AT 4 P.M., ON JULY 6, 1993, Vancouver mountaineers Dan Culver and Jim Haberl, together with American Phil Powers, stumbled into camp 4, a full 8,000 meters up the icy flank of K2, the world's second highest mountain. Haberl, who was battling altitude sickness, celebrated his arrival by vomiting. He had not eaten in two days and was dizzy with fatigue. Now, only 600 meters from the peak, Haberl wondered if he could continue. If not, Culver would have to abandon his summit bid and accompany Haberl down the mountain. Retreating would mean turning their backs on history. No Canadian had ever reached the summit of K2. As the sun slipped behind the mountain, the temperature plunged dramatically, to minus 20. Powers and Culver began chopping a platform in the ice for their tent. The two moved slowly and methodically, chests heaving with exertion. The climbers were now within the "Death Zone", the elevation above 7,500metres where the human body is no longer able to adapt to the conditions and a person begins to die from oxygen deprivation. The three could not survive for long at this altitude. Four days at most. While Powers and Culver worked, Haberl rested in the ghostly remains of a tent left by a team of Slovenian mountaineers who had climbed K2 a month before. Like Haberl, one member of that expedition, 23-year-old Bostjan Kekec, had been suffering from altitude sickness. Rather than descend, he had unwisely chosen to struggle on to high camp where the team became trapped in a storm. During the night, the young Slovenian suffered a cerebral edema which may have led to a stroke. After a futile attempt to drag Kekec down the mountain in his sleeping bag, his companions abandoned him to die.
Once their tent was erected, Culver lit the stove and brewed tea. Over dinner, they discussed their strategy for the next day's assault on the peak. Because there was so little exposed rock in which to anchor their gear, they agreed to leave their ropes behind and climb independently.
At 8 p.m., they crawled into their sleeping bags. No one slept soundly. At this altitude, the body's involuntary rate of breathing is insufficient to maintain an adequate oxygen supply. They would awaken repeatedly, short of breath and claustrophobic, fighting to quell the sensation of panic. At 10:30, Haberl awoke to find his head pounding and stomach churning. He swallowed some Aspirin and lay back to await the alarm. Tomorrow would be a fateful day: Powers, the American, would reach the summit, and so would both the Canadians -- but only one of the Vancouver climbers would return.
| FOURTEEN MOUNTAINS in the world tower above 8,000 meters. Ten are located in the Himalayas, and four of those within its northwest extension, the Karakoram Range. Everest is the best known of these giants, but is not the toughest to climb. Reinhold Messner, the legendary Austrian climber, conferred that distinction on K2, "the mountain of mountains." Not visible from any inhabited place, K2 rises out of a bleak wilderness along the border between Pakistan and China. K2 is so remote that the Balti hill tribes whose villages are nearest the mountain don't even have a name for it. Its cryptic title derives from the fact it was second of 35 peaks in the Karakoram to be measured by Great Trigonometric Survey of India in 1856.
Regarded by mountaineers with a mixture of awe and dread, this 8,611 metre pyramid rears above its glacier like some gleaming cathedral, with tier upon tier of buttresses and snowfields culminating in the perfect apex of its summit. Its outline resembles Europe's fabled Matterhorn, but all similarities end there. It would take 40 Matterhorns to assemble the rock from which K2 is constructed. Since 1954, 93 climbers have reached the summit, 33 have perished in the attempt.
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For perhaps 99 percent of humanity, K2 is a place to avoid at all costs. For Dan Culver it posed an irresistible allure. When he heard that Oregon mountaineer Stacy Allison had obtained a permit to tackle the mountain and was looking for climbers, he phoned her every week for three months until she included him on the team. Although Culver, 41, had come to mountaineering late and lacked the technical expertise of Haberl or Powers, he'd done his share of "big mountain" ascents. In 1988, he and Haberl had scaled South America's tallest peak, Mt. Aconcagua, and in 1990 he had reached the top of Everest. If he made the summit of K2, he would become one of only a handful of skywalkers to climb the earth's two tallest peaks. Yet it was not personal glory that motivated Culver, but the chance to test his capabilities. Just prior to his departure to K2, he told me: "We know we'll be putting our lives on the line, and that's a pretty exciting possibility."
