I Wanted to Climb Elbrus from the South. Part Two

This was already our eighth day in the mountains, the decisive day for which we had come and overcome so much. We rose at two in the morning, looked at the weather and realised that a cold, icy wind was howling outside. Nobody wanted to step into such bitter cold, but there was no other choice. After everyone had prepared, we left at around three in the morning. One companion still did not feel any better and decided to remain behind. We walked from the cabin towards the snowcat and climbed aboard. About five other people joined us, making it feel like a minibus service, albeit an exceptionally high-altitude one. The driver reinforced the comparison by repeatedly leaning out of the window and asking passengers to pass forward their fares. It truly was a minibus; the only differences were that we were in the mountains at night, in dreadful cold, and that the price was considerably higher. We paid and set off. The best seat in the snowcat was the rear bench running parallel to the cab and tailgate. The vehicle almost immediately began climbing the slope, lifting its nose and pressing everyone on the rear bench against the backrest. Those on the side benches all toppled against one another. There was something genuinely thrilling about travelling in this machine at night. The wind howled, the air was cold and the snowcat roared repeatedly as it moved slowly and inexorably higher. Its headlights picked snow out of the darkness, and rocks drifted past. The gradient was always upwards. At one point, the snowcat drove into a bank of snow. The driver accelerated, but the vehicle could pull no farther. This was our stop, at an altitude of five thousand one hundred metres. Snowcats did not go beyond this point at the time. We climbed out of our so-called high-altitude minibus, armed ourselves with either trekking poles or ice axes and set our crampons clattering. The Kosaya Polka began at this altitude. As one, we switched on our head torches and started climbing the traverse. In this extraordinary kingdom of ice and snow, the pools of light from our torches were all we could see. What was it like above five thousand metres? In truth, nothing about it felt pleasant. The wind howled, the cold bit and there seemed to be nothing to breathe. Those were the first thoughts that came to mind while we climbed the Kosaya Polka. The route continued ever higher. Fortunately, we were walking at night and could not see just how steep and abrupt the ascent was. Had we seen it in daylight, we might immediately have turned around. We kept to a single rhythm, slow but steady. Natalia initially walked at the back, then accelerated and even overtook us. Someone had once said that she was the fastest on level ground but the slowest on climbs. It was genuinely bitter and windy. My fingers were freezing, as were my toes. My whole body grew cold despite the fact that I was dressed very warmly. While I kept moving, however, it was mainly my hands and feet that troubled me; the rest of my body seemed to conserve heat and felt tolerable. Near the beginning of the Kosaya Polka, I felt pressure on my brain. It was not a headache but a sensation of pressure inside my skull, mild yet unpleasant. Hypoxia, I thought, was the principal problem at altitude. I tried to breathe as deeply as possible, taking loud breaths in and out that sometimes became groans. This seemed to help. After a while, my head felt normal again and the pressure disappeared. The Kosaya Polka continued leading upwards. With difficulty, we kept climbing step by step, supporting ourselves with our trekking poles. More than once, I wanted simply to abandon everything and go home to warmth and comfort, leaving this cold world for ever. Still, I had reached five thousand metres, which was already a considerable achievement. I felt reasonably well and therefore believed I should continue while I could. I moved higher, understanding that every step brought the summit closer. Time disappeared here; at least, you had no idea what it was. The only thing we remembered was that, wherever we might be at one in the afternoon, we had to turn around and descend. This was described as an unwritten law of Elbrus. That deadline remained far away, however, so we could forget time altogether. It was also far too cold to check a watch repeatedly. I had no idea how long we had been walking. I felt neither minutes, hours nor even seconds, only one continuous process of ascent. You simply moved your feet and trekking poles while breathing and constantly listening to your body. At last, the climb ended and the trail towards the saddle began. It ran straight and slightly downhill, making the walking much easier. We decided not to accelerate and kept our former pace. Any attempt to hurry immediately reminded us of the shortage of oxygen. It did not merely feel scarce; it seemed almost entirely absent. The darkness, cold and howling wind remained. Finally, we reached the saddle, a small sheltered place between the two summits at an altitude of five thousand three hundred metres. Here, you understood that only a short distance remained. I admit that I had imagined the saddle differently, as a large plateau. In reality, it was more like a cleft, a narrow space that nevertheless inspired a strangely homelike feeling. The summits were clearly visible on either side and seemed almost close enough to touch. We watched the sunrise from the saddle. It was unimaginably beautiful, almost otherworldly and impossible to describe; you simply had to see it. The sunrise felt like a promise that everything would end well. A band of dawn was clearly visible between the two summits, its colours changing gently and gradually. As the sun emerged, it transformed the shades of the dawn mountain sky in curious ways. I desperately wanted to photograph all of this beauty, but my hands were so badly frozen that I could not. I had no choice but to photograph it in my mind and preserve it in memory. At the time, I was even uncertain which summit was which. Climbers passed us, and we asked them. They looked at me as though I were unhinged: how could someone enter the mountains without knowing the summits? Reluctantly, they pointed out the western summit. My friend had been right and I was mistaken. There was something genuinely funny about reaching the saddle and confusing the two summits. We began climbing slowly. Before leaving the saddle, we took a short break. Once again, time lost its meaning as a slow but prolonged ascent began. Nothing existed apart from small steps and the sound of our breathing. You took a few steps, then stood for several minutes to recover. Three steps per minute now counted as an excellent result. On this slope, I began gradually to feel overwhelmed. I was extremely cold; my hands and feet had frozen, and my whole body was shaking. I stood in the summit’s shadow, but a narrow strip of sunlight could be seen ahead. It had to be many times warmer there. All I needed to do was crawl upwards, yet moving was indescribably difficult because the symptoms were intensifying. I did not know how to explain them properly. Altitude illness affects different people differently. There are common symptoms, of course, but the overall experience is individual. Unlike my companions, I did not have a headache and initially felt reasonably normal. Then came a moment when I suddenly felt profoundly unwell.