Mt. Elbrus: The Climb, The Summit, and The Self

I’m writing this to share my experience reaching at the Mount Elbrus in the second week of July—not just to recount the journey, but to help others prepare both physically and mentally for similar endeavors. While there are a few personal reflections scattered throughout, they are simply my perspectives during the climb. By learning from my mistakes and understanding what it truly took, I hope that more people can safely and confidently tackle these great heights. To make this piece as useful as possible, I’ve divided it into sections so you can easily skip to the parts that interest you most:

Why did I chose Elbrus?

Mount Elbrus, the highest peak in Europe, was never a part of my bucket list, yet it quietly simmered in my thoughts for the past year. I first heard about the mountain in 2023 during a trip to Kazakhstan-Kyrgyzstan, where Vyshakh Nair , Orange Jacket Adventures mentioned that he planned to open Elbrus in 2024, and would include Abhijeet Singh, a renowned alpinist and fellow MICA | The School of Ideas alumnus. The idea of learning more about mountains alongside Abhijeet was an opportunity which I couldn't let go of . While I was backpacking through Garhwal in the following months, the desire to face a new, unfamiliar challenge began to take root. With twelve years of trekking in the Himalayas, including a couple of high-altitude summits in 2017 and 2019 and the recent Pin Parvati trek along with some cool team mates, I felt ready for something different—something more intense, more personal. The Caucasian mountains, with their stark, alien landscapes, seemed like the perfect next destination.

Elbrus's History during WWII

For someone who has been a follower of WWII history, The mountain's history added a compelling layer to its allure. During World War II, Elbrus stood as a symbol of fierce struggle, with Russian and Nazi forces vying for control of its strategic heights and enhance the war propaganda. The desire of climbing a mountain steeped in such a storied past was inviting. I wanted to feel the weight of that history on my shoulders as I ascended its icy slopes—not just with the usual trekking gear, but fully equipped for a technical climb. Elbrus beckoned, promising not just a physical challenge, but a journey through history—a chance to tread where soldiers fought.

Video: The Mountain Knights (YouTube)

What makes Elbrus tough?

While no mountain should be underestimated, the weather on Mount Elbrus is particularly notorious for its fierce and unpredictable winds. Understanding these conditions was crucial, as was ensuring that my fitness, gear, and clothing were up to the challenge. Though Elbrus has become more accessible in recent years, with an array of three cable cars that can whisk you up to base camp, the summit remains a different story. It demands not only proper gear but also solid physical preparation and mental fortitude, especially considering the grueling ascent of around 1,600 meters in a single night.

In recent years, temperatures on Elbrus in July have varied significantly, often plunging well below freezing at higher altitudes, with conditions as severe as -20°C (-4°F) near the summit. The mountain's topography adds to its challenges: Elbrus is a dormant volcano with a dual-peaked summit, covered in vast glaciers that conceal treacherous crevasses. A long summit day terrain, combined with the cold weather, solidifies Elbrus as a formidable challenge, particularly to the uninitiated.

Choosing a right Organizer & Team

Tto make arrangements for Elbrus, I trusted in Orange Jacket Adventures . Having traveled with them, knew that that their philosophy aligned with mine: Mountains are to be savored, not rushed. For me the context of your climb has always mattered, knowing why am I climbing. It could be personal or overt but for me in most cases it has been beyond getting a sense of adventure.

Traveling with the right people is essential, especially in the mountains. The shared challenges and experiences forge bonds that often last a lifetime. I’ve been fortunate to trek with some incredible individuals—alpinists, seasoned mountaineers & trekkers, and some really determined and like-minded individuals. My journeys in mountains have brought me some of my closest friendships over the last decade.

Physical Training

To begin with, my training focused on boosting my cardiovascular endurance, which I knew was a must have the high-altitude demands of Mount Elbrus. I committed to moderate-paced runs of around 4-5 kilometers every day, complemented by daily sessions on the stairs —eight floors up and down, much to the puzzlement of my office colleagues. Since a major health setback in 2021, I had turned to boxing to rebuild my endurance and grit, a practice that is still a part of my training.