And Culver radiated the confidence that suggested he had what it took to get the job done. "Go Fast, Or Go Home", was the slogan he wore emblazoned on his T-shirts. A restless energy propelled him from one project to the next. At 21, he founded WhiteWater Adventures, a river-rafting outfit that he built into the largest outdoor adventure company in Western Canada. After it was established, he grew bored and sold the firm. Later, he launched BlueWater Adventures, which took clients on whale-watching tours and nature trips to the Queen Charlottes. Again, when the job became routine, he left, this time to form a company specializing in Outward Bound-style team-building workshops for corporate managers.
There simply weren't enough hours in the day for Culver, who resented only one thing in life -- sleep. He put in such long hours that he would sometimes doze off in mid-conversation. On a couple of occasions, he fell asleep behind the wheel and smashed his car. Always, he walked away unscathed.
Like Culver, Jim Haberl was addicted to adventure, although not so flamboyantly. Small in stature, with a boyish grin and an easygoing and thoughtful demeanor, the 36-year-old mountaineer and heli-skiing guide had originally been drawn to climbing for its romance. A self- confessed "climbing bum", Haberl loved mountains not only for their own sake, but for the intensity of the bonds he formed with other climbers -- an emotional charge that day-to-day life could not deliver.
Haberl had scaled hundreds of peaks in his career, including the highest summits in Canada, the U.S., South America and Africa, but his climbing had always been done in the company of one or two close friends, or as a guide on small-scale wilderness treks. The K2 expedition was of another magnitude entirely, requiring two years of planning and costing more than $100,000. Just getting to the mountain was a major undertaking, involving a 33-hour flight to Rawalpindi, Pakistan, a 25-hour bus trip along a cliffside road to Skardu, a journey by jeep to the trailhead in Askole, then an eight-day hike to base camp with an entourage of 104 porters, who helped carry the team's 2,800 kilograms of equipment, half of which was food.
Ordinarily, an expedition of such epic proportions would not have appealed to Haberl. But the chance to tackle K2 came at a time when he was looking to expand his horizons. He viewed it as an opportunity to move his career in a new direction, and, like most serious climbers, he was curious to discover how he would perform at high altitude.
When Culver recruited Haberl in May 1992, he became the seventh and last member of the team to join. Already on board were Calgarian John Haigh and Americans Stacy Allison, Phil Powers, Steve Steckmeyer and John Petroske. All had experience in the Himalayas. In 1988, Allison became the first American woman to scale Everest. Steckmeyer, Petroske and Haigh had climbed Manaslu, an 8,156- meter peak in Nepal. Powers had made an unsuccessful assault on K2 in 1990, ultimately defeated by a 23-day storm.
Everyone had personal reasons for going, but the team's underlying ethos was to conduct the climb with "style" -- using no oxygen and leaving no negative impact on the land. For Culver and Haberl, the environmental aspect was especially important. When Culver went to Everest in 1990, he dedicated the climb to B.C.'s Khutzaymateen and Tsitika valleys, areas then threatened by logging. Culver and Haberl hoped to use the K2 expedition to focus attention on two other environmental hot spots, the Tatshenshini Valley and Clayoquot Sound.
The decision to climb K2 without oxygen was inspired by several factors. Carrying oxygen canisters meant extra time and effort, and was expensive. Most importantly, it clashed with the pure approach to mountaineering currently in vogue. Without oxygen, the team would be exposed to debilitating side effects, including nausea, hallucinations and potential neurological damage, but the ethics of "style" dictate that you rely on no artificial aids and climb on guts and skill alone.
Haberl also found the wait trying. After three weeks, his resolve was fading. The thin air left him feeling lethargic, and the diamox he took to combat its effects wasn't solving the problem. Before the summit push, he had never even made it to camp 3 at the 7,000-meter mark with his full pack. When the time came to select the climbers to lead the ascent, Allison chose Haberl to accompany Powers and Culver, not because he was the team's third-strongest climber, but rather because he and Culver were such close pals.
WHEN THE ALARM RANG at midnight thedecision was made that the three should go. To his surprise, Haberl felt better than he had in days. After melting snow to fill their water bottles, Culver and Haberl set off at 2:45 a.m. Powers would follow an hour later. The two began climbing under a full moon that cast blue shadows on the rocks and snow. It was extremely cold and clear, so bright they did not even have to use their headlamps. The snow was as hard as a countertop and the sound of their crampons crunching through the crust echoed eerily in the stillness.
