca Cola, Honey Stinger energy gels, a cup of juice generously provided by Nims Dai’s team at Camp 1, and a litre of water mixed with Cyclic Dextrin carbohydrate powder – a gift from my partner Reuben on Pik Kommunizma. Feeling far from spent after summiting, Pa Dawa and I decided to descend all the way to 4900m basecamp in one push. We knew that the food, sleep, and general environment of basecamp would be far preferable to another night at a high camp, and worth the exertion of a big descent. We ended up completing the ~3200m descent in approximately 9 hours. The descent was long and arduous, but we moved with high spirits.
In basecamp we received a warm welcome. One of the basecamp team met us at the edge of the lower glacier with Coca Cola and water, and in basecamp I enjoyed a hot tea before lying down. I had no appetite, difficulty sleeping, and fairly severe cognitive fog that evening, but knew that I’d ‘made it’ the entire way, up and down, and would easily be able to descend even further the next day.
Manaslu SummitPa Dawa, Manaslu SummitPa Dawa and I, Manaslu Summit
Thoughts on Manaslu
Manaslu was not a difficult climb in any technical sense; the vast majority of the climbing route was fully fixed and broken in by local Nepali guides and porters, and the (severe if not fixed) ice steps throughout the icefall and middle mountain required only simple jumar and rappel techniques. Manaslu was not a difficult climb in any logistical sense; all tents were hauled and placed by Imagine Nepal’s team, I carried nothing besides my personal gear throughout the climb, I cooked no food and prepared no water, I did not route find, I did not dig tent platforms, and all decisions regarding timing and weather were made for me. Manaslu was not a difficult climb in regards to risk; objective hazards were almost entirely mitigated by the fixed route, I climbed with Pa Dawa at my back whenever on the mountain, and on summit day Pa Dawa had a spare bottle of oxygen in his pack – ‘psychological oxygen’ – for use in case of emergency. The Imagine Nepal basecamp was absolutely luxurious by my standards, which bolstered the quality of my rest intervals and likewise kept me well nourished physically and relaxed mentally. In many respects, Manaslu was significantly ‘easier’ than any 7000m peak I have ever attempted.
The worthy challenge of Manaslu was in its elevation. Output above ~7700m was brutally difficult for me to maintain, and I felt that there was an invisible wall after which it required extreme focus to manage my breath rhythm and pacing. I moved much slower than the majority of climbers who were making use of o2, but still set a decent time of almost exactly 6 hours from camp 4 to summit. Subjectively this felt like much longer, struggling to continue moving, to rest step as efficiently as possible, and to minimize my breaks to water consumption or sunscreen reapplication. Both physically and mentally, Manaslu was a very challenging mountain to climb.
I lost roughly 11% of my body weight throughout my Pik Kommunizma and Manaslu expeditions, despite concerted efforts at weight gain: the Turkish restaurant and lots of baklava in Dushanbe after Pik Kommunizma, loads of ice cream and lamb noodles in Kathmandu before Manslu. I was particularly weak on return to Manaslu basecamp, significantly worse off than on Kommunizma. The afternoon, evening, and morning after summiting I experienced significant cognitive fog, was uncoordinated and clumsy, and had no appetite. I developed a productive cough on return to basecamp, which almost immediately resolved when I reached Kathmandu at low elevation. I was quite thoroughly slammed by the summit and descent, and if I had been unsuccessful I likely would not have had reserves for a second attempt. I had intended to attempt a climb of Ama Dablam after Manaslu, but was so worn down that I opted to change plans and go to South East Asia for sport climbing beside the ocean instead.
I was delighted to succeed on Manaslu. Despite the climb’s ‘accessible’ nature, due entirely to the degree of infrastructure and support present on the mountain, 8000m without o2 was the real deal, a true challenge and a worthy goal. Climbing guided was expensive, but after the fact I feel that I derived significant value from the expense. Pa Dawa was an enormously supportive, experienced, and reliable partner, and was pivotal in making my climb happen smoothly. He was a talented cook, knew everyone on the mountain and was thus able to secure a three person tent for the two of us to share at every camp, accompanied me from Kathmandu throughout the approach trek and entire climb, managed to capture excellent images at the summit, and quietly ‘had my back’ throughout the difficult C3-C4 and summit days. I was lucky to climb with him, and must not only express gratitude for his support, but also emphasize the role which his presence played in my successful summit.
I would attempt another ‘low’ 8000m peak, one of the nine below ~8400m, but next time would feel comfortable doing so unguided with an independent team. I would not consider changing my attitude towards the use of o2 in the future – I would only use supplementary o2 for the purpose of an emergency descent – and now realize that this decision quite possibly precludes me from ever making an attempt on Everest, K2, Kangchenjunga, Makalu, or Lhotse.
I ascended the true summit and absolute highpoint of 8163m Manaslu on September 21st, 2023 with a commercial expedition organized by Imagine Nepal, and 1:1 guided by Pasang Dawa ‘Pa Dawa’ Sherpa. I did not use supplemental oxygen at any time during my ascent or descent.
Below are photographs from my climb, organized by date. For a detailed written trip report, take a look here.
Manaslu
Manaslu’s East Pinnacle, from Basecamp.Manaslu’s East Pinnacle, from 6650m Camp 3.Manaslu, cloaked in rainbow and cloud.
September 2nd – 7th: Approach Hike
Distant mountains, Manaslu TrekSunset, Manaslu TrekLarke Pass, ~5100mA herd of deer at ~3000mStupa, Manaslu TrekGlacial Lakes nearby SamagaunSunrise, Manaslu Trek
September 8th – 18th: Basecamp, Acclimation Rotation to 6650m Camp 3
Glacial Lake, Basecamp Approach from SamagaunFirst views of ManasluManaslu, above BasecampManaslu’s East PinnacleRainbow and cloud over ManasluIcefall above Camp 1Icefall above Camp 1Icefall above Camp 1Icefall above Camp 1Ice Step below Camp 2Ice Step below Camp 2Ice Step below Camp 2View from Camp 2Basecamp, far belowApproaching Camp 3East Pinnacle from Camp 3Camp 3Camp 3Pa Dawa at Camp 3View from Camp 3View from Camp 3View from Camp 3Camp 3View from Camp 3Camp 1Manaslu from above BasecampManaslu from above BasecampHelicopter Rescue, BasecampHelicopter Rescue, BasecampBasecampLooking down at Camp 1 and Basecamp
Sunrise, ~7300mApproaching Camp 4Summit Crown from Camp 4Summit Crown from 7430m Camp 4
September 21st: 7430m Camp 4 to 8163m Summit
Summit DayPacked light for the summitMe, on Manaslu’s true summitSummit DayFinishing my Coca Cola at ~8000mPa Dawa and I, on Manaslu’s true summitPa Dawa and IPa Dawa on the true summitSummit crown, from ~7900mPa Dawa descendingClimbers descendingClouds moving in, as we descendSummit Day, ~8000m
Pik Kommunizma, the Pamir Plateau, and the Borodkin Spur as seen from the summit of 7105m Pik Korzhenevskaya.Pik Kommunizma as seen from 6100m camp on Pik Korzhenevskaya.Pik Kommunizma as seen from near the summit of 6230m Pik Chetyreh.
The highest mountain of the Pamir range, the highest mountain of the former Soviet Union, the highpoint of modern day Tajikistan, the world’s 50th highest mountain, one of the five 7000m Snow Leopard peaks. 7495m Pik Kommunizma, renamed as Pik Ismoil Somoni by the Tajik state in 1998, is an absolutely enormous mountain which utterly dominates its surroundings. A primordial axe-head ridge of black rock, Kommunizma rises above the high Pamir Plateau, which is itself guarded on all sides by severe walls and high ridges of shining snow. Climbing Kommunizma by the normal route is akin to climbing three mountains; the ~6250m Borodkin Spur from ~4300m basecamp, 7007m Pik Dushanbe from the ~5850m Pamir Plateau, and finally Kommunizma itself. The normal route is long and circuitous, ‘uphill both ways’, exposed to inclement weather and to some degree of objective hazard.
I first set eyes on Pik Kommunizma in 2018 during an ascent of Pik Korzhenevskaya, a nearby 7105m mountain which shares basecamp. My timing and strategy were insufficient to make an attempt in 2018, but Kommunizma’s presence was nonetheless a constant. The distinctive summit ridge was always there, looming on the horizon, clearly visible from each of the lower peaks which I climbed on that expedition. In 2023 I found an opportunity to return for a proper attempt, and was ultimately successful in summiting.
Basecamp and Access
The vast majority of the time Pik Kommunizma is climbed from Moskvina Glades Basecamp, as the normal route and all of the mountain’s most well-known variations begin here. Moskvina is a decades-old location which has seen use, in various incarnations, since Soviet times – although I did learn during this particular visit that the original basecamp which was employed in the earliest years of the area’s climbing is located significantly lower down the valley than present day. Moskvina is a rare oasis of greenery in a high altitude desert; there is a small lake (albeit polluted with rusted oil drums, amongst other ancient detritus), enough grass grows to attract herds of mountain goats, and several streams flow in from various glaciers.