However, despite my efforts, I was still weighing in at 96 kilograms. I knew hauling this weight up to 5,642 meters would be though. Eventually, I had to rely on my past experiences in the mountains, where things almost always comes to down to mind over body.

People have always asked me on how fit one should be while trekking or climbing mountains and most of the time I mentioned that it depends, this time I had a succinct answer. Here goes -

Physical preparation is not just about reaching the summit; it’s about ensuring you're in a position to assist your fellow people when the situation demands it. During this expedition, Abhijeet mentions, "You should always be fit to help others in the mountains.

So, if you feel fit that you will not only carry your own weight over mountains but are fit enough to help your team, it means you are ready.

Before the climb, I underwent a medical check-up—more of a routine, as it is best to ascertain your fitness by a practitioner.Though declared fit, I couldn't ignore the subtle signs that I wasn't as fast or as agile as before. Today, many climbers rely on Diamox, a blood thinner, to help their bodies adjust to the altitude, but I’ve never subscribed to that approach. My method has always been to tackle the mountains as naturally as possible: increasing water intake, carry one's own backpack instead of offloading it, and letting my body adapt on its own. I knew that my principles would be tested, testing whether a natural approach could stand up to the demands of Mount Elbrus.

Clothing & Equipment

For my clothing, I knew that staying warm would be crucial, especially during the brutal summit night. In June, I traveled to Nepal—during the off-season—and visited a recommended store where I purchased a down jacket, the kind used by Sherpas for 8000m climbs. I also picked up a pair of down pants with inner wool lining, a wind-breaker from Decathlon Quechua, and prepared three layers of clothing specifically for summit night. A couple of warmers were tucked into my gear, ready to keep the biting cold at bay.

For footwear, I had to be particularly careful. I planned to rent all of my technical gear and specialized clothing.Fortunately, these items are available for rent in Treskol Village or Pyatigorsk, the starting point of our trek. I rented a pair of well-known brand snow boots, essential for navigating the icy slopes. Along with the boots, I rented a helmet, ice axe, carabiners, harness, and crampons—all indispensable for a safe climb.

Day 1: Dubai To Mineralnye Vody

Our group of eight, consisting trekkers from various walks of life—a photographer, a consultant, a mountaineering guide from Cape Town, and others—decided to regroup at Dubai Airport. From there, we boarded a flight to Mineralnye Vody, a town nestled in the foothills of the Caucasus in southwestern Russia. The journey to this remote region was just the beginning of our adventure.

Upon arrival at the Russian airport, we encountered an unexpected immigration hiccup. All our phones and passports were confiscated, leading to several tense minutes filled with silence and an odd series of questions. We had no choice but to go along with the proceedings, hoping we would eventually be allowed to enter Russia. After what felt like an eternity, we were finally cleared—except for one of our colleagues, who had to turn back due to a visa inconsistency over a new passport.

With our group down by one, we pressed on late into the night, moving from Mineralnye Vody Airport to Pyatigorsk, where we took a brief nap before being briefed for reminder of the journey.

Day 2: Taking Inventory at Pyatigorsk,Russia

Day one in Russia was all about preparation. We met with a team of experts known as "The Climbing Brothers," who were seasoned professionals on Elbrus. They conducted our first briefing, focusing on the ever-looming threat of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Following this, we had a detailed theory session led by Abhijeet Singh, who walked us through the intricacies of AMS, the different equipment we would need (and how to use them), and shared his own experiences in selecting the right brands for the mountains. This was one of the most illuminating discussions I had been a part of, particularly about the best practices in mountains.

We were told that AMS is not to be taken lightly—its only real remedy is descending to a lower altitude. No amount of acclimatization can guarantee immunity; the mountain dictates who stays and who goes. He shared critical pointers: recognizing the symptoms early, the importance of staying hydrated, and the necessity of listening to your body’s signals.

After the briefing, representatives from The Climbing Brothers came around individually, inspecting each of our clothing and gear, making notes on what we needed to rent. In the mountains, you don’t cut corners. We headed to their shop, where we rented the necessary gear, as mentioned earlier, at fair rates with transactions completed in rubles. With everything packed and ready, we moved to Treskol, the gateway to Elbrus.

