Manaslu expedition 2024

When does an expedition truly begin? With the return from the last one.

After coming back from a previous adventure, there’s a period for healing – both physically and mentally. It’s a time when the body needs to be restored to its pre-expedition state, or maybe even a bit beyond. For me, it’s also the phase where I advance the other half of my “bipolar” existence and immerse myself in a different world – the world of medicine, the craft of dentistry.

With my last expedition to Manaslu, I completed my “marathon,” where, over 13 months, I joined four expeditions aimed at peaks over 6,000 meters. Then I entered a year of abstaining, wanting to make progress in my professional life.

And so, the story begins. Shortly after my return from the first attempt on Manaslu, my brother and I focused on launching a brand store of Salewa and Dynafit. We aptly named it after the way we live – Mountain Squat. The two months that followed were filled with late-night work so we could finally open.

Push, shake up, set into motion. Bringing a vision to life – that’s what I live for. My weak spot, though, is keeping things running in the day-to-day. That’s where my brother Kuba steps in for this project.

Soon after, I’m already launching another project: my own dental clinic, Biancodent. While setting it up, I continue working at clinics in Brno and Zlín as employee. I don’t slow down – twelve-hour shifts, nighttime drives, sleeping in my car outside climbing walls Vertikon and Hangár. I handle paperwork for my dental practice from a McDonald’s office, often until one in the morning.

Life is what it is.

Finally comes the moment of opening my own clinic.

Twelve hours before the grand opening, I’m at the hardware store picking up windowsills the builders forgot. By 8:00 a.m. Monday, my first patient is in the chair. If you want to push boundaries faster (and maybe even better) than others, you have to make sacrifices and cut back on many other things. That’s just the way it goes.

But there are things I won’t sacrifice. Missing out on the mountains? No chance. I’m a driven person, and I know it. I try to keep my competitive edge in check, though I’ll admit there are moments when I don’t really succeed.

This hectic period peaks in a month where I’m balancing my new practice while still working at two other clinics. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to go on an expedition in the fall. When Mára Holeček calls, asking if I’ll join him for a first ascent in the Himalayas, I have to turn him down, knowing it wouldn’t be fair for him to rely on me right now.

But seven letters stick in my mind. M A N A S L U – the mountain of spirit.

By late July, I end my time living in my Marco Polo camper. I move in with my girlfriend, Saskia, into an apartment. Her words from the spring still echo: “You know, if we’re going to live together, it probably can’t be in a van!”

The Manaslu expedition is beginning to take shape.

Better to fail than to set small goals. I have a few in mind for this expedition:

• Take my dad to the summit of an eight-thousander.

• Ski down from the peak.

• Attempt a single push.

• Maybe even attempt a first ascent.

All, of course, without supplemental oxygen.

With about a month until departure, I move a hypoxic tent onto the mattress where Sas and I sleep (sorry honey, we will purchase a bed right after the expedition), install an oxygen generator in the bathroom, and set up a bike trainer in the kitchen. I’m building what they call “the warmth of home.” In a 29-square-meter apartment – a gentle transition after life in the van.

Departure

It’s like the final sprint of a race. The last days before an expedition are a delicate dance with time, where every second counts and must be fully utilized. Every time, I tell myself I won’t push it this hard again. And every time, it doesn’t quite work out that way.

But this expedition brings something new. I’m leaving behind my partner, who, to my surprise, has stayed by my side through these last frantic weeks. And there’s another first: I’m not leaving my job as an employee but as the employer of four people. Four incredible people who have endured the whirlwind of the past months with me.

I park my Marco Polo directly at Campiri, and the guys take us to the airport. I’m still putting together the last treatment plans for patients.

Then, at last, I switch into full Manaslu focus mode.

The expedition has a clear goal in my mind, along with some smaller objectives. Without them, almost a month of discomfort wouldn’t make much sense. The main goal is to try to reach the summit with my dad. It’s always been his dream, and really, it’s been mine too. I want to thank him, in my own way, for all he’s given me, all he’s taught me, and everything he’s enabled me to achieve – not only in the mountains.