Haberl decided to travel light. He had only his water bottle, two chocolate bars, a camera and an extra mitt. Culver carried a 15-pound pack: clothes, a video camera, a still camera with telephoto lens, a Canadian flag, a pennant in honor of the Tatshenshini and another for Clayoquot Sound. In Pakistan for more than a month, they had no inkling that the battle for the Tat had already been won, nor that the struggle to save Clayoquot Sound from clearcut logging was soon to be lost.
The climbing was excruciatingly slow. Every inch gained in altitude required an effort. Haberl was soon immersed in the monotony of kicking out footholds in the snow. He focused on regulating his breathing. For each step he took, he inhaled and exhaled 15 times. He would maintain this pace for the next 13 hours.
At 6 a.m., the sun rose over China. They were at the altitude of cruising jets and could see the curvature of the earth. Looming above was the huge serac overhang they would have to traverse to reach the summit cone. They would be climbing beneath these ice cliffs for most of the day, aware that if the pieces that occasionally broke off were to fall on them, they would certainly be killed.
Just after dawn, Powers caught up to Haberl and Culver. The three stopped to rest and tried to warm their frigid feet. They talked about their luck with the weather and how well the climb was going. The breeze was still blowing from the north, an indicator of clear skies. Everything seemed to be falling into place. When they resumed climbing, Powers took the lead to break trail. Culver followed, then Haberl. As the sun rose, it began to get hot. There were no clouds,only the cerulean sky above and the world falling away below their feet. The day took on the texture of a slow-motion dream.
Until this point, Powers and Culver had seemed indefatigable, so Haberl was surprised when Culver slipped and slid 10 metres, before stopping his fall with his ice ax. Haberl watched Culver right himself and jump back on the trail. It not a serious tumble, but still cause for concern. "Are you all right?" Haberl called out. Culver flashed the thumbs up sign and they continued to climb.
Powers reached the summit at 2:56 p.m. He called base camp on his walkie-talkie and heard them cheer the news. The excited voice of Barry Blanchard, a Canadian climber from another team, crackled into his ear, "I can't believe there's a kid from Wyoming on the top of K2!"
At 3:30 p.m., on his way back Powers met Haberl. "How's it going, buddy?"
"Fine", replied Haberl.
"It's getting late. It'll be dark in a couple of hours. Do you think you should push on?" Haberl smiled. "There's stopping me now."
Powers looked down to Culver. "Dan's dropped back a bit. That seems a little odd. I wonder if he's feeling poorly?'
When Powers reached Culver, he had just discarded his pack to lighten his load. "Jim sounds strong and happy. He's pushing on to the top", said Powers. "How are you doing?"
"Not bad. A little tired."
"It's still another hour or so to the summit. Do you want to keep climbing, or come back with me?"
"No, I gotta go." said Culver.
When Haberl reached the summit's lip, Culver was 45 minutes behind. Haberl sat down to wait. They had made a pact to summit together. He hauled out his camera and snapped a photo, then sat back. He thought about his family and friends and what climbing K2 meant him, and a lump grew in his throat.
At 4:40 p.m., a grinning Culver joined him and they went up and onto the peak together. The two spent 20 minutes on the summit, drunk with euphoria, taking photos of one another and their flags. They were 600 metres higher than any other mountain in the range and could see forever. Rolling away to the north was the wild vastness of Turkestan; to the east, the arid, brown hills of Sinkiang; to the west, in Kashmir, stood the brooding citadel of Nanga Parbat, crowned by thunderheads; and off to the west and south, the great Karakoram --a turbulent sea of endless summits, most of them never climbed or even named.
At 5p.m., they started down. The wind had shifted and was now blowing from the south -- an ominous sign. The two talked about being extra cautious on the descent. They were weary, and it was getting colder. "Slow and steady", said Culver. "That's the way we'll do it."
An hour above camp 4, they reached the Bottleneck. This was the most precarious portion of the summit-day descent, a 10 metre wide gully, sloping at a 45-degree angle. Below here, the slope funneled down to the sheer south face. A climber who fell would not stop for three kilometres.
Haberl descended first. He had just exited from the bottom when he heard a loud sound. As he looked up he saw Culver's purple-and-yellow snowsuit roll past. Frozen in stunned disbelief, Haberl watched Culver tumble wildly down the slope, picking up speed as he careened through a section of mixed rock and ice, then cartwheeled out of sight.
Haberl screamed for help, then followed Culver's impact trail for 250 meters. He found his tuque and the scratch marks left by his body, but the traces ended at the cliff's edge. Haberl sat down and cried.
