Cold lights: Lessons learnt on a glacier

Every expedition has been an education, helping me to understand myself and what is to come in life. But I rarely get it right the first time. More often than not, I make the wrong decision.

I have come to accept that this is a process, that change can be a good thing, and is, at times, essential. After all, it’s impossible to learn from your mistakes if you don’t change.

In this sense my last expedition was little different and I am grateful that my team showed such patience and gave me the time and space that I needed to adjust to change.

But there is one particular mistake I want to talk about, an experience that made me reach a realisation.

It was Jun 10, 2016. We were on our way to completing the Dhaulagiri Circuit, situated around Nepal’s Dhaulagiri Peaks. We had been trekking for nearly 12 days.

We had two problems: one, our ‘kerosene’ was running out, and two, there was a shortage of food, which forced us to settle for soups and dry oats. We spent the night in Hidden Valley, at an altitude of 5,000 metres above sea level.

The day started in a rush. We shook of the water on the tent, filled our mouths with handful of oats and started on our way to the French Pass. We intended to walk over 25 kilometres that day, hoping to reach an area where we could refill our supplies.

The French Pass loomed another 300 metres above and it would take us a long time to climb it.

The rest of the trek would be downhill, so we wasted no time and kept at our own paces. Our path soon led to a ridge. It was quite tricky, but from there stretched a mighty view of Tukuche and Dhaulagiri I to the north. And, on the other side, was a 500 metre drop to the source of Myagdi River.

We had done our research before the trip, preparing for the task ahead. We went through blogs and whatever else we came across, mapping the terrain in our heads. But writing assumes much. The picture you make up in your head is but a sliver. A quick glance though a keyhole.

I would soon learn that I was foolish to think that I understood the landscape from those few hours of research. And soon, I would face the longest two days of my life.

Photo: Courtesy of Arifur Rahman

I had never been on a glacier before. I was excited to see it the entire way down the ridge. It is called the Chonbardan Glacier, and, in the coming days, it would prove to be an impetus for change.

The plan was to wait for the rest of the team at the bottom. We stuffed some more oats into our mouth and started for the glacier. It took us half an hour to reach the mouth. And then we stood face-to-face with the mighty ice fall on the southern face of Dhaulagiri I. But something more worrying caught our eye.

The glacier had formed between Dhaulagiri I on the south and Mukut Himal on the north.

Chonbardan Glacier covers over 25 kilometres, slowly heading south-west while keeping the towering peaks of Dhaulagiri to its right.

And, when we arrived at its base at 11am, it seemed to stretch far beyond our vision.

We all knew that the day's trek has only begun.  The whole glacier was formed of crests and troughs. Some rose as high as 500 feet.

We walked an hour more and arrived at Dhaulagiri Base Camp. It was not a pretty sight. Trash littered the area. Cylinders and medicine and intact needles were scattered everywhere. It made me pause.

It was strange how we, who call ourselves mountaineers, treat mountains like garbage dumps.

From there we could not make out which way the trail headed, but we had to make a start. All I remember is we followed one crest after another, hoping that each was the last.

But there was always one more. We were tired before we were halfway through the glacier. Individual speed began to split the team up and we could no longer trace each other. As time passed we each started to lose our temper.

At 2:00pm we reached a point on the glacier where we could see footsteps and a clear sign of the trail. It tricked us. We thought the glacier would soon end. But it did not. And as we were proven wrong, again and again, we grew frustrated and weary and weak.

Fatigue overtook us. Our feet slowly began to give away. It was 3:00pm when the sun disappeared and fog started to gather. We reached a point when the glacier began to smooth out. Our feet slipped off the ice surface and we would often turn, terrified, each time we heard someone else’s boots give way. There was only one thing in our minds, but no one spoke of it. There was no place to pitch a tent, so we keep moving. Little was said in the next two hours.

We would sit for breaks where nobody spoke, each of us trying to catch our breaths. Finally, when we reached a place to make camp, our words stumbled over themselves, speeches that were humbled and incoherent. It was not an impressive campsite, but from where we stood it seemed our best bet. And, then again, few of us had the energy to complain.

We checked the site for slides or cracks and then began setting up camp. We didn’t take long to ready whatever food we had left. It wasn’t even 7:00pm, but we were too hungry to care.

At those times, having soup makes a little difference. It is just to soothe our minds. We were done. Nobody wanted to play cards, nobody wanted to write, or draw. We didn’t even take our oxygen measurements before we collapsed. The next few hours were hard.

When you close your eyes and start to drift away, carrying all the weariness of the day, you can hear echoes for miles and miles. The sound of the mountains crumbling down.

In that cramped zone, the sound would amplify so fast, that it is impossible to fall sleep. If you opened the doors of the tent, you could sometimes see giant patches of snow tumbling down the slope.

And you could hardly help but think of when one such patch would drag the camp down the mountain.

A restless night. Our eyes kept creeping outside, hoping for the first sign of morning light.