Moskvina has been dramatically upgraded and improved since my 2018 expedition to Pik Korzhenevskaya. It is now one of the better basecamps that I have had the pleasure of staying in. The ‘old Moskvina’ of 2018 was an absolute dump, rife with food insecurity, stomach issues likely stemming from bad water, poor sanitation, leaky tents, and generally miserable facilities. The ‘Moskvina of today’ offers 24/7 hot water, a free hot shower at any time of day one pleases, an indoors hand-washing station with abundant hand soap, clean cooking and eating facilities, an excellent revamped Russian sauna, water sourced from glacial runoff well above living quarters, and solid operations management facilitated by Ak-Sai – an operator of good reputation and considerable renown on the Snow Leopard peaks. The staff at Moskvina this year were competent, friendly, and accommodating throughout my one month stay – especially the kitchen staff and the head basecamp manager. The situation at Moskvina has been massively improved and modernized, and I would be very surprised if there isn’t eventually an attendant rise in climber interest with the area as a result.
The basecamp package cost me $3,300 $USD, inclusive of a shared tent, three meals per day for 30 days (I ended up staying in basecamp between 7.29 and 8.25), all permits, use of facilities, a hotel stay on either end of the trip, airport transfers, and helicopter rides both in and out. The only area for improvement which I could really pin down as significant, would be the rather limited stock of for-purchase goods such as beer and soft drinks; everything was sold out within a week of helicopter restocking. The pay-per-use satellite internet connection was somewhat dodgy, but good enough for basic usage and always fairly refunded when non-functional – certainly much better than nothing.
Moskvina is traditionally accessed by helicopter, although the lengthy approach trek is definitely possible and seems to attract interest from a few brave souls every season. In 2023 most helicopters flew from Djirgital, a small town an 8 hour drive from Dushanbe on very rough mountain roads. A few flights did run directly from Dushanbe, specifically the first flight in and the last flight out; the helicopter was provided by a Tajik airline this year, and we infer that it is parked and maintained at the Dushanbe airport. The helicoper flight takes about 40 minutes from Djirgital, and is incredibly scenic, offering magnificent views of the Pamirs and tantalizing first glimpses of Pik Korzhenevskaya and Pik Kommunizma. Helicopter flights were managed externally, but booked alongside the basecamp package; there’s no independent booking, and the helicopter is specifically offered as a part of the logistics operation for climbers.
Russian saunaThe new MoskvinaHelicopter landing
Route Description
Ramp to ~5200m Rock Camp: Red ~5200m Rock Camp to ~5850m Pamir Plateau: Blue ~5850m Pamir Plateau to ~6950m Pik Dushanbe: Green ~6950m Pik Dushanbe to Summit: Purple
~4300m Moskvina Basecamp to Ramp
A moderate moraine hike with several variations through the rocks and lower glacier, with one small river crossing. Quite well cairned throughout, straightforward directly up the valley. A wide, open space below the ramp presents a good cache spot, and has a simple helicopter pad marked out with white rocks.
Ramp to ~5200m Rock Camp on the Borodkin Spur
Ascending the RampViews of Korzhenevskaya from the rock ridgeThe notchAscending the rock ridge
The infamous ramp remains objectively dangerous, exposed to avalanche from serac collapse, but is definitely less risky than in years prior. Conditions were very dry throughout my time in Moskvina this season, and the ramp area was no exception. Most of the giant, hanging seracs seemed to be stable, and only one upper corner was responsible for the majority of releases. Several large slides did hit the route, but never when climbers were present. The largest slides seemed to be in evenings, perhaps due to freeze / thaw cycles. Moving briskly, exposure to the most dangerous sections of the ramp was limited to around 15 minutes on descent. The rockfall and collapsing lower glacier of Korzhenevskaya, found at around 5000m, felt significantly riskier than Kommunizma’s ramp did.
After gaining a few hundred meters up the gently sloped snow ramp, an obvious rock ridge littered with old fixed lines starts up the Borodkin Spur. The rock is pitted and scratched from many decades worth of cramponing; I took my crampons off and was able to actually enjoy the terrain. This was the most interesting part of the entire route, and there is even a cool notch / tunnel which one must climb through. Despite a fair bit of choss the rock ridge mostly offered great scrambling, with exposure and excellent views over the lower glacier. The Rock Camp is found at the top of the ridge between 5100m and 5200m, and has about a dozen good pre-built tent platforms, solid relics from expeditions past.
~5200m Rock Camp to ~5850 Pamir Plateau
The Pamir Plateau, from the Borodkin Spur.Looking back at the Borodkin Spur.Camping on the PlateauCamping on the Plateau
The Borodkin Spur continues on snow past the Rock Camp, up to around ~6250m. Numerous small campsites can be found along the way, mostly underneath cornice formations, but nothing is particularly large and it would be difficult to place more than a few tents. During my ascent I camped the first night at ~5350m, on a level snow shoulder speckled with hairline crevasses. There are several significantly steep sections of climbing, all of which had been fixed by guided parties earlier in the season. Two cornice steps offered difficulty, even fixed, due to slight overhang and exposed ice. On descent several of the fixed ropes had melted out v-thread anchors, and on the way up one section of fixed line was no longer anchored safely. Caution with anchors placed by others, and a spare screw or two, is essential.
The Borodkin Spur is long and really drags on; cresting the top and getting a first view of the Pamir Plateau below is truly wonderful. The descent from ~6250m down to the Pamir Plateau at ~5850m is mostly quite moderate but did exhibit one significant section of steep and exposed water ice, which we fixed one of our ropes on. Ascending from the plateau some 400m back up the Borodkin Spur after summiting was arduous, and seemingly endless when fatigued.
It is worth nothing that the Moskvina side of the Borodkin was crevassed, with most frozen over or filled but nonetheless present. In the dry conditions which we enjoyed everything was nicely visible, and hazards were very easy to avoid. In deeper snow, or with no boot track, it would be well-advised to consider roping up.
~5850m Pamir Plateau to ~6950m Pik Dushanbe Camp
Ascending Pik DushanbeSummit Pyramid from Pik Dushanbe
The Pamir Plateau is enormous and mostly flat; one can camp essentially anywhere. Crossing the plateau isn’t hard at all, and snow conditions were excellent for us. There were no significant crevasses along our line of crossing, nor any nearby it. I can envision significant difficulty if met with deep snow on the plateau, but this would also implicate the entire route, especially the Borodkin Spur.
The ascent of Pik Dushanbe is long and repetitive, a moderate snow slope the entire way. There were no particularly steep sections, and limited terrain variation. A few crevasses lurk along the line of ascent, but were mostly straightforward to see and avoid. A highly visible rocky ridge characterizes the upper half of the slope, and provides a good landmark for navigation. On descent, in whiteout, this rock band easily kept us on route and making good progress. The campsite at ~6950m is located in a nicely sheltered col near the top of Pik Dushanbe, with flat space for quite a few tents. Several much smaller tent platforms exist in the rocks along the ridgeline, with space for one or two tents every two hundred meters or so. Views of Kommunizma’s summit pyramid are grand and imposing from the 6950m camp; the rock wall hangs ominously over Pik Dushanbe and appears much larger close up than from afar.
~6950m Pik Dushanbe Camp to 7495m Summit
Crossing to Summit PyramidAscending the snow slopeUpper summit ridge
A short descent of some ~100m from camp leads to a rolling ridgeline towards the base of Kommunizma’s summit pyramid. There is a fair bit of ascent / descent throughout this section, more than one would expect when viewing the mountain from a distance, which becomes quite demoralizing when on the way back into camp after summiting. In particular, the final slope back up to 6950m camp is heartbreaking to climb after the summit. The ridge soon reaches the base of the summit pyramid, where a massive snow slope accesses the upper summit ridge. There was a decently switchbacked boot track on our summit day, but no ropes had been fixed by earlier teams. Sections of the face are quite steep, and there were patches of icy terrain where fixed lines or running protection would have been very welcome. A bad fall anywhere on the face would be difficult to arrest, and the subsequent runout is enormous.
On reaching the upper ridge of the summit pyramid the gradient steepens significantly, and the ridge drops off in a severe cliff. The degree of exposure is startling, as the mountain’s upper aspect provides no clue towards the summit ridge’s sharp edge when viewed from a distance. The sharp ridgeline ascends abruptly, with a slight rolling traverse as one reaches Kommunizma’s summit. A single fixed line was a welcome discovery here, protecting the steepest pitch of the exposed ridge. The summit is small, but flat and unambiguously the peak’s high point. A plaque and some broken poles marked the top, with Pik Korzhenevskaya prominently visible across the valley and the entirety of the Pamirs stretched out far below.
Trip Report and Schedule
I flew into Moskvina with friends Eric and Andreas, whom I had climbed with in 2019 on Noshaq in Afghanistan. Prior to Moskvina Glades, Eric, Andreas, and I pre-acclimated by hiking Bazarduzu in Azerbaijan, where I tagged 4100m. Torrential rain on the only day scheduled for the hike soaked me to the skin, and I turned around well short of the summit. Once in Moskvina I engaged in two subsequent acclimation intervals on Pik Chetyreh, to 5500m, and on Pik Korzhenevskaya, to 6300m. Icy conditions prevented our group from attempting a Chetyreh summit, and personally feeling bad on Korzhenevskaya I opted to stop at 6300m and spend a night at 6100m instead of pushing for the summit. I previously summited both Chetyreh and Korzhenevskaya in 2018.
On this trip Eric, Andreas, and I split the cost for the services of a private meteorologist, Chris Tomer, whose forecasting proved to be remarkably accurate and useful for strategizing. With a night at 6100m and a high point of 6300m under my belt, I rested for six consecutive days in 4300m Moskvina, waiting for a forecasted weather window with low wind. This acclimation schedule proved to be more than adequate acclimation for 7495m Pik Kommunizma, likely due to a significant base acclimation period and high quality rest spent at 4300m.