Back in camp 4, Phil Powers had been joined by Petroske, Haigh and Allison, who had moved into position to make their summit bid the next day. They were drinking soup when Powers heard a voice cry out. He looked out and saw a single figure above. At that distance he couldn't be sure who it was, but he sensed instinctively that Culver had fallen.
Powers, Allison and Petroske climbed up to join Haberl. When they saw there was nothing to be done, they urged him to accompany them back to high camp. "There's a nasty storm on the way", said Powers, gesturing at the cloud plume forming above the peak. "If we don't get down, we'll all die."
At 3 a.m., the storm hit in full fury. It was as if K2 was telling them their time was up, that the rules of the game had changed. The five spent the night huddled in camp 4, supporting the walls of the tent with their hands as the wind raged outside. Haberl dozed fitfully, haunted by images of Culver crawling into camp bleeding and broken, asking, "Why did you leave me?"
When they left at 7 a.m., they stepped into a stinging gale of ice pellets. In the whirling blizzard, there was no demarcation line between the sky and ground, making it impossible to see more than 10 metres ahead.
During the ascent, they had taken the precaution of planting coloured glacier wands at 15 metre intervals along the ridge. Yesterday, in the sunshine, the wands had looked absurd, snaking up the mountain like some gaudy picket fence. Now, they were a lifesaver. By following the stakes, they were able to get down to the snow cave at camp 3, where the system of fixed ropes began. At one point a blast of wind picked up Haigh and blew him backward over a ridge. Only the ropes saved him from being swept away. Below the ropes, it was a matter of negotiating 92 rappels to the bottom.
At 2 p.m., they arrived at camp 2. Haberl, who had not eaten in four days, was too exhausted to continue and opted to stay the night. Petroske volunteered to stay with him while the others completed the descent. The next day, the two made their way down through the unrelenting storm. Below camp 1, within sight of base camp, Haberl heard a distant rumble. He glanced up and saw an avalanche rolling down the south face. There was nowhere to hide. Haberl and Petroske linked hands, turned their backs to the mountain and waited for the blast to hit them. When it did, the force knocked them over. In that instant, Haberl was sure he had breathed his last. But when he opened his eyes, he realized he and Petroske were buried only up to their waists. It was as if K2 had reached out to deliver one last, dismissive kick. Wearily, Haberl spoke. "Let's go home, John."
DAN CULVER'S BODY was never found. A few weeks later a memorial service was held for him at Mount Seymour United Church in North Vancouver. Two hundred people attended. Several took the podium to offer personal remembrances. They spoke of Culver's passionate love of nature, of his unselfish character, of how his infectious enthusiasm had touched their lives. Haida artist Bill Reid related how Culver had come to him before leaving for K2 to seek help in making a carving knife. The two spent a day together, and Culver got the knife half-made. Reid said he would like to finish that knife and vowed to make 10 more in Culver's memory. He wanted the knives to be used by carvers who would promise to keep them sharp and use them only to create things of great beauty.
Jim Haberl was accustomed to experiencing an empty feeling at the end of a wilderness adventure. But his return to Vancouver this time was especially difficult. The only witness to the tragedy, it was his task to explain what had happened on K2 to Culver's widow, Patricia, and to other family and friends. Some were angry. Haberl could sense they wondered why it had been him and not Culver who had survived.
Haberl wondered himself. He felt guilt, remorse and frustration. Culver's death cast a pall over their dual triumph. In mountaineering circles, their conquest of K2 was a more significant achievement than the much ballyhooed first Canadian ascent of Everest in 1982, but there was no victory celebration on Haberl's return and little press coverage of the event.
Today, he accepts this, and is getting on with his life. Although the cost of the climb far outweighed the prize, it has not dimmed his enthusiasm for mountaineering. "If anything, it has strengthened my ideals. It has reconfirmed the value of what I have been doing with my life."
Culver would probably be happy with that assessment. In his philosophy, the real tragedies in life are not the hard consequences of human actions, but rather the potential that goes unfulfilled when fear stops us from living out our dreams.
Reprinted with permission from Vancouver Magazine. This article was first published in the July/August 1994 issue.
Jim Haberl's book about the climb, K2, Dreams And Reality, is available through Tantalus Publishing, 3426 Quesnel Dr., Van. V6C 2W6.
Jim Haberl died in 1999 in an avalanche in Alaska.
info@followyourdreams.ca