Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Page 21

  The oncoming storm concerns all teams. Many have descended the valley to recuperate and recharge. Here in the Pheriche Hotel, the food is good, the beds warm, the company entertaining, and the shower in a class of its own. The mountaineer Anatoli Boukreev was one of the first to popularise the approach of descending before ascending, with the words “Touching the green grass before the summit.” He’d led the Mountain Madness expedition headed by Scott Fischer in May 1996. The squad was one of several attempting to summit Everest when a storm hit and killed eight climbers in a single night. In total, fifteen people died on Everest that season. Boukreev rescued a number of people stranded above Camp 4. A few suffered permanent frostbite injuries and later amputations. The Wall Street Journal described his rescue efforts as:

  One of the most amazing rescues in mountaineering history performed single-handedly a few hours after climbing Everest without oxygen by a man some describe as the Tiger Woods of Himalayan climbing.

  But as Hugo often reminds me “There are bold climbers and there are old climbers, but there are no old, bold climbers”. The organiser of Boukreev’s Mountain Madness group, Scott Fischer, died that day. His body rests behind a boulder at Camp 4. Ted has advised us to take a look at it if we reach the South Col, to emphasise what can happen up there. I can’t see myself heading off track for such a recap. I’m well aware how grim it may become in the next two weeks. I don’t need to view a corpse of fifteen years to bring that point home. And as for the fearless Boukreev, the mountains also took him. While trying to ascend the tenth highest peak in the world the following year, the 8,100 metre Annapurna, he was swept away by an avalanche. At its base stands a memorial in his honour, on which is inscribed his quotation:

  Mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve, they are the cathedrals where I practice my religion...I go to them as humans go to worship. From their lofty summits I view my past, dream of the future and, with an unusual acuity, am allowed to experience the present moment...my vision cleared, my strength renewed. In the mountains I celebrate creation. On each journey I am reborn.

  He had a love of mountains that is lost on me. If this is practicing a religion, then what I feel is penance and sacrifice. If I make it to the top, there’ll be a moment of relief, and then an over-riding urge to get the hell out of there before my luck runs out. Boukreev’s strength is renewed by altitude; mine is sapped. He celebrates creation; I colour the air with curses. He dreams of the future; I dream of escape and a friendly bar on a sandy beach. He is a real man of the mountains. I conclude I am not.

  Another man of altitude, Nurhan, arrived at the hostel one lunchtime. He’d taken Boukreev’s advice to heart and was descending all the way to Namche Bazaar in a single day. Over a yak burger, he explained that he needed meat; his body was craving protein. He reckoned he’d get better quality down lower, not to mention more oxygen. The amount of extra trekking this entailed horrified me, but he said it was necessary. His muscles were wasting away and he had to take decisive action. He would arrive in Namche that evening, eat as much meat as is possible in two or three days, and then ascend back to Base Camp.

  Martin and Ade appeared at the hostel. They reported that the days were dragging at Base Camp. We now crowd around the dinner table each evening, and there’s always someone to chat to during the day.

  They attended an afternoon lecture on altitude sickness, that’s held daily at the Himalayan Rescue Association clinic next door. They recounted that it’s an hour well spent, and so Greg and I decided to listen to it the following day. The only dealing we’d had with the facility was a quick visit on arrival in Pheriche. I needed throat lozenges, but they were out of stock. Greg requested cough syrup for his escalating cough. They only had two of that product left and wouldn’t sell it to him; it was being kept for emergencies.

  The small Pheriche clinic is one of two aid posts owned and run by the Himalayan Rescue Association. The other is Everest ER, the highest hospital in the world. A wind turbine and solar panels provide energy to run lights, equipment, and an oxygen concentrator. It boasts a consulting / examination room, a small ward, three bedrooms for staff, and a day room. In addition, space has been set aside for anyone wishing to undertake research into altitude sickness.

  The illness can strike without warning, even if the rules of ascent have been obeyed. It doesn’t heed age or fitness. It can, and does, kill. An approachable young doctor, possibly from the USA, delivered the presentation. Greg and I learnt little new, but we were glad to have old points reinforced.

