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near-vertical ice. Unexpectedly, he finds a hole at the base of the cornice, climbs in
and rests. While gazing at the unlikely prospect of ice now stretching twenty feet
out over his head, he spies a slice cut deeply into the cornice, which leads diagon-
ally up and right. It ends in a wedge of deep blue sky.
Alex shouts down his news and begins to squirm and chimney up and out toward
the lip. Thirty feet later, he is looking down through a hole at his alarmed compan-
ions. To him, we appear as red-jacketed gnats on a vertical mirror. Then Alex rolls
onto his back, swings his Terrordactyl and takes a comforting bite into the hard ice
above. His arse hangs in space for a moment, then he gyrates up and out of sight.
There is a shout of elation.
I am last up and roll out onto the broad summit plateau. I am facing a new hori-
zon at last, new ranges of peaks tumbling away to the west and south.
'Bloody hell,' I say, 'it's as flat as the top of Ben Nevis up here.'
Voytek and Alex are thirty feet back from the edge with axes sunk deep for a be-
lay. I stagger toward them, arms dragging, spirits flying.
'You look like you've just seen heaven.'
'I guess this is as close as we'll get, kid.'
We stay too long on the summit, brewing a drink, watching the vast shadow of
Bandaka reach out toward Tirich Mir and know a summit bivvy and early start
down is now the best option rather than face the collapsing penitentes of the south
ridge. The intense cold that night keeps me awake shivering, but dawn comes with
a splendid warm sun and a full day to descend.
Day seven: By late afternoon, we have reached the col at 20,000 feet and retrieved
our cached food and gas. We celebrate another night on the mountain with an ex-
tra bowl of borscht and noodles and then sleep well before starting our eighth day
early in the morning, descending the south side of the mountain before making
difficult crossings of glacial torrents in the valley.
Alex falls into a thorn bush. I wait for him when I reach the traders' road. In near
darkness, we stagger up to the pass where we first saw Bandaka, then turn the
corner onto the flat, sparse grass of Bandikhan. Dogs are going mad trying to get at
us when we reach the now occupied mud hovels. We are greeted by many unintel-
ligible questions from the people here. One of the shepherd women gives us naan
to eat, cooked straight on the firey embers of dried goat dung. We pull out our
mats and settle into our sleeping bags. I chew the last of the delicious bread slowly,
wishing for something more to eat. It is not long before the dogs quieten down and
the lights go out in my head.
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