A First Ascent and Two New Routes in the Boesam Valley, Pakistan

This is a preprint version of the article that appears in the 2024 UK Alpine Journal.

'How are your plans?' asked Zishan at our guesthouse in Shimshal. Privately, I thought 'not good', but replied, 'I think we'll wait a bit longer'. It was our first full day in Shimshal, and only two porters had appeared earlier in the morning out of the fifteen that we needed. Not a good ratio. Our plan was to trek to a base camp midway along the Virjerab Glacier, to the southeast of Shimshal, but the feedback from our guesthouse was that the way was hard for porters due to the undulating terrain.

The lack of advance warning regarding our itinerary probably hadn't helped matters. Only two weeks earlier, Arran Turton-Phillips and I had pulled the plug on our trip to the Indian Karakoram. To cut a long, tedious bureaucratic story short, our climbing permits were approved at the final hour, but we didn't acquire the necessary paperwork to apply for our Indian mountaineering visa.

With no forthcoming solution, another trip to Pakistan seemed like a natural alternative for me. Two weeks would hopefully be enough time to apply for a regular tourist visa, and that would complete the bureaucratic process, or so we hoped. Arran's visa took seven working days, whilst mine failed to materialise. The departure date approached, and still there was no confirmation. We lowered the aspirational bar again, now happy to just climb anything, anywhere. There was even talk of Zermatt, in the event that my visa didn't appear. Arran cancelled his flight; I stalled a little longer. Then, a matter of hours before my departure, the visa acceptance dropped into my email inbox.

A brief phone call with Arran was enough to confirm that we were indeed going to Pakistan, although Arran wouldn't be able to fly until the following day. Just a few hours before the flight, we discussed what gear to take for the first time, having not got beyond the paperwork barrier until now. Frantic packing followed, but, despite our best efforts, the check-in desk closed five minutes before my arrival at the airport. Somehow I managed to change my booking to the following day, 26th August, without too much expense, and at least our departure dates were now in sync.

Fast-forward to our arrival in Shimshal a few days later. Just as we hadn't discussed what gear to take until the final hours, we equally hadn't discussed the itinerary with our agent due to our growing scepticism that the trip would actually happen. Everyone assumed that we were heading to the Ghujerab Mountains north of Shimshal, for which donkeys can often be used as pack animals. Dropping the words 'Virjerab Glacier' upon our arrival in Shimshal therefore caused a bit of a stir. Our guesthouse encouraged us to reconsider a destination where donkeys could be used, and at first I wasn't sure of their motivations and tried to maintain a friendly poker face, keen at least to wait another day to see if more porters appeared. By the evening, though, it was becoming clearer from talking to various people that the issue wasn't strictly a lack of porters—more a lack of porters willing to trek up the Virjerab Glacier—and so we quietly began to consider other options.

Shimshal

Our fate was sealed the next morning, when our porter stock increased from two to three. The trajectory clearly needed some major exponential growth if we were to reach the Virjerab Glacier, something we were not at all optimistic about. It was clearly time to come up with a new itinerary (again), or more specifically, a donkey-friendly itinerary.

The Ghujerab Mountains have seen a steady rate of ascents in recent years, which is probably why everybody assumed we would be heading there. I should have visited the Ghidims Valley myself back in 2019, but needed to cancel the trip due to a foot injury. Four years later, the objective from that occasion had been climbed by another party. However, I knew of a 6000m peak in that general direction, on the north side of the Boesam (also spelt Boisum) Pass, that we could potentially base a trip around. I am somewhat of a greater range nerd, particularly when it comes to the Karakoram—insofar as I have a custom Google map with the majority of peaks marked as either climbed or unclimbed. With no WiFi in Shimshal, I texted my girlfriend over the inReach and asked her to send me some information from my laptop back home. Soon we had a definitive list of the unclimbed peaks to the north of the Boesam Pass.

News of our new itinerary met with our guesthouse's approval, and within a matter of hours eight donkeys and a lesser number of drivers, together with our sirdar, were ready for departure. This was the first time that I had used donkeys in Pakistan, and I naively asked the drivers if our donkeys had names, which generated mainly laughter as a reply.

That night we camped at Zardgarben, which was just a few hours' trek from Shimshal, but involved over 1000m of height gain. It's home to Pakistan's highest cricket pitch (possibly), although cricket seemed like a far too high-risk activity to be contemplating at this point in the trip, particularly given my general injury record.

Leaving Shimshal

Trek to Zardgarben

The following day involved a long trek to base camp—close to another 1000m of height gain and quite a few aspirin—in order to cross the Boesam Pass (c. 5000m). The only campsite with shelter between Zardgarben and the pass is Shpodeen, which is only a couple of hours' walk beyond Zardgarben, at a height of about 4450m. It seemed far too early to stop for the day, so we opted to push on—a decision my sore head immediately questioned not long after. We reached the pass by early afternoon. From here, it was a couple of hours' descent into the Boesam Valley, to our base camp at Perchodwashk at 4580m. Boesam is a non-glaciated valley, with several short glacial branches that join from both sides, including the Boesam left and right flows, and west and southeast branches. With no recollection of any of the peaks in the vicinity beyond their names, heights, and ascent statuses, now was our first real opportunity to look at and weigh up potential climbing objectives for the coming weeks. The most visually appealing looked to be the peaks on the general east side of the Boesam Valley, notably Koh-e-Brobar and the two peaks above the Southeast Boesam Glacier.

