It was late August: the porters were arriving today, and tomorrow morning we would be leaving basecamp. Summer was coming to an end. But we craved one more day of climbing and so, instead of packing, were halfway up a steep couloir. “Looks like nice off-vertical ice and mixed,” I had thought, looking up at the next pitch. Now that I was rubbing my nose in it, it was proving to be off-vertical indeed, but the other way. Grunting up a wide crack and pulling onto a broken-off pillar, I could have been on hard mixed ground in the Rockies. But instead, I was at over 5,500 m in the Karakorum, attempting an unclimbed if obscure spire.

It began with an email from Steve Swenson back in March. Steve, a veteran of many trips to the mountains of Pakistan and Nepal, was looking for a partner to attempt an unclimbed 6,666 m peak in the Kondus Valley of the eastern Karakorum. Attached to the email was a photo of what looked like the Walker Spur. Even though I was already going to Alaska in the spring, I replied to Steve’s message expressing a cautious interest. Unfortunately Pakistani bureaucracy denied us our objective, and so it was replaced in our still tentative plans by an unclimbed 7,040 m peak. In the meantime, I was struggling with the prospect of shelling out not just for one, but two big trips; and, equally important, of missing out on summer in my beloved Rockies. But one morning, while driving to work, I though, “What the hell,” and committed to my first Asian adventure (PHOTO).

Toward the end of July I found myself in noisy, dusty Skardu (PHOTO), gateway to the Karakorum. A few days later, Steve (PHOTO), Rasool (PHOTO)– guide, cook and friend rolled into one – and I (PHOTO) piled into a jeep with the baldest tires I have ever seen (PHOTO), and drove up beside the huge, muddy Indus to the village of Hushe. As we wound up the last few kilometres on a twisting single track, I drank it all in: the apricot groves, the ever taller granite spires (PHOTO), and finally the glistening summit of Masherbrum (PHOTO), towering nearly five vertical kilometres above the valley. Unfortunately we had been denied our seven-thousander, and so we going in to play on trekking peaks, defined as anything under 6,500 m. But by then that did not matter to me, as I was already growing entranced by everything in the Karakorum, not just the biggest bumps.

Three days later, with a day out for the obligatory gastrointestinal shenigans, we were installed in a high meadow (ca. 4,300 m) (PHOTO) at the foot of the western ramparts of K7. A hike in the rain to a 5,000 m bump (PHOTO), a snow climb (PHOTO) to a slightly taller 6,000 m bump (PHOTO), and we were beginning to feel at ease in the thin air. When after a week or so of hiking and basecamp bouldering (PHOTO) we ticked the classic British route on Nayser Brakk (ca. 5,200 m) (PHOTO), the quintessential Karakorum spire, we could have been back in the Bugaboos. Yes, back in the Bugaboos, provided one kept one’s nose to the granite (PHOTO). Relaxing at belays, I would gaze at the giants at the head of the Charakusa glacier and have to tell myself that this was not a dream.

Thus far the weather had been unsettled: good enough for bouldering and day climbs, but not good enough to go for it on anything bigger. But ten days in, our neighbours the Swiss got word of a high pressure system on their satellite phone. On the strength of the Swiss forecast, Steve and I, joined by Hans Mitterer, a young German alpinist, hiked up to the base of the west buttress of unclimbed Hassin Peak (ca. 6,300 m) (PHOTO). The following day, with clouds still swirling and spitting occasional flurries, we crossed the bergschrund and started up. Sixty degree icefields topped by a couple of ropelengths of near-vertical ice landed us on the crest of the buttress. As the skies gradually cleared, we wound our way up, linking snow couloirs, dry chimneys, and strips of now perfect styrofoam ice, now insubstantial slush tucked into the backs of corners. Just as the sun was leaving the mountain, we popped back out on the ridge crest (PHOTO). A ropelength or two of swimming up honeycombed snow yielded a promising spot for the bivi tent. The stove hummed late into the night, melting snow to quench three thirsts. The summit was only eight hundred vertical metres above us: the next day we would leave the camping gear behind, and make a dash for it.

