On Thin Ice: Changabang Part 1

The average man tends to change his weekend activity with passing years. This thought rang loud and clear when one April weekend in 1997, I held an inverted position in a particularly smelly manhole whilst attempting to retrieve part of my wife’s Sri Lankan shell collection.

I was off to attempt Changabang’s unclimbed North face the following weekend and, in years gone by, would have spent the last few weekends (and just about every other weekend throughout the year) getting in as much climbing as possible. Family life though is not conducive to such activities. It’s not that I’m complaining; preferences also change with circumstances. I’m just noting the difference.

The cause of the problem was Alec, our 2 year old, who had managed to successfully flush 4 or 5 potentially prize winning shells down the toilet. Nicki had not been pleased. I had been in charge, hence my efforts which, I contemplated, were close to being beyond the call of duty. The really worrying factor was that the manhole was very deep and when my arm was in the best position to retrieve lost shells my ear was level with the discharge pipe from our neighbours property. And I was uncomfortably aware that I had forgotten to ask them to hold fire. Hopefully the objective dangers would be less extreme on Changabang.

Sitting on the gravel at the side of the manhole I had time to contemplate the results of my exertions. Three shells found and one surprisingly breathless body. Fortunately I seem to enjoy a fairly high level of inherent fitness but there was no doubt that a 5 minute inverted struggle had induced some noticeably heavy breathing. Maintaining peak fitness is something I have real trouble with. Over the years I have concluded that only rock climbing and mountaineering have sufficient appeal to persuade me to exert my body. I take my hat off to those who have the willpower to pound the pavements at every opportunity but, despite a couple of efforts over the years, I have long concluded that such exertions are not for me.

And so I sat considering the demands the next few weeks would make on my system. Despite my best intentions I hadn’t actually managed to do any training of any kind. In the past I’d at least gone as far as to condition my digestive system by spending plenty of time in some of Britain’s worst curry houses. This time though, the Tandoori Nights takeaways from Castle Donington had appeared completely germ free and I felt that they had been of minimal use in preparing me for the joys of Indian roadside cuisine. I did though note a bloody graze on my elbow where I had scraped it below the water line in the U bend. It was my only (unintentional) germ training and not likely to have a positive effect on my resistance levels.

A voice over my shoulder interrupted this line of thought.

“Steve, for you … not found my best white one yet then?”

I trooped into the house contemplating the challenge of the day.

“Steve, Hello. How’s the body?”

Steve Sustad was to be my climbing partner on Changabang. We had performed for the camera together in Scotland and by 1997 knew each other well. Not only had we climbed together lots in the UK but in 1993 we had enjoyed a successful trip to the Indian Himalaya, making the first ascent of the spectacular peak of Cerro Kishtwar. Steve is one of the world’s toughest, most determined mountaineers. Since I last climbed with him he had endured a remarkable solo epic on the south face of Aconcagua, the highest mountain in South America. Ultimately he had lost a toe to frostbite and so been unable to join me on the Taweche climb, but, true to form, his enthusiasm for Changabang was not dented in the slightest.

“Only a week to go, have you got everything under control?”

This was a reasonable question but the honest answer was that I didn’t really have a clue. All our personal climbing gear was ready but this expedition was to be a new experience for me in that all the bureaucracy and paperwork was out of our hands. Not that this was something to complain about, it was just different to what I was used to. Up to now I had always been closely involved with the frustration of doing battle with third world rules and regulations. In fact, my last expedition to India, with Steve in 1993, had involved a whole week of negotiations in Delhi before we were allowed to head off towards our peak; it had definitely been the bureaucratic crux of my climbing career. This time things were going to be different. Our leaders were the husband and wife team of Roger Payne and Julie-Anne Clyma.

Changabang stands in the Garhwal Himalaya on the northern rim of the Nanda Devi sanctuary close to the India-China border. It is a strikingly spectacular mountain not visible from any road and the subject of much adulatory writing well before it was first climbed in 1974 by an Indo-British team led by Chris Bonington.

