Echo by Thomas Olde Heuvelt

Author:Thomas Olde Heuvelt [Heuvelt, Thomas Olde]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Published: 2021-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

About an hour later we settle down pretty comfortably—insofar as that’s possible in the damp cocoon of a bivi sack in the middle of freezing nowhere.

The light is diffuse, as you can see in photos 6 and 7.

I call this pair “A peek into camp.” The mountains have entered that strange, subdued phase between late afternoon and twilight. Although the daylight has not yet receded from the sky, the snowdrifts make it look like the evening has already frozen solid all around us.

The first of the two is a timer shot, but you can see I’m not in the space or the mood to pose properly. A bit further upstream, we had found a large, slightly overhanging boulder. The lee it offers is pathetic, but it’s the best we can do, and with some mental gymnastics, you could call the ground somewhat smooth. We quickly set up camp by piling up boulders as a storm barrier, spreading out the bivi sack and cramming the Therm-a-Rests and sleeping bags in through the opening. The exertion keeps us warm, but the wind is getting stronger and lashes our faces with cold waves of snow. You can see Augustin behind me in the photo, sitting on the bivi sack. The Gore-Tex is billowing with trapped air and he’s gazing intently, concentrated, preoccupied with taking off his light blue Scarpas.

The atmosphere in the second camp picture, photo 7, is cheerier. Augustin’s smiling broadly at the camera over a steaming mug of lemon tea. He’s propped up on his elbow, tucked under the bivi sack’s hood and emerging like a caterpillar from the goose down sleeping bag. Like me, Augustin has put on his cap to keep warm. Our breath is rising in puffs and blends with the steam from the MSR stove under the sheltering boulder. We’ve just had Chinese tomato Cup-a-Soup and the tea and are now digging into Thai noodles with curry. And duck, the package says. It’s amazing what culinary pleasures you can concoct with powder and melted snow.

[Yes, photo 7 has an aura of positivity, Sam, but it is the last picture I would take of Augustin. If only we knew these kinds of things when they mattered.]

We’re lying down, pressed against each other, staring at the bivi sack’s silver interior, as the day’s rigors finally creep into our bodies. I try to adjust myself to the hard discomfort of the rocks under my pad and the shoes and backpacks piled up at our feet. When I gaze circumspectly through the bivi sack’s opening, cold air and snow rush in. The weather outside has only deteriorated. It’s a strange sight; you would think it was the middle of winter.

There are occasional gaps between the hurriedly passing clouds, which only reveal layers of more clouds hanging above them, gyrating in the powerful machinery of the drifting snow. It spreads a fan of powder on the bivi sack’s surface and starts to pile up against the stone barrier. The Black Diamonds, which we planted between the rocks, stand out like guards, and I shiver involuntarily.

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