Day 3: Treskol in the Caucasian Mountains

Arriving in Treskol felt like stepping into the heart of the Caucasus—a small, rugged village nestled beneath the imposing shadow of Mount Elbrus. The air was crisp, carrying with it a blend of anticipation and the weight of what lay ahead. Treskol, a gateway for climbers, had the aura of a place that understood both the allure and the dangers of the mountain. It was here that our preparations would be put to the test.

For the first two days, we embarked on acclimatization treks to the observatory and the base of Mount Cheget. These treks were essential, not just for acclimatizing but also for shaking off the rust and getting our bodies into the rhythm of the climb. Our stamina began to build, each step up the rugged terrain a reminder of what lay ahead.

It was during this time that we met our leader, Sergi—a stoic, minimal-speaking guide with over 75 successful summits of Elbrus under his belt. Sergi, with his quiet intensity, had a commanding presence. He mentioned his love for Old Monk from his last visit to India, a rare moment of warmth in his otherwise reserved demeanor. As we trekked, Sergi watched us closely. His sharp eye and wealth of experience led him to divide us into smaller groups, ensuring that when summit day arrived, we would ascend as a cohesive, well-prepared team.

Responsible trekkers are aware of of the need to leave no trace. Every piece of equipment, every scrap of trash, had to be taken up and brought back down. With this in mind, we loaded everything onto the cable cars and made our way to the base camp. The ride was a strange juxtaposition—gliding effortlessly above the rugged terrain, all the while knowing that the real challenge was just beginning.

After spending two days acclimatizing, we made the decision to reach the Elbrus base camp via an unexpected mode of transport—an array of three cable car systems. For someone used to the long, grueling treks of the Himalayas, where reaching base camp itself can take four to five days with all the necessary gear, food, and water, this was a surprising experience. The efficiency felt almost surreal, as if the mountain was revealing itself too easily, almost lulling everyone into a false sense of security.

Once we arrived at base camp, I was ecstatic to see one of the best mechanical engineering marvels of my life—snowcats. As a closet and family-forced mechanical engineer, all my mental circuits were firing at full capacity as I took in the sight. These powerful machines are essential to the operations on Elbrus, especially at base camp, where they serve as the lifeline for climbers.

Snowcats are versatile, tracked vehicles that can traverse the deep snow and steep slopes of the mountain with ease. On Elbrus, they’re primarily used to transport climbers and supplies from base camp up to higher altitudes, reducing the strain of carrying heavy loads in the thin air. At base camp, snowcats also help in maintaining access routes and clearing snow, ensuring that the area remains navigable even in challenging conditions.

These mechanical beasts took us further up to the shelters—an array of cargo boxes ingeniously converted into rooms. Each shelter was divided into two halves, comfortably housing four people.

The setup in the dining area was phenomenal, with a Russian lady who commanded the kitchen with the precision of a general. She provided us with a meal that was nothing short of extraordinary. Food in the mountains is more than just sustenance; it’s what keeps you going, both physically and mentally. If the food system is right, you can achieve wonders. This was undoubtedly one of the best spreads I’ve encountered in the mountains, and I’ve seen some good ones. Babushka-wearing Russian woman had a way of combining motherly care with a no-nonsense attitude that makes you feel both comforted and slightly on edge—I'm not sure how Russia would function without their formidable love.

Day 4 & 5: Training Days

The day began with a climb to the Pastukhov Rocks, situated at about 14,500 feet—a long ascent from our Base camp at 12400ft. After a day of rest, this acclimatization climb was the next step in our journey. The rocks, at 4,600 meters, represent a significant challenge, taking up to 6-8 hours to ascend and descend. This day was crucial, as Sergi, our leader, made it clear that reaching these rocks was essential; it was the cutoff for being selected for the summit attempt.

I strapped on my crampons, though I felt a bit apprehensive about an 8-hour climb in the snow. The mountain was crowded that day, with other climbers practicing, adding to the tension. As we ascended, the final 100 meters proved to be the most challenging. Despite a strong start, I found myself trailing behind the more experienced mountaineers in our group—arriving at the rocks 10-15 minutes after them.

