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2006
Mugs Stump Award Winners:
Libecki/Libecki—Exploration
& First Ascents in Uzbekistan & Kyrgyzstan
 Absolute,
utter sickness is what this adventure was all about. We
got so sick, s**t was literally coming
out both ends, and not just after eating local goat head
and intestine, but throughout the entire journey. The
value of a fully stocked first-aid kit filled with meds can
never be under-rated on an expedition into remote territory.
When we started a four-day, thirty-mile approach to some
of the remote walls, antibiotics had to be unleashed like
warriors to kill demons ravaging our digestive system. Five
weeks later, after another dream trip of culture, reconnaissance,
and climbing mayhem, the antibiotics were still being sent
in for battle. I personally had to go through four
series of antibiotics on this trip to sustain vertical progress.
If I were asked what the most effective creation was in
the 20th century, antibiotics would be one of the answers.
If you have been through such suffering in the wilderness,
well then, you know one of the worst cruxes possible on
a remote adventure.
This
expedition's seed was planted by a friend of
mine from Austria. When I saw the photos captured from
a helicopter in the late 80s there was little else
to be said. I had to have a look for myself. The
photos were of three different places in Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan,
and Tadjikistan. Of course, fantasizing about climbing the
steep towers lured drool like hot, homemade stew and bread
after a day of power skiing, but even more delicious were
the thoughts of simply going to reconnoiter the areas. The
walls in the images from Uzbekistan had to be virgin. The
photos from Kyrgyzstan and Tadjikistan have a history of
climbing, but with amazing potential for new routes. Time
to track down more maps, get out the magnifying glass, buy
some tickets, and pack the bags.
I
acquired the permission necessary for the Uzbekistan area
through friends from China connected with locals in Kyrgyzstan.
The goal was to reconnoiter and hopefully climb the granite
formations in Uzbekistan. The backup plan would be
the valleys in Kyrgyzstan on the border of Tadjikistan. We
headed directly to the area of Uzbekistan with high hopes
that were quickly shot down. We viewed valleys near
those I had seen in the photos, amazing finger-like spires
encased like children in a family of snowy peaks. Unfortunately,
access was impossible for the amount of time we allotted.
With river crossings and bushwhacking it would have taken
a few weeks just to get our gear to a basecamp. I
still felt blessed: this would be an area to plan yet another
future adventure to a virgin amusement park of climbing.
Proceeding
with the back-up plan, we headed to an area near the Karavshin
in Kyrgyzstan that bordered Tadjikistan. We
walked for four days scouting the area. Within this
first week, we indulged in boiled goat meals, horse milk
and pungent yogurt curds, and were accompanied by beautiful
local people with a landscape that fueled enthusiasm and
appreciation for life. This is when our first sickness
started. If you have ever walked from sun up to sun
down while ëití is coming out both ends, then
you know the agony. It took everything we had to just
keep one foot in front of the other. Thanks so much
to the bad-asses for developing antibiotics. In our weakened
state we scoped some beautiful granite towers and slabs in
two valleys near the Karavshin that looked enticing. Though,
once we got up on a ridge that looked down into the valley
where Asan and Usan mountains emanate their grand majesty,
we could not resist temptation. We set up basecamp
with our sights on the 3000-foot high sheer golden granite
of Asan.
The
first round of antibiotics worked, or so it seemed. The
watery alien substance that rushed out of our bodies subsided,
at least for a few days. When we started shuttling
water to the base of Asan the sickness had found its way
back, or maybe, come out of hiding from a bunker in our guts.
We sent in the antibiotics again to find the culprits and
kill them. Taking antibiotics, at least in this situation,
felt like the initial onset of a hallucinogenic: tingly,
disoriented, and weak. Our bodies were void of energy. Our
only ally against the energy-draining sickness was our psych
to get in the vertical world.
As
we battled the intestine aliens, we gained some easy pitches
to a big ledge about 800 feet up. That's
when the spiciest part of the route began. Four consistent
rope lengths of off-width challenged my old skills that had
been forced upon me back when I lived in Yosemite. Nothing
better than being run-out 80 feet, walking a fully spread
cam probably only good enough just to hold itself. Mental
protection.