Just as forecast, next morning dawned without a cloud. Shivering in deep blue shadows and belaying Steve from in front of the tent, I looked up at the frightening north face of K6 (PHOTO), seemingly close enough to touch; at K7, bristling with bastions and turrets like a medieval fortress (PHOTO) ; down on a sea of granite spires, so dominant from basecamp, now blending together into insignificance; and beyond, at the massive shape of Masherbrum (PHOTO) rising into a perfect sky. As the day wore on, it warmed up noticeably (PHOTO). By the time we were negotiating the final mixed ground (PHOTO)at around 6,000 m, the sun had swung around and was rapidly turning the steep summit snow slopes the consistency of cotton candy. The heat and the altitude were also taking a toll on our bodies, slowing us to a breathless crawl. Though the summit stood less than three hundred vertical metres higher, we were unlikely to reach it before dark. Finding safe belay and rappel anchors by headlamp would not be easy, and we were unwilling to commit to spending a night out with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Sadly, we drilled the first of many v-threads in a rare patch of ice, and slid down the ropes (PHOTO). We got down to the tent just as the sun sank below the horizon. The following morning, still under cloudless skies, we continued our descent (PHOTO), reaching the glacier in the early afternoon. We felt relieved, disappointed, but also satisfied. Though we did not summit, we had experienced three days of perfect alpine climbing. We went up with just what we could carry on our backs, and left nothing behind but a few pieces of cord.

The high pressure was followed by downright bad weather. We slept, read, ate, and drank countless cups of tea. At times it would stop raining for just long enough to allow a short bouldering session; one day we were able to go rock climbing in the nearby cleft of Asteroid Alley (PHOTO) at the foot of K7; but nothing more. It was already the second half of August, and Hans and the Swiss decided that they had had enough, and called for their porters. Steve and I resolved to stick it out to the bitter end. Though the weather continued to be unsettled, some blue sky returned and lured us back up the valley for another attempt on Hassin Peak. This time we were determined not to repeat our mistake from the first attempt, and planned to place our final bivi higher and tackle the summit slopes while still frozen. Unfortunately it was not to be (PHOTO). Long before the alarm went off, we were awakened by the hiss of snow falling on the tent, punctuated by the muted roar of avalanches. Come morning, we packed up and descended to basecamp.

We delayed the arrival of our porters. This meant that everything would have to go off without a hitch for us to catch our flights back home from Islamabad; but it also meant that we had one last chance to go climbing. There was not enough time for Hassin, so instead we turned our attention to a striking ice line on the right-hand Farol Peak (ca. 6,200 m) (PHOTO) that looked like it might go in one push. The evening before found us camped on the moraines below the triple-summitted Farol. And what an evening! The rays of the setting sun pierced the ragged clouds and bathed the granite ramparts of K7 in a warm orange glow, while the snows of K6 (PHOTO) already lay in deep blue shadows.

By the time the sun rose we were already cramponing up the lower slopes of the couloir of our desire. We had made our approach in the predawn darkness, crossing a wasteland of ice avalanche debris. But we were safe now, with nothing but rock walls rearing above, breached by a discontinuous white line. We roped up at the base of a steep curtain of chandeliers (PHOTO) that made me feel like I was back at home in the Rockies. Acclimatized as we were, even an altitude of more than 5,000 m was not too much of a reality check. A couple of pitches of steep ice followed by a short icefield brought us to the base of what would prove to be the crux (PHOTO). The pitch went slowly, and by the time we were reunited at the belay, it was clear we would be hard-pressed to top out before dark. But another pitch of steep, decaying ice (PHOTO) awaited, and who cared if it led anywhere or not? It was climbing. From the snowfield at its top we finally got a close view of the blank and overhanging headwall blocking the couloir. As we began the rappels, at least we had the satisfaction that we climbed until we were stopped.

The next morning we rose early, broke camp, and headed down. The porters had already arrived (PHOTO), and as soon as Rasool spied us descending the steep, grassy hillside above basecamp, he sent two up to relieve us of our packs. The adventure was coming to an end. But with every step we took down the valley and out of the mountains (PHOTO), my resolution to return grew. Inshallah!