Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Read online

“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.

  “Angel will turn anyone who doesn’t make it here soon,” Hugo says. “There’s no point pushing upwards once the valley turns into an oven.”

  Charlene and her personal Sherpa, Mingmar, emerge from the rocks and close off the last few metres. She needs a minute to catch her breath but otherwise looks strong. Swapping tales of the climb to Camp 2 with Mingmar, I grasp that his morning has not been taxing. Easy going and relaxed, he outclasses all of us at this altitude. This man has summited Everest multiple times and reached the top of Pumori; I doubt making it to Camp 2 means as much to him as it does to me.

  “We’ll give it twenty more minutes here and then return to camp,” Hugo says. “Charlene, was there anyone near you on the way up?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. Mingmar?”

  “No one from the team,” Mingmar says.

  The gain of four hundred metres and an hour’s rest at this new altitude will push our bodies and stimulate the creation of more red blood cells. We’re sitting one kilometre above Base Camp. We’ve driven ourselves as far as is safe at this phase of the venture. It’s time to retreat.

  We hike down through the boulders. The light pack makes no demands on my legs. We refit our crampons and step back onto the smooth, snow-covered glacier. I use the new wider stride, and Camp 2 disappears from view. The sun is not the demon we expected, but instead a pleasant sensation on the back of my neck. Greg marches just behind me. The others stretch out for a hundred metres ahead and behind. We bound over small crevasses with ease. Moving at this pace, it’s hard not to feel smug that my climb is back on course.

  Within an hour, we tackle the large crevasses just above Camp 1. I spot Khalid and Roger on the far side of them. I don’t know how far they, or the rest of the team, progressed up the valley.

  “Man.” I force myself up the far side of a crevasse. “These still hurt.”

  “Nothing for free up here,” Greg says.

  This is as good a day as I might hope to have on the mountain. As we climb up out of a crevasse, Camp 1 comes into view. What a difference from yesterday when, for hours, I peered in vain to catch sight of it. Today, it’s presented itself on a platter. Before the noonday sun wanes, Greg and I are dragging our packs into the tent.

  Camp 1

  We just negotiated the crevasses behind the tents, having descended the valley in the background.

  “Let’s get that stove going,” Greg says.

  “Here’s the lighter. The gas should be warm. It was a pain in the ass this morning.”

  My performance today was due to the massive quantity of water that Greg boiled yesterday. Rather than the heated boil-in-the-bag MRE’s, I opt for cold ready-to-eat chicken from a sealed foil pouch. From the first bite, I know this will not be a struggle like yesterday. Then I try cold salmon branded Chicken of the Sea. The proteins and oils should give my physique a kick.

  “This’s pretty good.” I take another forkful. “It says here the Omega 3 will make my brain grow.”

  “There’s plenty of space up there. I’ll stick with the hot foods.” Greg wolfs down an MRE.

  As the hot versus cold food debate rages in our tent, we both agree that the small, individually wrapped pieces of cheese are the clear winner. All the time, a flame heats the underneath of the pot.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Clouds close in mid-afternoon.

  “I’ll stretch my legs for fifteen minutes,” I say. “We might have to batten down the hatches soon. It’s already getting cold.”

  I take a few photos in every direction, hoping that one turns out decent.

  View of the Lhotse Face from Camp 1

  Three of our tents sit in front of the large crevasses that cut across the Cwm Valley glacier. The mountain to the left is Everest. Nuptse stands to the right. The white Lhotse Face soars up at the top of the valley, to the fourth highest mountain in the world.

  Roger hears me and pops out to catch some air.

  “Hey Roger, how’re things?”

  “Good.”

  “You’re all set for tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Be easier going down.”

  “Let’s see if this camera can make you look pretty.”

  I switch the camera to black and white mode and take a shot of Roger, looking rugged in the gloom. Snowflakes drift across his dark shape. The Cwm Valley forms the backdrop. An ice axe, crampons, and helmet lie at his feet. As we chat, the light fades behind thickening clouds.

