Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Read online

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  I’m sitting out under the direct rays of the sun on the morning of May 10th. On the peak, however, no one reclines. One hundred and twenty kph winds blast our target. The weather forecast predicts that the jet stream will sit above Everest until at least May 13th. Some teams are still toying with the May 16th window, but waiting till the 18th seems the safer option. Several have decided that the real summit window lies somewhere between the 20th and the 25th.

  I settle back into Base Camp life and prepare for another week here. I discover the truth of what Charlene said; these protein bars taste like wood. I spend thirty-five minutes forcing one down, nibble by nibble, with gulps of water. But so be it, I take my medicine for the day.

  In the mess, I’m charging up the batteries for my electric foot warmers from the solar panels. I’ll place them inside my boots on summit day, when I’ll need every bit of heat I can get. I expect the process to take several hours, but after twenty minutes the indicator light suggests they’ll take no more juice. TC has the same heaters as me. Hers also complete much quicker than expected.

  “Do you think they charged?” I hold the batteries in my hand.

  “It seems a bit quick,” TC says. “There’s no way to know.”

  “There might be a voltage or amp difference between what we need and what’s coming off the solar supply. The charger for my spare AA batteries didn’t work off this.”

  “Let’s hope they’ve something,” TC says.

  “Best we can do.”

  A dozen trekkers should join us this afternoon. They’ve hiked up the valley the last eight days. Angel, who’d set out after us yesterday, had bumped into them on his ascent from Pheriche. They’ll spend a night or two with us and then descend. It must be quite a spectacle to reach Everest Base Camp and see climbers preparing for a summit push. It’ll be very different to the normal tourist sights one might see on holidays. It strikes me as dull now, but I think back to the enthusiasm when I first got here. Several hundred mountaineers now reside here, whom, when kitted up, look like something from an apocalypse movie. We’re living in a tented village on a moving glacier.

  “They should be here early afternoon,” Ted says. “The group’s carrying a bug. Two of them have turned back. We’ve set up a separate mess tent for them. Keep your contact to a minimum. Be careful shaking hands. I’ll tell them the same thing.”

  Having travelled this far, they’ll now be treated as lepers. In the build-up to their trip, they must have imagined a more triumphant arrival. But a violent case of Khumbu belly at this stage will be the end of our summit push; at least, it’ll lead to a very different kind of four day push.

  As the sun dips and the temperatures drop, the trekkers slump into camp. Just before dinner I pop into their tent to say hello and be polite. Tired faces stare back at me. I hope they sleep tonight and can explore tomorrow. The world’s elite climbers and some of the planet’s greatest optimists are preparing on all sides. They’re getting ready to do what they do best: take on Everest and re-test their skills, or find out the hard way if they have what it takes.

  For one of the trekkers, the journey will deliver more than just tourist photos. Yvette is the mother of Guy Leveille, a Canadian climber. She’d wanted to visit the area where her son spent his last days. The nearby Cho Oyu took him two years ago. On the trek up, she and a few Sherpas built a small memorial near Namche.

  After dinner in our mess tent, Linda passes around her camera. She has a few great shots of herself and her climbing buddy Domhnaill on the summit. I note she’s not wearing gloves at the top, or an oxygen mask. Fumbling with focus settings in mitts is difficult. Regardless, she’s sitting here among us and has lived to tell the tale.

  “This is superb.” I pull the camera’s display screen closer. “They’ve got the same shot framed on the wall at the Pheriche place where we stayed. It was spectacular. I couldn’t even work it out at first glance.”

  Taken from just below the summit, she has captured the shadow of Everest cast by the early morning low-lying sun. The light comes from the east. The silhouette is a perfect pyramid to the west. It must cover hundreds of square kilometres.

  “You did pretty well to catch that, Linda.” I pass the camera on.

