I took a gander through the scope for myself. There in the middle of the circle of pale white were the climbers, two unmistakable patches of animated color on the vast wall. One was leading, hacking and kicking at a slow, deliberate pace. The other was standing at a belay, swing their arms to stay warm. From my vantage point, it all seemed so abstract and disconnected, like a view into another world. The highly magnified view only seemed to underscore how small they really were. What did they think they were doing up there? At that rate they were still days from the summit…. 

The next morning we found ourselves skiing towards the same very route. “Don’t forget to wave to basecamp”, Max joked as we neared the first iceband. As we climbed, we found traces of the Japanese’s passage: a cached backpack low on the route, a couple of wands here and there (exactly why they were wanding the Moonflower Buttress, I don’t know), the dull yellow and brown stains of piss and shit. Other than that, all other traces of their presence had been washed away by the near-constant spindrift the face was producing. 

We endured a rather precarious bivy before pressing towards the summit on the second day. Just as we simul-climbed towards the Bibler Come Again Exit, I noticed a recently dugout ledge with another backpack sitting on it. Then I heard something: few inaudible sounds, but undoubtedly human voices. The Japanese were two pitches above, in the middle of the Come Again Exit. We reached a belay at the start of the ice runnel, then Max linked two pitches together to reach the same belay the Japanese were at, just under the final technical pitch of the route.

Their English was limited, and since none of us speak their language, our conversation was pretty basic. I smiled and greeted the guy who grinned and seemed quite happy with how his climb was going. Evidently this was their eighth day on route, and they had endured seven bivies in frequent spindrift without a tent. As we chatted, his partner, the woman, struggled up the pitch above. Max, meanwhile headed out left to find an alternative line through the rock band. 

I watched the woman working her way up the pitch. She seemed a little shaky, climbing with a wobbly swing that reminded me of days guiding beginner and intermediate climbers back home in new Hampshire. She hung off a tool, placed a dubious-looking screw, and then lowered back to the belay. 

Fair enough, I thought. This was no place to push your comfortable limits and risk a leader fall. The couple had a brief conversation, and though I couldn’t understand a single word of it, it seemed like the guy was actually encouraging her to go up and try the pitch again. After a five minute rest, she started back up, placing another screw before sketching her way to easier ground above. It was all very casual and routine, like a new leader being coached through a tricky pitch at the crag – except for the fact that we were 4,000 feet up Mount Hunter.