After Everest and Lhotse, the original plan was Pakistan.

A little frostbite in my toes and poor conditions developing ahead of the Pakistan season changed that. I went home to Australia for six weeks instead, to recover, warm up, put some weight back on and spend some time rock climbing with friends.

But Dhaulagiri was still coming in the autumn, and I wanted a mountain beforehand.

Having climbed Lenin Peak in 2025, the Snow Leopard peaks were already a major objective of mine. As far as I know, no Australian has completed all five. At that time of year there aren’t many 7,000-meter mountains available to climb.

Khan Tengri fitted perfectly.

It was high, steep, technical and a completely different mountain from Lenin.

And it would be good preparation for Dhaulagiri.

Xenia and I used Ak-Sai for logistics and Base Camp services, but once we left Base Camp we were on our own.

We carried our own tents, sleeping gear, food and stoves. We established our own camps, chose our own weather windows and made our own decisions.

Base Camp manager Oleg became a valuable source of information, and we maintained radio check-ins every few hours, but above Base Camp we were independent climbers.

Along the way we met Matt and Sarah from Colorado and Peter from Seattle. When Xenia eventually dropped out of the first summit push and didn't return for the second, Peter and I naturally started climbing together.

From Base Camp, Khan Tengri dominated everything.

Unlike so many big mountains where the summit remains hidden, here we could look up every morning and study the route. We could watch climbers moving high above us toward Chapayev.

It was beautiful.

It also looked serious.

Our first rotation took us from Base Camp to Camp 1 and then Camp 2 at around 5,500 meters.

The original goal was Chapayev, but coming directly from sea level, Xenia and I were tired and feeling the altitude. Instead of forcing it, we spent another night at Camp 2 before descending.

Then we waited.

Seven, maybe nine days passed at Base Camp before another opportunity appeared.

The frustrating thing was that Khan Tengri had already given us the weather window we needed. During our first rotation there had been around five days of blue skies and light winds. The teams who arrived earlier and were already acclimatized took advantage of it and summited.

We weren’t ready.

From then on, we never seemed to get back in sync with the mountain.

Every time we were at Base Camp, the weather looked beautiful.

Every time we climbed, it deteriorated.

The first summit push was almost doomed from the beginning.

Whiteout from Base Camp to Camp 1. Deep snow from Camp 1 to Camp 2. More snow and deteriorating conditions above.

We had been chasing a small summit window, but to have any chance of reaching it we first had to put ourselves in position on the mountain.

Instead, the weather kept getting worse.

We spent two nights at Camp 2 hoping things would improve, but eventually there was nothing left to chase.

We abandoned the summit attempt and returned to Base Camp.

A few days later, we tried again.

Peter left Base Camp a day ahead of me and spent the night at Camp 1. I stayed down for one more night, then climbed directly from Base Camp to Camp 2, meeting Peter at Camp 1 along the way.

It meant gaining more than 1,700 vertical meters in a single twelve-hour day.

The snow was deep again. Higher up we caught a Polish team heading toward Chapayev and stayed behind them for part of the climb, letting them break trail while we conserved energy for the upper mountain.

By the time I was approaching Chapayev, my pack probably weighed 25–30 kilograms.

Khan Tengri isn’t a mountain that gives you many easy meters. From Crampon Point upward, it feels steep almost continuously. You’re jumaring, climbing rock, breaking through deep snow, carrying expedition loads and constantly thinking about avalanche conditions.

And then there is Chapayev.

Every time you want to reach the upper mountain, you have to climb over a 6,000-meter peak first, and then descend the other side.

It’s beautiful.

But Chapayev hurts.

After crossing Chapayev, Peter and I reached Camp 3. The following day we climbed to Camp 4 at around 6,400 meters.

We arrived around 5pm and prepared for a 3am summit departure.

At about 1am, Peter woke me.

The wind was hammering the tent.

It was approaching 100 kilometres an hour, and Camp 4 is little more than a tiny platform perched on top of a serac. Our tent was secured by a handful of snow stakes and, to some extent, our own body weight.

I zipped up my summit suit and went outside in my booties.

Using ice axes, the snow shovel and anything else I could find, I reinforced the tent. Then I attached our climbing rope to a nearby anchor, ran it through the tent door and we clipped our harnesses into it from inside our sleeping bags.

If the tent went over the edge, at least hopefully we wouldn’t go with it.

The 3am departure was gone.

We reset for six.

At six, the wind was still hammering us and clouds were moving in.

I probably could have gone higher. I had an 8,000-meter suit, 8,000-meter boots, big summit mitts and enough experience in those conditions.

But that wasn’t the only calculation anymore.

Three less-experienced climbers were there with me, and I knew that if I stood up and said, “Let’s go,” there was a good chance they would follow.

I wasn’t prepared to carry that responsibility into worsening conditions higher on Khan Tengri.

So I made the call.

We were going down.

It was heartbreaking.

I’m not particularly good at failing on mountains, and I’ve been fortunate that I’ve had a lot of success.

This one hurt.

It took me a couple of days before I really got over it.

But there was never much doubt that we’d made the correct decision.

We descended to Camp 3 as conditions continued to deteriorate. We briefly tried to continue lower, walked only a few hundred meters into heavy snow and complete whiteout, then turned around and pitched the tent again.

The next morning we climbed Chapayev one final time.

Four hours up.

Ninety minutes down to Camp 2.

Then hours of technical rappelling toward Camp 1 and finally Crampon Point.

Xenia was waiting there.

She’d walked out from Base Camp to meet me — carrying beers.

After everything Khan Tengri had thrown at us, that beer at Crampon Point tasted pretty damn good.

We didn’t summit Khan Tengri.

And looking back, there are things I would change.

Most importantly, we arrived too late. Had we been acclimatized and ready when that first five-day weather window arrived, I think the outcome could have been very different.

Instead, we spent the rest of the expedition chasing forecasts that never seemed to agree and weather windows that disappeared as soon as we climbed into position.

But that’s mountaineering.

You can do everything you can to put yourself in the right place, and the mountain still gets a vote.

Khan Tengri taught me plenty about timing, weather, independent expedition climbing and making decisions that affect more than just myself.

Turning around was the right call.

It still hurts.

And I’ll go back.

Because Khan Tengri doesn’t give you much for free.

Khan Tengri was hard.