‘Roof of the World’ in U.S.S.R. Lures Climbers to Highs, Death

Oleg Galkin, tears welling in his eyes, clutches a bouquet of wildflowers as he stands over the shrouded corpse of his fallen comrade. The massive peak Lenin looms ominously amid broken clouds high above.

“Many people have died here, and we have buried them,” said Galkin, head trainer at the Pamir Mountains International Base Camp, where each summer about 300 foreign climbers risk their lives for a chance to stand atop “the roof of the world.”

“But you can’t get used to it,” Galkin continued. “Every time it’s like the first funeral, the first loss. Forgive us, Georgi, if something was wrong, if we didn’t do something we could have.”

More Eulogies

It wasn’t the first eulogy in this sprawling, edelweiss-carpeted valley 11,600 feet high in a remote corner of Soviet Kirghizia. It won’t be the last.

Georgi L. Gulyev, a 47-year-old Soviet “master of sport,” was the latest of more than two dozen climbers who have lost their lives in the Pamirs since the Soviets opened the peaks to foreign climbers in 1974.

Like most before him, Gulyev fell victim to a summer storm. This one caught his team high on the 23,310-foot peak Korzhenevskaya. While checking a fellow climber, Gulyev stepped through a snow cornice and plunged 660 feet to his death.

A few days later, the base camp was jolted awake at 3:30 a.m. by an earth tremor, followed by the threatening rumble of avalanches. This time, the Soviet trainers could breathe easier. All the climbers were safe in their camps, away from the treacherous avalanche chutes.

Four Miles High

Such are the peculiarities of the Pamirs, a chaotic jumble of peaks soaring more than four miles high above the southern Soviet frontier with China, Pakistan and Afghanistan.

They have been known collectively as “the roof of the world” since Marco Polo traveled the ancient silk route and traders wisely skirted the white giants.

Since 1974 more than 3,000 climbers from 27 countries have come to challenge the main peaks: Korzhenevskaya, the 23,405-foot peak Lenin, and the 24,547-foot Communism Peak (formerly called Mt. Stalin), the highest mountain in the Soviet Union.

The climbers gather in the heart of a valley named Achik Tash--”Place of Wind and Water”--where the Soviet Sports Committee runs an elaborate base camp in Lenin’s shadow.

From the valley’s steep flanking ridges there is no sense of scale because of the utter absence of trees.

Thin Air

The towering slopes of Lenin, a five-hour hike away, seem close enough to touch, while the tents and buildings of the nearby camp look like miniature toys. Short walks and even speaking in long sentences become difficult endeavors in the thin air.

Foreigners arriving here are treated more like diplomats than mountain climbers, reflecting the importance Soviets assign to international sports forums.

Climbers are assigned to spacious, green-and-orange cabin tents, each wired for a 40-watt light bulb. There are hot showers, permanent office huts, a first-aid station, a helipad and a post office.

Flags of all participating nations flutter above a central parade ground. “Dear guest” announcements resound from a loudspeaker in Russian, English and German. A gong calls climbers to the 200-seat dining hall, which serves three hot meals a day and shows Soviet films at night.

For VIPs, there is a small lodge with a stone fireplace, kitchen and sauna.

Helicopter Ferries

There is no need to negotiate fees with local guides and porters. Climbers instead consult with expert “coaches” and an Aeroflot MI-8 helicopter ferries them to the start of their climbs.

“I’ve never seen a base camp like this in 15 years of mountaineering,” said Susan Giller, a computer programmer from Boulder, Colo., one of 10 Americans headed for Communism Peak. “It’s really plush.”

During a recent visit, climbers from 17 countries, including Eastern Europe, were allowed to mingle freely with one another and the Soviet staff.

Still, the Soviet tendency to limit unofficial contacts with foreigners was not forgotten. In the dining hall, Soviet staff members were seated on one side and foreign climbers, grouped by country, on the other.

Several teen-age workers who taught some Americans a Russian card game were warned the next day to stop fraternizing. One staffer later explained, almost apologetically, that camp workers must not mix with foreign guests except on “camp business.”

Eager to Barter

A few of the Soviet climbers seemed eager to inspect and barter for high-quality Western mountaineering equipment not widely available in the Soviet Union.

One Scandinavian reported trading his sleeping bag for 10 ultra-lightweight titanium ice screws said to have been made on the sly at an Aeroflot aircraft plant.

Foreigners learned quickly that, like most aspects of Soviet life, mountaineering here is a collective endeavor.

This annoyed some of the more individual-minded Westerners, who found themselves sharing summit routes with up to 50 other people. They were monitored by safety-conscious Soviet coaches almost every step of the way.

“You just have to sort of accept the fraternal atmosphere of sports around here,” said Chris Curry, an Australian doctor who conquered both Korzhenevskaya and Communism peaks. “It’s really a collective sport for them. It’s not an individual thing at all.”

Low Prices

He and the other Westerners said they were attracted to the Pamirs largely by a well-organized program that puts such high peaks within comparatively easy reach at bargain prices.

The full fee for an expedition, including transportation from Moscow, meals in camp and rations for up to a month of climbing, averages about $1,400. Himalayan countries such as Nepal charge almost as much just for a climbing permit.

“The Soviet Union’s 7,000-meter peaks are the easiest and cheapest 7,000-meter peaks in the world,” one climber said.

There are grim reminders of danger on the periphery of the base camp. A nearby knoll holds nearly a dozen graves. At the head of the valley, a huge boulder left behind by an ancient glacier bears inscriptions and plaques in memory of 22 fallen climbers.

In the first year of international climbing, 1974, a vanguard of the world’s best mountaineers saw a string of severe storms, earthquakes and avalanches take 15 lives.

Died in Avalanche

Among them were Jon Gary Ullin, a 31-year-old American who died in an avalanche on 19th Party Congress Peak, and all eight members of a Soviet women’s team, who perished in hurricane-force winds and subzero temperatures near the summit of Lenin.

Many thought the government would again seal the Pamirs from outsiders, but it instead expanded the base camp and set up an elaborate safety net.

Expert Soviet climbers are stationed strategically on the three main peaks to render instant rescue support. Soviet coaches consult with all foreign teams to assess their strength and experience before assigning routes.

Each team is issued a two-way radio and required to check in with the base camp three times a day. No solo ascents are allowed. All-women teams are prohibited.

About Gulyev’s death, one camp official said: “As long as there are mountains, we his friends will come here and make our peaks. Unfortunately, such things happen.”