Following my six day ‘Russian rest’, I started up Kommunizma alongside Paul Schweizer, an experienced friend whom I knew previously from Pik Lenin in 2016, and from Pik Korzhenevskaya in 2018. On day two I convened with Reuben Kouidri, who alongside Eric and Andreas had opted to make a single lengthy push straight from basecamp, combining what I had split into my own day one and day two schedules. Reuben and I subsequently shared a tent and stove, and climbed as partners throughout the remainder of my Kommunizma ascent. We summited together on day four from Pik Dushanbe camp, and descended to the plateau in the same day.
Calendar
Acclimation Graph
Dark blue depicts sleeping elevation, light blue depicts climbing elevation.
Day-by-Day
Day One: August 13th ~4300m Moskvina Glades to ~5350m Snow Camp 8 Hours, +1050m
Having marinated in Basecamp for about a week, our small band of five unguided climbers – Andreas from Denmark, Eric from the USA, Reuben from the UK, Paul from Scotland, and myself from China/Canada – were all feeling antsy and eager to move. I had been resting very well since coming down from 6300m on Korzhenevskaya, supplementing my Basecamp diet with high-protein food from Dushanbe, maintaining finger strength with simple hangboarding (on my small, one-handed fingerboard) every other day, and doing some light bouldering on (surprisingly decent) nearby blocks when it was warm enough. Our professional weather forecast pointed to low winds and warmer air temperatures on August 16th, and it became increasingly apparent that this would be the best summit day over the coming weeks.
Andreas, Eric, and Reuben planned to wait as late as possible for a firm weather confirmation, and then pull a long first day climbing overnight from Basecamp all the way to the 5850m Pamir Plateau. I had done poorly with the subsequent recovery at altitude following a similarly lengthy 11.5 hour day while acclimating on Korzhenevskaya, and wasn’t keen on straining myself during an ‘approach day’. The long Korzhenevskaya push served as a reminder – after almost four years away from high altitudes – making me cognizant of the ethos which had always worked very well for me on previous climbs; slow and laid back days leading up to a strong summit attempt.
As luck would have it, my fourth friend Paul was both keen to aim for our August 16th summit day and similarly aligned with my aversion to a long first day’s climb. I had initially met Paul on Pik Lenin in 2016, where we climbed together through the lower icefall and to 6000m, and had run into him again at Moskvina in 2018, when I summited Pik Korzhenevskaya. Paul is something of a ‘quiet legend’, enormously experienced and accomplished in the mountains, yet humble and very reserved in downplaying his significant achievements. Paul and I didn’t plan to meet in Moskvina this year, but were happy to run into each other once again. We had always gotten on well, shared a similar enthusiasm, and had a mutual sense of trust in safety standards and competence. Paul had also been up part of the route already, had gas cached on the mountain, and knew conditions well – extremely fortuitous for me! The two of us agreed to climb together, up 1000m from basecamp, to camp at ~5350m on a snow shoulder near the middle of the Borodkin Rib where Paul’s cache was located.
Reuben and I collaborated to pair up after the first day, sharing a tent, stove, and gas supplies. I’d carry the tent up on day one, and Reuben would climb overnight with Eric and Andreas to ‘catch up’ with me, bringing stove and gas, on day two. Reuben and Eric would each carry a radio, for check-in with base camp. Paul graciously offered to share his stove and previously cached gas on day one, saving me significant weight. Paul and I made an early start, taking advantage of the excellent (eggs, and more food than normal!) ‘early alpine breakfast’ offered by the basecamp cook. We set off at a leisurely pace along a well-marked trail, through the moraine up the valley towards Kommunizma. Paul already knew the moraine well, which saved us some trouble in avoiding repeated descents and ascents.
The approach was uneventful, and happily the glacial ramp at the base of the Borodkin was likewise very straightforward and smooth. Two small avalanches did release above us, but were so far off that they didn’t hit, nor even spray, the route of ascent. The ramp is heavily crevassed, but everything was so dry and clearly visible that we didn’t see a need to rope up. The rock ridge past the ramp offered engaging climbing, and I enjoyed the scrambling far above massive glaciers, with awesome views and big exposure on both sides.
Past the rock ridge the snow slopes of Borodkin’s Rib begin at around 5200m, and a dodgy looking fixed rope greeted us, protecting an icy initial section of climbing. Under test strain most of the rope pulled free, some 50m of line. We gingerly ascended up the first section without weighting the remaining lines, rightly nervous of any anchor’s integrity. I finally got high enough to inspect the remaining intermediate anchor, a good v-thread, and confirm that it was safe for us to jumar the line. This process of testing, ripping out, and then inspecting the ropes wasted a fair bit of our time, but it was still only early afternoon and we had a comfortable buffer. We soon found ourselves at Paul’s cache on a flat, but exposed, snow shoulder at around 5350m.
Here we dug a little bit to flatten out tent platforms and then pitched our twin single-walled tents, hairline crevasses conveniently located right at the doorways. I gratefully accepted Paul’s gracious offer to melt snow on his stove and with his cached gas, and managed to eat a huge meal of freeze dried food, cheese, mixed nuts, and snack foods. We settled in for an early rest, and I slept remarkably well throughout the entire evening. The decision to take a slow first day had worked out for me, resulting in a very minor fatigue load, a healthy degree of food consumption, and an excellent night’s sleep at a relatively low elevation.
Day Two: August 14th ~5350m Snow Camp to ~6250m Borodkin Spur 8:30 a.m. – 14:00 p.m.: 5:30 Hours, +900m ~6250m Borodkin Spur to ~5850m Pamir Plateau 14:00 p.m. – 15:00 p.m.: 1 Hour, -400m
Paul and I took our time in the morning, given the relatively short ascent which awaited us. After a good breakfast, again with Paul generously sharing his stove and gas, we packed and were moving by 8:30 a.m. About an hour later we heard voices and saw figures below us; Andreas, Eric, and Reuben had caught up, climbing since around 2 a.m. All three seemed to be in good spirits, and indeed there was plenty to be happy about: a decent boot track continued the rest of the way up the Borodkin, with only a thin dusting of snow over top of it. As we ascended, a large group of Russian climbers descended past us. They were ‘tourists’, on an epic ‘mountain tour’ traverse expedition, and had hiked into Moskvina before summiting both Korzhenevskaya and Kommunizma. Their plan had been to complete a traverse of Kommunizma, descending to some distant village on the side opposite to Moskvina. They had summited Kommunizma some days prior, but one of their members had fallen on descent and been seriously injured; they were headed back to Moskvina for an evacuation. We wished them good luck.
Making steady progress upwards, I reached the top of the Borodkin, around 6250m, at 14:00. The upper Borodkin was viciously cold due to high winds, some of the worst we experienced throughout the five day climb, and it was a relief to find shelter on the far side where the descent begins. The first views of the Pamir Plateau from the top were breathtaking; the plateau is much larger and more impressive than the mountain’s profile would suggest from a distance. The plateau not only stretches out between Borodkin’s Rib and the base of Pik Dushanbe but is also remarkably wide, and falls off starkly to the Moskvina side where it is guarded by severe walls of rock and ice. Pik Dushanbe and Kommunizma preside grandly above the plateau; cresting the Borodkin is akin to having summited a 6000m peak and discovering the lofty base of yet higher mountains behind it.
Descending 400m down the plateau-side of the Borodkin was mostly quite moderately sloped and took one hour, slowed somewhat due to a large patch of exposed water ice which we opted to fix one of our ropes on. Eric proficiently placed two screws, and a treacherous traverse with bad runout became an easy diagonal rappel. On the plateau ahead of us we met Russian guide Pavel and his client Olga, who gave us good advice on the flattest section to set camp. We got our tents up, collected excellent slabs of compact snow for cooking, and settled in for the night.
Day Three: August 15th ~5850m Pamir Plateau to ~6950m Pik Dushanbe 9:50 a.m. – 17:20 p.m.: 7:30 Hours, +1100m
Our group opted for a late start, anticipating a rapid ascent up Pik Dushanbe. We broke camp and were moving by 9:50 a.m. Eric and I opted to rope up and go first on the first section off of the plateau, as visually there seemed to be potential for hidden crevasses. After some 300m of elevation gain it became clear that snow conditions were excellently crisp, everything dry enough for good visibility of any hazards, so we unroped and continued separately.
Ascending Pik Dushanbe was a real slog. The terrain drags on and on with minimal variance in slope or character, an enormous moderate snow slope the entire way, 1100m up. Around halfway up there is a prominent rock band which serves as a clear landmark, with a few small camping platforms dotting the rocks every few hundred meters.
At 16:30 p.m. and around 6700m, Andreas, Reuben and I stopped for a short rest at one such site and briefly discussed the possibility of pitching camp below the 6950m high camp. Eric was already well ahead of us by the time we had stopped, and was out of shouting distance; we couldn’t make out if there were larger sites higher up or not. Andreas committed to high camp, while Reuben and I briefly ran through the pros and cons of stopping where we were. We quickly decided that given we had already somewhat underestimated the timing of our ascent up Pik Dushanbe, we would do poorly to similarly underestimate the summit day by starting too low.
Less than an hour later, at 17:20, Reuben and I reached the 6950m camp. It had been a long day, and a few hours slower than anticipated. In hindsight we probably could have climbed faster or started earlier in the day, but despite it being late the weather was very cooperative; almost no wind. Andreas and Eric had their tent up and were preparing for the night, so Reuben and I likewise focused on getting everything unpacked and organized. Three Russians we had met a week earlier in basecamp – Constantine, Dima, and their guide – were also in their tent, having summited that morning. They had spent several days waiting out bad winds in high camp, but gave us encouraging information on the good condition of the route.