  All week we picked up titbits of information on summit prospects. We learned that Linda and her friend Domhnaill were trailing the rope fixing team. On May 6th they reached Camp 4. They intend to reach the peak on the morning of the 7th, during a narrow window. Strong winds are forecast for the 8th, with near storm conditions expected up high from the 10th to the 13th.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It’s May 7th, and I’m sitting behind a lone breakfast table at my usual mid-morning time and pace. Most mortals have long started their day. Greg arrives and tells me that Linda and Domhnaill summited about 6am. Their gamble has paid off, but the news bewilders me having just risen from bed in Pheriche. Had I not flown into Lukla with them five weeks ago? Did I not complete the acclimatisation phase? Regardless, I’m four and a half kilometres below the goal, with it all still to do.

  We discuss the boldness of the endeavour. Angel joins us at the table and reports a problem on the descent. Details are unclear. Linda’s personal Sherpa has radioed those lower on the mountain that she’s unable to walk, due to fatigue or confusion. Our team has Sherpas at Camp 4 who’ve just dropped equipment there. A rescue team has been assembled and dispatched above the South Col.

  A strange couple of hours pass. None of us know quite what to say or do, other than listen for an update. We grasp that a storm is approaching and time is not on their side. It was always the tightest of windows and a delay was never on the agenda.

  At lunchtime, Angel conveys that Linda has reached Camp 4. The group will take a brief rest and then descend.

  Linda has proved the mountain is open. Charlene feels she has missed an early opportunity for success. She believes the team has made the wrong choice by waiting for a safe window. Her aim is to be first. Second place holds nothing for her, better never to have started. On the other hand, better to be alive. John Furneaux, a guide for the Canada West Everest team, describes his feelings on the early shot to the summit:

  There is no way we can climb in those conditions. We need low winds, less than 40 kilometres per hour, and hopefully clear skies. We can climb with a few clouds around, but too many clouds usually means snowfall, which will tire us out … We need at least three days of good weather up high to be successful. For now, we’re in a holding pattern.

  The hostel becomes busier as more climbers retreat from Base Camp. They’ve completed their acclimatisation and are following the forecasts. While it’s impossible to foretell good weather, it seems predicting bad weather is a simpler affair. A storm will blast the upper mountain for the next several days. Most teams now plan a summit bid after May 19th. Kieron has stepped up his game and tends to the crowded tables. The Finns’ bar tab grows.

  Angel informs us that Ted has made the decision on dividing our group into two teams. The first contains the stronger climbers, not that there’s much between us, with the exception of Pete. Ted has placed me on Team 2, as my sleeping bag will be carried up by a Sherpa with the excess gear of Martin and Ade. It’s unlikely that the same man will carry the items for the three of us at the same time, but so be it. The logic perplexes Hugo. He leads Team 1 and had presumed both Greg and I would be with him.

  The team number makes no difference to me, but it means I’ll be split from Greg. On the trail in from Lukla, we trekked together most of the time. We climbed as a pair on much of the route above Base Camp. We shared a tent in an extreme environment. It’s an intimate living space. We divvied up tasks as nee
ded. If one of us was down, the other took over the snow collection, water boiling, and cooking duties. We’d an agreement on how far open to leave the tent zips at night, to get the balance right between insulation and asphyxiation. I favoured oxygen; Greg preferred warmth. It had not occurred to me that I would push for the summit without him.

  On the positive side, Ade and Martin are great men on the mountain. But they’ll hustle together as the Bimble Brothers. I’ll have to shack up with someone else.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  On the morning of May 8th I bid adieu to Hugo, Charlene, Greg, and Khalid. Their holiday has come to an end. They’ll join Pete and Roger at Base Camp and get ready for their summit push within a day or two. Angel, Ade, Martin, and I will return tomorrow. We’ll follow one day behind Team 1.