  “I think that’s the last of the sun we’ll see today,” he says.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Be bloody cold soon. Let’s get back in. See you tomorrow.”

  “Sleep well.”

  Various Team Tents sit on the Glacial Ridge that is Camp 1

  Back in the tent, our routine has taken shape. We boil water and fill bottles and flasks nonstop. We don’t quibble over who heats what. We each need four litres a day and keep going till we hit that target. We scald fewer fingers; we spill less liquid. The water in which the MRE’s are boiled is poured into containers; nothing is wasted. We’ve blocked out all gaps in the vestibule through which a draught might interfere with the flame.

  As one gas canister provides a flame, we test methods to warm up the next, so it’ll burn hot and efficient when needed. We’ve placed the next cold canister on a sealed, upturned bottle of hot water, which is leaning against a backpack. This warms up the gas. It also brings the liquid in the bottle down to a drinking temperature quicker.

  We’ve become adept at moving in the tent, eating, and tending to the stove simultaneously. The peeing routine is now just that: a routine. We validate all deliveries for quantity and clarity; we’re in good health. It’s not everyone who shares a tent six kilometres above sea level with a urology surgeon.

  The light in the tent has all but disappeared by 6pm. From next door, Hugo calls out that he’s settling in for the night. He has the right idea. It’s best to set up the bedding arrangements before the temperature plunges and while the sleeping bags still have a little heat from the daytime warmth. We tuck ourselves up for the night ahead. Greg has placed everything he owns under his mat.

  Twenty-four hours ago I was a vomiting shell. I wondered if my climb might be over. Now I’m relaxing in a sleeping bag. My mind postpones sleep as it runs over the events of the day. Good recollections entertain me tonight.

  April 20

  Climb Down from Camp 1 to Base Camp

  “How’d it go last night, Greg?”

  “Better, I wasn’t cold like yesterday. And you?”

  “That was a decent sleep. I feel a bit groggy but nothing a warm drink won’t fix. It’ll be good to get back down and put this rotation behind us.”

  Food and liquid taken and backpack sorted, I face the first challenge of the day. The sleeping bag has been fantastic but stuffing it into its waterproof sack is like wrestling an anaconda. If I hadn’t witnessed it in there before, I’d bet any money it’ll not fit. I wait till Greg has left the tent as there may be friendly fire in the upcoming man v anaconda encounter. With fist after fist I shove the bag into the sack. It expands back out. Three minutes brawling leaves me panting. I sit on it to keep my gains in place. I catch my breath and force in the last bulging belly of the beast. It does not want to be imprisoned. Puffing, I tighten the draw cord.

  I crawl out and look up to see a clear morning. I deposit the sack, the compressed mattress, and a few other items in the gear tent. I won’t have to haul those objects up through the Icefall again.

  “What time is it, Fergus?” Greg asks.

  “Seven.”

  “Some of the guys have left already. We may as well get going.”

  “That sounds good.” I tighten my crampons. “Who’s here?”

  “There’s Ade and Martin; they’re almost ready. And Angel’s beside his tent. I think that’s it.”

  We stroll over to them with our packs strapped on.

  “How was the night,
lads?” I ask.

  “Splendid,” Ade says, his height and broad shoulders more pronounced in full mountain gear. “The food’s better than at Base Camp.”

  “Too right,” Martin says. “We’d a nice brew last night. It’s not Camp 1 here; it’s Café One.”

  “I’d have killed for a bit more of that cheese,” Ade says. “But we ran a good kitchen last night. It was the Bimble Brothers’ Café.”

  The five of us join up and push out of camp. We head for the Icefall. This passage should be easier; we’ll be descending and with light packs. Angel sets a steady pace on the slight downhill slope. As we get close to the abyss, crevasses surrounded us.

  “Clip into the rope,” Angel says. “It doesn’t matter that it’s flat; stumble on a crampon and it’s a long way down. Even where there’s no crevasse, the ground could still give way.”