Reuben wasn’t feeling well at all, and complained of blurry vision and stomach issues – he had significant trouble eating, and vomited up most of his food. To make matters worse, when helping him dump a bag of chocolate mousse I accidentally managed to spill most of it onto his outer boot shells!
In the tent, small tasks at this high elevation felt slow and difficult, and I was generally uncoordinated – as evidenced by the chocolate spill. Yet in spite of this I generally felt pretty decent, and was able to eat a fair amount of my cheese, sausage, and snack foods for dinner. I boiled water nonstop, right until sunset, and contentedly drank over a liter of tea, plus a big bowl of sugary hot chocolate mixed with whey protein. Paul arrived late, right at sunset, and I greeted him with a half litre of hot water. We went to sleep early, planning for a 5 a.m. start, and I slept quite well given the elevation.
I woke up at 4 a.m. and began preparing for a 5 a.m. start to our summit attempt. In lieu of cooked food I ate a bowl of dry muesli, some energy gels, and a large hunk of Tajik cheddar cheese. The stove fired up, but the first of what would soon become many problems reared its head when it became apparent that our gas canister had frozen overnight, despite our storing it inside of the tent. With the gas flowing at a pathetic dribble, just barely hissing into the burner, melting snow was taking an inordinate amount of time. A second problem; Reuben’s only Nalgene water bottle cracked when we filled it, spilling water and rending it useless for a summit bid. The third issue; Reuben’s boot lace snapped, likely due to the mousse that I had spilled on the boots the day prior freezing solid overnight. Fourth; I managed to capsize a full litre of melted water, wasting it, after waiting over an hour to prep it. Fateful bad luck and the consequences of minor carelessness were conspiring against us.
Andreas and Eric managed to depart on time, at 5 a.m., and Paul shared some water before heading out shortly after them. While the various mistakes and setbacks which Reuben and I experienced read as trivial in writing, they posed rather significant challenges at 7000m. We moved slowly, with diminished cognitive alacrity. We swapped an empty soda bottle for the busted Nalgene, carefully tied the boot lace back together, slowly warmed our gas can, and borrowed Andreas’ stove from his tent (we had cached about 1 kg of spare gas on the plateau, and an abundant supply at Pik Dushanbe Camp) so as to run two burners simultaneously. Reuben and I, in reflection well after the fact and in a nice restaurant at sea level, both agreed that we handled these setbacks well; we cooperated, communicated, stayed as focused as we could, and eventually sorted everything out.
Nonetheless, we departed almost two hours later than intended, at 6:45 a.m. This could have been catastrophic for us, but we managed to maintain a healthy pace and make up for lost time. We descended from Pik Dushanbe quickly, following Eric, Andreas, and Paul’s boot tracks across the ridge line. This initial ridge section involved more descent than I had expected, but eventually terminated at a small rock band, the base of Kommunizma’s upper face and summit pyramid.
The upper face presented an endless slog, but happily, mostly on visible boot track. Constantine’s tracks from the morning prior were still in place, and Eric, Andreas, and Paul had further beaten them in. Time dripped and crawled during the climb up the face, my complete focus dialed into each step’s crampon and axe placement. The terrain was fairly steep, with some small sections of water ice, and a fall would have been difficult to arrest well. Ahead, I saw Andreas and Eric traverse left off of the switchbacks that Reuben, Paul, and I were ascending; a voice came over Reuben’s radio, Zaravko the basecamp manager, watching through a telescope and telling us to continue climbing directly. I passed Paul, we wished each other luck, and I continued after Reuben up the switchbacks. Andreas and Eric came into visibility on the ridge above us, moving fast towards the summit. Carefully passing a final 5m section of sketchy water ice, I eventually reached the summit ridge at the rightmost snow notch.
The exposure was incredible, with the face dropping off abruptly and a sharp ridge line extending up to the right. The Pamirs spread out below under a deep blue sky, dozens of 5000m and 6000m peaks, stark contrast between black rock and white snow. Behind us Korzhenevskaya presided with particular prominence, standing alone over the lower glaciers, its long summit ridge and route of ascent perfectly framed against the sky. Reuben was just slightly ahead of me, as the two of us began up the ridge towards the highpoint.
Andreas and Eric met us halfway up the ridge and offered encouragement, telling us that we were almost there. I congratulated them; they had both completed the five Snow Leopard peaks with their ascent of Kommunizma, and just had to descend safely. Fifteen minutes later Reuben and I were both at the summit, a small, flat, unambiguous high point marked with a plaque and some debris. We hugged, shook hands, and started quickly taking photographs. It had taken us almost exactly five hours to summit from Pik Dushanbe, a superb outcome in light of our haphazard start in the morning. The wind was sharp and biting at the top, so we quickly began to descend. We met Paul at the notch, exchanged greetings, and started down the face.
The descent required total concentration. The face is fairly steep, and sections of ice were tricky to navigate with only a trekking pole and a long axe. The ridge back to the base of Pik Dushanbe was miserable, each uphill section taxing my resolve. Pik Dushanbe itself was a hideous slog, and felt like significantly more elevation than it had on the way down. When I finally reached camp Eric and Andreas greeted me with a half litre of hot water. I told them I’d wait for Reuben, and we agreed to meet down in the plateau camp, using our satphones to coordinate if anything happened. Camp was sunny and sheltered from the wind, so as Andreas and Eric finished packing and departed I lay down in the tent to take a nap. Reuben arrived about an hour later, feeling exhausted; we agreed to sleep for one hour and then descend.
My alarm clock woke us up on time, and we began packing up. The weather shifted, and thick cloud socked us in with low visibility. Without wands marking the top of the route up Pik Dushanbe, we wouldn’t even have been able to make out the correct direction of descent. Paul arrived right as we finished packing, and told us that he intended to spend the night at Pik Dushanbe camp and descend in the morning. I asked Paul “Would you go down in this weather?”, to which he replied “No. But, you’ll make it”. Filled with renewed confidence and resolve, Reuben and I hoisted our packs and headed into the swirling mist.
The hike down took forever, the two of us fatigued and struggling somewhat through a few inches of freshly fallen snow. Between whiteout and snowfall, our old boot tracks were almost impossible to make out, but the rocky ridge served as a landmark and compass, keeping us on track along the ridge proper. After a few hours we broke below the clouds and could see the plateau laid out below us, under the glow of a glorious sunset. Andreas and Eric’s tent was clearly visible in the distance, below the Borodkin, but we both felt too worn down to cross the plateau and join them. Reuben glissaded the final few hundred meters of descent, and we pitched our little single-walled tent on the first flat stretch of snow we came across. We felt much better having descended some 1100m, and despite the whiteout hiking down had been the correct decision. We boiled water, ate some light food, and fell asleep.
Day Five: August 17th ~5850m Pamir Plateau to ~4300m Moskvina Glades 10:50 a.m. – 18:30 p.m.: 7:40 Hours, +400m / -1950m
Reuben and I slept in late, and awoke to hot sun and high wind on the plateau. We really dragged our feet, and took our time getting ready. We met Tomas and Martin, two strong Czech brothers who had skied Pik Chetyreh and Pik Korzhenevskaya in the weeks prior, as they crossed the plateau towards Pik Dushanbe. They would go on to summit Kommunizma and ski most of the descent. Reascending the plateau-side of Borodkin’s Spur was awful, our pace miserably slow. Our fixed rope was still in place on the iced-over section, and we stopped to recover my two ice screws, re-anchoring the top of the rope on a v-thread. This would later prove to be a mistake, as a day later Paul would find the rope unusable, the lower section inaccessible.
Cresting the Borodkin, our pace rapidly accelerated once on downhill terrain. We quickly found ourselves at the top of the ramp, fresh with avalanche debris, and we hustled across so as to minimize exposure. At the helipad we changed into approach shoes, an enormous relief for feet accustomed to stiff mountaineering boots. The trek back to basecamp was sloppy, our wobbly legs uncooperative on loose scree, and we both lost our footing more than once. Basecamp eventually came into view, and before we knew it we were crossing grass. Eric and Andreas greeted us, offering congratulations and sharing handshakes. After dropping my bag I immediately cracked the celebratory 1.25L bottle of Coca Cola I’d purchased ahead of time, and headed inside the kitchen hall to try and scrounge up some fresh food.
The climb was truly over, we’d made it safely back. Paul would join us in Moskvina two days later; all five of us succeeded. Eric and Andreas departed a few days later, hitching a ride on the Russian ‘tourist’ evacuation helicopter. They subsequently ascended the Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan highpoints, surveying and establishing a new Uzbek highpoint in the process, and also completing the highpoints of every one of the ‘stan countries. Reuben and I would wait 9 days for the scheduled helicopter to take us back to Djirgital, and then spend an entire day driving back to Dushanbe. The wait, while boring, served the purpose of solidifying and preserving my acclimation for subsequent mountain goals in September.
