Gillman Peter - Clouds from Both Sides: the story of the first British woman to climb an 8, 000-metre peak

BROAD PEAK, JULY 1984

There was a whoosh then a dull thud!

My instincts told me that something was happening: something I should be aware of. I struggled for a moment, trying to regain consciousness from the deep sleep that engulfed me after the enormous exertions of the previous days, but my heavy eyelids just would not obey my brains instructions to open and I gave up trying. I felt Kurt moving, trying to free himself from the straitjacket restriction of the tiny one-man bivouac tent into which we were both tightly squeezed, and took the opportunity to stretch my cramped limbs into a more comfortable position, snuggling deeper into my warm sleeping bag, and gave in to the over-powering urge to sleep.

Julie, Julie! Wake up! The urgent panic in Kurts voice woke me instantly. I had assumed that he had rushed out to answer a call of nature, but his tone made it obvious that all was not well, and immediately cleared all thoughts of sleep from my mind.

What is it? I started to ask, but another whoosh and thud on the front of the tent answered my question most graphically. Avalanche!

The front part of the tent where an integral extension housed our rucksacks went dark and flat. I heard Kurt moving frantically outside. Finally the doorway was clear again and I could see the grey-white of the snowstorm outside.

Quick, Julie, my boots. It must have snowed very heavily after our descent last night, and now God, we must be very fast! I found one of his heavy double boots and passed it out of the tent, but the other one? I could not see it. Kurts empty sleeping bag covered all the spare space in the tiny tent. I managed the difficult cramped manoeuvre to reach the tapered far end where the tent was only eight inches high (it was only three feet wide and twenty-four inches high at the front end). I felt around but his second boot was not there, then returned to the entrance gasping from my exertions and the lack of oxygen in the thin mountain air. This was Broad Peak in the Himalayan mountains, and a height of 25,000 feet was no place for such contortions. Frantically I dug at the fresh snow deposited by the avalanche in the entrance. To lose a boot at such an altitude on one of the worlds highest mountains meant disaster for both of us, and there was no one else on the mountain. I had to find it if we were to survive. I dug more frantically still into the cold wet snow. I unearthed a torch, and some rubbish, and then I almost cried with relief Kurts other boot! I passed it out to him and dived to the end of the tent again to get my own boots.

The next minutes were filled with frenzied activity. My boot would not go on over the normal two pairs of socks. In the early morning my feet were swollen from sleeping at altitude, one pair would have to do. I hoped it would not be too cold. It would be ironic to get frostbite now after returning unscathed in the night from the summit.

I was about to stick my foot into the second boot when Kurt shouted, Here comes another avalanche! and I bent my head forward between my knees. Again he worked to free the front of the tent, his arms thrashing like windmills trying to divide the force of the snow, sending some down the steep slope on the outside of the tent and the rest into a deep crevasse on the outer edge of which we were camping the only flat place we had found to put our final assault camp. Thank goodness he had reacted to the first avalanche while I slept on, otherwise we might have been buried alive in our refuge. I lifted my head and looked at my poised boot. Hell, it was full of soft wet snow. Well, perhaps frostbite was better than dying! With fumbling fingers I struggled with the laces and my snow gaiters.

Once outside the tent Kurts eyes and the weather quickly conveyed the full seriousness of our position to me. The avalanches were funnelling down from the high summit ridge rocks above. Worse, we could not just retreat straight down the mountain as the steep snowfield ended in an abrupt drop some 9,000 feet to the Godwin-Austen Glacier far, far below. We would have to make a long traverse underneath these avalanche prone rocks, and with so much fresh snow and more silently falling all the time, our chances of reaching the safety of the lower camps were not at all good.

Almost mechanically we had put on our double boots, snow gaiters, helmets, snow goggles and gloves, a well practised drill, and hurriedly thrust our sleeping bags, a stove, matches, some tea and food, spare socks and a torch into our rucksacks. We unburied our crampons, ice axes and ski sticks from under the deep snow outside the tent and, last of all, with cold numbed fingers, had struggled to untie our safety rope, which, thankfully, we had used to secure our tiny refuge to the mountainside.

I glanced at my watch. 5.45 a.m., only fifteen minutes since Kurt had woken me. Usually at altitude ones movements are painfully slow, especially first thing in the morning. I could never have been ready so fast at Base Camp where we normally allowed at least an hour for dressing and packing. We had hardly spoken during our preparations; we were both experienced enough to understand what a very serious situation we were in, and muffled in our bulky down jackets, helmets and big snow goggles, heads bent under the heavily falling snow, conversation was a great effort.

We each tied one end of the short fifty feet rope to our harnesses. Kurt gave me a quick hug and a thumbs up before turning round and moving slowly forward, his body leaning into the storm. Carefully he probed for hidden crevasses with his ski stick, and slowly placed each foot, sometimes sinking up to his crutch where the snow had filled a hollow. I waited until the slack rope between us was stretched clear of the snow, and with adrenalin flowing forcefully through my body, stepped with exaggerated carefulness into his footsteps.

I knew I must be calm and stay in control of my mind and movements. To try to rush to safety was pointless, we would just become exhausted in no time at all, and probably then lose our sense either of reason or of balance. One of the rules for movement at altitude is to start off slowly and give the heart and lungs time to adjust to the exertion. I began consciously to control my breathing in time to my steps. One, foot forward breathe in! Two, weight forward hold the breath! Three, next foot forward breathe out! In the almost white-out conditions Kurts form, just fifteen feet ahead was a ghostly shadow and the floating white flakes blanketed our movements in a deathly silence.

I cant remember whether I heard it first, or simply felt it. It was only about twenty minutes after we had left the avalanched tent. Kurt had stopped for a short, much needed rest, and I had gone up close to him. He was just three feet away from me and I tried to shout a warning to him.

Its an avalanche but my words were lost as my feet slid away with the snow. I had the sensation of being in a fast lift, my stomach went up as my body went swiftly down and the snow engulfed me with such force that I felt as if I were trapped inside a waterfall. Somehow I knew that I was falling the right way up and that gave me comfort. I was also very aware that I must get some air, or I would suffocate, and I punched out strongly with my right arm as I had done so often in my martial arts practice. Amazingly a hole appeared and I could see that I was slowing down. I had almost stopped. What a relief! It had only been a small avalanche. I was upright and I had air.

No sooner had these thoughts gone from my mind than I felt a strong jerk and I was falling again but this time it was very different! I was being thrown over and over, completely out of control. Everything was black; heavy wet snow encased me. Unconsciously I had crossed my arms tightly across my chest, gripping my ice axe. Snow crystals blocked my open mouth I couldnt breathe I was suffocating choking drowning falling, falling never survive pain must breathe must breathe