Since we already had some experience camping overnight, we decided to move further away from the cable car. At last the rain stopped, and a zone of snow and ice opened up ahead of us. It was a real marvel! Although there was no precipitation, the temperature dropped noticeably, sometimes falling to minus five degrees. After pitching camp, we began packing rucksacks for a supply carry. We had been able to ride the cable car up to this point, and at a height of between 3,500 and 3,700 metres we treated ourselves to fresh vegetables and fruit that we had no wish to carry further on our backs.
From there we had to continue on foot. Carrying a full load over a distance of seventy kilometres was physically impossible, so we decided to relay our gear in stages. That meant carrying ten to twelve kilograms each up to the site of the second camp, leaving the rest for the next trip. Of course we could have used the snowcats, but that struck me as thoroughly unsporting. In Soviet times there used to be a hut called “Priyut 11” at a height of four thousand and fifty metres. It burned down after a breach of fire-safety rules, and today the “hut” really means the building of the former boiler house, which can sleep several dozen climbers. The walk from “the Barrels” to the Hut takes about an hour. Every hour felt like a new altitude record. The man who runs the place turned out to be warm and welcoming — and probably everyone up there is like that. He gave us hot tea and started telling us all sorts of interesting things about Elbrus, and the time in his company flew by. Meanwhile dusk began to fall, and it was time to head back down to camp at three thousand seven hundred metres.
Now it was day six in the mountains. We had left food and gas up at altitude for the day, so we had no choice but to head to the upper camp carrying everything. We walked from “the Barrels” to “the Hut” with fairly heavy packs. It was a good thing the weather was cloudy — under a blazing sun with loads like that it would have been far harder going. We were grateful for the weather and kept climbing without rushing, or rather crawling upward. Fog began closing in, so we decided to pitch camp first and collect our cached supplies afterwards. We managed to find a genuinely good spot: not far from the hut itself, at a height of four thousand one hundred and fifty metres, there were a few small flat platforms. There was room there for everyone, and we were lucky, since a group had left shortly before we arrived, freeing up space for a tent. There was an excellent rock wall that sheltered us from the wind. On the whole everything was going well, but the lack of a guide was starting to show. On the stretch from “the Barrels” to “the Hut” we decided not to put on crampons or climbing gaiters, since that section had no real technical difficulty. However, the snow had been churned up by the snowcats and melted during the day, turning the trail to slush. No boot membrane could cope with that, and our feet were soaked through at four thousand metres. We had no way to dry our boots. Whatever the weather, breaking the rules of acclimatisation is not something you can allow yourself. The rule to follow is simple: climb high, sleep low. At a height of five thousand and eighty metres the snowcats run often, leaving trenches around twenty metres wide, with red flags marking the route every ten to twelve metres along the edges, so it’s impossible to lose the way here. When we reached the lower part of Pastukhov Rocks, we realised we had to stop. Today, for sure. Visibility was no more than ten metres, a strong wind was blowing, and it was getting close to sunset. It was time to go back down.
Day seven in the mountains. Our first night at four thousand metres passed reasonably well. We slept soundly and felt no symptoms of altitude sickness. Climbers in the neighbouring tents shared a trick for drying boots: just sleep hugging them, that’s all there is to it. Rather original! Unpleasant, but effective, as we confirmed for ourselves. The night was mild, with the temperature dropping to six degrees below freezing. In the morning Elbrus opened up before us in all its glory. It felt as if the summit could be reached in just a few hours, though that was a deceptive impression — there was still a kilometre and a half of vertical height left to climb. We planned another acclimatisation outing and decided to keep going for as long as our strength held. Knowing the snow called for caution, we put on gaiters and crampons, even though daytime temperatures often stayed above freezing. Off we went to acclimatise! Up to a height of four thousand six hundred metres the climb wasn’t felt at all, but after another hundred metres heavy breathlessness set in and moving became far harder. At four thousand nine hundred metres we started to move like robots, stepping almost on autopilot. In conditions like that, if you lose your rhythm you start to feel like you’re suffocating. It wasn’t pleasant, and every attempt to catch our breath was futile. There simply wasn’t enough air.
We decided that today, no matter what, we had to get past the five-thousand-metre mark. If it’s decided, it has to be done. But that final stretch of climbing drained every bit of strength we had. By that point our pace was no faster than one kilometre an hour, and every new step was a struggle. At times we had to haul ourselves up by hand, leaning on our poles. For the first time the whole trip, my companion regretted not bringing trekking poles, which would have been a real help. After just five hours we came out at the end of the snowcat track, at a height of five thousand and eighty metres. That is where the Kosaya Polka begins. The snowcats don’t go any further than this. It’s hard to believe, but we really were above five thousand metres. The view was simply breathtaking: beneath us an ocean of cloud, out of which rose the snow-capped summits of the highest peaks of the Main Caucasus Ridge. I realised it had genuinely been worth every bit of effort. We started studying the rocky sections and thinking through how we would descend, recalling various pieces of descent advice and weighing them against the real situation, where visibility was extremely poor. On both sides of us stood huge glaciers. At the spot where the snowcats turn around, we were lucky enough to get a few excellent photos. And there, once again in its full glory, was the “Semyorka” Glacier. We were now a kilometre and a half above it. Once again we were reminded of vertical zonation: for every thousand metres of ascent, the temperature drops by five to seven degrees. And so it proved — when we left the hut it was plus two, and after climbing nine hundred metres higher the temperature had fallen to three degrees below freezing. On top of that a strong wind was blowing, and it became clear it was time to descend. On the way down we noticed the weather gradually improving, treating us to magnificent sunset views, with the sight of Mount Ushba — four thousand seven hundred metres high, in Georgia — especially captivating.
By the time we got back to camp, I was starting to feel symptoms of altitude sickness, while my companion was lucky and felt great. I had a bad headache and a touch of nausea. It’s worth noting that everyone reacts to altitude differently — one person gets a headache, another an upset stomach, a third simply loses their appetite. That said, there are some common symptoms of altitude sickness too. I was exhausted that day, but I still couldn’t get to sleep. After all, we had climbed to a height of more than five thousand metres.