Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Read online

“Don’t know, fainting.”

  “You’ve got gel packs?”

  “Yeah, in my backpack.” I tug the chest straps loose.

  He helps me get the pack off. I fumble inside it. I tear open a packet with my fingers and suck in its contents.

  “How’s that?” Greg looks down on me.

  “Still bad. Head’s gone.” I try to draw in air. “Oh God, oh shit, my hands.”

  Pain surges into both of them. It feels like they’ve been plunged into icy water, only colder. I stare at them and roar expletives. I can no longer move the fingers.

  “I think the blood has stopped at the wrists,” I say.

  Greg tries to shove on my gloves, but fails. I can’t assist.

  Ten minutes have elapsed since I dropped to the snow. The fainting sensation has eased, but that’s no longer my concern. My body’s collapsing around me.

  Angel has backtracked fifty metres and stands over me. Between swearwords, I tell him my hands have stopped working; it feels like they’re on fire.

  “Have you got mitts?”

  “Yeah, in my pack.”

  “Gloves are no use now.” He fishes out the mitts.

  My hands can generate no heat. Placing each digit in a separate finger in a glove will wrap them in a narrow, icy coffin from which they’ll not recover. I groan with agony. But the curses are different. The pain does not cause the obscenities. They find voice because I know my climb is over.

  Angel wraps my hands in the double mitts.

  “Is that better?” he asks.

  “Same.” I try to move my hands but can’t.

  The mitts are the same temperature as the surrounding air, below -15C. The circulation has stopped at my wrists. These frigid wrappers will not help.

  “The pain.” I know the clock is ticking.

  “Greg, keep going. There’s nothing you can do,” Angel says. “You’ll get cold standing here.”

  “Ok, good luck Fergus.”

  He must know this is the end for me.

  I’m standing in front of Angel. He holds my mitten wrapped hands. I shake my head. Curses emit.

  “Jesus, it’s killing me. Can’t move them.”

  “Ok, try this.” He opens his suit down to the lower chest.

  He yanks the right mitt off and shoves my bare hand inside his suit, deep into his armpit. Within ten seconds I feel something.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s working,” I say.

  The pain eases. For the first time in twenty minutes I feel hope. My breathing relaxes. The foul language reduces.

  “That’s almost a minute. Let’s get it into the mitt quick,” he says.

  We make the switch. A few seconds passes.

  “Shit, no,” I say.

  The coldness returns. Again, I cannot move my fingers. I fear I’ll lose my hands.

  “Ok, let’s get this right hand working. Let’s figure it out. Then we’ll do the same on the left.” He thrusts the hand back inside his armpit to steal his body heat. The left remains frozen in its mitt.

  As Angel’s core heat transfers to my right hand, the warmth and blood return to it.

  “We’ll give it two minutes,” he says. “Then we’ll put it into the inner liner of the mitt. Let’s not lock it away in the full mitt.”

  “Ok, ready? Do the switch quick,” he says.

  “All set.”

  We fit my hand into the inner liner. Angel kneads and massages it as I fight against him.

  “I can feel that. That’s it.” I move and twist my hand against his.

  Within five minutes it’s an equal battle. My hand strengthens. It has reignited.

  “Ok, here’s the outer mitt.” He slides it on. “Keep moving those fingers. Don’t stop for twenty minutes. Now let’s sort out that left hand.”

  Three minutes later my left hand has robbed enough of Angel’s body heat to start the recovery process. We wrestle for five minutes. I now have two limbs that work.

  “Thanks, Angel.” I breathe out, look down, and shake my head.

  Calmness returns, but I’m weak. My climb is probably finished. Standing still is not an option. If I go up, I should reach the Bergschrund in half an hour. The sun will rise over Lhotse about the same time; that’ll warm me up. Descending is the safer choice, but I’ll be in the shadow of Everest for at least twenty minutes longer.

  I decide to go up. It’s not just the sun. I’ve been higher than this before. This is not new territory. I know my body can take this altitude. I know I can perform at Camp 3. How can I quit in the lowlands of 6,600 metres? Something will prevent me from summiting. It will probably occur within the next hour. But whatever it is that stops me, it will not be right now. Not at this spot.

