Siula Grande

The True Story of Joe Simpson and Simon Yates on Siula Grande

The wind screamed like a living thing across the white walls of the Peruvian Andes. In the distance, clouds rolled over the jagged peaks, and snow drifted across the mountain face like smoke from a dying fire. It was June 1985, and two British climbers, Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, stood on the summit of Siula Grande, a remote 20,813-foot peak in the Cordillera Huayhuash. They had just achieved what no one else had — the first ascent of the mountain’s treacherous west face. But standing on the summit was only half the battle. The mountain, as it often does, had its own plans.

They began their descent as a storm gathered on the horizon. The sun disappeared behind thick clouds, and the wind rose into a howling frenzy. The snow beneath their feet turned to powder, and visibility dropped to almost nothing. Each step became a fight for balance as the ice axes bit into the slope. They were exhausted, but they knew they couldn’t stop. Night was coming, and on Siula Grande, the night could kill.

Then it happened. Joe took one step too far on the steep descent, and in an instant, the snow beneath him collapsed. He fell hard, the rope between him and Simon snapping tight as he tumbled down the face. When he came to a stop, pain exploded through his leg — his knee shattered, the bone driven up through his thigh. The agony was blinding. He knew at once that he couldn’t stand, let alone climb.

For most climbers, that would have been the end. But Simon refused to abandon his friend. In the screaming wind and swirling snow, he tied a series of knots and began lowering Joe down the mountain — 300 feet at a time — using only a single rope. It was a desperate plan, a race against exhaustion, frostbite, and gravity. For hours, Simon worked in the dark, lowering his injured partner down the frozen face, unable to see him, unable to hear him over the storm.

But then came the moment that would define them both forever. Simon felt the rope go tight — then it didn’t move. He shouted, but there was no response. Joe had fallen over a hidden cliff edge, dangling helplessly in midair, suspended by the rope that was now the only thing keeping him alive. Simon tried to hold on, but the weight dragged him closer to the edge, the snow beneath him crumbling away. He anchored himself as best he could, his hands burning, his strength fading. For nearly an hour he held the line, his body shaking from exhaustion and cold.

Then he made the impossible choice.

In the dark, with frost forming on his face and his friend invisible below, Simon took out his knife and cut the rope.

Joe plunged into the void.

Simon was certain he had just killed his best friend. He made it down to the glacier the next morning, hollow-eyed, believing Joe was gone. He built a small snow cave to wait out the storm and planned to descend alone when the weather cleared. But Joe wasn’t dead.

He had fallen into a deep crevasse, landing on a ledge of ice. His rope hung above him, cut clean through. His leg was useless, and he could see no way out. For hours he screamed, hoping Simon might hear, but the mountain swallowed his voice. Finally, he realized that no one was coming. With a strength born from somewhere beyond reason, he began to crawl deeper into the crevasse, following the faint glow of light filtering through the ice. Miraculously, he found a narrow opening that led back to the surface.

From there, his ordeal truly began.

For three days, Joe dragged himself across the glacier, crawling on hands and knees, his leg shattered, his body broken. He drank melted snow and sucked moisture from the rocks to stay alive. His lips cracked and bled, his fingers froze, and his vision blurred from pain. He fell repeatedly, each time forcing himself back up. The only sound in the endless silence was the rasp of his breath and the scraping of his body against the ice.

On the fourth day, delirious and near death, he heard something — a faint, rhythmic tapping. It was Simon, hammering pegs into the snow, preparing to leave. Joe shouted with the last of his strength, his voice hoarse and weak. For a moment, Simon thought he was hallucinating. Then he looked up and saw a ghost crawling across the ice — Joe, pale and bloody, his eyes sunken but still burning with life.

He ran to him, disbelief and relief mixing in tears and laughter. Somehow, Joe had come back from the dead. Together they made their final descent, reaching base camp just as another storm rolled in.

When they returned to England, their story spread across the climbing world — a tale of friendship, survival, and the razor-thin line between life and death. Some criticized Simon for cutting the rope, but Joe defended him until his last breath, saying, “He did what he had to do. He saved my life by letting me go.”

Years later, Joe would write Touching the Void, a memoir that captured every scream, every frozen breath, and every moment of that nightmare. His words became a timeless testament to endurance — not the strength to hold on, but the courage to face the fall and keep crawling through the dark.

In the end, Siula Grande took nothing but their fear. It left behind two men who had looked death in the face and learned that sometimes, survival is not about conquering the mountain — it’s about surviving yourself.