For myself, I want the thrill of attempting a ski descent. Not for the sake of a first – friends Karel Svoboda and Martin Štourač already skied these slopes, though not from the very top. I just want to fulfill an inner dream. The dream of skiing down an eight-thousander.

With a feeling that I’ve tied up as many loose ends in daily life as I could, I board the plane.

KTM Airport: For the fourth time...

The familiar smell, humidity, malfunctioning visa machines, a touch of Asian-style chaos, and an excessive number of security checks confirmed we were in the right place. We’d arrived in Kathmandu.

At Czech Pub, I met up with Gabi and Martin; I’d already run into Ondra and Tomáš at the airport. Subin, the owner of 14summits, the company arranging our expedition, seemed puzzled by our skis. I, in turn, was puzzled by his surprise. We soon discovered that a ski permit costs an additional $2,500 per person. Now, I’m the only one left in shock—about $2,500 over my budget.

With a long face, we head to the hotel. But if there’s one thing I learned from Mára Holeček on our last expedition, it’s this! I call friends back in the Czech Republic who help with promotion and sponsors. I let them know I could really use some dollars for that permit, all the while packing up, as a helicopter is set to take us to the last village before base camp early the next morning.

Once again, I’m trying to outrun time, shaving days off the trek, shortening the separation from loved ones. Perhaps because they might miss my presence. Perhaps because I worry I’ll miss something at work. Or maybe I’m just trying to justify that I want to reduce the number of uncomfortable days. Maybe I just want everything immediately, as I’m used to in today’s fast-paced world.

The dusty streets turn to mud, meaning only one thing—it’s raining. Even so, there’s still a chance we’ll fly to the mountains today. The skis stay at the hotel for now, and we hop in a taxi to the airport. Along the way, we buy the world’s best piece of waterproof gear – an umbrella! Its breathability is unbeatable, its water resistance unstoppable.

We board right away; here they fly “by sight,” so everyone hurries before the clouds roll in. The pilot warms up the engine, the rotors spin. Bags are loaded around us, but Tomáš notes that at least two are still on the cart. The pilot assures us they’ll arrive on the next flight. We land in the village after a 45-minute flight. Ready to head straight for base camp, we soon realize that not only are there no porters, but there’s also nothing to carry!

Our bags haven’t made it on any other flight.

Shorts, a t-shirt, and one jacket, even if it’s from Salewa, won’t quite cut it for a summit attempt. So we check into a room and stay in the village of Samagaun. Bare concrete walls, a bathroom that looks like it survived a grenade blast, and a bone-chilling cold—these are the core values on which hospitality is built here. We find a signal and, with desperation in our voices, beg Subin for help in getting our essentials to us.

Tutti benne

Encroaching melancholy is halted by a fantastic message – Karel Glogar, the marketing manager for Salewa, with whom I’ve long collaborated, has given the green light, and Salewa and Dynafit are covering my ski permit! "Yes, my ski is gut pripert!" Only, unfortunately, not in the right place. My skis are still back with the rest of the luggage in Kathmandu.

“The bags are coming!” Subin announces. In Asia, the motto “a promise never hurts” seems to carry double weight, but Subin is remarkably different from the typical traditions here; he’s always true to his word, so I trust him again this time.

The next morning, we head out to base camp. Our bags are still nowhere in sight – a technical issue, but apparently, they’re on their way. On the way, I visit a monastery, and I’m hit with a powerful flashback to last year’s solo expedition when I attempted a single push to the summit without any base camp support. They dropped me here by helicopter, a mere blip of life in the vast Himalayas. Besides three people, no one knew I was even there. And that’s exactly how I wanted it.

I lie on a bench, breathing in the local scent, listening to the monastery’s sounds. I surrender to the place. Thoughts come and go, then fade, until I’m only aware of my breath. Eventually, even that awareness disappears. Disconnected.

Leaving the monastery, I take the familiar path toward BC. This is my fourth time here. I feel acutely aware of being thousands of kilometers from home. Although the expedition has only just begun, the thought sneaks in: if we fail, it might take a lot to bring me back.