  “Angel, thanks. I was in trouble there. I’ll keep going, into the sun.”

  What he just did was astounding: his experience, the improvisation, the quick thinking. This morning would have gone a different route if he wasn’t here. The unscheduled stop has lasted forty-five minutes. I lift up a left boot, then a right. I’ll keep doing it till I can do it no more.

  The View Ahead

  Climbers dot the route up the Lhotse Face to the tents at Camp 3.

  I reach the Bergschrund. Martin stands alone.

  “Hey Martin, you ok?”

  “No, my hands. I’m finished,” he says.

  “What? No. I had the same. Angel got me going.”

  “They’re killing me. Been like this for ages. Ade tried to help, but I sent him on. I didn’t want him cold too.”

  “Angel helped me. He put my hands in his armpits. Let me see them. He -”

  “It’s no good. Go on.”

  How can this strike Martin too? Was it colder this morning? Is there less oxygen in the air? Are we all starting to degrade after six weeks in the mountains? There must be a link.

  “Angel is just there.” I point down the valley. “He’ll be here in five or six minutes.”

  I argue with Martin that he can still recover. Angel did not give up on me. I cannot pass on by after the second chance I’ve received. All the time, I wiggle my fingers in the mitts. Angel draws close to us.

  “Angel, it’s Martin. He’s got the same problem I had. His hands are frozen, been that way since before I got here.”

  “What? You’re still ok?”

  “I’m good, yeah.” I show him the mitts opening and closing as I flex my hands.

  “Right, you keep moving. I’ll look after Martin.”

  “Ok. Martin. Martin.” I stare at him. “You’ll be fine. I’ll see you up on the face.”

  He looks back at me. I’m not convinced.

  I climb up the Bergschrund. The traffic has kicked in a few footholds.

  I start the Lhotse Face. Above me looms a forty degrees slope, dead straight, all the way to Camp 3 at 7,100 metres. I’m standing at 6,700 metres. I’ll climb and see how far I get.

  I get into a rhythm, slow and steady. Mountaineers ascend the rope to my left at about the same speed as me. I look behind but see no sign of Angel or Martin. They’ll appear over the Bergschrund in due course and catch up to me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I think to look at my altimeter. It surprises me; I’m making progress. I’m at 6,850 metres. A hundred and fifty metres of the Lhotse Face lies beneath me. My climb might not be over. If I can reach Camp 3, take on water and food, and grab a night’s sleep, I could be back on track tomorrow. I must gain two hundred and fifty metres more in altitude to fight another day. I’ll have to set mini-goals to get there, but every fifty metres is too optimistic. I could achieve targets of thirty metres. I’ve eight sections above. The thirty metre calculations will be more complex than just adding up groups of fifty. The mathematics will keep me engaged, focus me on the job at hand, distract me from thoughts I must avoid.

  Over my shoulder I search for Angel and Martin. Several climbers are ascending the two ropes below me, but I can’t make out the familiar pair of white and orange helmets.

  I reach another thirty met
res goal. I turn around and peer down the mountain. Angel’s form, crowned in white headgear, ascends. I eliminate the mountaineers one by one, all the way to the Bergschrund. The slope lacks the orange helmet of Martin. Something has gone wrong. I allow myself believe he’s just delayed and will appear. But I know Angel would never leave a person to climb up alone in such circumstances. The sight saddens me.

  I climb on, breathing under control. Up ahead the two ropes join. For twenty minutes I’ve been reeling in someone to my left. We reach the meeting point at the same time. We turn around and sit down beside each other for a break.

  “Hi there. How’s your day going?” I ask.

  “Good.” She reaches for her bottle. “And you?”

  “Not too bad, not too far away now.”

  I’m sitting beside Bonita Norris. She’s vying to be the youngest British woman to summit Everest. Gazing down the Cwm Valley, we swap a few stories and share a laugh. In a day that’s been far from normal, this moment of serenity allows me escape its hardships. For a few minutes, I could be sitting in a foreign beauty spot chatting to a fellow traveller. I start to believe I’ll reach Camp 3. Bonita doesn’t know what a rough ride I’ve had. If she thinks I look like any other climber on his way to the top, then that’s what I must be. Five more thirty metre goals and I can rest.

