This First Ascent on Baruntse’s 1,300-Meter West Face Was Desperate From Beginning to End

A special time. Another autumn, another winter, an approaching spring. Other problems in society, new concerns that have been kept idle until now, emerge like worms from holes. The COVID future seems slightly drunk, a blurred image without clear contours. 2020 was a year I didn’t expect, one that swept away many plans, revealed weaknesses in certainty, and increased demands for improvisation and action. I’m not complaining, because for my nature a certain amount of social chaos is a breeding ground where I thrive. 

During the lockdown in Europe, I got to spend many months in the famous rocky areas of Italy and Spain, where crowds usually circulate. Suddenly there was quiet, sometimes interrupted by a playful wind stroking the rocks. My little daughter was also driven out of school, and her online attendance could be done anywhere, from any hole with an internet connection. We were not tied to our home in the Czech Republic and could instead zigzag across Europe. 

My expedition plans to the big mountains, however, did not flourish, and I felt a great unease. Yet with the coming spring—2021—the snows began to melt on the slopes of the Himalayas, and Nepal’s travel ban to lift. In the narrow gap when the gates to Nepal opened, my fellow Czech climbing partner Radoslav Groh (aka “Ráďa”) and I slipped through to attempt a new route on Baruntse’s West Face, an immense beast over a mile high and cresting at 7,162 meters. 

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