  May 8th slips away at the hostel. The four of us know that matters are about to get very serious. We’ll climb as a team. We’ll be united in the death zone for a few challenging days. We enjoy our last decent meal together for some time.

  The pain in my throat has eased. My nose has responded to the extra moisture in the air. The last page of this Pheriche vacation is to say farewell to Mr Michael J. Fox; I finish his last chapter and turn off the light.

  May 9

  Trek from Pheriche back up to Base Camp

  “Thanks a lot, sir. Great week, beautiful place.” I set some euros on the counter. “That’s the right amount?”

  “That’s it, perfect,” the owner says. “Next time we see you, you’ll have climbed Everest, yes?”

  “Let’s hope so.” I throw my pack onto my back. “We should be back in two weeks. If we make it to the top, there’ll be some party here.”

  “Best of luck, gentlemen.”

  “All right, Ade, Martin. Holiday’s over. It’s back to the grindstone. See you Kieron. Thanks man.”

  “Let’s get to it.” Ade strides out the door.

  We trek under the sun up the Dudh Kosi valley. We chat and joke as Pheriche shrinks behind us. The greenery thins as we push upwards. I’ll miss it.

  We stop at Thukla for a short break and a Coke.

  “There’s that hill again.” Martin looks up at the two hundred and fifty metre incline to our left.

  “After that, it’s back into thinner air,” Ade says. “Let’s take it steady.”

  Our drinks finished, we labour up the rocky path to memorial hill.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “That was a lot easier than a month ago,” I say.

  “Have we really acclimatised that well?” Martin asks.

  “I don’t know, but something was different. Let’s hope the rest of the day is that easy.”

  The temperature cools and clouds gather. We press on to Lobuche. It’s no longer such a foreign village; this is my fifth time through this settlement at 4,900 metres.

  “This place always looks drearier on the way up. I skipped through here with Greg last week.”

  “A little break, gents?” Ade says.

  “Good thinking.” Martin sits down on a low wall.

  The conversation turns to cars. We weigh up the English Aston Martin against the Italian Maserati. Nice vehicles, but both equally useless up here.

  “Lads, this’s going to be a longer day than we thought.” I rise to my feet. “When we first trekked to Base Camp, this was our morning starting point. We’ve got pretty much a full day’s walk ahead of us.”

  “There’s no going back now,” Ade says.

  An hour beyond Lobuche, our boots touch the rocks. Little grows at this height above 5,000 metres. The air thins and the temperature drops.

  “Yeah, I remember this, a slog,” Ade says.

  Five hours on the trail and we reach Gorak Shep. My earlier enthusiasm has been wiped away. The altitude once again dominates me.

  “Another two hours I guess,” Martin says. “Let’s take a final break here.”

  We sit down on benches in a teahouse. As the two lads chat, I recline. The thin air is hitting me harder than I expected. We just had a week of food and rest. I’m supposed to be stronger, not weaker. For ten minutes I doze and concentrate on my breathing.

  “Back to it, Fergus,” Ade says.

  “Yeah, yeah. All good here. Ready to go.” I force my body upright.

  The hike into Base Camp slaps me; it’s as if all my acclimatisation has been lost. Ade and Martin trudge up beside me. A month ago, I laboured over these last kilometres. Doug and I crawled along here after the trek up Kala Patthar. Maybe I’ve forgotten how high we are.

  The trail over the rock-covered ice sucks the life out of us. I pull in the cold air. I’m glad we spent a week down the valley. Hugo was correct; the body did feel stronger in Pheriche, and my appetite returned. But from here up we tread on glacier. The holiday is over.

  May 9 – May 11

  At Base Camp

  “Welcome back, lads,” Roger says. “How was it?”

  “Let me get some water first.” I reach for a flask in the mess tent.

  I collapse into a chair and start on the first mug. Several of the lads chat around me.

  “It was a good week, Roger. Like a holiday. I hear you’re on Team 1. You guys are setting off in a day or two?”

  “No, it’s pushed back. The -”

  “What? We’re not going?”