  “I’m going to push on.” I rise to my feet.

  “I’ll take a few more minutes to recover,” she says.

  “It was nice to meet you. Good luck.” I turn my back on the valley and lift a boot forward.

  Euphoria replaces exhaustion and anxiety. I cannot believe I’m still in the game. A few hours ago, it was as good as over. I imagine the look on Greg’s face when he sees me slipping into Camp 3.

  I put in another hour and a half of climbing and close in on the tents. The coldness has long left my body. If my muscles are tired, I’m not aware of it. I’ve pulled success out of nowhere. Within forty-eight hours I might even stand atop Everest.

  I hit the last thirty metre section. I know the entrance to camp deceives, and it will extract another twenty minutes of slog. But I’m ready for it and pace myself into the finish, a finish I’d written off just a few hours ago.

  Greg stares at me as I stride past the tents. Mountain ranges beyond Pumori paint the scenery to my right. Today’s starting point lies far below.

  “Didn’t expect to see me?” A smile extends across my face.

  “Oh my God, Fergus.” He shakes my hand. “How on earth did you do that?”

  “Don’t ask. There were a few hairy moments this morning.”

  “Yeah, I think I saw them. How are the hands?”

  “Fine I think. Which tent is ours?”

  “Just there.” He points.

  “Hey Fergus, how’s Martin?” I hear Ade’s voice.

  I turn around. He’s a few metres away outside a tent. I didn’t want to do this. I walk over to him.

  “Ade, for the last three hours, I’ve been looking down the slope. He’s not there. I was looking for his orange helmet, no sign. I saw Angel. He’s not with him. Sorry.”

  “No, no.” Ade puts his hand on his brow. “Oh, not Martin. This meant so much to him. He’ll be devastated.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Just like that.” Ade looks away from me. “He was a great man to climb with.”

  “Yeah, it was a good team you had. You’d have lost the Bimble Brothers title anyway, with the speed you came up there today.”

  “Damn.”

  The two ex-soldiers will not make a brew together in their tent tonight.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Greg and I are melting snow in the tent and recuperating. We’ve another two hours of daylight. Today has taken little out of him.

  “You’re ok for tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’ll just take on as much food and water as I can. My hands hurt though. Look at the back of them.”

  “Man, they’re swollen. At least the colour’s ok.” He takes my hands.

  “I can’t squeeze a fist, that’s as far as I get.” I force my fingers to touch my thumbs. “There’s no gripping strength. And that hurts too.”

  “Let me see.” He prods the back of my hands. “That’s not good.”

  He mumbles something about crystals under the skin.

  “There could be some dead tissue there,” he says. “Do not get them cold. I’m serious. Whatever you do, you must never get those cold again until we get back to Base Camp.”

  “Got you.”

  “If that happens again, they won’t recover.”

  “OK, got it. Warm from here on in.”

  Subzero temperatures surround us. In the next forty-eight hours, we’ll ascend to one of the coldest places on earth. I hope I don’t do anything stupid.

  As for the other teams, several are huddled in twos and threes, boiling water into the night like Greg and me. But most are down at Base Camp. Jet stream winds scour the mountain above the South Col. Many squads will not touch this window.

  Angel filters news to us that it was Anne-Mari who Greg had seen this morning. Her Altitude Junkies team expects high winds on the 16th and 17th. They instructed her to descend and will not support a climb in these conditions. In their words:

  … we are glad to concede the race that has become dangerous and at times too deceptive for our liking.

  May 16

  Climb Up from Camp 3 (7,100m) to Camp 4 (approx. 8,000m) on the Summit Push

  Greg and I drag our packs out of the tent at 7am. Just beside us, Ade and Roger ready themselves on a bright, still morning. Khalid and his two Sherpas shuffle out of their shelters. We’ve a clear view of the Cwm Valley below. The peak of Pumori stands less than a hundred metres higher than us. Climbing above it will be an achievement. It’s a strange aim, but a target nonetheless. As I ascend, I’ll observe the altimeter and glance over my shoulder. 7,200 metres should be an early boost to the day.

