Nepal's Wild West

In November 2023, Matt Glenn, Hamish Frost, Paul Ramsden, and Tim Miller returned from an expedition to one of the most isolated regions of Nepal.

During the trip, the group split into two separate teams. Tim and Paul set the unclimbed peak of Surma-Sarovar, standing at 6,605 metres as their main objective. Over the course of four days they made the first ascent, before taking a further two days to tackle the complicated descent.

With Tim and Paul taking on the North Face of Surma-Sarovar, Matt and Hamish turned their attention to the other peaks that lay nearby...

When I signed up for this six week adventure, I had Paul's voice ringing in my ears. 'I've never been on a trip like this before', he'd told us, which was saying something for a man of thirty plus expeditions. More than once he had stressed to us that 'we may well not even get to climb anything'. 

The process of mentally preparing for a lot of trekking and potentially very little climbing meant cultivating a very different attitude than you would usually expect for a Himalayan trip. Many people are totally goal focussed (despite what they may say in retrospect), so, as Hamish and I descended from our second attempt at trying to climb something, I was very thankful for the partner I had chosen, and the attitude we both had coming into the trip.

The remote aspect of this expedition meant I spent the first two weeks struggling to contain myself. One internal flight and two days in a small jeep followed by a week of trekking is a lot of slow time for someone with very little patience. 

That said, the scenery was some of the most staggering I have ever experienced. The beauty of our surroundings was interrupted only by the occasional damaged and abandoned JCB digger, reflecting this remote area's refusal to concede defeat to a modern world. Small paths meandered along the riverside, finding their way around impregnable cliffs and up into the high valleys that unfolded in front of us. 

Arriving in basecamp early in the morning, we quickly set off to scout some of the valleys leading away from basecamp. Myself and Hamish (with a guiding shout from Paul across the river) stumbled upon a small track wandering precariously along the cliffs of the gorge of the Samilor Khola. 

This was the gorge Paul had told us about from the start, one he was unsure we could find a way through at all. It had been the focal point of many conversations throughout our journey here. Although relieved that we would in fact be able to get into the valley that we'd come here for, there was absolutely no chance we could ask porters to attempt this traverse with their cumbersome loads. This meant basecamp would be at 3800m, significantly lower than we had hoped, however it didn't matter, we were just too excited to see what lay further up the valley.

The next morning, slowed down by a week's worth of food and kit, we set off up the gorge  to recce and acclimatise. The following week proved to be one of the highlights for all of us. Like kids let out into a garden to play, vast spaces, unexplored corners of huge valleys and ridges opened out before us. There was no previous research to tell us where the best lines might be, we would have to go and see each face for ourselves.

In practice, this involved walking huge distances. Buckling slightly under the weight of our bags, the different faces and peaks slowly revealed themselves over the course of days. Hamish and I spent two days walking to the far end of the valley, marvelling at bizarre geological formations, arid landscapes with glaciers draped over them like dropped ice cream melting into the sand. 

The heat in the bottom of the valley was how I imagined death valley might be. At the end of the second day, we arrived on a hillside which we deemed high enough and flat enough to suit our needs for the night. We still hadn't managed to get a proper glimpse of Bobaye's north face. The anticipation was killing me. 

In the morning we walked along the bank, hoping that we could more easily see around the corner without having to spend a day crossing the hideous moraine. The immense North Face of Bobaye crept into view. We came to a spot which gave us a good vantage point. Using Hamish's massive zoom lens, we scoured the face looking for a possible line.

Whilst the NE face is guarded by a series of huge Seracs, the NW face had several promising snow fields and gullies leading to a niche. Above the niche, however, an overhang of rock blocked the way. I would be lying if I said I wasn't both incredibly disappointed and a little bit relieved. The idea of a twelve day round trip to climb a 2000m North Face, so far from the possibility of help, is equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

Fortunately, Tim had previously spotted a stunning line on a 6000m peak near our basecamp. If Paul and Tim chose to climb that, then we would attempt the 6500m peak they were currently scouting or vice-versa. The next five days were spent trying to acclimatise to the thin air. We watched episodes of "The Thick of It" and enjoyed plenty of down time whilst trying to refrain from eating all our rations. 

Returning to base camp a few kilos lighter and mentally fairly buoyant, we allowed ourselves a rolly and some whiskey to take our minds off the hardship to come, if only for a few hours. Tim and Pauls' return was an exciting affair, there were several opportunities for really big north face adventures on unclimbed peaks. 

They were going to try a 2000m line on the north face of the 6500m peak they'd had aspirations to climb before the trip. The long, complex descent looked particularly harrowing. This meant Hamish and I got to attempt the striking ice line on the lower 6000m peak. I was overjoyed, this peak was only five hours walk from basecamp and was a true climbers line, a thin ribbon of white that ran the full height of the north face.