Sergi was there, his face betraying a mix of emotions. While we smiled in relief, he had calculated our chances for the summit. He had divided us into two teams, carefully considering how to manage the climb. He looked at me, tired but resolute, and said, "There are seven more hours to the top from here." I replied, “It can be done if I plan it well.”

But the reality of climbing as a team soon set in—the group’s pace is dictated by its slowest member. With two experienced leads, splitting the group into three wasn’t an option. The mountain demanded teamwork, and our success hinged on moving together as one.

Reaching the milestone at Pastukhov Rocks was a moment of relief, but it also brought a sobering realization: the real challenge lay ahead. The climb had given me a glimpse of what was to come—a grueling 7-hour ascent from base camp and back, with 1,600 meters (5,249 feet) of elevation gain in a single day, one of the coldest ascents I’ve faced. This stark reality weighed on my mind, knowing the push to the summit would be both physically and mentally taxing.

The next day, we moved on to technical training with an ice axe, focusing on self-arrest techniques—how to stop yourself if you fall and protect yourself on the snow. This training was crucial, as descending can often require more confidence, and sometimes overconfidence, than going up. I’ll always remember this day, but not just for the training.

It was the day I lost my cool—on myself. As we practiced, one of my crampons came loose. Reattaching it in the wind and snow drained my energy and frustrated me to the core. Despite offers of help from my teammates, I stubbornly refused, caught up in my own struggle. It wasn’t my best day, neither in skill nor behavior. A moment that has stayed with me for contemplation.

I’m still working through it, understanding that sometimes we reject help because we feel we need to be tough. But the truth is, accepting help is a sign of strength. It’s important to recognize that when people offer help, they do so out of care. The very act of offering assistance is an expression of love and respect, something to be embraced, not pushed away.

A lot of this stoicism is deeply ingrained in us by society, especially in men, who are often pressured to "toughen up" when they don’t necessarily need to. The act of seeking help has been stigmatized, making it uncomfortable for many. It’s a mental burden, one that can become depressing, as so much can be resolved simply by asking for help.

This expectation to endure in silence, to shoulder burdens alone, is something we carry unnecessarily. Elbrus taught me that vulnerability isn’t a weakness; it’s a form of strength. Admitting that you need help doesn’t make you any less capable. If anything, it’s a reminder that we’re all human, and there’s no shame in leaning on others when the weight becomes too much to bear.

The climb to the summit was a testament to this lesson. Every step, every decision, was a balance between self-reliance and knowing when to lean on the team. The mountain doesn’t care for pride; it respects humility and cooperation.

When we returned from the training, we were drenched, cold, and exhausted. The only comfort we found was in the warmth of a hearty meal. But even as we ate, my mind was elsewhere, turning over the proposal Sergi had made on the way back. He suggested dividing our group into two: an attack group composed of the faster climbers who had reached the rocks first in the previous drill, and a second group, including myself and two others who had arrived later. The plan was for the first group to begin the ascent early, while the second group would catch up with the aid of a snowcat, joining them at the rocks. Once everyone was within striking distance of the summit, we would push together as a team.

As a mountain purist, this proposal struck a nerve. I’d always prided myself on tough climbs, relying on my own strength and endurance. But only hours earlier, that pride had taken a hit with my crampons loose. I listened to Sergi’s plan with patience, replaying yesterday’s climb in my mind, wondering if I could have pushed myself harder.

We were still warming ourselves with food when Sergi broke the silence with a suggestion that set off a ripple of tension. He proposed that we head out in a few hours. We were tired, and the snow outside didn’t help matters. But Sergi, with his stoic confidence, assured us the snow would clear and that we had a good forecast. Tomorrow’s weather was uncertain, and he believed this was our best shot.

There were mixed feelings around the table—some hesitant, others more resigned. In the end, we decided to trust Sergi’s instinct and experience. The mountain would wait for no one, and neither would we.