  If all goes well, the mountain will treat me to a similar view within the next two weeks. But I know how I operate. I doubt I’ll stop to ruffle out a camera at that altitude. Far too much can go wrong on summit night. I’ll be focused on the bare minimum: get up and get down, as quick as possible, and in one piece.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It’s May 11th and I’m basking in the warmth that the morning sun delivers to my tent. The temperature has shot up from -7C just fifteen minutes ago. I’ve transitioned from being cocooned in a sleeping bag, to releasing the zips, to lying on top of it. A tiny MP3 player fills my ears with music. I feel weightless as the watch display approaches +30C. I pull in air in slow, deep breaths. Time waiting at Base Camp is time to be killed. This is as good as it gets here.

  About 10am I head to the mess tent.

  “Hey Greg, late breakfast for you today?” I sit down. “I hope you’re not picking up my bad habits.”

  “There’s not much to do, no point in making the day any longer. Try this cereal with yogurt. It tastes great.”

  “Really? Where did yogurt come from?”

  “Beats me.”

  My body must be low on calcium and dairy; it slides down.

  Back in my tent, I commence the half hour battle with a protein bar. I knock two minutes off my best time and count it as a small victory.

  Late afternoon, I’m sitting alone at the mess table. Ted and Hugo stand near the radio. Weather forecasts have ebbed and flowed, but I sense a change of mind.

  “The Icefall’s becoming unstable,” Ted says. “Every day it’s melting. The longer we wait, the greater the risk.”

  “What do you reckon?” Hugo asks.

  “The window for the sixteenth looks good. We’ll go for it.”

  “Sure?”

  “There’re several forecasts going around, all different. I see a window. Team 1 leaves tomorrow, four AM.”

  “Ok. But the Turks are still on their way back up the valley. What about the teams?” Hugo asks. “They’re not even now.”

  “We’ll have to rejig them. You’ll lead Team 1 as planned. The Turks are off Team 1.”

  “Ok,” Hugo says. “So I’ve got Charlene, Greg, Khalid, Pete, and Roger.”

  “That’s right. Matthew was Team 2, but he’s out, urinary tract infection. He’s heading down the valley. Angel will take Team 2. That’s Ade, Martin, TC, Fergus, and the Turks.”

  “There should be one more on Team 1 then,” Hugo says.

  I can see where this is going. I take another sip of tea.

  “You’re right,” Ted says.

  “What about Fergus?” Hugo asks. “For Team 1.”

  They turn around and look down at me. A lot has happened in the last minute. I didn’t want to hang about Base Camp for a week, but this development startles me. There are only a few hours left in the day. There’ll be a short sleep, then a 3am alarm call for a push at Everest. After six weeks of acclimatisation and a year of preparation, the playoffs have commenced. I’ve qualified.

  “Yeah, sounds good.” I nod my head.

  I’ve got to get my equipment ready, figure out how much food to carry, and fill my pack. The clock is ticking.

  “I’ll just make a few final adjustments to my gear.” I stroll out of the tent.

  I can’t hide the smile on my face, nor can I wait to tell Greg the news.

  The Route

  1: Base Camp

  2: The Ice Fall

  3: Camp 2 is pressed against the side of Everest

  4: Camp 3 is halfway up the Lhotse Face

  5: The Yellow Band is the light shade of rock that we must cross

  6: The Geneva Spur is the black outcrop that we must cross

  7: Camp 4 at the So
uth Col is hidden around the rear of Everest

  8: We should climb the rear of Everest to the summit

  May 12

  Climb Up from Base Camp to Camp 2 on the Summit Push

  Up to now, any of us could have a bad day and then catch up later. Any delays or illness from here on and that’s it, no summit.

  I picked up a few hours of sleep, on and off. I wake before my watch rings at 3am. Today I must reach Camp 2. That distance will be a first for me.

  “Fergus! You up?” Greg calls from his tent.

  “Getting dressed.”

  I crawl out into the glacial dark and shuffle to the mess tent. A triangle of light from the head torch illuminates the way. Outside of that, blackness reigns. My breath floats in the frigid air. Flickering blobs of orange and yellow reveal where other climbers are preparing.