Images
Loading the truck in DjirgitalLoading the truck in DjirgitalHelicopter in DjirgitalHelicopter in MoskvinaSunrise, 5100mKommunizma from KorzhenevskayaKommunizma from KorzhenevskayaMountain goats, MoskvinaCrossing the RampRock Ridge, BorodkinKorzhenevskaya from BorodkinRock Ridge, BorodkinRock Ridge, BorodkinRock Ridge, BorodkinCamping at ~5350mCamping at ~5350mCloud ocean from the BorodkinThe Pamir PlateauThe Pamir PlateauKorzhenevskaya, across the Pamir PlateauThe Pamirs, from Kommunizma summitKorzhenevskaya, from Kommunizma summitKommunizma summitKommunizma summitThe summit plaqueDescending the summit ridgeSunset over the Pamir PlateauThe Pamir PlateauGlissading down Pik DushanbeKorzhenevskaya, across the Pamir PlateauCzech brothers ascending the upper facePik KommunizmaPik Kommunizma
Thoughts on Pik Kommunizma
Pik Kommunizma presents an enormously long route, about 3600m of altitude gain, and quite a lot of slogging up moderate glacier. After summiting, I strongly felt that I’d never climb the route again. It is too long, has far too much uphill climbing after the summit, is too repetitive, and doesn’t offer much in the way of interesting terrain. Views throughout the route were exceptionally good, especially when contextualized by prior climbs of Korzhenevskaya and Chetyreh. After Kommunizma, I felt a strong desire to climb something ‘more interesting’ (a direct route!) next time. Moskvina now offers enormous value for independent climbers, presenting great access to two 7000m mountains at a very reasonable price. The two independent Czech brothers summited Chetyreh, Korzhenevskaya, and Kommunizma in a single season. Eric, Andreas, and Reuben all managed both Korzhenevskaya and Kommunizma. The basecamp is remarkably comfortable, helicopters actually ran on time this year, and the mountains are very beautiful.
Pik Kommunizma was my first significant mountaineering goal since Covid ‘ended’ in China, reopening the border for two-way travel. I had been away from altitude, and serious mountaineering, for well over three years. Throughout Covid-related travel restrictions in China I had intensely shifted my focus and goal-setting into rock climbing, while trying to maintain basic cardio fitness through lesser mountain goals, hiking, and a little bit of cardio training. I trained quite well leading into Kommunizma, while still maintaining sport climbing activities, through a structured and committed six month endurance-oriented training regime. My good athletic performance on the mountain, and a successful summit, left me with a great sense of confidence and accomplishment; I hadn’t let go of mountaineering throughout Covid travel restrictions, and had proven to myself that I remained capable of good preparation and execution. The entire expedition was long enough for me to get back into the rhythm of my old equipment and food systems, and initial rotations up Pik Chetyreh and Pik Korzhenevskaya gave me both robust acclimation and a chance to make mistakes at lower stakes.
Good luck with conditions played a significant role in our experience on Kommunizma. Fixed ropes placed by a Russian guide two weeks prior to our ascent, and maintained by Ak-Sai, aided many of the steep sections. An incredibly dry season made for a visible glacier, and our ascent involved almost no trail breaking; the descent from Pik Dushanbe under steady snowfall was the worst of it. The climb would have been significantly harder through deep snow or up an unbroken route. The climb would have been harder, or impossible, without the camaraderie and teamwork of Reuben, Paul, Andreas, and Eric. The upgraded basecamp allowed for an excellent recovery environment, and besides a throat infection after summiting I didn’t experience any stomach issues or serious illness. Our weather forecast was invaluable, and secured a low-wind summit day for us.
We organized our climb through ClimberCA, a proxy for Ak-Sai and Tajik Peaks, although one should ostensibly be able to organize directly with either of these two companies. As of late 2023, their websites are:
Mid-way through 2021 – I had been limited to travel, and thus climbing, within the borders of China for well over a year. Further, unfortunately, most high altitude mountaineering opportunities inside of China had been rendered inaccessible to foreigners during the COVID pandemic; rock climbing had become the only realistic realm of mountain-related goal setting and training for me.
The idea of tackling a big wall came about in late 2020 while hunkering through a severe winter windstorm at 4500m in central YunNan province. The prospect of a big, challenging climb in warmer weather was deeply appealing, and we had six months’ time to train and prepare. My friend and I even had a route in mind; Blue Glacier 蓝冰川 China’s longest sport rock route. As 2021’s rock climbing season got well underway we soon found ourselves planning the climb for a team of four, representing China, Canada, Indonesia, and France.
Blue Glacier, a peculiar name for a rock route covering hundreds of metres of golden granite slab, is one of two routes on ~2200m Eggplant Mountain, the other being Elf Fingers 精灵手指, a seldom-climbed trad line. The routes were opened in 2016, and are perfect representatives of the wonderful growth in mountain sports and related development which has taken off in China. Blue Glacier covers 520m over 19 pitches, and goes at 5.12a/A0.
Eggplant Mountain – 茄子山 – Blue Glacier topo.
Our climb began with a delayed flight from Shanghai to Xi’An, the provincial capital of Shaanxi. Shaanxi is known for the Terracotta army excavation, for the ancient city walls of Xi’An, and for Hua Shan. Hua Shan, one of China’s five holy mountains, is a touristic granite peak accessible by cable car and frequently painted in watercolor as a symbolic representation of China’s cultural landscape. Nearby Xi’An are rural valleys walled by impressive mountains of sheer granite with an elegant aesthetic to rival that of more famous Hua Shan, but undeveloped for tourism. Eggplant Mountain stands deep within one such valley, past a large hydro dam. Because of the dam infrastructure, the road in is only accessible by road after 6:30 p.m.; we were able to access the road early by contacting a local villager in advance for permission. The beginning of the roadside approach hike to Eggplant mountain can be found at coordinates 33.95422, 109.11861.
Day 1: We drove for around 90 minutes from the airport, stopping for food and water along the way. We parked our rental car nearby a guesthouse by the base of the approach hike, sorted out our equipment, and began the bushwack up to the wall. The approach hike was extremely well marked with red trail tags, and took us roughly 45 minutes to ascend. While quite overgrown, the trail tags made the way clear enough to easily follow.
Once at the wall, we split into two teams, and climbed the first four pitches to a forested bivvy ledge. While we hauled our supplies up using a pulley system, in hindsight we had light enough equipment and food needs that climbing with packs on would have been a preferable strategy. Hauling cost more time than climbing for the first four easy pitches, and was exacerbated in difficulty by the low-angled slabby rock generating friction on our bags.
Surrounded by mountains.
Bushwack approach.
Bushwack approach.
Rough and ready dinner at the ledge bivvy.
We arrived at the bivvy ledge by nightfall, and got busy eating as much of our food as we could. We slept under the stars with harnesses on, anchored to a tree. The bivvy ledge has a shallow ceiling above it, and while the ledge is small, it would remain dry in rain.
Ascending the lower ‘big slab’ on day one.
Ascending the upper wall on day two.
Day 2: Our itinerary for the main climbing day was as follows;
4:45 a.m. Wake up 5:15 a.m. Start preparing 7:40 a.m. Begin pitch 5 2:20 p.m. Arrive at the large ledge below pitch 19, spend almost an hour finding pitch 19 3:20 p.m. Arrive at the top of pitch 19, summit
We didn’t make a focused effort towards sending each pitch, and aided where we failed to onsight in order to keep moving. The 12a crux pitch wasn’t too bad, involving only one tricky, reachy move to a high bolt placement. Pitch 19 wasn’t easy to find, and involved walking through the exposed forest behind the ledge at the top of pitch 18 for some five to ten minutes. We were able to access the base of pitch 19 by walking to climber’s right. Overall the quality of the rock on the route was extremely good, albeit dominated by slab climbing with thin hands and feet.
We raced against rainclouds the entire day, with a little bit of light drizzle hitting us here and there on the way up. The sky properly opened up as we began our descent, and we completed the rappels in torrential downpour and driving wind. We got down in 8 simul-rappels, using two 70m ropes; one for pitch 19, five for the main wall to the bivvy ledge, and two for the big lower slab.
8 simul-rappels to the ground.
Rapping down in steady rain.
Mist and rain on descent
Blue Glacier – Day one drone footage (by _mr_hu_)
Blue Glacier – Day two drone footage (by _mr_hu_)
The hike back to our car was a miserable affair, slippery and much more difficult in the dark. By the time we began hiking all four of us were completely soaked, drenched to the skin. Our boots were filled with water, our ropes were waterlogged and twice as heavy, and we were freezing cold – but we were ecstatic to have made it up and down safely! The descent hike took us almost two hours, and wouldn’t have been possible without the red trail tags.
Back in the car, our adventure wasn’t over yet. The wind and rainstorm had knocked a large tree down, blocking the only road out of the valley. Drenched, all of our jackets completely waterlogged, we couldn’t leave the warmth of our car heater for more than a few minutes without beginning to shiver uncontrollably with cold. I made an initial foray out into the wind to take stock of the tree and vainly push at it with a few farmers who had arrived. Back in the car minutes later, my teeth chattering, it seemed like the situation was hopeless. As another car full of locals arrived, however, we realized that we could make an impact if we all joined in – the four of us ran out of the car, yelling, got behind the tree with the others, and levered it off of the road in a minute flat!
We foolishly decided to stay in the city rather than at the airport, and discovered too late that very few of the hotels in Xi’An would take foreigners. It took us hours to find a place to stay where we could also park our car, leaving us with only a few thin hours of sleep before flights back to Shanghai the next morning.
Here is the official topographic map and guide to Eggplant Mountain (in Mandarin):
Tianhaizi / 田海子山 is a 6070m mountain located in China’s Sichuan province, within the Daxue Shan / 大雪山 (‘big snow mountain’) range. Tianhaizi is the closest major 6000m peak to the nearby town of Kangding.
The Daxue Shan range is also known as the Gongga range, after its major highpoint of Gongga Shan / Minya Konka. Gonga is an incredibly impressive and topographically prominent 7556m peak with only a handful of prior summits, and a shockingly bad track record of fatal climbing accidents. Tianhaizi, while nowhere near Gonga’s difficulty nor notoriety, has a reputation for being a challenging mountain to attempt without a large team and fixed ropes.