The Summit Push

The attack team readied themselves with just an hour’s notice, moving swiftly under Sergi’s quiet but commanding presence. This group was made up of seasoned climbers: Abhijeet, ; Tauriq, a skilled mountaineer; Kshitij, who had recently summited Kang Yatse; and Apoorv, fresh off a successful climb of Kilimanjaro. Each brought their own experience and grit, and despite some minor hiccups, they geared up and set off into the night for the summit push.

Meanwhile, Vyashak, Elfa, and I were left to prepare ourselves mentally for the climb ahead. Our plan was to take the snowcat and meet the first group near the Pastukhov Rocks. As we waited, we used the time to calm our nerves, knowing that the real test of our endurance and resolve was just hours away.

But as we hitched the snowcat and began our ascent, an unnerving piece of news reached us—one of our teammates from the attack group was turning back, overcome by exhaustion and cold. The reality of what we were up against hit us hard. This wasn’t just another climb; it was a battle against nature, against our own limits. The stakes felt higher.

We hitched the snowcat, and within 20 minutes, we were above the Pastukhov Rocks. The snowcat—a beast of a machine—had done in minutes what would have taken hours on foot. But as we stepped out into the biting cold, the reality of our situation settled in. The temperature must have been ten degrees below zero, and even the slightest movement seemed to drain the warmth from my body. My hands were trembling, and I realized too late that I should have brought mittens. The cold was unforgiving, gnawing at every exposed inch of skin.

As the attack team arrived, it was clear that the climb had taken its toll. Exhaustion was etched into their faces, their movements slow and labored. Some were battling searing headaches, the telltale sign of AMS, while others were simply pushed to their limits by the brutal conditions. We quickly formed a makeshift pit stop, offering whatever assistance we could—extra layers, water, encouragement. But there was little time to rest; we still had six hours of climbing ahead.

I positioned myself behind Sergi, who seemed colder than the mountain itself. His silence was both unsettling and comforting, as if his stoicism alone could keep the biting wind at bay. We began the ascent, the air growing thinner with each step, the cold more piercing. The world around us was a blur of white and gray, the mountain looming above, indifferent to our struggle. Sergi kept moving, a relentless force, and we followed, one foot in front of the other, inching our way towards the summit.

The wind was relentless, biting into the right side of my face like a thousand needles. A small, exposed patch under my light buff had become a focal point of agony. I turned to Sergi, seeking guidance, and he gave me a simple, stoic instruction: crush a warmer and press it against the spot. “We have to keep moving until sunlight seeps in,” he said. There was no room for scrutiny or hesitation—I did exactly as he said, bracing myself for the hours of pain ahead.

I was in what climbers call the "pain cave," moving forward by inches, against the biting cold. My mind wandered back to a conversation we'd had the other day, a moment of levity amidst the seriousness of our journey. We’d joked about what to think of to escape the pain during the final push—was it a happy memory, the thought of a curvy woman, or perhaps the meal waiting at the end? Someone had said something profound that stuck with me: “Think about how privileged you are to be here. You’re standing where many wouldn’t get to go. Focus on that.”

Those words echoed in my mind as I pushed on, feeling the first rays of sunlight beginning to cut through the bleak horizon. With the sunlight came a shift in my thoughts, a rise in my positivity. The worst, I told myself, would be over soon. And with that glimmer of warmth and light, I found the strength to keep moving.

In the next few hours, we reached the shoulder, the final resting point before the summit push. The cold was bone-deep, and the exhaustion hung heavy in the air. But I could see the team keeping each other motivated, a quiet resilience shared among us. Kshitij was deep in conversation with Elfa, keeping her focused. At the saddle, her fatigue was palpable, but we rallied around her, reminding her of the superhero she was. "You're doing this for your folks," we told her, "and there's no way we're finishing this climb without you."

Forty-five minutes later, we entered the technical section of the climb, where the terrain turned tricky, demanding our full attention. Here, we had to attach and detach our harnesses to the fixed ropes, navigating the precarious path with precision. It was also the moment when we took out our ice axes and pressed them against the mountainside.

An ice axe is more than just a tool; it becomes a third leg, a source of confidence when everything else feels uncertain. The weight of it in my hand was reassuring, a solid connection to the earth beneath the frozen expanse.