  At the table, I knock back a litre of warm water, which one of the Sherpas has ready for us. I force down a cereal bar. The rest of Team 1 appear for breakfast, fill their bottles with water, and set off. Greg arrives and eats some food. I pick up the remaining flask, intending to fill my bottle. In an automatic motion, I pass the thermos spout under my nose and take a whiff.

  “I don’t know about that.” I frown. “Greg, does that seem ok to you? It smells odd.”

  He bends down over the flask.

  “Seems fine.”

  “Sure?” I sniff it again. “I’ll see if there’s any more water about.”

  “It’s grand, no worries.”

  I can’t find any other container. Greg downs two mugs of water from the flask. That being the case, I fill my litre bottle and place it into the insulated mounting on the side of my pack. Greg does likewise and we walk out into the darkness.

  Ice ridges reach up around us in the darkness. Greg has stopped.

  “Any idea?” He looks left and right.

  “No. Damn. It all looks the same to me. No sign of the others?”

  “No, I can’t see a marker stick either. I don’t recognise this. Let’s back track.”

  Thirty minutes have passed since leaving. I plod behind Greg.

  “Up above. Lights, moving. Just there.” Greg points. “Yeah, I know this bit. We’re good.”

  We leave the ridges behind us. Panting, I lug my boots up each step. I can’t believe a person could feel this bad and yet launch themself into a full day’s climbing. It’s as if there’s no oxygen in this freezing maze.

  We should reach the fixed rope in a minute. The climb proper commences.

  “I need a second.” Greg leans over.

  He hurls. I shudder watching him. My stomach spasms and I step away a few paces. He vomits again. I double over. I dry wretch. I can’t remember if I drank from the ill smelling flask or not. I didn’t down mugs of it like Greg. I regain my breath and stand a little taller, hands on my thighs.

  “Take your time, Greg.”

  He throws up again.

  “Are you guys ok?” I recognise Khalid’s voice from up above us.

  He’s climbing with Jingbar and is accompanied by another personal Sherpa from one of the climbers who’d quit two weeks ago. Moving lights indicate their position.

  “Not sure, sick. Greg’s throwing up. I think it was the water.”

  “I’ll be ok.” Greg says from his knees.

  “No rush.”

  We can’t make out what the guys above are explaining, but get the gist that a Sherpa or two have also been struck ill. One of Khalid’s personal Sherpas may be lying down vomiting in the dark.

  “This is a dog show.” I take my bottle from its holder and pour a litre of still warm water onto the snow. “No point in carrying that shit up the mountain.”

  Greg empties his bottle. Five minutes ago, we faced the prospect of a day’s mountaineering in one of the most dangerous places on earth. That’s become a pleasant memory. We now confront an appalling vista. Greg is nauseous. Whatever fluid was in his body has landed on the snow. Dehydration is just a matter of time. He has a litre of orange flavoured water in his pack, which he prepared from a clean source. But he can’t drink it; he’ll throw up again soon and waste it. I might be healthy. If I did swallow the tainted liquid, it was only a mouthful. However, I must tackle an eight hour climb or more with an empty bottle.

  “What do you think, Greg?”

  “Let’s go on.” He stands upright. “See how far we get. If I go back, it’s over.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  As plans go, it’s as bad a proposal as I can imagine. I take the lead. We trudge upwards and close the gap to the lights.

  Khalid is struggling to stay on his feet. He’s light headed. I think he said one of his Sherpas has thrown up, but I’m unclear.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No.”

  “This is a mess.”

  “I’ll keep going, slow,” Greg says. “Try to stay with me, Khalid.”

  “Ok.”

  “Onwards, I suppose.” I turn and follow the rope.

  Hugo, Pete, Roger, and Charlene are climbing above us in the darkness, oblivious. I plod upwards at the front. I can’t figure out how I will ascend to the top of the Icefall. It’s so early in the day and I have nothing left. I have to rely on Mr Jonny Walker’s simple advice: keep on walking. But whatever about my problems, I can’t grasp how Greg and Khalid, ten metres behind, can keep on climbing. Every few minutes I look back to check on them. They take turns throwing up or grappling to stay upright.

  Two hours of torture inflicts itself upon us.

