ALPINE BOULDERING

Over by the mess tent our Pakistani cook Gafoor washes dishes in ice-cold water that flows through the grassy, green base camp that has been our home for five weeks. He’s beginning the three-hour  process of readying the evening meal. I’ve just emerged from my sun-baked tent, sweaty and somewhat groggy.

Shading my eyes, I look straight up at a sky that is devoid of storm clouds for the first time in days. The 3000- to 4000-foot, snow-covered granite spires lining the Trango glacier shine like wet sails. I’ve never seen walls higher or more beautiful.

I’ve also never seen walls more dangerous or scary. I decide to go  bouldering. Prior to the storm I had seen a promising boulder up a gully near camp. I wanted to check out its potential before returning to the States. Rummaging through my tent, I grab my climbing shoes, alpine bouldering pad and chalk bag and head out of camp. 

The high-altitude sun burns the clouds out of a cerulean sky, and it burns my nose a nice shade of tomato red. I make slow progress up the hill. The Karakoram is a land of vast spaces and many of the biggest mountains in the world, and I’ve misjudged the distance between camp and my enticing boulder. It takes a little over an hour to reach its base.  

"The Chunk" is not only farther from camp than I thought it would be, it is also significantly larger. One of its sides is pure white and steep as a Rifle 5.12. On another side of the wedge-shaped boulder is a holdless, vertical face of dark gray, dripping with black streaks. On the third side I see my route to the sharp-edged summit. 

Placing the pad on a jumble of stones, I begin to shimmy up through a chimney that’s been created by a smaller boulder that leans onto The Chunk. Where the boulders meet like Siamese twins joined at the hip, I pull myself out of the chimney and begin the precarious process of trying to stand on my tiptoes on a ledge the size of a quarter.

From that position I just barely reach a nubbin, which gives me enough leverage to haul my torso up a vertical face and onto a ledge that slopes like a playground slide. I drag the rest of my body onto the ledge and scramble to the top of the boulder. My heart beats fast as I look at the small, green bouldering pad 30 feet below.

Suddenly, through my reverie, I hear the faint echoes of two iron pans banging together. I squint and see Gafoor announcing dinner. One of my partners, looking like a tiny ant, wanders from the privy to the mess tent. It’s time for me to get back to camp. 

For the last time I look at Shipton and then down at my little pad. I begin to wonder why I felt like climbing this big chunk of trouble in the first place. I take my time down climbing, doing reverse mantels and dealing with my quivering legs and the sweat that drips over my forehead. I don’t want to fall into the mass of boulders below and break my body, but there’s no purchase for my feet and my hands are moist despite the rapidly cooling air. 

"Mierda," I mumble. 

Luckily, seconds later I finally find the top of the Chunk’s Siamese twin and slither into the chimney. Reaching the ground, I lie on my pad and sigh with relief; nothing’s broken. I get up, pack my things and make my way back down the talus slope toward camp. An hour later, I stumble into the tent where my partners are sipping chai tea. 

"What have you been up to?" my Colorado-based friend Nan Darkis asks me. "We were beginning to worry about you." 

The light from the candle on the table flickers over her brown eyes as she stares at me, waiting for an explanation. I avert my gaze from hers and look outside at Masherbrum, which still glows with light that has long ago faded from our camp. 

"Oh nothing much," I respond. "Just a bit of alpine bouldering." 

She looks at me with raised eyebrows, but says nothing more. As I begin to stuff my face with cold dahl and rice, it hits me for the first time that the amount of fear I feel while climbing does not correlate directly with the distance I am from the ground. Also the amount of satisfaction I feel has nothing to do with the size of the rocks that I climb. 

My partners make their way back to their tents, leaving me alone with the silence of the night and the moon, which is just beginning to glow on the tips of the walls. I sit back in my chair, look up at the stars and savor the taste of my sugary tea. Right now, it is the most delicious drink in the world.