At 18,000 feet, with the wind howling around me and the ice axe firmly in hand, my mind drifted to the strangest of thoughts—a tattoo. "An ice axe on my forearm," I mused, the idea forming out of the chaos of exhaustion and adrenaline. "A permanent reminder of this climb, of every ounce of pain, every step forward when it felt impossible." The thought seemed absurd—who plans tattoos at 18,000 feet? But there it was, lingering like a stubborn itch in the back of my mind.

"Maybe it’s the altitude," I thought, shaking my head slightly. "Or maybe it’s the mountain messing with me, turning every struggle into some kind of metaphor." I could see it clearly: the axe etched into my skin, a testament to the resilience it took to keep going, to push through the freezing cold and the biting wind. "But what would that even say about me?" I wondered, a half-smile forming beneath my buff. "Am I really thinking about a tattoo right now, or am I just trying to distract myself.

I shifted the axe in my grip, feeling its solid weight—a comfort in the middle of this endless white expanse. "It’s not about the tattoo," I realized, "it’s could be about what it represents. The climb, the struggle, the sheer willpower to keep moving forward." But then, as quickly as the thought had come, it left. "There ’ll be time to think about tattoos later, when I’m not inches from the edge of the world," I told myself. "Right now, it’s just one foot in front of the other."

It took us another 45 minutes to reach the shoulder, and from there, the summit was just a walk away. The exhaustion that had gripped us moments before seemed to lift, replaced by a shared sense of relief and elation. We were about to do it—after all the preparation, the setbacks, the grueling ascent, the summit was within our grasp.

For Sergi, this was his 75th summit attempt. I wondered if the significance of reaching the top had dulled for him, if the summit had become just another checkpoint, another routine accomplishment. But for me, at that moment, it was everything.

I noticed Sergi slowing his pace, each step deliberate, as if savoring the moment. But I couldn’t hold back. My pace quickened, driven by a surge of adrenaline that washed away the fatigue. It was as if the altitude, the cold, the biting wind—none of it mattered anymore. The triangular dimensions of the metal board marking the summit were just a few meters away, and I could see the Indian flag raised by another climber fluttering proudly against the snow.

A new wave of energy surged through me, deliriously close to the final moment. The summit wasn’t just a physical place; it was a culmination of everything I had pushed myself through—the pain, the doubt, the relentless drive to keep moving forward. And now, I was here, steps away from the top of Europe.

I was there.

The summit was beneath my boots, the highest point in Europe, and yet the overwhelming emotion wasn’t the elation I had imagined—it was a deep, calming sense of satisfaction. Strange, perhaps, how the euphoria I expected to flood me was instead replaced by a quiet contentment.

It felt as though the grip of the climb, the drive to reach the top, was loosening its hold on me. I stood there, taking in the expansive views, the endless snowfields, and the distant peaks, but my thoughts turned inward.

I watched my teammates inching toward the summit, each step filled with their own significance, their own journey to this point.

As I stood on the summit, the sense of achievement was unmistakable, but it was tinged with the recognition of a deeper truth. But now that I was here, the mountain behind me, the question lingered— what was it all for?

John Krakauer once said, “Mountains are poor receptacles for dreams; nothing gets solved there. Nothing tangible is won. Worst-case scenario, you risk losing everything.” And yet, despite this, people have climbed mountains for centuries. The summit symbolizes more than just a peak; it represents personal goals, dreams, and aspirations. For those who make it, it marks the beginning of another cycle, another challenge. For those who don’t, the mountain becomes a prison, a place where part of them remains, remembered in long conversations and moments of solitude, surrounded by what-ifs.

Out of my thoughts, I welcomed my fellow climbers to the summit with a mixture of relief and reflection. There was no grand celebration, just a shared acknowledgment of the journey we had all endured.

As we prepared to descend, I find perspective in the words of René Daumal:

“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”

We began our descent, carrying with us the profound knowledge of what we had seen and experienced. It wasn’t just about reaching the top; it was about the journey, the lessons learned, and the growth achieved along the way.