Rain drums on the umbrella, and our high-frequency breathing cuts through the fog.

We arrive at base camp, nearly 5,000 meters above sea level.

BC is an absurdly commercial village. If I come back for another expedition, I’d want it to be at least a hundred and twenty percent wilder. I walk between the tents of the various teams; our 14summits camp is set up at the very top. I arrive soaked through, the temperature hovering just above freezing. I’d change into dry clothes, but there’s nothing to change into.

Finally, our bags arrive under the cover of darkness, carried by a group of great young guys. We hand them their reward, and I immediately change, piling on everything warm I have – down jackets, goose, duck, anything within reach. I can feel my body’s taken a beating and is chilled to the bone.

Delirium tremens?

No surprise, in the morning I wake up with a fever. I’m reminded of Šimek and Grossman’s line: “Sure, a fever of 42.6°C isn’t much of a temperature, especially for someone who loves summer, but the fact that my heart sometimes stopped beating did make me think!”

My best companion now is a painkiller. The trek to the bathroom feels like a five-kilometer uphill run. We head out for a “health walk” 400 meters above BC, and I’m stumbling like spaghetti tangled in cheese.

The next two days follow the same pattern, with one difference – I finally decide to move my suffering, along with the others, up to C1 (5,800 meters). I reach it completely drained, falling on my face. Shortly after, my dad arrives, and we prepare for a sleepless night.

Dad doesn’t sleep at all due to apnea. I’m not sure if I’m kept awake by the altitude, the illness, or watching my dad spend the entire night sitting upright. Seeing him gasping for breath is an awful feeling. Meanwhile, there’s also a solid thunderstorm about half a kilometer away that’s worth mentioning.

At the first faint flashes, I remember Mára’s words: “Storms never reach these high mountains!”

The next morning, pushing myself to the edge, I join the guys on a lightweight acclimatization climb up to around 6,200 meters. Not surprisingly, I feel awful. But the guys don’t seem to be faring much better. Maybe even about the same as I am.

Improvement and detoriation

After descending to BC, I finally savor my dinner and step out of autopilot mode. I’m feeling better. And then the bad weather rolls in. My fever’s back to normal, we have all our gear at BC, and the ski permit is sorted. Everything’s in place, except for the fact that, as the saying goes, “it’s pouring and pouring.” Well, not at night, of course – then it’s snowing.

Each morning, with unwavering consistency, we discover that the forecast was wrong… and twice as much snow has fallen as expected. In a brief window of better weather, Gabi and I manage to haul the skis up to C1. Meanwhile, my dad is struggling with altitude sickness; he’s spent the last two days lying in the tent, and his body just can’t handle the altitude anymore.

He has to descend to the village. In the dim evening light and rain, in an utterly bleak atmosphere, I help him pack. We say goodbye, not knowing when we’ll see each other again. Both of us understand that he might need to fly all the way to Kathmandu, and we might only meet again back home in the Czech Republic. This is one of the most intense moments of the entire expedition for me. I try to imagine his thoughts, feeling the stark contrast. It would be completely different if this were happening to me. He’s 56 years old. At this point, it’s becoming clear that with reduced thyroid function and apnea, reaching eight thousand meters just won’t be possible for him anymore.

Days pass. It rains. We wait. My dad feels better down below, and we exchange messages. But Tomáš Petreček, who’s also sick, ends up joining him. The goal of reaching the summit with my dad is gone; the goal of attempting a first ascent with Tomáš is out as well. All that’s left now is to stake everything on one objective: skiing down from the summit with Gabriel Šlárko.

Final acclimatization rotation

Tomáš and Dad are stationed in the village. Martin is playing a different game, prepping for a speed-focused single push. Ondra’s on his own path. So Gabi and I pack our bags for two nights. This isn’t going to be fast and light alpinism; we’re aiming to sleep at C2 and C3 and bring the skis above the seven-thousand-meter mark.

