On Khan Tengri in Kyrgyzstan: the courage to turn back

Camp 3 – the last camp before the summit of Khan Tengri. A tiny plateau at 5,900 metres, wedged between a snow cornice and the steep slope at the foot of the mountain. We spend two nights here. On the first night we are snowed in; our tent sinks under the weight of fresh snow. On the second night, the alarm for the summit ascent rings at 1 am. Outside, the wind whips across the mountain at 75 km/h. Climbing is out of the question. We wait and wait. Hour after hour. The summit is within reach. But climbing higher would mean going against Khan Tengri, not with it. We decide to descend. Instinct over ambition. We didn’t make the summit. Turning back was our success.

Khan Tengri: high, lonely, demanding

Sandra and I have been out in the mountains together for years and are a well-coordinated team. We have already climbed Ama Dablam (6,812 metres) in Nepal and Alpamayo (5,947 metres) in Peru together. But Central Asia is still a blank spot on our world map. There are no trendy mountains or crowds of tourists here, just pure solitude. We are magically drawn to Khan Tengri in Kyrgyzstan, a 7,010-metre perfect pyramid on the border with Kazakhstan and China. Together with Pik Pobeda, it is one of the most northerly seven-thousanders in the world. The climate here is tougher than on some 8,000-metre peaks further south. High, lonely, demanding – just the mix we’re looking for. It’s clear to us that climbing Khan Tengri won’t be an easy task. We’ll have to train, hard. We start preparing eight months before our expedition. Five to six strength and endurance training sessions per week, plus training trips to Swiss four-thousanders. Both in addition to our full-time jobs. We know from our previous expeditions how challenging height can be for the body, and we want to be well prepared. That’s why our apartments become small altitude laboratories four weeks before departure. We rent two high-altitude tents. These are transparent domes above the bed that create artificial high-altitude air. A generator filters oxygen from the air while the air pressure remains the same. The persistent lack of oxygen at nighttime stimulates the production of red blood cells. And that means greater oxygen transport, higher performance and a lower risk of altitude sickness – a decisive advantage on the mountain. The height simulator is one of the more unpleasant parts of our preparation, but even though the generator hums loudly and monotonously all night, we sleep surprisingly restfully.

An all-female team

Preparation includes not only intensive training, but also precise planning. We book our trip through a German-Swiss expedition company that collaborates with a local agency. We are introduced to Maria ‘Masha’ Yakushenkova as an experienced local mountain guide – and interestingly, we are asked if it’s okay that she’s a woman. A question that would hardly be asked of a male guide. For us, of course, this is not a problem, but a stroke of luck. Suddenly the expedition takes on a new dimension. We will be a women-only team! Our expedition is also self-sufficient, without porters. We carry everything we need ourselves: tents, gas, food. At least 18 kg per person.

A 50-degree incline and bare ice

The journey to base camp is an adventure in itself. We land in Kyrgyzstan’s capital Bishkek early in the morning, are picked up directly by the agency and drive to Karkara the same day – a ten-hour journey over dusty roads, past herds of horses, yurts and the endless Issyk-Kul Lake. Late in the evening, we reach the first camp, where we spend two nights until a suitable window of weather opens for the helicopter flight to the base camp. The base camp on the northern Inyltschek glacier is so remote that it can only be reached by military helicopter. As we take off, it feels like a leap into another world: underneath us lie rugged valleys and endless masses of ice. After 45 minutes, we land at 4,000 metres. We see the small tents of the base camp and the huge white pyramid of Khan Tengri in the middle of a parallel world of rock, ice and silence. We use the first few days in the base camp to get used to working as a team, practice abseiling techniques and discuss the route together. We deliberately chose the northern route for the ascent of Khan Tengri because it is considered objectively safer. Although it is also longer, steeper and more technically demanding: 3,000 metres above sea level on difficult terrain, with a 50-degree incline and bare ice. A single endless ascent – raw, direct, uncompromising. But the southern route begins with a notorious gully in which large blocks of ice regularly break off and avalanches occur. Risks that claim lives time and again. For us, it was clear from the outset that we didn’t want to play that roulette game.

Defenceless against the weather

That turns out to be the right decision, because we hear the roar of the avalanches thundering into the valley as we move up from the base camp of Khan Tengri to Camp 1 pitch by pitch. The following day, we continue to Camp 2 – eight hours, 1,000 metres in altitude, heavily laden. The slope is so steep and exposed that there is no way to put down the backpack and take a break. Now, at the latest, the initial nerves turn into full concentration. After two days in Camp 2, we return to the base camp for regeneration. Going back feels like a setback, but this is the only way to allow our bodies to recover and adjust to the height. On the second ascent comes the first real test. Heavy snowfall sets in; a storm hits us. With every step we sink up to our knees in the snow. Moving forward is arduous and tough. Thick snowflakes whip us horizontally in the face, the wind tears at us, fingers go numb. We shout encouragement to each other. Here we feel what it means to be on the move at these heights. We are at the mercy of the elements.

The risk grows with every step

After a night in Camp 2 we continue climbing over the Chapaev Shoulder. In front of us opens the panorama of the Tian Shan mountains. After we arrive at Camp 3, the storm continues to rage; gusts draw wavy lines in the snow, thick flakes whip us in the face. It is the last camp before the summit, and we wait here for two nights in the hope that a window of good weather will open for the summit attempt. Our strength is there, our motivation is unbroken, but none of us has a good gut feeling. Fresh snow and storms – every step forward would be a big risk for us. And the longer we wait, the clearer it becomes: not only is attempting to summit Khan Tengri risky, but getting stuck in the high camp could also have fatal consequences. We decide to withdraw. This time, our victory lies in retreat – and in the whole team returning safely.