We were due to rise at four. In the morning, we discovered that the gas had somehow disappeared and the stove was not working. Fortunately, we had several canisters and burners with us, so we used them to make tea and breakfast. We set off at half past five. Our goal that day was an acclimatisation hike to the Pastukhov Rocks. Everyone walked at their own pace: some genuinely very quickly, others simply quickly, and others slowly but steadily. I belonged to the last group, moving slowly yet confidently and stopping from time to time.
One woman in our party was often the last. She would say that she was old and ill and urgently needed a rest. That day, we were fortunate enough to watch the sunrise in the mountains. Dawn is exceptionally beautiful in its own right, and in the mountains it becomes an extraordinary spectacle. Nikolai again had a severe headache, which he described as almost unbearable, so he decided to descend. The rest of us continued upwards. At first, rocky ridges extended on both sides. When they finally ended, we emerged onto open ground, where a strong wind began to rise. The final ascent to the rocks felt especially difficult because the shortage of oxygen was noticeable and the slope extremely steep. Our pace dropped sharply. We were no longer walking but practically scrambling or, more accurately, crawling. At last, we crawled to the upper boundary of the Pastukhov Rocks. The altitude there was supposed to be four thousand eight hundred metres, although our navigator somehow showed one hundred metres less. The wind was not merely very strong but ferocious, apparently regardless of the broader weather. Remove a glove, and your hand would freeze immediately. Taking photographs in such conditions was genuinely difficult. Eventually, everyone gathered at the rocks, and we decided to climb a little higher. One person raced far ahead and became separated from the rest of the group. I tried not to climb straight up the fall line but to zigzag gradually from right to left, which was much easier than the direct approach to the rocks. Marker poles and the Kosaya Polka could be glimpsed somewhere ahead. This trail curves around the eastern summit. The weather was thoroughly unstable: a strong wind blew while the sun burned fiercely. Our next objective was the Kosaya Polka, and we were almost running towards it. Far below, our companions began shouting and waving. We understood that they were signalling that we had climbed too high and should not reach such an altitude that day. We did not see them at first because we simply had not looked down. As I approached five thousand metres, I felt something pressing on my brain. It was a mild headache, and I began to understand it as my body’s signal that I should not climb any higher yet. This was, after all, only an acclimatisation hike. At four thousand nine hundred seventy-seven metres, I decided to turn around and invited my companion to do the same. He refused and continued towards the Kosaya Polka. I descended and met Mikhail on the way. It turned out that we had misunderstood the instructor and were not supposed to go to the Kosaya Polka at all. Feeling dejected, I continued down. I met the guide, who told me exactly what he thought of my decision. Since I did not have enough oxygen for an argument, I kept descending towards the rocks. There I met Tolik, who complained of a headache, and we decided to go down together. The weather deteriorated markedly and cloud gathered. At one point, dense fog enveloped us completely. In that impenetrable mist, the marker poles were our only real safeguard and the sole means of navigation. We walked from one pole to the next, conscious that the vast plateau, known to every mountaineer for its crevasses, lay somewhere around us. There was only one route for us: from marker to marker. We descended slowly, with me a little ahead and my friend following at a slower pace. My head felt slightly compressed. Perhaps the guide was right and I had climbed too high that day. It was one in the afternoon. We waited for everyone else and began lunch. Since everything had ended well, we laughed about the scolding we had received from the instructor for our exploits, and the instructor joined in. Outside, the sun was pleasantly warm, but inside our cabin a genuine flood began. A great deal of snow had accumulated on its roof overnight and then melted in the sunlight. I suddenly heard dripping water. When I opened the door, water poured over me as though from a bucket. The roof above our upper bunk soon began leaking. We moved our sleeping bags and other belongings and placed a cooking pot beneath the drip. Sergey took a shovel and climbed onto the cabin roof, cleared away the snow and swept off the remainder with a broom. That brought our flood to a successful end. When the refuge owner arrived, he immediately connected a different gas cylinder. The stove worked again, and we could put away our burners. During the afternoon, we began thinking about our ascent, which would start that very night. One companion developed a sudden fever, placing his climb in serious doubt. Was it worth risking his health and going to the summit with such an illness? He understood the problem himself and said that he would not rush the decision but would judge it by his condition. If he felt better, he might take the risk and go; if not, he would abandon the ascent. Misha’s headache continued, but he remained determined to reach the summit rather than merely climb higher. The guide forbade him to go. Clearly, there was no point arguing with the mountain. Perhaps it was refusing him for a reason. It made more sense to consider why events were unfolding this way than to charge uphill regardless of everything.
The rest of us decided to make things a little easier by taking a snowcat to the maximum permitted altitude during the night and continuing on foot from there. One companion chose to walk. He admitted that the summit itself did not particularly interest him; his goal was an altitude of five thousand metres. From time to time, we entertained a rather mythical idea of abandoning the summit and instead crossing the saddle towards the northern slope. We imagined descending to the lower boundary of the Lenz Rocks and continuing down to the airfield, Emmanuel Glade and the springs at Dzhily-Su. In reality, however, we went to negotiate the snowcat journey. Everything proceeded as planned. At around four or five in the afternoon, we went to bed. I did not enjoy sleeping at such an hour, but there was no alternative: we would need our strength and had to rise very early.