  We weave around and over them. At the widest point, they extend a few metres across. At their narrowest, they taper to perhaps half a metre. The rope leads us to the slimmest gap, where a leap puts another crevasse behind us. Forty minutes after leaving Camp 1, we reach the edge of the Icefall.

  In the distance below, the bright colours of Base Camp contrast against the ice and rock of the Khumbu glacier. Make it there, and I’ll have the first rotation behind me. I peer straight down over the snowy edge, into the mother of all crevasses. I’m again gaping into the set of a science fiction film. I cannot believe we’ll lower ourselves into it. Teams have been busy since the wee hours; a stream of mountaineers is ascending through the ice boulders. Climbers inch along narrow ledges. Small ladders wobble at awkward angles, above unfathomable horrors. Beneath their rungs stretches cold ice that plunges into darkness.

  I recollect that the steepest, most demanding sections are here at the top. I’m fresh. If I can get the next hour behind me, then it should be plain sailing from there, relatively speaking.

  “We must be mad,” Ade says.

  We’ll have to abseil down the wall one at a time; it’s not possible to clip in while someone below has their weight on the rope. Three climbers wait in front of us. Just beside the rope, mountaineers and Sherpas ascend the triple vertical ladder. A new face appears at our feet every three minutes.

  “Ok, Greg, you’re up. Let me check your set-up.” Angel examines his waist area. “Ok, you’re good to go.”

  Greg leans back and disappears over the edge. In due course, Ade and Martin follow. I observe Greg’s progress through the monster. He’ll benefit no one by waiting.

  “Right, Fergus, the rope’s free. Clip in and over you go. I’ll follow,” Angel says.

  This’s not Hollywood, where the hero flies down the side of a building in giant leaps. I consider my foot placements on the irregular ice. It could crack. Undue speed will send debris onto the climbers below or deliver a whack against the hard wall. After two minutes, I disconnect and turn around to tackle the behemoth.

  “Off the rope!”

  My breathing rises. Clipping in and out of ropes and placing that first foot on a ladder has become second nature. I put the monster crevasse behind me. Ade, Martin, and I wait where climbers pack bottlenecks. We give way to those coming against us and step aside to let fast descending Sherpas get on with their business. The delays grant me a chance to recover. Greg has disappeared among the twists and turns below.

  Some steep sections do not demand abseiling, but walking down unaided risks carnage. I attack these face first, with the rope wrapped tight around my trailing arm, feeding it through my tense, gloved hands. Known as an arm rappel, the technique stops me tumbling down these short inclines. The effort tears at my shoulder muscles; they scream for relief. But once committed to a slope, any laziness will result in broken bones. I plan every boot placement and aim for the footprints below that have formed rudimentary steps.

  We reach a bottleneck at a steep drop.

  “I don’t think we’ll see Greg again till Base Camp,” I say.

  “He’s flying,” Martin says.

  “It’s probably quicker descending with three rather than four anyway,” Ade says.

  Even still, I think we’re slowing each other up. At every obstacle, such as a ladder, we can only progress one at a time. Two of us wait for the first person to get clear. Then at the far side of the hurdle, we wait again till the last man rejoins. It’s not a problem, but the clear, blue sky will provide no protection. We expect the rays to find us about 9am. We want to descend as low as possible before that happens.

  “Ok, Fergus, that rope is free. Should be good to go now, nice and handy,” Ade says.

  We push down for another half hour. I’m panting with every step, but we’ve made good gains in this cool air. All three of us had suffered, together, on the ascent two days ago. The Icefall extracted a heavy toll on my self-belief and reserves. The sun scorched us. The freezing fog chilled us. We fell into Camp 1, shells of our former selves. Doug never reached it. But now, this trio of mountaineers descends with confidence through the infamous Icefall. We’ve put almost half of it, the worst half, above us already. We’re hustling well together this morning. This is the sort of team climbing I’d hoped for.

  The sun casts shadows below us. The sheer ice structures behind keep us in the shade.

  “Only a few more minutes,” Martin says. “Let’s get down as far as possible before it hits.”

