50 years on the legacy of Everest continues to help British mountaineers. Al Powell battles Taxi drivers and ice mushrooms in Peru on one of 2002's MEF/BMC supported trips
"Nevado Ulta? Viente dollars, senor". “Twenty dollars!” The other drivers gathered round, warming to the theme.
And why not? Ripping off a bunch of gringos looked like the best entertainment going all afternoon. We tried another tactic - split up and negotiate simultaneously on three different parts of the street. This had the desired effect, as finally someone cracked and dropped a few bucks. The crowd laughed approvingly. Their man still made a killing, but usually they won hands down.
For those who don’t know Peru, it’s public transport system puts Europe to shame: In a hurry to get to a 4500m bivi on an unclimbed face in the Andes? Then why not hire a taxi! No matter how remote a spot you want to go, someone nearby will always be going there too and be glad to take your fare. Take for example our current location; an endless passage of donkeys, trucks and minibuses had brought us several hundred miles from where we’d found ourselves four days previously - lying in a tangle of ropes and avalanche debris, lucky to be alive on a bare mountainside in the arse end of nowhere.
Since this hadn’t featured on any of our advance planning, we’d felt an urgent need to rewrite the script before we wrote ourselves out of it entirely. A new mountain range, new objective and for me, a new partner. That’s not to say the old partner had gone away. Oh no – Nick had merely dosed up on painkillers to hide his various injuries, so he could go soloing instead. Owen on the other hand, was both sane and in full bodily health. What is more, he had been to check out the North Face of Ulta the previous day - declaring it in, but melting fast - hence the hurry.
The rough track that we now bounced along headed into the heart of the Cordillera Blanca, reaching 4800m at the Punta Olimpica pass, before descending the east side of the range. As the taxi gained height, it occurred to us that serac fall was not a danger one normally associated with road travel. The engineers appeared not to think so either, when they placed 20 hairpin bends below the huge crumbling glacier snout that now hung above our heads. Thankfully our bend arrived quite soon and we paid off the driver before succumbing to the objective dangers.
A mile of stumbling across the hillside led to our bivi site, where Nick decided to head on a bit, “just for a look” before it got dark. “Just for a look” at a 1000m TD+ route round on the NW face. We’d opened up his sack too, just for a look, and only saw painkillers, a couple of ice screws and 50m of old 7mm cord blagged off a bunch of Slovenians. After that we daren’t look again.
Above us, Ulta shed it’s last remaining cloud as the evening drew long to reveal what lay in store. Sadly it looked like we could try for the line or the summit but not both, as a huge crown of mushroom flutings ringed the top of the face. Outflanking them would mean traversing off below the major challenge - the 300m headwall. Faced with this, we decided to take our chances and think about the mushrooms later. An early start was also required since we planned to climb through the night and rest when the sun was on the face – so after plenty of brewing and a little rest we headed up to the foot of the wall.
Stepping across the bergschrund, Owen rapidly confirmed his previous observations about the state of the route as he set off up an icy stream that masqueraded as the first pitch. Below, a headtorch bobbed across the slope and disappeared round the corner - Nick embarking on his mission – heavily sponsored by the makers of Volterol. Above, progress was barred by a steep wall but after much peering into the gloom, a mixed groove led to what we’d been searching for – the first link pitch. Relief at finding the right line was tempered with the fact that it was my lead, up a steep, sugary mass of god knows what. I was never much good on the real stuff, let alone some vintage heap of virtual ice. Hacking around, it appeared that virtual placements were also in abundant supply. By teetering around near the edge I gained sufficient height to place a couple of virtual screws, then when virtually out of rope constructed a virtual belay and let the reality of the situation sink in.
Owen bore these antics patiently, before blasting up into the second bowl. After that the clock raced on into the morning. Time and ourselves however, appeared to stand still. Pitch after pitch yet we seemed to go nowhere. Cloud billowed up the face and blocked the approaching sun – which allowed us to stay up till way past bedtime. 3.30pm in fact, when we halted below the headwall and began hacking away at an icy seat for the night. This was our first real chance to take stock of the day. Owen was on top form and keen to take first lead in the morning - knowing what lay ahead and feeling the ache in my forearms, I was in no hurry to argue.
Then we remembered Nick: “I wonder how he’s getting on?” - “Probably down a crevasse somewhere, writing a book about it.” On this point we were wrong, as Nick was back at his bivi - having soloed a new 1000m ED round the corner and abbed all the way back again using the Slovenian washing line. This sort of behaviour is distressingly common when hanging round with Mr Bullock, but his disarming modesty hides all bar the worst excesses. But we satisfied ourselves that on this occasion he was missing out, on yet another sitting bivi sans sleeping bags.
Having suspended nocturnal activities when we realised what we were up against, Owen attacked the headwall at first light. This was to prove the crux, with a solid two-hour lead up hostile terrain landing him man of the match award. Things didn’t ease much ahead either, with much devious behaviour required to circumvent a worrying ‘grey patch’ we’d seen from below. Now greyness didn’t bode well when relying on whiteness for progress. Especially when the whiteness resumed again as a fringe of 20ft icicles. It’s fair to say we turned various shades of grey ourselves getting up this section, before climbing on again into the returning blackness.
This now confusing combination of whiteness covering greyness, surrounded by blackness left us largely protectionless, but we surely didn’t have far to go. Clambering about on flutings is unnerving at the best of times, but doubly so when you haven’t a clue which runnel to try. With head down concentrating on the task in hand I’d not noticed the wall to my right had steadily been growing. Stopping to take stock, I peered up to see where it went. The wall appeared without end – or more accurately, my neck wouldn’t go back far enough. I tried again, then gawped up at the left wall too and started to laugh. Huge billowing mushrooms the size of office blocks hung over us on all sides.
Owen joined me and we shook hands: the issue was settled - we could have the face but not the summit. We’d virtually climbed a virtual peak. Sitting there in the whiteness, surrounded by blackness – true conquistadors of the useless.
Al Powell is a British Mountain Guide and is sponsored by Rab.
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