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The situation was too serious to continue an angry exchange. Alex tied himself
off on the ice screw and, with difficulty, managed to get his crampon back on. I
found myself arguing with René in the meantime, wondering why he hadn't just
told Alex it was my lead.
I was still fuming when we cut our next bivouac platform at around 7,000
metres. For the second time in a week, I tipped over a pan while cooking, this time
losing half a pan of soupy snow just as it was ready to have powdered potato ad-
ded. I had a miserable night in the doghouse, struggling for breath and listening to
the mountains of the Annapurna cirque, their rumblings echoing back and forth as
if in trollish conversation with each other. We were all awake half the night.
Next morning, a steep ridge led to the top of Tarke Kang where we rested and
brewed up. A blanket of cloud now filled most of the Annapurna Sanctuary.
Beneath us to the north-east, the shark fins of Machapuchare's twin peaks cut
through the white sea of cloud lapping halfway up the great sweep of Annapurna's
south face. Hiunchuli was now submerged. It was serene and beautiful.
As the stove hissed into action, I turned to Alex. 'Sorry I got angry yesterday.'
'Just get your shit together and no more mistakes.'
I suggested to Alex that we climb toward the Roc Noir to get a bit more altitude
beneath our feet. At around 7,400 metres on my lead, the appearance of wind slab
made the decision to descend easy.
'Are you sure it's wind slab?' he asked.
'Seems hollow beneath me.' I kicked my crampons into the snow a bit higher,
now doubting my own judgment. 'Don't like it - it's got a nasty layered feel.'
I remembered reading a report of a fatal accident at about this point on the at-
tempted first ascent of the mountain. We retreated to our bivvy at 7,200 metres
and spent another night. In the grey dawn, a strong wind promised the arrival of a
storm. We hastily packed up, trying to keep as much of the windblown spindrift
out of our sacks as possible.
I took up the anchor position at the back as we began to descend. After about
500 metres, René, who was leading, turned right down a steep slope.
'Where's he going?' I shouted to Alex.
'We've decided to drop straight down the face. It will be quicker.'
'Yes, more direct for sure,' I thought, 'but what's the icefall going to be like?'
I found myself struggling to match the pace of René and Alex descending steep
snow and ice facing outwards. Like Doug Scott on Shisha Pangma, I found myself
turning to face in when the slope was above fifty-five degrees while Alex and René
seemed perfectly at ease facing out.
