While the exciting videos and graphic sound-bytes regale you with the highly exposed exploits of three climbers clawing their way up K2, I'd like to point out that mountaineering has a rather soft underbelly most manly mountaineers refuse to publicly acknowledge. Once the Argonautic sounds of steel against rock and the "thunk, thunk" of ice-tools finding their purchase have ceased for the day, mountaineers then retire to a stinky nylon, flesh and feather sandwich called "Camp".

"Camp" life comes with three types of rules by which each climber must abide. The first and most common set of rules comes from an internal catalog of well-known tenets cultivated through years of forced confined-space community living. (i.e. a tent or prison) The second, and much more subtle set of rules, are those quietly brought along with the expectations of each individual, and once articulated must be accepted (or challenged) quickly by his/her camp mates. The third kind is the most slippery kind of rule to both assert and abide by, as this kind of rule is either totally unobvious, completely irrational, or made up on the spot. 

Type 1 rules are generally easy to abide by, as they are usually defined by personal space and common sense. However, these rules are among the most frequently violated. The most common broken rule in this category is also among the most heinous of confined space malfeasance, as the offense involves one member contaminating the entire atmospheric condition of the tent, by way of HAFE. (High Altitude Flatulent Emissions) The guilty party's attempts to contain HAFE contaminated air by way of pre-opening tent doors or zipping tight sleeping bags are usually fruitless, so repeat offenders are often required to either sleep outside or be assigned menial housekeeping tasks as a consequence. (I'd like to point out here, that Chris has been very busy around the tent this past week. However, Bruce has rather altruistically responded to this problem by Cheyne-Stokes breathing all night long, thus generously increasing the overall oxygen content of the tent. Thanks Bruce.)

Type 2 rules must be first articulated to the entire camp, as outright passive/aggressive behavior is seldom tolerated. However, a cunning or deft approach in communicating the rule to the other members can significantly increase the likelihood of the rule's acceptance. For example, if one member were to say, (and I quote) "Hey Bruce, because your socks are hanging so close to my face, I couldn't help but notice that they appear to have the exact same pattern as the ones you've been wearing for the last two weeks", one could imagine how such a statement affectively communicates to Bruce that his socks are currently placed in unacceptable proximity to certain olfactory sensors, and also that it's about time he change into a somewhat less malodorous pair.

Type 3 rules are definitely tricky, and communicating them can be a touchy subject, as they can reflect a deeper neurosis within. For example, a certain member of our expedition refuses to drink tea unless his cup is filled entirely, openly expressing that "I can't drink out of that if it's not full". (I predict some therapy on the horizon). Another member insists on using a plumb line to establish equal sleeping space, while a third member employs the use of no fewer than three sleeping pads at all times, rivaling the slumber-sensitivity of "The Princes and The Pea". (All such admissions shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent). 

Aside from abiding by camp rules, there are some offenses generated by unforeseen forces, to which all the members of Camp must face together. These forces come from objective hazards like avalanches, rockfall, or harsh weather, but can sometimes take on surprising forms. Take, for example, an incident at Camp1 last week involving a certain food substance now referred to as "Poo-Cheese". Upon arrival at the prospective camp site, we customarily work together hacking out a platform and setting up the tent, then reward ourselves by gathering inside the for the best meal of the day: crackers and cheese. As I opened a package of (formerly) mild Swiss cheese, I noticed an extremely offensive odor filling the tent. Following Chris' vehement claims of innocence, I found the stench rising from the package of cheese I had just opened, which was not the usual source of such foulness (ahem). But after carrying such a commodity as a hunk of cheese up to Camp 1, nobody was willing to dispose of the suspect substance without at least sampling it. I bravely volunteered. I wish I hadn't. In response to the look on my face, Chris quickly prepared a flushing cup of tea while Bruce rapidly unzipped the tent and pitched the putrid cube out the door and down a steep gully. For this (and other unmentionable reasons) the gully is now known among our team as the "Poop Chute".

While I'm waxing-ridiculous-like on the subject, I hope to navigate carefully through my next set of comments, as to not divulge too much detail on such a sensitive subject--that being the double entendre of "Crapping Oneself". The first possible meaning of the phrase is an obvious one, and whose definition could only come from the results of preparing water from the ice surrounding our tent in Camp 2, which when liberated from the slopes is often found to possess disconcerting hues of brown and yellow due to overpopulation. Such a subject is better left to the imagination, and one that I shall avoid--for now. 

However, it has been said that a true mountaineer is not a mountaineer until he/she has legitimately "Crapped Oneself"--in the sense of being utterly petrified while climbing, and I have found the adage to be again true on this expedition. Among many terrifying events, one moment in particular comes to mind while yarding up a distinctively manky section of fixed rope on the way to the Abruzzi's Camp 2. The strand in question appeared to be nothing more than a length of discount store-bought utility rope which would not be suitable for hanging out clothes to dry. As I neared Chris at the anchor, he pointed out that the rope upon which we were ascending had two of the three braided strands completely severed six feet shy of the anchor. Chris suggested that the questionable cord might have been actually installed in 1909 by the Duke of Abruzzi himself. I had to agree.

So now, as the weather clears and we three climbers return to challenge the Abruzzi Ridge, the trials and hardships of climbing in the shadow of the giant continue. Our dependence on one another grows ever more critical as we approach the summit, and none of us are unaware of the importance of this fact. In some strange, inarticulate, and often humorous way, our team seems to draw strength from each other- a strength required for living under the stresses of life on K2. 

Somebody sing Kumbaya.

Don Bowie