Once again, we make the climb to C1. The endless, monotonous blues. I’m already tired of even describing it.

With my partner, we move past C1, facing endless lines of people on their way to the summit. Some are on crampons and using jumars for the very first time. I don’t judge them; it’s their choice. Just like it was mine—I could have gone off into the wild with Mára.

At one point, we hear the tremendous crash of a serac and later learn it swept through areas we’d crossed just a few hours earlier. There’s a certain level of risk here that you simply have to accept, just like when you get into a car.

It took us seven hours to reach C2—a disaster. I’m exhausted, but Gabi looks even more spent. It’s odd, but I perceive my own exhaustion differently when I sense my partner is even a step weaker. We both collapse into the tent, and I set about melting snow for water, a skill I picked up during the expedition with Mára. By the time we’ve both rehydrated, nearly an hour has passed.

I find myself staring at the yellow tent fabric, almost in a trance. Gabi doesn’t need to say anything; I can tell he’s struggling. But there’s nothing I can do to help him. Before we turn in, I ask him if he misses his family and kids. It’s a question for which I don’t expect an answer. Will I be able to keep going on expeditions if I have kids one day? It’s a question I’ve shelved somewhere in the back of my mind, left unresolved. But it’s there.

As I drift off, memories from last year surface, reminding me of when I was here alone. I sleep over seven hours. Each time I wake, I see the outline of my partner. Once again, I’m lying next to someone who’s not sleeping and is clearly suffering. His heart rate remains over a hundred beats per minute throughout the night.

In the morning, we discuss the situation. Could he still be recovering from COVID three weeks ago? Here, above five thousand meters, even minor scrapes can turn into gaping wounds. I leave the next decision up to him.

In the end, Gabi decides we should take the gear up to C3. We’re also carrying a 14summits tent as a gesture of thanks for being able to sleep at C2. Both of us are panting like dogs. Gabi takes the lead, but I can sense he’s struggling. Eventually, he turns around. “I have two kids at home,” he says. We embrace. I feel a deep sadness and disappointment, even for him. Between the two of us, he’s the better skier.

Gabi has the satellite communicator, our “link to the outside world,” so I’m now on a “digital detox.” Apparently, that’s all the rage these days. Four hundred meters of altitude gain might be nothing for my grandmother, but above 6,300 meters, with a heavy pack loaded with skis, under direct sunlight, I’m barely managing to keep myself upright. After two hours, there’s a shift. Instead of collapsing face-first, I finally make it into the tent. Ironically, I’m escaping from the sun, opening the tent to its fullest to let the air in. Lying there in just my shorts, I finish off my water and doze off for a bit.

I play John Lennon’s Imagine on my phone. I think about Sas, about my family. Inside my head, a constant battle is brewing, one I’ve already half-decided. Tonight, I’ll attempt to take the skis as high as possible.

And as high as possible means the summit. I know that if I don’t set my mind firmly, I won’t get far. At the same time, I’m fully aware of the razor-thin line between pushing too hard and overreaching, which could mean turning back without summiting. And that might mean I’d never try again. My decision will have to depend on more than a single factor.

I’ll have to make it at exactly the right moment.

The ability to make sound decisions is something I carry from the mountains, where one choice can mean the difference between life and death, back into my everyday life. Here, though, in the freezing night, exhausted, sleepless, and in an environment with just a third of the oxygen, it’s a whole different game. My deep contemplation is cut short by the mundane sound of a cup of tea spilling onto the tent floor. I try to soak it up with snow—there’s nothing else I can use. My last tissues were spent on a “walk” outside the tent.

Around six, I lie down, hoping for at least five hours of something that resembles sleep. At seven, I hear a voice: “Mates?” Must’ve been dreaming... Then the tent flap starts to unzip, and I see a familiar head! “Ondra!” I greet him warmly. He made it from C1 all the way here to C3. I help him set up his gear so he can crawl into his sleeping bag as quickly as possible. My sleep will be a bit shorter now… Ondra, showing solidarity, climbs in without even boiling water, lies down, and is out like a light.