Topographic surveys in the 1930s assigned the name Lamo-She to the cluster of peaks of which Tianhaizi is a part, but locals all call the mountain by its Chinese name.
Looking down the approach valley and into the Daxue Shan range at sunset. From left to right are Jiazi Feng/嘉子峰, Aidejia Feng/爱德嘉峰, and Little Gonga/小贡嘎.
Tianhaizhi has a fascinating climbing history, in that its first ascent was made quite recently – by a 1993 American team led by the legendary Fred Beckey. Although Beckey himself didn’t accompany the summit team, visiting a piece of his legacy proved to be interesting; locals still had stories about him, and one long-time logistics fixer regaled me with tales of then 70-year-old Beckey hitting on his 20 year old daughter! You can read the AAC trip report of the first ascent here. Local officials, perhaps half a dozen of them, all told us that the mountain had seen no prior winter summit.
Tianhaizi: The Soccer Game
For a decade plus the entire wilderness area around Tianhaizi shuts down for winter due to fire risks associated with dry conditions in the alpine forests, and only locals with legitimate economic need are allowed to enter the high mountains. Securing permission to bypass the forest-fire controls put my partner and I through incredibly arduous hoop jumping, telephone tag, and delicate negotiation. This was an ordeal of politicking unlike any I have ever experienced prior, and an absolute roller coaster of emotions. Our hopes of being granted access would be lifted through some minor progress only to be crushed, again and again, in what felt like endless cycles of red tape.
I sent messages to my friends and family while in the midst of this, and looking back at them they read with a certain Kafkaesque despair. There are four or five instances along the lines of “We aren’t making much progress. The contact in the Athletics Department doesn’t know who to call, and the local government guys we met yesterday don’t want to give us their names or phone numbers” interjected with such gems as “we randomly met a guy in the hostel who knows everyone, things are looking up!” and “all this, just for a chance to suffer in freezing squalor for a week”.
Throughout, whilst visiting three disparate government offices in person and making phone contact with about a dozen functionaries and aficionados, we were continually met with fear and skepticism. No foreign tourists had visited Kangding in ages, and everyone around us was concerned about COVID. Producing our negative test results and year-old passport entry stamps helped to cool things off, but the tension created by our very presence didn’t make things any smoother!
After playing soccer for three days, each office and official deftly kicking the ball to the next, we finally found success in the shape of a liability waiver, the fruits of a last ditch persuasive effort. My partner, a native Mandarin speaker, was able to secure the fabled form by walking a tightrope of anger, logic, emotion, and pleading coercion. This final, penultimate conversation was masterful to behold, and made me realize how much room for improvement remains in my spoken Chinese ability. We signed and thumb-printed a document promising not to start any forest fires, and that done, we were on the road and into the mountains!
The cluster of peaks Tianhaizi is a part of, Baihaizi at left and Tianhaizi in center, from nearby Kangding.
Tianhaizi: Planning Around Pandemics
The decision to attempt a winter Tianhaizi climb was born of perseverance tempered by impenetrable limitations. Despite relatively stable circumstances within Mainland China, international travel outside of China had become impossible for me due to the COVID19 pandemic. This unfortunate situation prevented access to my preferred (and far more realistic) winter Himalayan goals in India or Nepal, or to on-season climbs in South America. Coming into the 2021 winter season I had missed the 2020 summer season entirely, breaking a four-year streak of 7000m expeditions in Central Asia. Worse yet, following a successful winter climb in Nepal in early 2020 I had failed on a string of ‘easy’ 5000m and 6000m walkups within Mainland China, mostly due to horrible off-season weather. While 2020 concluded as a solid sport-climbing year on rock for me, I felt an irrepressible urge to get back to high altitude.
I have long focused on maintaining momentum in my climbing, and I do believe that my approach of steadily pushing higher and harder has been working well for me. The prospect of missing this winter season and ‘missing out’ on opportunity crushed my spirits. Pandemic controls severely curtailed potential winter climbing goals; foreign nationals remained banned from accessing many national parks or obtaining permits for most interesting climbs. As an example, all of the moderate 5000m climbs around the Siguniang Shan area, where I had climbed in the winter of 2016, remained off limits to foreigners.
When a friend suggested Tianhaizi, and we discovered that a permit would be possible, the gears of preparation immediately began to grind. Having a short term goal to train for once again gave me focus and determination. In reflection, my borderline obsession with mountaineering is a double edged sword capable of cutting deeply in both directions; whilst failures hurt and a total lack of access leads into depression, setting arbitrary personal goals to work for generates an intense motivation and can cumulatively build tenacity.
Our winter Tianhaizi permit.
Tianhaizi: Approach Hike
After we had untangled the complexities of access permission, we were able to drive by car to the mouth of the valley used to approach Tianhaizi. This journey takes just over an hour from Kangding, following a well maintained and paved road the entire way. We enjoyed a full view of Tianhaizi from the lower valley, but were unsettled by the state of the glacier. I could tell from a distance that the lower glacier, when compared to the photos we had collected while researching the route, was very dry and significantly diminished.
Baihaizi, left, and Tianhaizi, right, from near the road at 4000m.
The approach hike up the valley begins at 4000m, and we intended to set our basecamp at 4750m. I had anticipated the need for good acclimatization prior to activity at these elevations, and so we had conservatively pre-acclimated. Throughout our daytime adventures with red tape, navigating the intricacies of local bureaucracy, we had maintained a daily schedule of driving out of Kangding to Zheduo Shan, a nearby mountain with good road access. We drove by bus each day to 4300m, and then hiked to 4500-4600m where we would sit and rest for an hour before descending and hitchhiking back down to the city. The bus tickets cost only about 20 RMB per trip up. I had planned and scheduled to make this trip higher for three days in a row, and we ended up following that plan to perfection; we resolved our access issues while on the third day in Kangding. This structured acclimation strategy had us comfortably camping in our planned basecamp at 4750m on the first night.
Unfortunately the nature of the approach hike was particularly unpleasant. The valley to basecamp constitutes some 2km of easy hiking followed by a further 6km of hideous moraine composed of an endless jumble of unstable boulders. Moving across the boulder fields laden with heavy winter packs was fun for the first thirty minutes, and tortuously miserable thereafter! We spent a cumulative time of over 15 hours throughout the trip moving back and forth across these moraine boulders, delicately balancing and bracing for shifting, sliding rocks while keeping our eyes and ears tuned for the warning sounds of rockfall from above. We could hear the sounds of rock slide emanating from the valley walls around us throughout our nights at basecamp, and the entire upper valley felt very unstable.
Accessing the lower glacier at 5000m involved another hour and a half over moraine from our tent, with no suitably flat areas presenting us with higher camping opportunities. The valley was exposed to sunlight only between 10am and 4pm, which made for full-on winter conditions in camp and during our approach rotations. We experienced temperatures of around -20C inside of the tent at night, and figure that it was around -30C outside. We made quite good time throughout our attempt in spite of the cold and awkward terrain, and consistently worked ahead of the timeframes that we had anticipated based on our research.
Tianhaizi: Rockfall and Blue Ice
When we reached the gully which gains the toe of the glacier, we discovered poor conditions on the mountain. There was no snow cover to speak of, and the glacier access at 5000m which we had expected to involve a straightforward snow ramp instead presented us with around 60m of 50 degree blue ice, which we gingerly simul-soloed. Where the approach up the upper valley had involved exposure to easily avoidable rock slide, the gully which gained the glacier created a dangerous, bottle-necked shooting gallery. We had at least a dozen near misses within 1m of us, from rocks softball sized or larger, and my partner took a significant hit to the upper arm while protecting his head with it. While we were on descent in full shade a murderous block the size of a microwave hurtled down the gully towards us, spinning like a throwing axe as it bounced and careened some 10m off of the ground – and this was the final straw for me.
Me, at around 5350m.
I been warned in advance of rockfall on the route by my helpful contact in the Sichuan mountaineering association, but had not anticipated the degree of risk which we experienced. We encountered sustained rockfall dramatically worse than anticipated, made particularly bad by conditions on the mountain and in the valley; there had been no significant snowfall for months. The same dry conditions which created forest fire hazards lower down made for a glacier of naked blue ice, and for very little snow anywhere on the mountain. High winter winds that cleared away any remaining snow cover further exacerbated this inclement terrain. As a result, rocks perched atop or embedded within the surface of the exposed ice rained down nonstop, knocked free by winds or the daily thaw/freeze cycle.
Without snow cover the bone-dry glacier had also receded from key technical steps along the route. The dry glacier created tens of meters of bare rock and significant ice runouts where our research had led us to expect easy to moderate snow slopes and two or three 2-3m steps of rock and ice. I reviewed my photos of the upper mountain in basecamp, which revealed that the entire 600m of gain to the top, over 1km of summit ridge, was also made up of exposed blue ice. Realistically, even without the unacceptable risks of persistent rockfall, our 30m rope and four ice screws were inadequate for safely dealing with such extended climbing on 45 degree ice atop an exposed ridge. A running belay on screws could have gotten us much higher than our turnaround at 5350m, but a safe descent would have been nightmarish. We made the decision to end our attempt and retreat due to the objectively hazardous rockfall, and the knowledge that a summit was most likely beyond our ability given the state of the glacier.
Naked blue ice on the glacier. The lower edge of the upper summit ridge, and its small ice step, is visible in top center. It’s a lovely shade of blue!Naked blue ice on the glacier.
Expectations (left and middle) versus reality (right) on the rock step at 5400m.