A flurry of activity thereafter saw several new lines established on the mountain’s south and west sides until in 1982. The Nanda Devi sanctuary was then closed by the Indian authorities for ecological reasons and the brief window of activity ended. Throughout this time the North Side remained inaccessible behind the inner line, a restricted access area along the India – China border, as it had done for many years. In fact, as far as I am aware, no Westerners approached the northern side of Changabang between 1906 when Tom Longstaff’s team crossed the Bagini col and 1996 when the British climber, Roger Payne, secured permission to attempt the North Face.

The 1996 British expedition ground to a halt in most unfortunate circumstances. There were four climbers, Roger Payne, Julie-Anne Clyma, Brendan Murphy and Andy Perkins. Climbing as a team of four they reached a point about half way up the face. At which point Andy Perkins’ bowel problems made him so unwell that descent was their only option.

So in 1997 the North Face of Changabang was still unclimbed. The Indian system requires that peaks be ‘booked’ and peak fees paid before climbers are allowed to attempt them. The system is basically a tax on climbing and is designed to put hard currency into the Indian coffers. On leaving India in 1996, Roger and Julie-Anne has been sufficiently impressed with Changabang to make a provisional reservation for 1997. Guiding tests meant that Andy Perkins couldn’t make it in 1997 and so Brendan arranged to climb with Andy Cave.

Meanwhile Doug Scott, one of Britain’s most experienced mountaineers, had become aware of the North Face of Changabang as a rather fine objective. He had been with Chris Bonington’s team back in 1974 and had been in the successful first ascent party. Now he too was keen to take advantage of the relaxation of the rules and gathered together a team comprising Steve and me along with two well known American climbers Greg Child and Alex Lowe. Doug too made a provisional booking for the pre-monsoon 1997 year. A recipe for confusion and overcrowding was born which was only partially resolved when Doug, Greg and Alex decided to withdraw. The rest of us then joined forces under Roger and Julie-Anne’s leadership. With the benefit of hindsight I now know that we all felt that six climbers was too many but at the time we were all drawn along on the optimistic hope that it would ‘all be all right on the day.’

Anyway the end result was that Roger and Julie-Anne were very definitely our leaders whilst Brendan, Andy, Steve and I sort of tagged along behind. So when Steve interrupted my drain searching to ask if everything was under control the honest answer was: “I haven’t got a clue.”

In fact I did have some slight reason to be unsure. The previous week I had been one of the very few people to witness Roger actually being a party to something that went organisationally wrong. The fact that I was equally to blame should not detract from the delightful air of incompetence that surrounded the one evening that I have tried to spend climbing with the then General Secretary of the British Mountaineering Council. Roger and I had both been collecting equipment for the Changabang climb and, not wishing to tempt car crime, we turned up at Staden Main Quarry in the Peak District sporting rucksacks overflowing with all manner of bulky Himalayan mountaineering equipment. It quickly transpired though that neither of us had brought any rock climbing equipment. A quick foray on the delightfully named ‘Bicycle Repair Man’ ground to a halt when it became clear that neither of us was prepared to lead it with just hand placed ice barbs (metal hooks) for protection. Other climbers stared at us in bewilderment, clearly recognising Roger and marvelling at the fact that a man with his reputation for efficiency could bring so much gear to the crag but still not have enough to climb with. Sheepishly we retreated to the pub to discuss the joys of Changabang. Whilst Roger reassured me that everything was under control for the Changabang trip.

And so it proved to be. The last week before departure saw tickets arriving through the post, computer lists of food and requirements being e-mailed around the country and faith in Roger back at 100%. A day or so before departure day I telephoned him with the usual sort of last minute questions:

“How much extra money are you taking?”

A silence compatible with complete incomprehension followed.

“Just present money; the rest’s accounted for.”

I thought of all those computer lists. I had never seen anyone this organised before.

“Beer money?”

“No, shouldn’t be any need. All budgeted for.”

I put the phone down reeling from organisational brain strain. I wondered what consumption per head he had accounted for. Steve drinks lots of beer … had he accounted for that? My thoughts tailed off as I made a mental note to slip in a little cash.

The first time we were all together was at Heathrow. The others had flown down from Manchester and met us whilst Steve and I were frantically trying to convince the check-in staff that we - well our leader - had arranged 30kg of excess baggage per person. We were failing, which at about £10 per kilo, was not funny. Tempers were getting frayed and Steve was just in the process of explaining what he was going to do if the assistant persisted when a cheerily authoritative voice rent the air.

