Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Page 6

  We gain another hundred metres of altitude. Chit-chat has reduced to the bare minimum. The team is strung out ahead and behind. Nature humbles us near 5,000 metres.

  We labour on. It’s just after noon. If I gasp, I slow my pace. The thin air slaps me with every step.

  “Only the rocks to go now.” Greg selects a foot placement among the boulders.

  “Another fifty metres.” I pull in air.

  If this were Europe, we’d be suspended from a sky hook.

  “Well done, guys,” Ted says as we reach the top. “Watch your feet up here. There’s some space over there.”

  Exhausted, but pleased, we join the climbers who’ve already succeeded. The mountain continues to bruise the trekkers further below us.

  I settle into a little cove out of the light wind. As I busy myself consuming a sandwich, fruit, and water, I take in the panorama. I’ve seen it before, but that doesn’t make it any less special. We can see for kilometres down the valley. Knolls, which had blocked our views before, now paint the lower landscape. Hill after hill, peak after snow-covered peak, it continues to the horizon.

  One by one, the rest of the team reaches the finish. Ted congratulates each as they arrive. With some food inside me, I clamber around to take in the spectacle from different angles. I’ve to remind myself there’s a fatal drop off two sides of this apex. Once I’ve satisfied the tourist within me, I scuttle back to my small sanctuary and settle in, protected from the breeze. The thin air will force the next step in our quest for the summit of Everest.

  Greg Takes in the View from the Top

  Laying on my back, a tiny pillow of sand comforts my head. The sun finds me and warms my face. I hear camera shutters catching memories. I can now make the first accurate measurement of my expedition progress. Six months ago, this had been the earliest place I felt dreadful. I was weak. I didn’t want to move. Right now I don’t wish to move either, but only because I’m so relaxed. I’m delighted. I doze off, gaining maximum benefit from this new altitude.

  “Ok, team, let’s head down,” Ted says.

  Groups of twos and threes rise to their feet. Greg nudges me.

  “Hold on, Greg, ten more minutes, this sun is beautiful.”

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  “It’ll do us good. A little extra acclimatisation, come on.”

  “OK, ten minutes.” He leans his head back against the rock beside me.

  The voices of the team fade away below us.

  Ten minutes later Greg and I depart. We negotiate the rocks and find the clay track. My speed at times gets the better of me. I keep forgetting to go slow. I don’t want to undo our cautious progress, or worse still, twist an ankle. But as the extra oxygen fills me on the descent, it’s hard to contain my enthusiasm. My legs and knees are like elastic as I bound down rocky steps.

  “This has been our best day so far,” Greg says.

  “Wow, close to five thousand metres and smiling, I didn’t think it was possible. Base Camp is only three hundred and fifty metres higher.”

  The hike up hurt us, but my appetite was strong at the top. Now on the way down, my legs have found a gear I never knew I had. As we stride off the steeper section, leaving the lunch spot some four hundred metres above us, I can classify the day as a success.

  “I feel like I’m at sea level.” I skip over a hollow.

  “I’m pretty good too, but remember: don’t get cocky.”

  They’re wise words, but on this bright afternoon with under an hour to the hostel, I allow myself a moment of cockiness. I feel great. I’m full of energy. If I can make it to Base Camp healthy, then dare I dream how much further, how much higher I might push my luck?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Mid-afternoon finds us resting in the hostel, thrilled with our day’s exertion.

  “I’m going to pop to the shop. The Chuckle Brothers gave me directions.” I sit up on my bed. “A little chocolate and maybe some Fanta, keep the calories going in. Can I get you something?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Greg says.

  The village resembles the last few we’ve walked through. Small stone houses comprise the accommodation. More modern two story buildings offer lodgings for trekkers. Wobbly walls a metre high surround fields of poor soil. A dusty track two metres wide provides the main street. Yak dung clings to everything. I can’t imagine a lot happens when the sun goes down, not that much seems to occur when the sun is up either.