Though
my brother has jumared before, he has never been on a wall
without another person beside myself to help out with logistics.
This time it was just me and him. I
led all the pitches, he belayed, cleaned, and dealt with
hauling issues for the very first time. For example, cleaning
horizontal pitches with jumars for the very first time on
a wall in utter remoteness can be pretty difficult and very
dangerous, you can imagine the focus needed.
On
two of the pitches we found ancient rivets and a couple
remnants that looked to be hemp, weaved-style rope. Once
we got higher on the route, we traversed out left to virgin
splitters. From this point the climb was virgin, untouched
stone. Two of the pitches were some of the best 5.11
pitches off the deck I have experienced, with some basic
A2 coral digging. We moved slower than I had hoped
for, so we fixed six pitches to allow my brother some training.
Then came the gift of a couple rainy rest days. At
this point, we still had at least 1500 feet to gain the
summit. Our
time left here was becoming an issue, so we would have to
make a push for the top. As we climbed I kept thinking about
how our journey would end: for the first time on any expedition,
I wasn't exactly sure of our plans to get back to
civilization. This situation weighed heavy in the back
of my mind.
As
we sat on the wall listening to the sweet music of raindrops
beating nylon in rhythm. my brother watched little black
specs whirling inside a clear water bottle like a snow-globe
effect. "Mike, you gotta check this out!" Inside
one of our water bottles were two, eight-millimeter alien
worms with strange snail-like tentacles squirming around.
This water came from a beautiful spring, or so I thought.
Great. Nice
to imagine these lurkers in our stomachs, growing, laughing,
and mocking these dumb humans as we provided for their future
generations. After another squirt of disappointment
followed by baby wipes, the antibiotics were sent back in
for battle. We were abnormally drained of energy by
the aliens in our stomachs and the antibiotics trying to
kill them.
We
started our push just before dawn. My brother was
doing amazing on his first belay-and-clean job ever. His
optimism ruled over his pain, frustration, and bloody hands.
We took only one liter each on the summit bid. After 20
hours of vertical progress we found a nice ledge, ate two
inches of summer sausage each and proceeded to fetal position
and shivered like cartoon characters until dawn. It was
about 25 degrees with only clothes, no bivy gear at all,
and our gear. Huge ancient ice sculptures filled
the large voids in the gaping chimneys adding an arctic
chill to our suffer fest. We made the summit just a few
hours after the sun hit our faces. We both had only
a swallow of water to spare. We had been gone from
our high point about 35 hours when we stood on top
(new route variation on Asan, 3000+ feet, 5.11 A2, 21 pitches, Kyrgyzstan).
 Unfortunately,
it was quite clear that trying to rappel the route we climbed
would be too risky for getting ropes stuck and pulling
loose flakes on top of us. When we finally did stand on
the tip-top summit boulder, we spent just five minutes
taking pictures in our Year of the Dog masks. I
felt desperation to get down because I didnít know
how we would do so. I knew a very long, uncertain rappel
waited. The descent was up to me because my brother,
though he could clean gear, his ability for anchor setting
and self-rescue was almost nil.
We
had to find a spot to start rappelling immediately. If
we did not rappel the route we climbed, the three thousand
feet of unknown wall below us could be a disaster: if a
rope got stuck on a rappel route that cannot be climbed
back up, we could strand ourselves, being left to an unknown
fate, especially in our state of dehydration and lack of
energy due to sickness and minimal water. For all we knew
we could be up here for a couple more days.
Late
that night, 15 hours after we had reached the summit we
found ourselves in a gully that we could scramble down
and make small rappels to the valley floor. From
the summit we had to make 17 new rappel stations down an
untouched section of the wall opposite of which we climbed.
I was in a paranoid trance on the entire rappel. I knew if
we got our ropes stuck, we were basically fucked. It was
Russian Roulette with every new rappel while pulling ropes.
From our high point it took us about 55 hours to summit and
get down. Before that we spent about ten days shuttling
loads, fixing pitches, dealing with bathroom duties 24/7,
and sitting in the rain.
