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Expeditioner Elbrus och Sisu

Mt. Elbrus is the highest peak in the Russian Caucasus range, forming a natural border with Asia in the south, and is with over 800 meters to spare over France’s Mt. Blanc, without a doubt Europe’s highest mountain. The massif consists of a dormant double volcano with two main summits, standing 5621 and 5642 meters tall. The climb is not considered a difficult one, in summer, but off season conditions and the ruthless Russian winter conspire effectively to shield the summit from visitors during the colder months. We’ve climbed and skied the mountain on two separate occasions. Olof in the winter of 2003 and Martin in the winter of 2005.

Small pieces of ice break free to the sound of broken glass and begin to fall down into the darkness below me, as I use my ice tools and crampons to scale the ice field at 5000 meters for the second time. I am alone and the sun has not yet risen above the horizon, making the conditions on the mountain freezing cold. About minus 55 degrees centigrade to be exact, with chill factor taken into consideration. The only source of light on the glacier is my head lamp, casting a blueish sterile light on my surroundings. The air is thin and contains only half the amount of oxygen found at sea level. The light weight skis on my back thus feel several kilos heavier than when I bought them and when my mind wanders I feel the temptation to take them off and let them slide down the side of the mountain. Instead I shift my focus back to the task at hand. Slowly moving my hands and feet that are eventually going to take me to the summit. Ice axe and crampons. One step at a time.

This winter has seen me travel to Russia with my three friends Petra, Kalle and Erik, to climb and ski Europe’s highest mountain, Mt. Elbrus, 5643 meters. My normal climbing partner Olof, having already climbed the mountain two years previously, is instead busy sailing a 28 foot sailing yacht from Sweden to New Guinea, heading towards our next climbing project: Carstensz Pyramid. But before joining him in Polynesia, there was this one matter I had to attend to…

“Come along and get some nice powder turns in Russia this winter. It’s gonna be fun!”. I was optimistic while planning this trip, but just like Napoleon and Hitler before me, the Russian winter has dealt me a severe blow.

Together we managed to get as high as 4400 meters during our first week on the mountain, before mother nature turned against us and it got ugly in a hurry. A storm forced us to retreat down off the mountain, with bruised egos and severe frostbite in tow. The weather made another attempt on the summit very unlikely and my friends decided to remain in the valley, while I was drawn back up, into the thick of things.

The sun slowly rises as I finish the last section of the ice field and continue over the top of the glacier towards the massif’s dual summits. The traverse can be likened to a walk over an ice hockey field that has been tilted up to around 45 degrees. A misplaced crampon could have tragic consequences as the blade of my ice axe has trouble penetrating the rock solid ice, making self arresting a veritable nightmare. I remember how a Swedish climber died in a fall not far from here only last summer, when the conditions would have been far better.

I pass a ridge and am suddenly subjected to the full force of the wind. The temperature drops drastically and keeping my balance on the exposed blue ice becomes increasingly difficult. I feel my face slowly beginning to fade away, but what is much more alarming is that my toes, having been growing colder and colder over the last two hours, now refuse to follow my commands. Trying to find cover behind some rocks, I foolishly take off my ski mountaineering boots to inspect the damage. The sensation of holding my cold feet without getting any more feed back from my body than when I’m sifting through the frozen meats counter in my local grocery store is unreal and nauseating. After having taken it on the chin with my friends, I’ve now happily turned the other cheek and taken yet another hit. The summit is still at least three hours away and I’m forced to choose between it and my toes. Disappointed I let out a scream before slowly putting my boots back on. I have to get down. Working the crampons I’m forced to take off the large down mittens protecting my hands and immediately ruin the skin on my fingers when making contact with the ice cold aluminium.

In a shelter at 4100 meters I meet four Norwegians who offer me food and help. One of the sleeps with my feet in his armpits and when morning dawns a diffuse pain slowly begins to return.

I should give up. The expedition is over and my friends are already on their way home. Still I refuse to get on the plane. Two days later I make my third attempt on the summit. My hands are covered in blisters and my feet are in a bad state. By isolating my boots with old pieces of clothing and fabric I’ve found on the mountain I start out at dawn, hoping the sun will help keep me warm while I face off with the winter storms yet again. My friends have already returned to Moscow. I’ve missed my flight and my visa expires in two days. This time there will be no second chances. Again I climb solo and reach the summit in eight hours. A young Spanish climber also makes it to the top, arriving by a different route only minutes after me. I snap a few pictures of him with his camera before stepping into my bindings. The exposed ice makes for a tricky descent and offers me no pleasure. Halfway down I take a fall and crack my helmet, but am fortunate enough to get back onto my skis again after an uncontrolled 50 meter slide.

Down in Base Camp I get the news that the Spaniard too has fallen and soon become involved in a rescue attempt. It is thus with very mixed feelings I find myself making my fourth ascent of the mountain that night. Eduardo didn’t share my luck however and we find his body at 4800 meters, before retrieving it down to the valley below. The time I can legally remain in the country is now extremely limited and as soon as the village awakens I persuade an old man to drive me the fours hours to the nearest airport, where I get on the first possible flight north.

Meeting up with my friends in Moscow later the same day I’m at last confronted with the events of the last two days. They’ve already heard about the accident and there are a lot of questions to be answered. Was it worth it?

I have no answer.