  I’m standing in a small room at the front of a house. It’s perhaps two metres deep and four metres wide, with a counter in the middle. Products of all descriptions envelop a brown faced woman behind the desk. I recognise many of the brand names. I’d say some have been here a while. She doesn’t speak English, and I’ve no Nepalese, but with a little pointing and holding up fingers, to indicate quantities, a trade is performed. It feels unexpectedly nice to be separated from the regime of the group and to perform an independent act, even one as mundane as this simple transaction. I saunter back to the hostel, content in my own company.

  Back in our room, Greg is resting on his bed.

  “Head up to the others about five?” he asks.

  “Sounds good, an hour and a half rest will be perfect.”

  I prop up some blankets and a pillow on my bed to make sure my head is raised. I pull my sleeping bag over me and snuggle in. I’ll munch on a bar of chocolate in thirty minutes.

  It’s 4pm and snack time. The thin air will thump my appetite above here, and I know I’ll struggle to swallow proper meals. I’ll be beaten when faced with a plate of unappetising rice, but simple snacks and chocolate always appeal to me.

  I don’t feel like a nibble now though. Regardless, I must consume something. At the very least I need to chomp two bars of chocolate each day, in addition to the set-down meals. I choose a Twix and take a bite. My mouth just doesn’t want to know about it. This is a big change from earlier. I’ll find it hard to eat what’s served at Base Camp in the weeks ahead, and I’ve placed a lot of reliance on eating two a day. I hope my body hasn’t decided it doesn’t like cocoa products. Without the fat and sugars that the hundred confectionary bars in my duffle bag contain, I’ll have no chance of summiting. Difficult or not, I have to eat this Twix bar, and so I do.

  Greg ties up his boots and gets ready for dinner.

  “I don’t feel good. Not at all,” I say.

  “Serious? What’s up?”

  “No idea.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Head up without me.”

  “God, that doesn’t sound good.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think you got something?”

  “I hope not.”

  Yak dung covers the trail. The toilet facilities are grim. There’s no hand basin, and a constant stream of trekkers and locals wade through this environment. It only takes one chink in the armour to get whacked. Greg’s earlier warning not to get cocky now rings in my ears.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The light fades and turns to darkness. I lie in bed. I grapple with the covers. I don’t want to move. My breathing labours, my muscles hurt, and my stomach tightens. This is a rotten end to a wonderful day. Two or three ghastly hours pass. Greg eases into the room.

  “How’re we doing?”

  “Not good.” I breathe out.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Pray for a quick death.”

  “Ok, give me a shout if you need anything during the night.”

  “Will do, night.”

  I know where this is going. If I stay dead still, I’ll continue to feel terrible. If I move, I’ll throw up. And of course I’ll still feel dreadful. Either way I’m going to be sick. I’ll gain nothing by waiting till the last second and vomiting all over my sleeping bag and gear. I stagger to the toilet. My legs wobble. I’m nauseous. I’m doubled over like an old man. I’m back in this dim latrine. There’s that hole in the floor. My eyes are squeezed shut to block the pain. Now they’re open, now closed again. Pers
piration drips off my brow. Damn this valley and the diseases that fester in its every corner. What am I doing here? Why do I push myself to do these stupid things? This is vile.

  Hell breaks loose from all angles as my body presses the eject button.

  Time passes. About the only thing I didn’t do was bleed out my ears. I tidy myself as best as possible using the large barrel of water. To be kind to everyone else, and with the few shreds of dignity I still possess, I clean down the area as best I can. Even in a spotless western toilet, those advertisements on TV remind us that germs can lurk in hidden corners. They’ll not be lurking here. The microbes are sitting out sunning themselves, meeting new partners, and bathing in the squalor. Passing within a metre of this toilet could now knock ten years off a man’s life.

  “Well, that went about as badly as could be expected.” I re-enter the bedroom.

  Greg chuckles.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d re-appear. They were some sounds. How’re you doing now?”

  “It’ll be a long night.”

  He reaches into his medical kit and hands me a tablet.