  Day break arrives and we switch off our head torches. Greg has recovered more than I could have imagined was possible. We’re far from strong, but we focus on reaching the top of the Icefall. Just below us, Khalid slogs upwards. Looking to my left, I measure our progress by lining our position level with landmarks in the West Shoulder. Headway is slow, but we’re ascending. I expected a busier route. Perhaps many have interpreted the weather forecast different to us.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Winded, Greg and I climb up the last vertical face that marks the crest of the Icefall. We’re through it.

  “Five hours, Greg.” I slip my watch back under the sleeve. “That’s incredible. I thought you were finished down there.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Only an hour longer than last time. Man, we need water.”

  “Ok, let’s get to Camp 1. We’ll crack into my bottle there.”

  An hour later we reach Camp 1. We collapse onto the hard snow beside a tent. It’s about 10am on a bright morning. Under the sun’s rays, the cold cannot find us. Charlene is resting in one of the shelters. She’s been here for some time with Mingmar, having set off before 3am in her race to the summit. Hugo, Pete, and Roger had pushed on towards Camp 2 before we got here. Roger must get stronger the more this mountain throws at him. As for Pete, I don’t think machines weaken.

  “Let me get that water.” Greg reaches into his pack.

  “It was from a different flask?”

  “Definitely. No question about it.”

  My whole being centres on the bottle. He takes a swig and passes it to me. I gulp down two mouthfuls and hand it back to him. I close my eyes. Our prospects improve. We’ll get hydrated. The sun has moved high in the sky, but it won’t be too hot for walking. The wind is just a breeze. I lie back, happier.

  “No!” he says. “The bottle.”

  My back hits something. He’d placed the opened bottle behind me. I try to save it, but it’s fallen down the side of the tent upside down. I strain to grab it. By the time I haul it out, the precious contents are melting the snow underneath the tent. There’ll be no water.

  Greg spent six hours porting a kilogram of liquid up through the Icefall to here. He waited until this moment to drink it, when he was certain he wouldn’t throw up its contents. But the fluid is now a part of the Khumbu glacier. The stain of orange coloured snow devastates me.

  After some silence
, punctuated by obscenities, we accept that the water is gone. So be it, just another setback in an otherwise terrible day.

  “Hey guys, how’re you doing?” Mingmar stands above us.

  We swap our stories of the day. Understanding our plight, he produces half a litre of water from somewhere and donates it to us. We thank him and start drinking. This liquid will not be spilt. Greg and I pass the bottle between us like bomb disposal experts handling a device. Finally, we have a little fluid inside us. We should be able to make it to Camp 2 in less than three hours. Once there, we’ll drink our fill.

  We say goodbye to Charlene and Mingmar, throw on our packs, and press on. She says she’ll follow. We maintain a steady pace and negotiate the crevasses just above Camp 1.

  “There’s Charlene behind us, about a hundred metres back,” I say.

  “She’s the only one else out here. Is no one else going for this window?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Maybe other teams are at Camp 2 already.”

  After the crevasses we face the long walk across and up the valley. It’s not steep, more of a false flat. The sun’s rays bounce off the snow. Charlene closes the gap. She catches up and passes by in the same movement. I don’t even try to match her pace. We keep on slogging, crippled by dehydration.

  We’ve trudged for two hours since Camp 1. The noonday sun blasts down on us. The boulders that mark our target grow in size, perhaps a kilometre away. Gasping, we grind on in their direction. From there, we’ll have to overcome the last one hundred metres gain on rocks to the tents.

  But this last kilometre of snow will not disappear. Our steps shorten. Charlene has become a red dot, at least seven hundred metres ahead. She’ll soon turn left off the snow and into the rocks. My movement becomes a dazed shuffle. It’s impossible to think we might not make it from here. It’s so close, but I’ve nothing more to give. Greg lumbers ten metres behind. Only one thought keeps me going: there’s no alternative. If we stop, we’re quitting and waiting for a rescue, or worse.

  Greg leans down and puts a hand on my back.

  “You ok, puking?”

  I’d dropped to one knee; standing had asked too much of me.