  Roger didn’t continue with Team 1 yesterday, I’m not sure why. But Hugo, Charlene, and Pete are deep into their summit push. They might even be at the top.

  “Morning, Angel. Is there any word on the others, Team 1?” Greg asks.

  “They didn’t set out. They’re at Camp 4.” Angel pockets his walkie-talkie.

  “What?” I say. “What happened?”

  They had problems. There weren’t enough working stoves. The guys couldn’t get hydrated or fill their bottles for the push. Dehydration will result in frostbite, deteriorating performance, and a risky finish to a fifteen hour journey to the summit and back. In addition, there was a lack of Sherpas at Camp 4 to carry the necessary oxygen tanks. Details are hazy. It’s possible the Sherpas were there, but they were too tired to assist having spent all day climbing direct from Camp 2. They only reached the South Col a short time before the push was due to begin.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “We’ll all climb tonight as one team,” Angel says. “Ok, get your oxygen tanks set up.”

  Greg and I lift up a cylinder each, sit down on a snow ridge, and connect up the parts. I slide the tank into my backpack, leaving the regulator sticking out the top. I pull the mask over my nose and mouth and tighten the elastic cheek straps.

  “Greg.” I stretch the mask a centimetre from my face. “Set me on two litres.”

  “Turn around.” He plays with the valve behind my neck.

  He taps me on the shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up. Speaking isn’t possible from under these masks; only an incoherent mumble escapes. I set up Greg’s flow, and we double check each other. Signals and firm gestures replace words.

  I can hear a faint hissing noise on the right side of the mask where the oxygen hose is connected. I think that’s a good sign. I hold the plastic bottle that contains the bladder and examine it. As I breathe in hard, it deflates. As I stare at it, it expands. I satisfy myself that if the bag is inflating, the system is working.

  We walk out of camp towards the fixed rope. Climbers asce
nding from lower tents jam it. Everyone here is aiming for the same window. We spot a small gap in the stream of mountaineers and clip in. My crampons scrape across the seventy degree gradient of hard blue ice. Whoever said the climb from Camp 2 to Camp 3 separates those who summit from those who go belly-up was never here.

  Everyone is tugging on the rope. I can purchase no grip underfoot. My breathing soars. I scramble to gain a handful of steps. This is not how I’m supposed to climb. I reach a spot a pace wide, where the slope is less severe. I calm my gasping, relieved to ease the strain from my legs and right arm for a few moments. Then it’s up again. In front of me, a metre from my face, a wall of ice stands. Above me, a line of climbers are wrestling the surface, almost on top of each other. Just behind and below, Greg pushes up.

  I kick the spikes that jut out the front of my boots into the ice face. At times, the sole of my boot makes no contact with the smooth, near vertical wall. The jumar stops me falling off the mountain. The technique works, but despite the slow pace ahead, it exhausts me. I can’t do this all day.

  I push myself over a ridge. The wall of ice at my nose relents. The Lhotse Face opens up in front of me. I’m staring at a more moderate white slope, all the way up to the rocky summit of the world’s fourth highest mountain. I can see what’s ahead. It’ll be easier than the first half hour. I also understand what’s caused the delay. Fifty metres from me, an injured climber is lying on the snow.

  We plod up towards the incapacitated person. He remains motionless in a bright orange and yellow jacket, bound in ropes. A cord connects him to the fixed line. I watch mountaineers, ten paces ahead, trudge past him in silence. It’s clear the man is not injured. He is dead.

  I’m taken aback by the man’s demise. I’m not sure of the protocol. He lies here at the entrance to the death zone. I didn’t expect to find a sentry guarding a checkpoint, but nor did I expect death to wave us through.

  The only guidance I can take is the climber’s silent warning to the rest of us: this is a treacherous undertaking. I lumber by, as the procession ahead has, and acknowledge the moment.

  Greg and I are pushing up a long, steep, snowy slope. I’ve got into a rhythm. I take one pace with my right boot and then inhale and exhale through the mask. Then I take another full breath, in and out, and lift my left boot upwards. I’m stationary for almost ten seconds after every step. The early bunching of climbers has dissipated. Angel, Ade, and Khalid are battling somewhere below us.