  “Take this. It’s Cipro, an antibiotic. It should kill everything.”

  “God, I wish it would kill me.”

  I hope this Cipro thing is strong. Anti-acids won’t be much use against the might of Nepalese bacteria.

  I get back into bed. I feel a little better but know this night is far from over.

  As I rest on my back, so glad to be off my feet, I recognise that my stomach and bowels will have to regain my trust from scratch. Farting has now been moved into the high risk category. At the first hint of danger, I’ll dash for the exit.

  Last night, Greg and I deduced that getting the room next to the toilet was a bad idea. Constant and often unpleasant visitations flourished. Now its proximity gives me reassurance. I’ve positioned my boots where my feet will hit the floor. All gear and equipment between the bed and the door has been shoved aside. I reckon I can make it from bed to toilet in ten seconds. Soon enough, I receive an opportunity to test my legs. Then back to recover.

  I’m wiped-out. How will I walk tomorrow? This will take a lot out of me, perhaps too much. When illness last struck me in this valley, it took a full month to clear. If I’ve been hit with something similar, my climb is over.

  April 7

  Trek from Dingboche (4,400m) to Lobuche (4,900m)

  About 4am I paid my last visit to the latrine. Eating nothing since lunchtime yesterday, and then expelling whatever food and water was in my system, has left me feeble.

  “How’re you now?” Greg pulls back his covers.

  “Thrashed, but the last few hours have been better.”

  “Will you manage breakfast?”

  “Better to skip it. Anything could happen.”

  “Here.” Greg hands me a pill. “Take another Cipro. We might nip this thing in the bud.”

  The sun shines down on the patio, but I’m in no mood to absorb the beauty that surrounds me. A few of the team inquire as to my health. By way of response, I can only shake my head and indicate that the night was far from appealing.

  “I’m a little off myself,” Hugo says, “and Nadia hasn’t improved.”

  “Man, we’re falling like flies.”

  I’ve flunked the main objective of preseason. I hope that the improvement I’m feeling this morning is the start of a full and quick recovery.

  We set off up the steep eighty metre hill that rises at the rear of the hostel. I complete the tail with Ade and Blake, and set as slow a pace as is possible, without actually stopping. Ang Nama treks a few steps below us. I carry a bottle of Fanta in my hand. I hope that if I can take a sip every ten minutes and hold it down, then I might make it to the lunch target. Blake pulls away from us. I call up to him, reminding him again of the tale about the cattle. He responds that by the time the old bulls plod to the upper field, he’ll have had his wicked way and we’re welcome to what remains. Ade smiles to me and shakes his head.

  “I can feel this,” he says. “Even slow is too fast.”

  Shattered

  After a long night, I leave Dingboche below me. Ade accompanies me. Ang Nama, as ever, brings up the rear.

  We reach the top and pause for a short break. I lean against a stupa to catch my breath. Blake has waited and takes a photo of us. The Himalayas have thrown forth a photographer’s paradise on this bright morning, with the glistening Imja River snaking through the valley. Most of the team has pushed a few hundred metres ahead on the brown trail that cuts through a sparse, green covering.

  “What’s up ahead?” Blake asks.

  “We’ve got a few kilometres along the trail, where the team is. It’s almost flat, just a little against us. That’ll take us to lunch.”

  “You’ll make it?”

  “I feel better than I expected. Let’s see.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I’m hiking alongside Greg, Angel, Ade, and Martin. A stream of Sherpas and heavily laden yaks pass us, also ascending to Base Camp. The bells around the animals’ necks, ringing with every pace, give the atmosphere a Swiss Alpine feel. All the time I’m noting that the sugary sips of Fanta I’ve taken have so far stayed down. Is it possible that the illness has released me so quickly?

  We catch up with the rest of the team, who’ve taken a break outside an abandoned stone hut. They’re sheltering on its leeward side. While it’s not cold walking, it wouldn’t take long once stopped for the light breeze to penetrate a layer of clothing and chill a layer of sweat.

  “I’ll keep going,” I say.