  “The window around the sixteenth is too dangerous. We’re going to wait till the twenty second.”

  “No. We could have stayed in Pheriche.” I put the mug on the table. “Another week here. I don’t believe it. I was starting to feel human down there.”

  My energy and muscles will start to degrade. I can take one final push of several days and either way, success or failure, be done.

  “When was that decided?”

  “I think two days ago. I heard a message was put on our blog yesterday, telling you guys to stay down the valley for a few more days.”

  Why would we read our own blog to find out what we’ve been doing? Maybe it had been agreed that messages would be sent to us this way, but this fact was lost on us down in Pheriche.

  “Ok, Base Camp it is for a few days. What’s new here, guys? Apart from Linda, that was a cheeky sprint.”

  She got back here yesterday and will be relaxing in Kathmandu before any climber can replicate her accomplishment. She encountered a few difficulties on the descent. I hear that the mask might not have been on her face at some stage.

  "Guys,” Ted says, “do not take your masks off up high.”

  In thin air, the mind can play tricks. In addition, the hose might get tangled or an adjustment may be needed. There could be a legitimate, yet limited, reason to remove it. I try to instil an extra alarm bell in my brain: even in a confused state, never pull the mask off my face.

  “And if for some reason you have to take it off,” Ted points at us, “for God’s sake leave the oxygen running, even at a low rate. There’ll be moisture on the inlet valve. It’ll freeze in seconds if the oxygen’s not flowing. If that happens, with gloves or mitts, you’ll have some job getting the flow going again. And let’s be careful up there. There’ve been a few injuries. A Sherpa who climbed with us on Pumori took a fall off a face. Either the rope gave way, or he lost his grip. His pack saved him from a broken back.”

  “Is he all right?” Greg asks.

  “He’s injured, but he’ll climb again,” Ted says. “And there was another accident in the Icefall. A ladder pulled away from its anchor. A Sherpa came down with it and broke his arm.”

  We must account for our own actions. But if something goes wrong, the buck stops with Ted. We might perform a foolish manoeuvre, or luck may deal us a nasty hand. It’s our problem, but others will look to him to solve it. He summited Everest before and has no appetite to climb through the Icefall again this month. From here on, this is as high as he’ll go. We’ll be led up Everest by Hugo and Angel, neither of whom has stood on top of this mountain.

  I hear that while we were gone, a body surfaced through the ice next to our camp. O
nly a small portion was visible. The lads in the mess tent reckon it must have lain undiscovered for fifty years, judging by the clothing that the climber was wearing: a thick tweed type material.

  Before the advent of helicopters, dragging a dead climber out would have taken days. Apart from being dangerous, it was also undignified. Cremation was the most respectable exit, but a lack of timber in this unforgiving environment ruled out even such a modest farewell. Survivors usually dropped corpses into a crevasse. But as the glacier inches downhill, it deposits its cargo at Base Camp or further down the valley.

  It was decided to remove the body. Pete spares me no detail in explaining how this process panned out. The cadaver had remained intact for perhaps half a century, protected in a frozen tomb as it edged lower. That silent gracious path to the next world ended this morning; the glacier didn’t wish to give up its prisoner. In the end, it was more similar to hacking a lump of frozen meat from an iced-over freezer. The Sherpas loaded several parts into a bag. The last chapter will now close on the gentleman’s life.

  Charlene appears in the mess tent.

  “These are for you, Fergus.” She hands me half a dozen protein bars and a handful of energy snacks. “For the computer help last week. You said you needed protein.”

  “Fantastic. I didn’t expect anything. You have them to spare?”

  “Yeah, I got loads from my sponsor. But be warned: those protein bars are really hard to eat.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lash through them.” I glance at the wrappers. “Forty per cent protein, cool. You wouldn’t believe how thin my legs are. I’ll eat all of them before I go up that hill again.” I glance towards the Icefall. “One bar a day.”

  If I can get something into my muscles, I might just make it to the top before I fall over. Such a day cannot be too far away.