The following day, Hamish and I headed up towards our objective to get a closer look at the line. As we hiked up the valley, I noticed my breathing was a lot shorter than I would have expected. I had fallen way behind Hamish and - despite his incredible fitness - this was unusual. 

A previous trip to Nepal had ended with me spending around a month in hospital due to a collapsed lung. My already exhausted brain and body were trying to discern whether the pain in my chest and shortness of breath was just general fatigue or something more serious. Trying not to panic, I spoke to Hamish and we returned swiftly to basecamp. 

Five days of unsettled weather followed. Five days of intermittent snow and sun spent fretting, trying to convince myself that the pain in my chest and shoulder was just a musculoskeletal issue I had been carrying from overtraining at points in the summer. 

Finally the weather cleared. Feeling somewhat rested and slightly uneasy, Hamish and I headed up the valley once again. 

Our first day of climbing passed relatively uneventfully, and we reached the steeper section of the gully. I attempted to climb a line on the left, but encountered compact rock, delaminating thin ice, and increasingly steep terrain, which meant I had to retreat. We cut a ledge on a snow slope below, hoping to try a line on the right in the morning.

Through interrupted sleep, I could feel the weight and warmth of Hamish pressed against me, I was thankful, it was cold. Gradually though, I realised he wasn't doing this intentionally, his body was being rolled towards me by the weight of spindrift collecting on his side of the tent. I stirred myself properly around 3am, my head torch illuminating the semi collapsed outline of the tent around us. 

Shit, that means I'd have to get up and do something about the situation. Unless you have experienced it, it's impossible to describe just how hard it is to force your exhausted body out of the warmth of a double sleeping bag and into the frigid, snowy world outside. I leaned out of the door to try to scrape away some of the snow from behind the tent. As I did this, a cascade of spindrift launched down the slope above us and directly into our tent.

We battled the zip closed, but it was too late as snow poured into the tent. A few frantic minutes later I was outside the tent, my down mitts on my feet, like slippers on a Sunday morning, except I was on a tiny snow ledge, unattached, in the dark. 

Digging furiously behind the tent with one hand, I held our anchor point with the other. Suddenly the persistent flow of spindrift became an avalanche. Clinging to the rope, I kept digging to stop the tent from collapsing around Hamish. Several moments of blind panic and effort ensued while spindrift flowed in a torrent over us. As it eased, I could see Hamish's head and arm poking out of the tent, otherwise he was completely buried in the tent. Sliding around on my mitt slippers, I dug furiously to try and free Hamish from the snow, which had now packed firmly into a compact mass.

Dragging himself out, we spent the next few hours fighting a war of attrition, trying to regain our now mangled, buried tent along with most of our possessions. After an hour of excavation, the relentless flow of spindrift eased and we managed to drag out the tent, pull it over our heads and sit side-by-side on the now tiny ledge.

Eventually, light crept through the darkness and we began to move again, melting snow, eating, and trying to find the will to attempt the other line.

I always thought that if I had something like this happen I would just give up and go home. It felt like another test of our mettle, one we couldn't fail because it would leave us wondering why we hadn't tried harder. So I racked up and started up the beautiful neve goulotte to the right of our previous attempt. 

The attempt was sadly short lived. As with the left hand line, ice thinned and the steepness increased within twenty metres. I was looking up at polished blank rock, punctuated by overhangs with accompanying snow mushrooms on their undersides.

Descending was a straightforward affair and we were back in basecamp in time for dinner. We knew that we needed proper rest, however time was quickly slipping away, so after a day of eating, whilst poring over photos and maps of other possibilities, we set off again. With neither of us fully rested, and both of us still dealing with the emotional fatigue of the last few days, I think there was an element of convincing ourselves and each other that we were really psyched and ready to go again. The objective this time was a south face leading to a long snow ridge, topping out on a 6300m peak that we believed was unclimbed.

Starting across the Glacier at first light, we navigated the icefall at the bottom of the face, weaving in between huge crevasses. We reached the bottom of the face and Hamish led off up snow runnels. The pace was slow, moving up deep snow whilst the sun boiled us in our thick Gore-Tex. That day we barely stopped, simuling most of the ground other than the occasional pitch.

As the weather closed in, we reached a broad gully. Wading up to my chest, I tried the ridge to my left. As I reached the top of it, the whole left side avalanched, leaving the rope hanging uselessly between us. Things suddenly felt really serious. I couldn't see Hamish through the clag, it was snowing hard, and I couldn't really see a safe route to the rock band above.