Just south of the Boesum pass

Porters on the Boesam Pass

Our second day at base camp was punctuated by snowfall, followed by a massive avalanche a short distance down the valley to our north. Sweeping down the largest glacial tongue on Koh-e-Brobar's 1400m-high northwest face, it crossed the valley and climbed a short way up the opposite side. Fortunately, a small herd of yak on the far side of the valley had escaped harm and seemed outwardly oblivious to all that had happened.

Giant avalanche off Koh-e-Brobar, a short distance from base camp

Thoughts turned to the smaller glacial tongue descending from the same peak above our base camp and how exposed we were to an avalanche from that direction. It didn't have the same hanging bowl of seracs at its head, so we figured we were OK where we were. However, light snow during the night didn't assuage our fears. Our cook and assistant later opted to move their sleeping tent to a nearby hillock that was at most 10 metres higher, thereby reducing the net drop to just 1390m.

The weather improved throughout the following day, and by the afternoon we figured it was time to pack our things and try to climb something. That night, we bivouacked on a strip of moraine on the Southeast Boesam Glacier, close to where it divided into its southwestern and eastern branches, with the plan to climb P5810m (36°32'23"N 75°23'20"E) the following day. This peak and its neighbour, P5880m, pack an impressive amount of seracs onto their north faces. Following the southwestern branch to where we could climb the 45-50-degree north-northwest slopes to a col on the east-southeast ridge looked to be the gentlest route for our semi-acclimatised bodies. The weather forecast looked settled for the following day, but unsettled during the night, and so a single-day push seemed the most sensible option under the circumstances.

Approaching P 5810m (right)

Our attempt was short-lived, though. Low down on the 45-degree north-northwest slopes, the amount of unconsolidated snow steadily deepened, and with the unavoidable digging for decent axe placements, it also became apparent that there was a hard, icy layer beneath. Time to bail due to the degree of avalanche risk, while also conveniently sparing ourselves a lot of snow ploughing.

We switched our attempt to the east ridge of Pir Sar (5683m) (36°32'03.1"N 75°21'56.5"E) towards the head of the southwestern branch. However, insufficient acclimatisation, together with the payback for our detour up the slopes of P5810m, caught up with us at 5625m. We briefly thought we had reached the summit, until the cloud cleared and we saw the higher point a few hundred metres further away horizontally. The clear message from our bodies, though, was 'no more'.

Traversing the east ridge of Pir Sar (5683m)

The summit of Pir Sar from where we turned back.

Fortunately, there now began a period of fine, stable weather that continued right up to our departure from base camp roughly two weeks later. By the evening of 7th September, we were back at the same bivouac site with the plan to attempt the neighbouring P5880m (36°32'28.6"N 75°23'59.6"E) at the head of the eastern branch of the Southeast Boesam Glacier. Despite its modest height, the peak had aesthetic appeal for us and cut a form more typical of those in the Karakoram central belt compared to some of its siblings.

P 5880 from our bivi site on the SE Boesum glacier

Early the next morning, we followed the eastern branch and then continued up to above a col at its head, all without unpacking the rope. With good snow conditions and plenty of daylight, nearby P 5625m (36°33'01.2"N 75°24'01.6"E) looked like a worthy short detour up its south ridge. While modest in prominence, it offered an excellent vantage point from which to view the neighbouring peaks, including the blunt snowy north buttress of P5880m. Route finding on the buttress didn't look straightforward due to the presence of several long serac barriers, and while the way wasn't obvious, we were optimistic about finding some sort of detour if necessary.

The easy south ridge of P 5625m

Summit of P 5625m

We descended easily to the col with the plan to camp for the night. With the snow levelled off, I climbed inside the tent fabric with both poles separate. The tent contorted itself as I flexed the first pole into place. I glanced around for the second pole, which a moment earlier I had laid beside me in the tent—at which point the rapid onset of panic and disbelief set in. Why wasn't the second pole beside me anymore? I scouted around outside the tent entrance, but of course it wasn't there. The uncomfortable realisation was dawning that it had silently slipped down the side of the mountain without a trace. How far down towards the glacier it had gone was anybody's guess, but there seemed to be a high likelihood that it now lay in one of the many crevasses below us somewhere. I needed five minutes to get my frustrations out, after which my optimism started to return. It was fine weather, so we could have managed without the tent, but after some experimentation, I concluded that a limp tent with one pole was better than nothing.