“Morning team, good to see you looking harassed.”

The master bureaucrat team of Roger and Julie-Anne appeared with Andy and Brendan looking shell shocked just behind. Roger’s mother was also present. The check-in assistant was clearly non-plussed by the arrival of reinforcements. Soon the supervisor was called. The queue behind us was growing and voices of discontent were clearly audible, whilst the Payne family machine moved into full persuasive mode. Bits of paper were waved, voices were raised and a photograph of Changabang was thrust to the fore.

“You must have a photograph of the mountain our expedition is to climb.”

The supervisor tried to refuse.

“It’s very important,” stressed Roger. “This is a government sponsored expedition.”

Quite what was important was unclear to me but the Payne tactics did appear to be winning ground. Roger gave a detailed explanation of the line we intended to attempt and then moved on to explaining the government grant system for mountaineering expeditions and the embarrassment her lack of co-operation would cause the government.

By now the queue behind us was full of agitated passengers looking at their watches. Roger moved on to explaining that a possible solution was to unpack some heavy items like tinned food and leave them at the check-in desk. He stretched down to one of the bags, presumably willing to demonstrate what he meant. Anguished voices came from behind.

“No, No.” The supervisor was most adamant.

“On this occasion only you are allowed through.”

And so, nerves slightly frayed but all equipment intact we boarded the plane. Steve and I had experienced our first sight of the ruthlessly efficient Payne-Clyma negotiating machine in action. I began to feel rather sorry for the host of minor Indian officials who we would come across and who traditionally cause immensely frustrating problems for mountaineering expeditions.

Delhi airport was hot, sweaty and action packed and Steve and I duly started to haggle with taxi drivers over the fare into town. But we were called away. What was this? Roger was gesticulating towards a luxury minibus complete with curtains.

“Pre Booked” he explained to an incredulous Steve. And so it continued with pre-booked hotel and pre booked transport to the road head. It was beginning to feel a bit like I’d imagine a package tour to be. Not that I was complaining. Soon questions of the “Can I do something?” variety changed to “What’s happening next, leader?”

Roger asked us to collect our freighted goods from the much feared customs buildings at Delhi airport. Steve and I had done this before and knew it to be a frustrating and miserable way to spend a full day. Roger accompanied us to begin with but then had to rush off for a meeting. Steve and I were left to handle life without our leader.

It didn’t take long for things to go wrong. It seemed that we had somehow been left with ‘visitor’ passes and only Roger had an authorised ‘action’ pass. Why anyone should ever want to go to Delhi airport customs building as a ‘visitor’ was beyond me but it rapidly became clear that the officials were under orders not to deal with ‘visitors.’ There seemed no option but to return to the front gate and start the whole tedious process again. To make matters worse we were both fully aware that all the equipment had been freighted in Roger’s name and, a long way down the line, a passport entry was necessary which could bring the process to a grinding halt without the presence of our leader. He had promised to return as soon as his meeting finished but we had no idea when that might be. We could do little but persevere and keep our fingers crossed.

It was whilst I was queuing for an action pass that I got the first inklings that my guts were not at their best. By the time we were back in the customs building proper, I could hold back no longer and rushed off in the direction of an appalling smell which I took to be the toilet abandoning our hard fought place in the queue.

I squatted miserably over the turd surrounded hole in the floor. The non-existent door lock made life difficult. Perhaps it was because I had just arrived straight from the genteel etiquette of rural England, but somehow I felt obliged to try and keep the door vaguely closed to others. The combination of squat, keep the door closed and not overbalance was a challenging one, the whole experience being enhanced by the small blue plastic cup full of water which substituted inadequately for the nice soft toilet tissue back home.

Steve was sweating profusely but looking relaxed when I returned. The queue had hardly moved but he had managed a few more pages of his book.

“All OK?”

“Double dripper,” I retorted.

We laughed together noting how easily the tried and tested phrases slipped off the tongue after, for me, a couple of years’ absence.

“Welcome to India,” we managed in unison.

The queues moved slowly but by mid afternoon we had at least physically seen that the gear had arrived. I always regard this as a crucial uplifting moment, although past experience has shown that many challenges still remain, like this time showing my passport and then trying to impersonate the Mr Roger Payne who the paperwork said would be signing for the equipment. I fingered the healthy wad of rupees that Roger had given me. This was a hurdle that could call for a nastily large bribe.