I
think what finally killed the aliens inside of us was the
intense dehydration and lack of calories on our push. Our
bodies sucked up every bit of nutrient in that time, probably
annihilating the beasts. On the way home we had to start
antibiotics a fourth time, and our digestive system did not
return to normal until well after arriving home.
At
the beginning of the trip when we started our travel via
4x4 in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Tadjikistan, our hired
help did not speak any English. As well as traveling
into the different mountain areas via horse and donkey, again,
the locals spoke no English. This presented some frustrations,
but mostly a variable for learning, adventure, and a sweet
challenge. But, when finally leaving our final climbing
destination, the language barrier presented frightening circumstances.
We had to go out a completely different way we came in,
and with locals we had not met before. We would have to
cross the Tadjikistan border. Before leaving to go
into the various mountain areas, we were warned about one
exact area: locals had been shot and killed here the summer
before, and some German engineers in the area had been
kidnapped around the same time. Before we knew what
happened, we were left alone in this very same area.
After
our climbing and sickness mahyem on the way out of the
mountains, as a 16-mile day drew to an end, the local Kyrgy
man leading our horses loaded with gear decided, through
body language and words we could not understand, that we
must stay put while he goes on. We were on the border
of Kyrgyzstan and Tadjikistan in the middle of nowhere. Our
only conclusion was that he wanted to leave on his horse
so not to be caught in the dark in this area. What
about us? He unloaded the gear, got on his horse and
left. We had no choice but to hide out in the bushes until
dawn, and hopefully he would return with horses to take us
to whatever village lied ahead. We assumed we were
headed to a village where someone had a car that could drive
us back to civilization. We had not been here
before, did not know where we were, and we had absolutely
no agenda or plan as to what would happen in the following
days.
A
slight hint of fear set in when darkness blanketed with
no moon in sight. We decided to just sit on our sleeping
pads and huddle with our gear in the bushes. Paranoia set
in: we were certain that as soon as midnight hit, some
random, long-bearded men would take us into custody. Optimism
was all we had. At three in the morning someone came
walking towards us in our hideout. These seconds of our life
held a speed heart-rate record. This man shined his light
in our eyes and only said the words "Tadjik, Tadjik" and
nothing else. He simply sat down next to us and said
nothing. We really had no idea what was happening. What
the fuck? All we could think about was if this was a good
guy or a bad guy. About an hour later, with the stranger
still sitting with us silently in pitch dark, we heard the
sounds of an engine. On an old path below us hardly
big enough for a truck, what looked to be a tiny army jeep,
came puttering slowly down the road. We decided to approach
the jeep. Eight people climbed out of the jeep. It
was Kyrgyz soldiers and a Kyrgyz family. We gestured
and pointed towards civilization. The man that sat next to
us disappeared into the night.
Before
leaving to the mountains on the start of our journey, we
asked our Russian contacts to write down several notes
in local Kygryz and Russian scribe. Fortunately, one
of the notes we had them write said: We need to get to Bishkek.
The jeep was coming to pick up a sick Kyrgyz woman that urgently
needed a hospital, and just by chance, this jeep saved us
from the mysterious borderland rebels. A little taste of
fear to end the journey. We passed through heavily
armed borders in the darkness. All of our haul bags
and people literally crammed in the tiny jeep like sardines.
It was like a contest to see how many people can get into
a phone booth. Later that morning we arrived in the
nearest village via escort of the Kyrgyz. They read
our note about getting back to Bishkek. Soon a man
arrived, still no English whatsoever, and delivered us
back to sanctuary. All we had to deal with now was our
rumbling stomachs and the aftermath of aliens and antibiotics
terrorizing our bodies for the last five weeks. If
the Kyrgyz soldiers did not show up to take the local nomad
to the hospital randomly, we are still unsure of what would
have happened. It
sends a chill thinking about it.
It
just goes to show that optimism for optimism rules my life
for a reason, and why my motto of pursuing passion and
not rationing passion continues to reflect who I am. Is
there really a difference between mystery and adventure?
I think not. Dream big, and climb those dreams!
The
Time Is Now — Mike J. Libecki
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