Logan’s Other Summit #2: The Undertow

It is right there, within sight. But its summit is hard to make out among the subsidiary summits. Yet the little Pilatus Porter flying us 150 km into the heart of the massif skims Logan’s walls as closely as it can, wrapping around the mountain by its north and west faces. So close that we can almost feel the blast of the gigantic avalanches ravaging its flanks as we pass. 

©UL

We first set foot in this unique world on the south-west side, on the Quintino Sella Glacier. The summit is not visible, but majestic King Peak towers in the distance. In a few days we will be sleeping at its col, and by the time we stand on the summit it will be nothing more than a small, distant point. If we get there.

The route we will follow is the King Trench: a vast trench cutting into the massif all the way to King Col. Beyond that, the route becomes steeper, more complex and more winding, although it can be skied up to around 5,700 m. Before that, it is a maze of gaping dead ends and fragile crossings.

But for now we are only at 2,724 m, on a vast expanse of snow, one confetti-sized patch of which will become our base camp. The plane soon takes off again. What remains is the silence of the mountains. And the noise in my head.

Leaving base camp, we enter the massif between two walls facing each other. Eyes wary, like cowboys riding through a canyon whose cliffs might be hiding an ambush. But here, there is no one. Only battlements of black rock on the left, ramparts of blue ice on the right, and the wind bursting out of the abandoned fortress. It pushes us back; we are not welcome. Well then, let’s go in! 

But more than a mountain, Logan is a continent of ice. And there is no last cable car down from the end of the world. The massif stretches for some forty kilometres and rises from the heart of a glacial ocean. At this scale, glaciers are no longer valleys but Antarctic-looking ice plains, bristling with nunataks.

©UL

There are five of us setting out on this adventure: David, the Canadian guide; Sophie, the French-Swiss-Canadian mountaineer who has climbed all fourteen 8,000ers; Pascal and Satochi, Austrian and Japanese respectively; and me. Around us, only six other climbers will try their luck on Logan this year. Eleven ants in all on this immense mountain.

Every one of us has already had a taste of the world’s biggest mountains and their outsized logistics: Sherpas, pre-pitched camps and crowds of climbers. On Logan, there is only the mountain and us.

As always, the first morning is hard. How could it be otherwise? We have to get used to the tent, our bubble of relative comfort for the next three weeks. Waking up is freezing. The condensation from our breath crystallises on the tent walls. The moment we move, it snows inside.

©UL

The socks for the morning stay warm inside the sleeping bag, but there is no way to fit all your clothes in there without running out of room to sleep. I also save a good spot for my camera and video gear, the batteries and a few lenses. So you have to pull on frozen clothes, step into ski boots as stiff as boards and haul yourself out into the biting cold. Day after day, everything becomes ritual. The superfluous falls away. One concern takes precedence over all the others: protecting your toes.

It is at this precise moment, from the very first morning, that it becomes essential to disconnect from the world below. To stop thinking about your bed, the coffee machine, underfloor heating, steak frites. About family, too. It is hard, even though a rare few climbers, well practised at it, manage to compartmentalise completely.

For everyone else, daily life is an undertow that keeps pulling you back. You have to accept its successive waves, the highs and the lows. To find the subtle balance in this ebb and flow, and let memories carry you forward without holding you back.

Continue reading in Episode 3 soon…