“Michael! Good to see you looking so well.”

Roger was back, wearing a spotless light yellow short sleeved shirt and was smiling and apparently relaxed. Sickening really. I looked down almost shame facedly at my sweaty grime stained T-shirt. It’s remarkable how quickly India seems to permeate the Fowler clothes. How come Roger looked so clean and fresh? I couldn’t work it out at all. It briefly crossed my mind that he would make a fine advertising figure for a washing powder or deodorant manufacturing company. As soon as he opened his mouth he oozed crisp, clean efficiency as he accosted the nearest official.

“Right my man, these are our goods. Now come on, let me sign the forms ... here’s a photo of the mountain we’ve come to climb...”

There was no doubt about it; our leader was back. I slunk off thankfully to perfect my balancing act over the hole in the ground. Steve briefly looked up from his book and caught my eye.

“Enjoying your holiday Michael?”

“Bastard,” I managed.

Life under Roger and Julie-Anne was super organised; there was no doubt about that. UK prepared typed shopping lists, complete with specified shopping venues, quickly led to a collection of neatly taped and stacked cardboard boxes, sealed and ready for transport all the way to base camp.

“Perhaps we should be doing more,” I ventured to Steve.

He looked at me with the quizzical look of a fully relaxed man well used to the expedition scene and capable of taking just about everything in his stride. When there is nothing to do Steve is just brilliant at doing nothing.

“If they want to do it, let them do it.”

I took time to chew this over. Perhaps I was the only one who felt pangs of guilt over our unequal input? Whatever I felt, there was nothing to be done other than admire the Payne/Clyma team in their headlong drive to organise, socialise, build contacts and get us all to the mountain. They even found the time to give a joint lecture for the Indian Mountaineering Foundation and arranged for us all to enjoy the splendid hospitality of Manjit Singh Soin, head of one of India’s leading adventure holiday companies.

In fact the aftermath of Manjit’s hospitality was a rather delicate feeling as we bounced through the suburbs of Delhi en route to the town of Rishikesh and the start of the Ganges gorge. Our transport was of course the pre-booked curtained minibus that had collected us from the airport. I groaned unhealthily, noting that the others looked annoyingly perky. It is a fact that my alcohol tolerance levels have steadily dropped after peaking in my late teens. Now I sat there suffering from a throbbing head, a queasy stomach and a bowel still threatening to erupt at any moment.

“Good altitude training,” Steve assured me, noting my discomfort and doubtless thinking of the character building experiences to come.

The road to Rishikesh bored its way through the muggy heat of the Indian plain. The monotonous anonymity of motorway travel has yet to hit India. Instead our driver was faced with the non-stop hooting, variety and excitement of Indian road travel. I never cease to be amazed at the number of different forms of transport on the Indian sub-continent. We weaved and dodged our way round cycle rickshaws, carts drawn by horses, buffalo and even a camel. Elephant transport was occasionally spotted and at one point we were held up for a good 30 minutes whilst an enormously long queue of water buffalo pulling sugar cane laden carts ambled across the road.

It was interesting to watch the team’s reactions to their surroundings. Steve, relaxed as ever, watched with a passing indifference. If something really spectacular occurred he would turn his head slightly but that was about as far as it went. Stretching for a camera at this stage of a trip was definitely not something that he would undertake lightly. At the other end of the scale was Andy Cave. He had borrowed a huge, posh camera from Elaine, his girlfriend, and had not yet fully mastered the innumerable buttons. But such problems did not prevent him snapping frantically at regular intervals. Meanwhile Brendan sat quietly reading, half submerged under the collapsing piles of baggage, whilst Roger and Julie-Anne took selective shots that I had no doubt would turn out to be of excellent quality. And then there was me, leaning optimistically out of the window, ever hopeful of catching a really memorable shot, pressing the button a lot but never being quite sure of what I had photographed. You can learn a lot by just watching people.

Rishikesh has long been popular with the western hippy community. The town sits astride the Ganges at the point where it spews forth from the Himalayan foothills. We stopped here to stretch our legs and give our driver a rest before doing battle with endless hours of Himalayan hairpin bends. An aimless wander soon brought us to a sign pointing down an interesting narrow back alley.

