And then it was time to go up. The weather was kind to us that night: the sky was clear and full of stars, which meant our chances of a successful climb were rising. Vita was the first one up and put water on for tea, then woke everybody else. You could see that she really had made up her mind. While we drank our tea and waited for the porridge, we were all taking stock of how we felt. Each of us was wondering whether they could carry on. Luckily everyone felt reasonably well at that point, and at around one in the morning the whole group set off for the mountain. The snow had frozen overnight, so we walked as a single rope team. We moved fairly slowly, stopping to rest, and we felt perfectly all right. Near what is known as the turning rock a group overtook us. They were foreigners. Down below, another group was starting its climb. It was clear that we were not the only ones who had decided to go up. At around four in the morning the group managed to reach the lower Lenz Rocks. A tent, as it turned out, was already pitched there. There are groups that prefer to begin the summit push not from three thousand eight hundred metres but in stages, sleeping at four thousand five hundred metres and at four thousand eight hundred metres, and going for the summit from there. Our group leader really was unwell by then, so the halt dragged on. We had to wait at the lower Lenz Rocks until dawn, and that was exactly when the question of continuing the climb became a live one. Fortunately one of the instructors was feeling all right and had the strength to try to go on. We agreed with him that he would take us up to five thousand two hundred metres, and after that we would see. So on we went. Vita and I walked in front with all the food. We were probably the liveliest of the group and the most confident of success. In an hour to an hour and a half we reached the middle Lenz Rocks, at four thousand eight hundred metres. This, it turns out, is where a helicopter came down in 2010; nothing is left of it now. So we set snow to melt and made what we call high-altitude compote. Once I had drunk my fill of it, I went off to take in the beauty of the place. Everyone who had fallen behind arrived about an hour later. We all had something to eat and some tea, and felt a little better. Our instructor was in a bad way by then. Every symptom of altitude sickness was there, as the saying goes: a splitting headache and a shortage of oxygen. I, on the other hand, was in luck. I felt genuinely wonderful. My body must have decided to spare me and helped me see off the illness in that way. I was raring to go. And then came the question of what to do next. Just then a group of experienced climbers came up from below. Some of them were younger, under thirty, and some were older men. I could not help myself: I sought out their group leader and asked whether they were thinking of going up soon. They told me that going up shortly was exactly what they had planned. I came back to our people with this excellent news and said that Vita and I would be climbing to the summit with that group.
It was half past eight, and rather than wait around, I asked the instructor’s permission to go up to five thousand two hundred metres. From four thousand eight hundred to five thousand two hundred metres I moved along at a good pace and got there in about an hour, even though I dawdled a little to enjoy the mountain views. Only from up there could I see that the members of my new group had set off on the route. That was the moment I became sure that the summit was not going anywhere now.
On the way to the Lenz Rocks a magnificent view of the summit opens up. It feels as though you could reach out and touch it, no more than an hour’s walk away. It looks very close and very easy. While I waited for the group I could not sit still. I felt very good at that point. I suppose it was a kind of euphoria. But then I remembered that euphoria can be a symptom of altitude sickness, so I tried to shake it off as quickly as I could. I took myself in hand and made myself do something. I ate a little and set about photographing the beauty of the nature around me. About an hour and a half later the members of my new group arrived. I asked their permission to join them and carried on the climb with them. Later I understood that their walking pace, odd as it was, was in fact exactly right. They walked incredibly slowly, and the rhythm was this: twenty minutes walking, ten minutes resting. At first I thought a pace like that was clearly not for me, and I even wanted to ask whether I could go a little faster. Now, though, I think it was just as well that I never brought myself to ask. At about five thousand three hundred metres I felt the first approaches of that altitude sickness. It came on very suddenly and, as they say, on every front. My head began to ache badly. I felt sick, and my head was spinning. I walked as though through fog. Whenever a rest was called I simply dropped onto my rucksack. Ten minutes of rest went past like a moment: you seem to be falling asleep and the order to get up has already come. And then we were at five thousand five hundred and thirty metres. And there on my left lay the group leader, barely breathing. I stopped and asked whether help was needed. I was told that it was not, so I carried on. My breathing was not good at that point either. Taking a full breath was difficult, and I had to breathe through the fabric of my top. Breathing cold air in hurt, the way a sore throat does. My legs, oddly enough, felt perfectly fine, although I did have to remember to give them their orders. So I walked, stopping from time to time. And then at last, the summit I had waited for! It is hard even to believe. It did not come easily! I have to say there were no emotions at all. Everything was beautiful. To the right stood the western summit, with the way up to it clearly in view. Vita and I congratulated each other, and we did it rather limply. It is obvious why: our strength was, as they say, all but gone. And how could I stand on the summit and not record that important moment of my life? We happily took photographs to remember it by. After a while my phone switched itself off in the cold. It was chilly, all right. Ten or fifteen degrees, most likely, and no less. And then Vita began to panic. Bad weather, it turned out, was coming in from the side we had climbed. That is not merely unpleasant, it is downright dangerous. If we were caught by that weather front we would have to ask the new group to take us into their tents, and they were still a long way off. So we decided to start down as soon as we could. Vita did not walk so much as run, she felt that good. I followed her and found that going down is not as simple as it may seem. At one point I even wanted to get the mat out and try to slide down on it, but happily I strangled the urge. At about four thousand three hundred metres I began to feel a little better. I reached camp barely alive. I lay down at about seven, and in the morning I got up brisk, cheerful and happy!