Tianhaizi: Photographs
Moraine approach
Moraine approach
Moraine approach
Moraine approach
The gully which gains the glacier, from a distance
The gully which gains the glacier, at left
Moraine approach
Ascending the lower glacier
Lower glacier
Lower glacier
Tianhaizi: Final Thoughts
Despite an unsuccessful attempt, getting outdoors and trying was immeasurably better than staying home. The swathes of pristine blue ice, while unexpected, were gorgeous to see and to climb on. We did well in managing our acclimation and the challenges of winter camping at altitude, and did our best with the conditions that we found on the mountain. Our high point of 5350m at least involved some real climbing, and afforded us with good views of the upper mountain.
We went into our Tianhaizi attempt knowing full well that our odds of success were low. There was no documented prior winter ascent, and independent winter climbing in or near the Himalaya involves unique challenges created by wind and cold. The cold was a persistent presence throughout, and forced us to pay careful attention to our food intake and rest schedule.
The approach hike was unpleasant enough that I likely would not return to Tianhaizi in the future! Of course, I write this with the misery of crossing the boulder fields fresh in my mind; given time a second attempt in the October season might not be outside the realm of possibility.
Imja Tse, from the approach to basecamp. The summit is the highest ridge to the left.
Imja Tse
Imja Tse is a 6183m mountain located in the Khumbu region of the Himalayas. Despite being a significantly prominent mountain by the standards of any other country, Imja Tse is completely dwarfed by the imposing south face of Lhotse, the 8516m fourth highest mountain in the world which stands just a few kilometers to the north. As Imja Tse is further surrounded by higher 6000m and 7000m peaks, when viewed from afar it is easy to understand the mountain’s colloquial name of ‘Island Peak’; it does indeed resemble an island within an icy, mountainous ocean. Imja Tse is designated as a ‘Trekking Peak’ by the Nepal Mountaineering Association, which has practical implications for accessible and affordable permitting. While the ‘Trekking Peak’ label does not implicate the difficulty of an ascent (some technically challenging climbs such as Cholatse are also designated as ‘Trekking Peaks’), Imja Tse by its normal route is not a difficult climb. With fixed ropes and the infrastructure associated with the normal climbing seasons in place, it probably goes at around a PD+ grade.
Imja Tse in the distance, Chukhung below.Imja Tse dwarfed by the south face of 8516m Lhotse (left), the fourth highest mountain in the world.Imja Tse, from the approach to basecamp.
Going into my decision to climb Imja Tse in January and February, the middle of Nepal’s winter, involved several variables. I had been interested in a winter Himalayan 6000m climb for some time, and in 2018 had made an attempt in northern India. Extreme cold, incorrect route beta, and fatigue had all contributed to a non-summit. Despite being unsuccessful, the trip had been good experience and a successful test of my winter equipment. I intended to return to India in the winter of 2019 for a solo attempt, but thwarted by passport issues and a bad chest cold I never made it out of China. In 2020 mountaineering permits for India looked uncertain; in part due to instability in the Kashmir region, in part due to environmental conservation efforts involving the closure of certain valleys. Further, a solo attempt for 2020 was off the table for me – a close climbing partner and friend had disappeared in the mountains in late 2019 while climbing solo on a moderate route, and his death had deeply impacted my perspective.
As a result of this confluence of considerations the possibility of winter climbing in Nepal arose. While I could only find limited information pertaining to winter ascents of the lower mountains in the Khumbu, I knew that it was possible. After all, all of the area’s 8000m mountains had seen winter ascents! Nepal’s permitting system, while expensive (compared to alternatives in Central Asia or South America) during the normal pre-monsoon and post-monsoon seasons, is significantly cheaper for winter mountaineering permits, and tourist support in general becomes less expensive during the off-season. While soloing in Nepal is possible, the nature of the bureaucratic red tape and well established tourist industry make it very smooth and affordable to arrange an experienced 1:1 local partner; without any friend available on the same time frames as I, this had become an essential consideration for me. The prospect of a winter ascent without any crowds, without any fresh fixed ropes, and with the challenging weather conditions of winter began to look very appealing.
Schedule and Trip Report
The trip began with arrival in Kathmandu and a flight to Lukla two days later. Kathmandu was an enjoyable introduction to Nepal; colorful, flavorful, full of life. The atmosphere, pedestrian traffic, and general feel of the city were similar to my experiences in Indian Kashmir, but past the surface Kathmandu is very much its own unique place – for one there are images and services related to the Himalaya and to Mount Everest visible literally everywhere one looks in the tourist district. I had no issue getting some simple preparatory shopping completed, and had time to meet a Nepalese friend whom I’d known for many years when we had both lived in Northwest China.
I’d arranged the climbing, trekking, and camping permits in advance through a tourist agency, and they were all in order the day after I arrived – an enormous time-saver for marginal additional costs. I met my climbing partner, Ashok Tamang, and we spent a few hours talking shop and discussing our plans after going over each other’s equipment. At first impression Ashok was quite competent, and definitely knew what he was doing when it came to climbing – in the days to come we would spend hours upon hours sharing rock climbing and mountaineering stories. We quickly agreed upon the crevasse safety and basic technical gear that we’d both carry on the mountain.
Day 1: The flight to Lukla departed quite early in the morning, and after a harrowing landing on the sloping, minimalist airstrip of “the most dangerous airport in the world”, we found ourselves in Lukla at 8 o’clock in the morning. 11km of straightforward hiking and 5 hours later, we arrived in Josalle at 2750m where we would spend the night.
Day 2: The morning of the second day it registered with me that climbing in the Khumbu Himlaya would be unlike anywhere I’d ever been before. The teahouse in Jorsalle had served us a hot dinner the night before, and after sleeping overnight on a bed with a mattress we were greeted with a hot breakfast in the morning. Bar two nights spent waiting out winds at high camp, we would lodge in teahouses throughout the entire approach hike – a level of comfort, service, and nutritional consistency the likes of which I had never experienced before. The abundance of tea-houses in the Everest region makes approach hikes extraordinarily comfortable and, dare I say, quite easy. Sleeping in a warm bed every night, enjoying three hot meals per day, having steady access to bottled drinks, and having the option of very affordable porter support makes acclimation significantly more comfortable than anywhere else I have ever climbed.
Given the winter season there were only very few other people around; mostly Chinese nationals going trekking for their Chinese New Year vacation. Despite the lack of crowds, I could tell that the infrastructure was in place to support many thousands of tourists. Indeed, when entering the national park on this second day I was allowed to see the park’s data – tens of thousands swarm the area during the peak climbing and trekking seasons. I can only imagine the crowding, noise, and chaos which this must entail. Paradoxically, despite remaining an economically undeveloped rural area, the Khumbu is highly developed with tourist infrastructure in the form of guesthouses, restaurants, shops, and bridges – the seasonal tourist industry is the backbone of the region’s economy. I felt happy to have come in the middle of winter for my first visit.
On the second day we hiked 4.5km to Namche Bazaar at 3450m. Namche is the central settlement of the Sherpa people, and despite the lack of road access is like a small touristic city. Almost all of the facilities were closed for winter, but several comfortable guesthouses remained open – the food here was the best, by far, of the guesthouses I would stay at in the Khumbu.
Day 3: A five hour hike through gorgeous evergreen forest took us to Tengboche monastary at 3850m. Good weather allowed for nice views of Mount Everest, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Thamserku, and Khangtega. Ama Dablam appears tantalizingly close from Tengboche, and was absolutely stunning to observe in the clear winter air. A Spanish team was on the mountain this winter, and would put several members on the summit just a few days after I left the monastery. The monastery itself was empty, the monks having all descended for the winter, but I was able to spend some time taking in its architecture and Buddhist artwork.
Everest
Khangtega
Everest, Lhotse, and Ama Dablam.
Ama Dablam.
Khangtega.
Day 4: A three and a half hour hike to 4350m Dingboche, where we stayed in a lovely guesthouse with a large sunroom on the roof. Acclimation was going well, but this was the first night where I began to feel the effects of altitude. This day’s trek offered spectacular views of Cholatse, Taboche, and distant Lobuche East.
Lobuche East, true summit the highpoint to the left.Taboche and Cholatse.
Day 5: A one hour and fifty minute hike took us to 4750m Chukkhung, the highest settlement below Imja Tse. The hike from Dingboche follows relatively close to the Lhotse South face, and passes the Jerzy Kukuczka memorial. After arriving in Chukkung I made a quick acclimation hike to 5100m on the Chukkhung Ri hill behind the settlement, taking about two hours round-trip. Despite this hike being quite easy, the winter wind and cold began to make themselves felt. Chukkhung would later prove to be bitterly cold at night. That said, having a bed and a teahouse to stay in at Chukkhung made the approach hike an absolute luxury to this point.
Day 6: Resting in Chukking for acclimation. I met two other Canadian climbers headed for Imja Tse. They were a few days ahead of my schedule, and intended to move up the next day.
Day 7: Resting in Chukking for acclimation. There were high winds this day, and an uninspiring weather forecast calling for 100km winds for the following days. The two Canadians and one Chinese moved up today, in preparation for a summit bid.
Day 8: A two hour hike to Imja Tse basecamp at 5080m. The two Canadians and one Chinese climber had summited in the morning, but had battled horrific wind conditions which nearly shut them down. The Canadians told me that the beginning of their climb in the dark had been colder than their experience on Denali, due to the wind. Basecamp was windy when we arrived, and the forecast didn’t look promising. We pitched our tent and hunkered down for an afternoon of rest. That evening winds were howling on the upper mountain, and despite the sheltered location of basecamp our tent shook profusely with each gust. After a brief discussion Ashok and I agreed to wait for another day – not an impact given our extra food supplies and spare time.