“Temple,” it said.

But it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The alley opened out into a sort of private allotment/cannabis growing area. Brendan, suddenly caught short, was picking his way through the crops to see if there was a discrete spot round the corner of the next building when a perfect Queen’s English voice made itself known.

“You are looking for the temple?”

The voice’s owner looked anything but Queen’s English material. A man of large stature, he had a huge grey beard and was dressed in a white shawl which brushed the ground.

“Er, Yes … the temple” replied Brendan awkwardly before picking his way back through the well tended vegetables. The man led us up some external stairs and into a large softly lit room. It appeared to be nothing more than an upstairs room in his house. The walls were adorned with all manner of religious artefacts complete with numerous garland laden photographs of him. We wandered around hesitantly in the 5 metre square room feeling slightly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. A clearly flea-ridden disabled dog joined us - and proceeded to display great interest in Julie-Anne. The situation was beginning to have that special blend of uncertainty and farcical humour that tends to surface so often in India.

“You must sit down” urged our religious leader.

At this Julie-Anne left the room and the dog transferred its attentions to Steve.

“Why are you here?”

Blank looks all around.

“Because we are nosey”, I whispered to Steve who was unsuccessfully fending off the dog’s attentions.

“Are you in need of healing?”

Andy perked up. His shoulder had been causing him some grief for a few days now. The would-be healer noted the movement.

“You, sir. You have pain?”

Andy moved hesitantly forward. It was not at all clear what he was letting himself in for. The healer sat on a chair on one side of the room beneath several photographs of himself. The five of us, sat backs to the wall, facing him. Every now and then more heads would appear at the door then disappear again.

“Sit down.” The healer motioned to the floor in front of him. “And your pain, where is it?”

Andy motioned towards the side of his neck.

“Shirt off.”

The rest of us waited expectantly. Andy sat down, looking vulnerable. A small blob of white cream was scooped up from a metal cup and transferred to his shoulder. A vigorous finger massage ensued, after which he was pronounced cured.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

Even Roger looked slightly taken aback. More takers were quick to move forward. It was interesting to note how many aches and pains were evident in an apparently fit and healthy mountaineering team. It is debatable quite why but after a couple of days no-one mentioned their pains any more.

“You can always guarantee feeling good after a visit to these places,” announced Steve sarcastically, scratching his unhealed and unattended to dog flea bites.

Beyond Rishikesh the road contoured above the churning grey, glacial water of the River Ganges as we left the plains and entered the Himalayan foothills. Little yellow warning signs began to appear:

“Preserve life .... drop speed”

“Ignore monkey … arrive safely.”

Sure enough the occasional monkey could be seen along with bare footed pilgrims plodding steadily towards the holy source of the Ganges. The masochism level involved in being a pilgrim seemed disturbingly high. The really dedicated wear nothing but an orange shawl. Bare feet plod on sun scorched tarmac and only begging provides any sustenance.

“Bit like Himalayan climbing in a different guise,” commented Steve dryly.

“We just like it cold rather than hot - and don’t even have the chance of scrounging any food.”

We arrived at Joshimath in the afternoon of our second day out from Delhi.

Joshimath is a fair sized town at an altitude of about 3000m. Strenuous attempts are being made to turn it into a winter resort. A telepherique adorns the hillside above the town but the place has a long way to go before it becomes the Chamonix of the Himalayas. Maybe one day? For us Joshimath was a place to buy our staple foods for base camp along with any other bits and pieces that we might need.

Out came another computer list from which Roger and Julie Ann delegated responsibilities.

“Mick, Steve, could you take on the potatoes, 30 pairs of porters shoes and 30 pairs of socks?” Steve and I wandered through the main street. Open sewers flowed along each side of the road, their pungent smell mixing easily with the noise and bustle of everyday Indian life. A man was having his armpits shaved just outside a grain shop and cross-legged proprietors sat surrounded by their wares. We wandered along keeping an eye open for shoes, socks and potatoes.

Soon a tiny and very dark shoe shop was found.

Read more about Mick Fowler here.

Purchase On Thin Ice from the planetFear shop here.

Continued Next Week