  “But that was good progress this morning, gents, good progress.” Ade takes a breath before another ladder.

  Another obstacle negotiated. The sun dazzles off the snow just ahead. We keep striding down. It finds us.

  “Right, lads, it’s all coming off, and it’s coming off now.” I loosen a strap. “I’m not messing about with my pack again further down.”

  Even though the air chills, I strip down to just a base layer on my upper body and shove all superfluous clothes into the pack. Ade and Martin do likewise. We plaster sun block onto our faces. I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission to remove my helmet now. I’m self-assured and at home in the ice and snow. We take on water. I note mine is almost finished. Then we load up and get going.

  The heat builds.

  I’ve traversed a ladder. Behind me, Ade exhales as he prepares to cross it.

  “I’ll keep going, keep things moving,” I say.

  He gives me a wave. I walk around the next ice formation and keep moving.

  On my own, I make faster progress. The altimeter positions me four hundred metres below the crest of the Icefall. The heat saps my energy. Sweat drips off my nose. I try to set a pace that will not crucify me, but which at the same time will drop me down to Base Camp and out of this sun as quick as possible.

  The route falls quiet; those ascending started early this morning. They’re now near the top or in the Cwm Valley. It was unthinkable just two days ago that I’d walk in a place as dangerous as this alone. From a distance, I might look like I know what I’m doing. I clip in and out of ropes, cross ladders, and jump across small gaps. All the time I’m reeling in a successful first rotation.

  If the footing beneath gives way, it’ll be a long time, if ever, before anyone discovers what happened. But more pressing matters occupy my mind. My water is finished, and I must hold it together for another hour and a half to get out of here. Moments of shade are offered by some of the larger ice features. Beyond them, the rays drain me.

  I’ve stopped for a few minutes in the shade to catch my breath and cool down.

  “Hey Fergus. How’re you doing? It’s getting hot. You’re on our own? It’s super here, isn’t it?”

  “Hi Angel.”

  His arrival lifts me.

  “Did you pass Ade and Martin?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they’re just back a bit. They’ll come down at their own speed. Ready to go?”

  He sets the pace, and I slot in behind. I’m reassured to travel with him; although, even he can’t turn down the heat.

  I hear a thunderous rumble. We look behind to see an avalanche hurtling down the West S
houlder. Clouds of white powder billow out from the slope towards us.

  “Do we stay clipped in?” My hand rests on the carabiner.

  I don’t know whether it’s best to stay attached to the rope and risk getting covered, or to unclip and go with the flow. Angel says nothing. The racing cloud approaches. We remain motionless. It tracks to our right and stays on the West Shoulder. The avalanche blasts past, running out of steam before Base Camp. The Icefall escapes. We swap a glance and a raised eyebrow.

  “Let’s take a short break,” Angel says.

  The sun belts down. Angel produces a full bottle of berry flavoured water. I’ve no idea what else he has in the huge pack he carries, but he seems prepared for all eventualities.

  “You out?” He passes me the bottle. “Take some of that. We’ve still a bit to go to Base Camp.”

  Sitting on an ice block, the two of us nibble a snack and enjoy the juice. We chat about the events of the week. The liquid sets me up for the last thrust.

  We re-start. Just a little further down, the glacier rewards us with the end of the fixed rope. We’re within thirty minutes of camp. A trail of metre high flagpoles leads us towards the finish, over the series of ridges. The several metres climb over each wreck me, but I know I’m close to completing the rotation. Dagger-like ice protrusions jut up beside our feet. I’m wary of putting a leg either side; one slip and the family jewels will go for half price.

  We’re standing beneath another ridge.

  “Camp should be here.” Angel looks around. “Somewhere.”

  We’ve gone off route and can’t find our way out of the ice maze.

  “Back that way. Can you see the marker poles?” he asks.

  “No, nothing. Where was the last one we passed?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  We back track for several minutes.

  “There’s the stream.” Angel points to a hole in the ice. “We’ll follow that.”

  We walk along the feature for a few minutes. It leads us home.