Day 9: We departed our tent at 3:15 a.m. under a clear sky and low winds. The route first crosses a large moraine, circling around the mountain to the east before heading up a gully of good quality rock. There was some class 3 scrambling, but generally this section was fun and easy. After topping out of the gully, we finally had a clear view of Imja Tse’s glacier and icefall. We crossed a narrow and exposed ridge of good rock to the toe of the glacier, where we stopped to hydrate and put on our crampons.
Crossing through the Icefall was interesting, in part because I was surprised at how dry the conditions were. High winter winds and low precipitation meant that the glacier was particularly ‘naked’, leaving all of the crevasses highly visible and open. It looked as if the mountain hadn’t seen snow in weeks. An old boot track was visible; it had melted out from the high traffic of the autumn high season and then frozen into place. The icefall wasn’t difficult, and reminded me of the lower glacier traverse right out of basecamp on Pik Korzhenevskaya in Tajikistan. It was bitterly cold, and I needed to don my down pants and storm parka.
Passing through Imja Tse’s icefall.
Past the icefall we gained a large plateau below Imja Tse’s summit ridge. The glacier was bone-dry and opened up, bergshrund crevasses gaping. The ridge itself was so barren and exposed that an ascent wouldn’t be viable – the clear route to take went straight up the face of the summit pyramid. The frozen boot track marking the way like a road chopped into the ice was something I had never seen before. In hindsight, this was perhaps the driest glacier I have ever been on.
The summit pyramid across the glacial plateau, from just above the icefall. Summit is the visible highpoint. The line in the ice is a frozen boot track, left behind from the autumn season.
Crossing the plateau was trivial, and we soon found ourselves at the base of the face. A small ~5m ice step blocked the way, and the old fixed ropes on it looked unsafe. Ashok hadn’t been on the mountain since autumn and wasn’t sure of the ropes, so we agreed to avoid jugging the lines. From here I led on Ashok’s belay, avoiding the fixed ropes in favor of the 30m/8mm rope I’d brought, placing a single screw for protection. The step wasn’t difficult, but balance was a bit tricky given that I only had my 75cm ice ax. Above the step I anchored off onto two of the old fixed lines plus a second screw, and belayed Ashok up.
The small ice step at the base of the face, Ashok on rappel.
Directly above the little ice step we discovered a significant ~1m crevasse splitting the middle of the face. We agreed to belay the jump across on my anchor while clipping into the two dodgy fixed lines as a secondary backup. I went first, then belayed Ashok up after me.
Crevasse splitting the face. Take a look at the old fixed ropes some ~10m down!Belaying Ashok over the crevasse.
Above the crevasse the going was smooth, with a few straightforward sections of exposed low-angle rock. The conditions were very dry and icy, but the moderate slope wasn’t too difficult. I clipped into the old fixed lines as backup, but led the rest of the way up without an ascender; the fixed ropes were bleached white from sun exposure, and we were unsure of the state of anchors higher up. Never fully commit to an old fixed rope on the way up, without having had the chance to properly inspect anchors and integrity.
Looking up the face, towards the summit.
Before we knew it, there was nowhere higher to go. It was 11:15 a.m. and we had made it! The summit was decorated with some old prayer flags. A hefty boulder with an assortment of crooked pickets served as the anchor for the old fixed lines which we had been so dubious of. It was cold and windy at the top, and we stayed only long enough to take some photographs. With clear skies the views of surrounding mountains were exceptional.
Looking down the summit ridge from the summit of Imja Tse. The face is to the left.View from Imja Tse’s summit. Ama Dablam is the prominent peak to the left. To the far right, the nearest prominent peaks are Taboche and Cholatse.View from Imja Tse’s summit. Makalu is the prominent peak center. Baruntse is the prominent peak to the right.
Lhotse South Face, from near the summit of Imja Tse. Lhotse is the central peak, Lhotse Shar is the pyramidal peak to the right.
After checking the anchor at the top, we opted to rap down on the two old fixed lines. They were somewhat frozen and fraying, making them a massive hassle to run through prussik and gear, but using two felt safe enough given that they were separately anchored the entire way down. The rest of the descent was quick, and soon we were back at our tent. We packed up and hiked back to Chukkhung, arriving at 7:15 p.m. The hike back was notable for the snowstorm which hit halfway in, making the path somewhat difficult to find.
Imja Tse at sunset, from basecamp.
Day 10: Exit hike from Chukkhung to Tengboche.
Day 11: Exit hike Tengboche to Namche.
Day 12: Exit hike Namche to Lukla – the final uphill stretch coming into Lukla was a nice workout.
Day 13: Rest in Lukla, waiting for our flight scheduled the next day.
Day 14: After many hours of delay, our airplane finally arrived in Lukla and took us back to Kathmandu, where we celebrated with a pair of tandoori chickens and some Everest beer. On return to Kathmandu the news that I had been reading about the COVID19 outbreak in China began to take on greater clarity; my return flights to Shanghai were abruptly cancelled by the airlines. I departed Kathmandu two days later on a flight to Canada, where I would spend an unplanned month before eventually making my way back to China. Two weeks after I departed Kathmandu the Nepalese government announced the shut down of the spring climbing season; there would be no April/May climbing in the Khumbu.
Other Images
Imja Tse icefall
Imja Tse basecamp
Yak train
Acclimation hike
Park gate
Kukuczka Memorial
Imja Tse icefall
Tengboche Monastery
Mule train
Imja Tse icefall
Imja Lake
Stupa, Ama Dablam
Imja Lake
Imja Tse, Chukkhung
Stupa
Everest and Lhotse
Imja Tse summit pyramid
Ashok on the summit
Thoughts on Imja Tse
Winter Imja Tse was a good experience for my first trip to Nepal. Partnered with an experienced local guide who knew the route well the climb wasn’t too challenging, but leading everything on the mountain was still rewarding for me. While not the most difficult, Imja Tse is still of relatively high altitude and does involve a significant icefall and glacier – in hindsight I am satisfied that I didn’t go alone. It was very nice to be the only two people on the mountain, and to generally enjoy the Khumbu area with very few crowds. The trip wasn’t too expensive, largely due to the winter season, but I was still surprised by the level of support and tourist infrastructure in place. I do not think that I would enjoy the area anywhere near as much during the normal spring and autumn high seasons.
Winter in Nepal has a lot of potential. With cheaper permits and cheaper access, and no crowds, there’s a bit more sense of adventure to be had if one is willing to brave the frigid winds. Inspired by the fact that this season saw winter Ama Dablam summits, I am already putting together plans for more ambitious winter goals in the Khumbu area, and am hopeful to return in 2021. Finishing my objective of a 6000m Himalayan summit in winter felt good, but was also somewhat easier than expected. My experience in Nepal involved none of the absolutely grueling load carries and -40C winter camping which I had been through in the northern Indian Himalaya. A return to northern India for more winter climbing attempts likely also remains in the books for me, if I am provided the opportunity, as that particular sort of rugged winter mountaineering still represents the sort of challenge which I am interested in working towards.
Zhongyangjian Shan – 中央尖山 – August 2012 Three days of hiking deep into Taiwan’s central mountains to 3705m Zhongyangjian Shan, one of Taiwan’s remotest and most visually awe-inspiring mountains.
Snow Mountain North Peak – 雪山北峰 – July 2012 Two days spent hiking the north ridge of Snow Mountain, Taiwan’s second highest at 3886m. A rough camp on top of the ridge, terrific views, tremendous cliff faces, and exciting terrain.
Chilai Shan – 奇萊山 – May 2012 Famous for accidents and foul weather, ‘black’ Chilai Shan is one of Taiwan’s most beautiful mountains. A two day hike in perfect weather across the main Chilai ridge, from the steep and imposing 3607m North Peak to the aesthetically positioned 3560m Main Peak.
Wuling Sixiu Mountains – 武陵四秀 – May 2012 The incredibly scenic Wuling Sixiu mountains are a series of four 3000m+ mountains east of Snow Mountain. A three day trip with great views of the surrounding mountain ridges, and fantastic hiking terrain.
North / West Hehuan Shan – 合歡山 – April/May 2012 One night of camping and one day of hiking on Hehuan Shan’s North/West 3000m+ ridgeline. Pastoral alpine meadows, rhododendron flowers, and fantastic views.
Jade Mountain Seven Peaks – 玉山七峰 – April 2012 3952m Jade Mountain is Taiwan’s highest. An ambitious three day journey up the Main Peak of Jade, along with six other nearby 3000m+ mountains.
Beidawu Shan – 北大武山 – March 2012 Taiwan’s southernmost 3000m+ mountain, Beidawu Shan is famous as one of Taiwan’s five sacred mountains. Two days of hiking with great views of the ‘cloud ocean’, interesting history, and a highly enjoyable trail.
Nanhuda Shan – 南湖大山 – February 2012 A four day trip up remote 3742m Nanhuda Shan in terrible weather. Constant rain, sleet, and fog obscured the views, but Nanhuda Shan still offered up some very enjoyable hiking terrain.
Snow Mountain Main Peak – 雪山主峰 – January 2012 Across snowfields, into an ancient forest, and up through a unique glacial cirque. Three days hiking up Taiwan’s 3886m second highest in the middle of winter. Snow, winter weather, and wonderful scenery.
Jade Mountain Main Peak – 玉山主峰 – December 2011 Along a steep cliff face and through a deep mountain valley, inclement weather near the top didn’t prevent this from being an enjoyable climb. A two day trip to the 3952m Main Peak of Jade Mountain, Taiwan’s highest.
The Cloud Ocean 