Wading back into the gully I eventually swam upwards to the rock band and found some gear. I felt a brief sense of relief. I brought Hamish up and we paused to give ourselves a mental break as much as a physical one. The rest of the day continued in the same vein, until I dragged my body onto the ridge we were aiming for, just as the last light disappeared over the horizon.

The following day we set off along the immense ridge, moving together, often with the rope stretching out limply between us. Not much in the way of protection except the knowledge that you can't fuck up. Once again, clouds rolled in around midday, puking snow onto the already suspect ridge. Our progress was slowed as we had to prod around, trying to discern ridge from cornice.

By late afternoon we were spent, the final section of the ridge looked just as hazardous and conditions were getting more testing. Finding another bivi spot big enough to pitch the tent was a gift. Real sleep is hard to come by on routes so it's good to appreciate the small wins.

Your emotions at the time and a whole multitude of other factors coalesce into your decision making. You know that you will spend the following days, weeks, and months playing over these decisions. Your brain plays tricks and twists your thoughts while you sit in the warmth drinking coffee, 'you could have tried harder', 'if you were stronger' etc.

The decisions you make in the mountains can haunt you for a long time, but I'd far rather be haunted by a summit not climbed than the death of a friend. I feel very fortunate to have climbed with someone who I know will always air on the side of caution, and not be driven to a summit by ego and pride.

Staring up at the serrated edge of the 'summit', the cumulative exhaustion of the previous weeks bent my shoulders in against the straps of my bag. Gnawing hunger spread from my stomach through my limbs and into my brain, making movement or thought painful and slow. I tried to weigh up the potential hazards ahead and view them objectively instead of through the haze. A haze of aching limbs and low level tension brought on by the previous two days of wading in poor weather, listening to avalanches rip down the face around us as we climbed.

Ahead of us lay around 500m of climbing, with 300m of vertical to the summit we hoped to stand on. It was nothing compared to what we'd already climbed, but having already passed a point at 6300m it felt phenomenally arbitrary. 

As I looked up at the peak, an avalanche slid off the top, leaving bullet hard blue ice in its place. The lower section of the ridge still held some snow, but how stable was it? Underneath, there was surely the same glacial ice. The right side of the ridge consisted of a serrated edge of seracs. We had four screws, blunt points, and very little mental capacity. 

I'd already punched through two sections of cornice, Hamish had done the same. I could see the clouds rising in the valley which would engulf us in the next hour and make it impossible to tell what was cloud and what was cornice. Already we weren't moving well, and we weren't making safe decisions, sacrificing safety for speed by not digging into the deep snow to find protection.

So we turned around, without much real discussion, and started the long wade back to our bivi spot from the previous night.

Despite everything, I was overwhelmed with joy as we arrived back at our bivi spot mid afternoon. We blasted music from Hamish's phone and ate our tiny ration of calories. The relief washed over us. We hadn't achieved 'the goal' but we'd had a bloody good time doing it. We grinned as we lay in the tent that afternoon. I was so thankful to be here with Hamish, alive and unconcerned about summits.

The descent back down the loaded slopes of the south face were unsettling but not awful. We arrived back at basecamp just as the light faded. Sitting down, we gorged on pringles, biscuits, and noodles, trying to recover the calorie deficit of the previous days. 

As I was half way through a bowl of soup, we got a message from Tim on the inreach. They were on their way down and asking if it would be possible to come meet them. They had struggled through a harrowing descent and could do with a hand to carry everything the last little bit. Our soup went back in the pot and we shot off up the gorge, soon meeting our gaunt looking team mates. Paul looked like he could collapse, as he showed off his freshly frostbitten little finger. His first cold injury from more than thirty expeditions. This gave an indication of how demanding their route had been.

The following week we spent returning to the real world, this may have been the time I savoured most. Energy spent, you can do nothing but enjoy the scenery and eat. The last few days travelling through the small towns allows you to really appreciate the pace of life. 

Meanwhile, my brain began the process of tearing apart all the reasons I had for turning around. More than one conversation with Hamish led me back to the conclusion that we had done the right thing, that it's easy to kid yourself that you could have pushed on when you're in the warmth and safety of a mess tent.

Through this time I was reminded of how fortunate I was to have gone on this type of trip with these people. Hamish's clarity and certainty when it comes to his decisions has long been a trait I admire, whether it's which festival to go to or whether we should risk our lives for a summit, he makes his decision logically and doesn't question it again.

Thank you Hamish, Tim, and Paul for an incredible trip, Paul especially for his organisation and knowledge that allowed us all to be there. A massive thank you to Mountain Equipment for continued support and phenomenal kit. Thanks to the Alpine Club, the BMC, and the MEF for continuing to promote and assist expeditions such as these. These trips truly wouldn't be possible without an incredible level of generosity.