ETHIOPIA, SIMIEN MOUNTAINS
In the fall of 2017, I worked as a guide for Hvitserk in the Simien Mountains of Ethiopia. This mountain range is a place of vast plateaus, sharp peaks, rolling hills, and overgrown cliffs. It's a landscape of deep valleys, gelada monkeys, and a truly remarkable people. The villagers we passed lived off subsistence farming. Like many areas in Africa, Ethiopia's mountains are not ideal for agriculture, and this was evident in their living conditions. Entire families lived in tiny homes that redefined the concept of "space-efficient." These houses, rarely exceeding 20 square meters, consisted of a single room where all aspects of life unfolded—from birth to death. The privacy we Norwegians hold so dearly simply didn’t exist within the family unit.
When I photographed the villagers, they didn’t ask for money. Instead, they asked for soap or pens—practical items held more value than currency. The kids, curious and shy, eventually worked up the courage to approach us, giggling and scattering in every direction. Among these encounters, we passed four ridges that rose into a pyramid-like formation, crowned by a striking pillar at its peak.
Half a year later, I returned with two British friends, Tim and Callum, to attempt the first ascent of this magnificent, untouched mountain. I had met them earlier that winter in Rjukan, Norway. Due to the region's abundant wildlife and less abundant sense of security, the national park required us to bring an armed escort. Our team expanded to include Adalas, a 50-year-old veteran from the Eritrean War, wielding an AK-47. Since Adalas didn’t speak English and we needed to communicate with local villagers, we also enlisted Enjew, our local guide.
Enjew, however, had one major challenge: he was unfamiliar with the area and had no idea where the mountain we aimed to climb was located. We didn’t realize this until we found ourselves at the base of an entirely different peak, which he confidently declared to be our destination. A day later, we finally stood before the correct mountain. By then, however, Tim had succumbed to severe diarrhea after eating the local injera and was out of commission for two days.
We camped in a small village, with a clear view of the mountain—just a two-hour walk away. But its outlines were difficult to discern, as a shimmering haze of warm air seemed to hover around it. The route planning relied on nothing more than an A4 printout of the mountain. While Tim remained confined to the bathroom, Callum and I hiked to the base of the mountain to stash several liters of water.
Approaching the mountain, we passed through small farms and fields. The air reeked of burnt vegetation, and ash blanketed the ground. The farmers had been burning their fields in preparation for the rainy season, and their efforts had been thorough—perhaps too thorough. They had accidentally set the entire mountain ablaze. The haze we thought was heat distortion turned out to be a layer of ash coating the mountain, with nearly all vegetation reduced to cinders.
We scrambled up to stash our water bottles at the base of the steeper sections where we’d need ropes. Back at camp, Tim had finally recovered and was ready for the climb. The next evening, we packed our gear and spent the night near the water cache to start as early as possible the following day.
As dawn broke, we said goodbye to Enjew and Adalas and roped in for the first pitch. The initial challenge was a 10–15 meter steep slope. A fall here would send us tumbling over the edge of a ledge, leaving us at the mercy of a nonexistent Ethiopian rescue helicopter. I went first. The slope was like climbing a steep sand dune; the ground crumbled beneath my feet. The fire had dried out the earth, leaving the terrain fragile and unstable.
I clawed my way upward, aiming for rocks that felt somewhat solid. My hands turned black with soot, and occasional puffs of ash rose around us as we struggled to find footing. At the top, I secured myself to a half-burnt tree, which served as an anchor for Callum and Tim.
The next section was a vertical wall—one proper rope length. Callum, the strongest climber, took the lead, switching to climbing shoes and carrying about 10 liters of water, food, and a sleeping bag. Remarkably, he made it up, managing to place just three secure placements over 1.5 meters—placements we would soon discover were the only ones we’d find on the entire climb.
Beyond the vertical wall, we were disheartened by what lay ahead: 150 meters of ash-covered scrambling. Normally, this terrain would be an easy walk with hands in pockets, but the ashen surface forced us to crawl, grasping at any semblance of grip.
Eventually, we reached the left ridge and followed it upward until it narrowed, requiring ropes again. Tim led the next section. Unable to hear us over the wind, he climbed until he ran out of rope, securing himself using nothing but his body and a precarious rock formation.
At this point, reality set in. The rock quality was terrible, the formations offered no cracks for protection, and ahead loomed the pillar—a vertical face of at least 150 meters. Climbing it would require at least three hanging belays with little to no protection. After a tough discussion, we decided to bail. Two weeks in Ethiopia, all for a failed ascent.
Back at camp, covered in ash from head to toe, it took days of washing to remove the grime from our ears and noses.
Climbing trips are straightforward: you either reach the summit and succeed, or you don’t, and the trip is a failure. By that definition, our attempt was a failure. Yet, looking back, I see it as a grand adventure—a chance to truly experience Africa and share something unique with good friends. Bails rarely feel like successes, but the memories of them often shine brighter than those of reaching the top.