Our tent, minus one pole

Camped on the col beneath P 5880m

Sunset over the North Buttress of P 5880m

Low on the route the next morning, we were startled by a thunderous boom that coincided with me striking an axe into the mountainside. My instinctive reaction was to reverse and start downclimbing, working on the assumption that it had emanated from a weak layer in the snowpack. This didn't make sense, though, based on what I was otherwise seeing and feeling. Some excited discussion followed once we were at closer quarters, after which it became apparent that a section of serac had fallen off in Arran's vicinity. Cracks were also visible in the surrounding névé, suggesting this was no place to linger.

Further up the buttress, we met the first of the broad—although relatively low—seracs, from where we pitched the remainder of the climb. The serac formations created deep trenches that needed to be crossed and climbed out of. Their composition fortunately limited objective danger to close quarters, since their arrangement ensured any potential debris would be funnelled down the faces on either side, rather than straight down the buttress itself.

The first serac trench was the most intimidating due to the chaotic arrangement of ice blocks. My first thought was to downclimb the east face to our left a short way in order to skirt it, but the snow quality quickly deteriorated in that direction, so I scrapped that idea. The obvious route, looking at the formations again, was via a short, steep snow bank in the centre of the serac. I held my breath and traversed delicately beneath the blocks to reach it, but the steep snow bank itself proved short and pretty easy to climb. Forty-five-degree snow slopes led to the second trench. This was breached in a similar manner via a left-to-right ramp that offered another line of weakness. More 45-degree slopes led to a third serac trench, which looked problematic from afar but was easily skirted to the right.

Complicated terrain on the North Buttress

More 45-degree slopes led a further 90m to where a break in the cornice offered an obvious weakness through which to gain the east ridge below the summit. This final stretch of snow became softer and less stable with height, and needed deep steps to be kicked to gain sufficiently firm footing. By this point, summit fever was kicking in, so we could tolerate the deteriorating snow quality. With the ridge gained, one further pitch, now on firmer snow, led us to the corniced summit at around 10am. Despite the buttress being only around 350m in height above the col, it had offered a good amount of moderate, pitched climbing. Our only thoughts now concerned mild apprehension about downclimbing the entire route, particularly the soft snow we had just encountered, and getting safely off the mountain. By the time I followed Arran down, though, the steps felt a bit more reliable, and I could begin to rest easier. We continued down to base camp the same day.

Overall, the difficulties were judged to be D-, partly because of the less-than-straightforward descent. "Boe Sar Southeast" seemed the most natural name that we could think of, given its location at the Southeast Boesam Glacier, and its close proximity to the nearby peak known as Boe Sar.

Arran approaching the summit

Back at base camp

A couple of rest days followed, and on the afternoon of the 12th, we felt ready to try the highest peak in the vicinity, P6175m (although more like 6020m on Google Earth), via the West Boesam Glacier. A short way up the valley, however, it was clear that Arran wasn't feeling 100%, so we opted to press the abort button and head back to base camp. Two days later, Arran was feeling more like himself. However, it seemed sensible to lower our ambitions slightly and instead take a look at Koh-e-Brobar (36°34'09.9"N 75°24'11.5"E). This looked like a good alternative due to its greater accessibility, with clear new route potential beyond the one established route—via the southeast ridge. It also had greater aesthetic appeal than P6175, which was important to us. That night, we bivouacked beneath the peak on the Boesam right ice flow, without the tent this time, with the plan to attempt the prominent central couloir on the southwest face.

Open bivouac beneath Koh-e-Brobar

Any talk of aesthetics could quickly be forgotten, though, in the lower part of the couloir. Two weeks of dry weather had robbed it of its beauty, and in the daylight, its ugliness was almost something to behold. Fissured ice predominated, over which was scattered a thin layer of shale. The climbing was at least very easy, not just because of the gentle gradient but also due to the manner in which natural steps had formed in the ice. As the shale thinned out and the glacier began to tidy itself up, the ice assumed an appearance that resembled coral. Again, this was very friendly to climb due to the abundant horizontal surfaces. The snow became gradually more uniform with height, and the steepness increased—however, this never exceeded around 50 degrees. Halfway up the couloir, the névé gave way to the occasional icy section, so we roped up and moved together with a full rope between us, placing the occasional screw. Then, a short distance below the summit, we met with the southeast ridge and traversed beneath its cornice to the summit (GPS 5958m).

Ascending the easy lower slopes

Midway up the couloir

Sunrise over Distaghil Sar from the couloir

Traversing the summit cornice

It was a fairly steady outing overall, and rated around alpine grade AD with 850m of height gain from the glacier. The original route, via the southeast ridge, had looked very icy and dry low down, so we again opted to reverse our route, which involved largely steady downclimbing.

Unsettled weather looked likely to disrupt our last few days at base camp, which was enough incentive to call in the donkeys a little earlier than originally planned for the return journey to Shimshal. We departed base camp on 18th September, amidst fresh snowfall, and flew home a week later, suitably satisfied with the outcomes of the trip considering the logistical challenges during the preparation. Next time around, I would like to avoid any missed flights or Plan C scenarios, primarily for the sake of my nerves.

Base camp on the morning of departure