  They’ll pass me quick enough once their break is over.

  Pumori

  Pumori is the leftmost peak. It’s about two and a half kilometres above me.

  Another hour and a half of trekking takes us across a narrow, fast flowing river to the two building settlement of Thukla. Here at 4,600 metres, I spot most of the team sitting outside a teahouse for lunch. I ease into a chair near the end of the table.

  “Hi guys. I see you started without me.”

  “We gave up on you a long time ago,” Doug says.

  Ade chuckles.

  “I’m just glad to make it.”

  The Fanta now gone, I sip on lemon tea.

  “It feels good to sit down.” I lean back in the chair.

  “Lunch?” Khalid asks.

  Prior to arriving in Kathmandu, he was the only climber I knew on the team apart from Ted. We were together on the training climb six months ago. He’s a little older than my thirty-seven years. Another newcomer to the mountains, he began preparing at the start of last year. He’s carrying a few more kilograms around the waist than me. That’ll be a bonus; the demands that lie ahead will burn them up in no time. He’s aspiring to be the first Omani to summit Mount Everest. Like me on Pumori, he was also spent by the time we turned back.

  “No, I’ll skip lunch. It’s too risky. I’ll grab a bar of chocolate.”

  I dig a Bounty bar out of my pack. After twenty-four hours without food, it tastes so good. With the weight off my legs and my pack on the ground, I begin to feel human.

  One of the trekkers dashes from the table and hurls up her lunch. I’d seen worse at a lower height during our training climb. That time there’d been no warning. One of the team vomited on the table. That expedition had prepared climbers for what happens at altitude; although, I’ve learnt as much as I need to know about illness in this valley by now.

  “Here come Nadia and Hugo,” Khalid says.

  I lift up my head and stare down the trail. I don’t recognise the familiar pair.

  “Where are they?”

  “Just there, down on the trail.” He points.

  I recognise Nadia, trudging up towards us, less than seventy metres away.

  “I see her, but where’s Hugo?” I ask.

  “Look, beside her. They don’t look good.”

  “What? Him?”

  I’m staring at an old man, crouched over, struggling to move forward. It’
s impossible. But that’s his gear, his tan coloured hat, the trekking poles. I can’t believe that resilient, well-built Hugo has been reduced to this. He powered up hills, head high and chest out, all week. The inclines never raised his breathing. The shape below has the faltering steps of a withered refugee, dragging himself from a war zone. He’s one of the guides who are supposed to lead us to the summit. I don’t wish to watch their last five minutes of struggle.

  Hugo and Ted are in discussion away from the table. It’s decided the two patients will descend; going up is not an option. They’ll spend two days at a village named Pheriche to recover, or longer if necessary. Their descent should take two hours from here. Looking at Hugo, no one could imagine him scaling Everest. Nadia’s shot at Island Peak has been blown apart. I can continue, but only a delusional fool could picture me reaching the summit. And so the team divides.

  Greg and I turn to face the incline that’s behind our lunch stop.

  “Man, that looks steep,” Greg says. “You’re ok to tackle it?”

  “I’m still walking.”

  “Can you remember from last time? How high is that?”

  “It’s almost a full day’s acclimatisation in itself.” I lift up my pack. “It goes up about two hundred and fifty metres in one go. It twists through the boulders. The top is the bit you can see just there.” I point. “See you at the far side, but not any time soon.”

  The rest of the team disappear among the rocks. I settle into a measured pace. Every fifteen minutes I sit on a rock for a five minute break. My breathing slows. Excess exertion may eject the coconut chocolate treat that comprised lunch. I keep an eye on the altimeter and note I’m over 4,750 metres. The oxygen hides from my lungs. It’s odd to just sit on a rock for five minutes and stare down a valley, motionless. I care not for nature’s panorama. The team has already cleared the challenge. I’m not worried about delaying anyone. Getting to Lobuche before sunset is all that matters. Not throwing up is what concerns me.

  Rest over, another quarter hour of disciplined, uphill drudgery commences.