Link Sar is a 7,041-meter peak in the Kondus Valley of the Pakistan Karakoram, rising above the Kaberi Glacier. By the time Steve Swenson's team arrived in June 2019, at least eight previous expeditions had failed in attempts to make the first ascent of this peak. Finally, in 2019, the dream team of Steve Swenson, Mark Richey, Chris Wright, and Graham Zimmerman made the first ascent of Link Sar, partially funded by the Cutting Edge Grant.
Steve Swenson Reflects on the History of Link Sar
"It wasn’t just technical difficulties that prevented the mountain from being climbed. This region had an on-and-off history of opening to climbers, because of the conflict between India and Pakistan over Kashmir. In 1979, a few years after the Pakistan-administered Karakoram reopened to climbing, following a decade-long closure, a Japanese expedition made the first attempt to climb Link Sar. The valleys west of the Saltoro Ridge would be mostly closed to climbers for the next 35 years. One exception was in 2000, when Americans Dave Anderson, Jimmy Chin, Steph Davis, and Brady Robinson were allowed to climb in the Kondus Valley. They made the first ascent of a peak they named after General Tahir, the commander of the Pakistan Army Siachen Brigade, who had helped them obtain permission. Afterward, Jimmy shared with me some photos of the Kondus and pointed out the mountain dominating this valley above the village of Karmading: Link Sar, an unclimbed 7,000-meter peak. Knowing that openings to such restricted areas can be fickle, I applied right away and received a permit for Link Sar in 2001, and while more information was gathered, the ascent would not be successful for another 18 years.
"In the meantime, other climbers, most notably Jon Griffith from the U.K., started to make attempts on Link Sar from the Charakusa Valley, where it was possible to obtain climbing permits. Jon’s four expeditions from 2012 to 2015 climbed up to the horseshoe-shaped ridgeline at the head of the valley, between K6 and K7, from which a spur ridge led eastward toward Link Sar. However, they discovered this spur was capped by a series of large granite towers and was nearly impossible to traverse. On their last attempt, Griffith and Andy Houseman topped the westernmost tower along the spur, naming it “Link Sar West,” but illness and the obvious difficulties ahead prevented them from going further.
"I applied for a Link Sar permit again in 2017, along with Chris Wright and Graham Zimmerman, two much younger climbers. Our permit was granted, and for over two months in the summer of 2017, Chris, Graham and I struggled to find a path up the southeast face from where I had left off in 2001."
“As we negotiated for a permit for the 2019 season and discussed strategies for our next attempt, we decided to bring on a fourth partner. Mark Richey was in his 60s and had a family. In 2012, he and I had received a Piolet d’Or, with Freddie Wilkinson, for the first ascent of Saser Kangri II (7,518 meters) in the Indian Karakoram. The addition of another longtime climber, with whom I had such a strong partnership, seemed to create a balance between the power of youth and the wisdom of age. Mark’s response to our invitation was emphatic: ‘Let’s go do this thing!’”
Graham Zimmerman Reflects on the Drama of the Summit Push
"On our fifth night above ABC, we could see the summit 250 meters above in the fading light. Next morning, August 5, Chris led the ice wall above our tents and then started traversing up and left along the side of a steep, corniced snow ridge punctuated with a couple of rock towers. After several pitches, I took over the leading, and then snow in front of me began shifting, and I was sliding headfirst toward the void.
After the avalanche sent me tumbling over the cliff, my partners were far above me and hidden around a ridge of rock and snow. I yelled toward the belay, wanting to let them know that I was conscious, but I couldn’t hear a reply. I righted myself and swung into the wall to place a cam. If I could unweight the rope, they would at least know that I was awake and moving. I probed my body, expecting to find an injury, but only noticed one missing zipper pull ripped from my pants.
Steve had just arrived at the last belay station to join Chris and Mark, and now he traversed over the rock and snow ridge toward me. Finally able to communicate, we established that neither I nor they were injured. Steve placed a new anchor, and I jugged one of our ropes while Steve belayed me on the other. Two hours after the fall, I embraced him, teary-eyed. He said, “Man, I was so frightened by what might have happened to you that I’m still shaking. I think we should go down.” Mark and Chris soon joined us. They were amazed that I was unscathed but remained silent, as if unsure what to do or say. Occasionally one of them would glance at the summit, less than 150 meters above us.
“Guys, I can feel myself coming down from a pretty intense adrenaline rush,” I said. A chill was creeping into my body, and my head felt light. “But I am not hurt. I’m just going to huddle into my warm jacket and sit here, but if one of you is up for leading, let’s go up, because there is no way I am coming back up here after this.”
Chris offered to take over the lead again, and after a short discussion he started upward. Avoiding the now-obvious section of unstable snow, he moved slowly and deliberately, trying not to waste any energy. I could tell he was tired from days of exertion at altitude, but a single-minded drive for the summit kept him moving upward.
Three pitches later, we regrouped at a stance less than a rope length below the summit. The only anchor Chris could find, a bollard constructed from a thin snow mushroom, didn’t seem like enough to me, particularly given my headspace. I crawled into a hole in the snow so I could act as a deadman, another piece of the anchor.
Starting up again, hoping to reach the top, Chris placed a screw and then plunged the shafts of his ice tools into the steep slope above. They sheared through loose drifts without catching or creating any tangible pathway for upward progress. After 10 or 15 meters, he retreated.
“Is all this simply a large cornice?” Mark wondered.
“Are we on top?” Steve said as he arrived from the stance below.
“Are we failing?” I asked myself quietly.
Mark craned his neck to look up at the slate of snow that led toward the top. I knew he had a lot of experience with soft, steep snow from years of climbing in the Peruvian Andes. “Mark, I think you are the only one who knows how to deal with this,” I said. “Will you have a look?”
“Yeah, I’ll go see,” he replied.
Up to this point, I think he’d been holding back his eagerness to lead, knowing Chris and I could go faster than he could, simply by virtue of our youth. Now his desire shone unconcealed in his eyes: the glint of a younger man.
As Mark cast off into the loose, insecure snow, with a single ice screw for protection, Steve said, “We need to be attached to the mountain better than this.” He started digging into the slope in search of good ice. Above us, Mark swept his axes overhead to carve a trench in the steep wall, packing the loose snow at his feet to support his weight and then stemming against the trench walls. Steve, with only his lower legs protruding from the tunnel he’d dug, called to me that he’d found a deep vein of ice and was building a V-thread for our anchor. After nearly an hour, Mark screamed down: “I’m on the fucking top!” The path to the summit was now clear, as was the first step back toward the safety of base camp. Thirty minutes later, we were all on the apex of Link Sar.
Some of the steepest and wildest mountains of the world surrounded us in all directions. There were no words. There was only the afterglow of depths of shared exertion and partnership. Then, I declared, “Let’s get the hell off this mountain safely,” and we started our descent.
Steve Swenson reflected: "Climbing a world-class objective like Link Sar doesn’t require someone to be the best climber in the world. We had survived Link Sar because of the failures we were willing to accept. We succeeded on Link Sar because we were persistent, learned from our mistakes, applied our 126 years of combined climbing experience, and understood what partnership means."