Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Read online

  In my own world, I complete each fifteen minute section and drag in the top. The climb has belted me. But this morning, I didn’t expect to see what was beyond it. With my breathing still under control, I push around the topmost boulder. I see the team just ahead, beneath prayer flags at a graveyard.

  A few groups mill around to read inscriptions on the memorials. If a climber dies in these mountains, they can expect a chisel to etch out their name here in rock. Five died on Everest last year. Eleven lost their lives in 2006. I’m aiming for a Dublin epitaph, and not in this decade.

  Clouds have dropped down on us. I zip up my fleece as the wind grabs the prayer flags. We had the same weather conditions the last time I was here. The mist grips these memorial rocks and dampens and depresses the surrounding mood. Not wishing to get cold, I keep walking. Greg joins me, and the two of us press on.

  “You’re looking a bit better,” Greg says.

  “Yeah, not too bad, I’ll make Lobuche.”

  We trek through the upper valley along the banks of a small stream. The slight gradient asks few questions, and we make decent progress. Several hundred metres to our left, we see a neat collection of at least twenty tents.

  “Whose tents are those I wonder?” Greg asks.

  “It’s the middle of nowhere, just at the base of a mountain,” I say.

  “Russian brides,” I hear Ang Nama say.

  “What? Russian brides? Let’s get right over there,” I say.

  “No, no,” Ang Nama says. “Russell Brice, not Russian brides. The tents belong to his Himex team.”

  “Oh, that’s a disappointment. What are they doing here?”

  “The Icefall is dangerous, very dangerous. Some teams do acclimatisation rotations elsewhere. Lobuche peak, just there.” Ang Nama points up to the mountain on our left. “Same height as Camp 1, six thousand one hundred metres. They’ll acclimatise up there, short time in Icefall.”

  It sounds like a clever strategy. They’ll still have to do at least one rotation up to Camp 3 before attempting a summit push. But from what I’ve heard, the less time spent in the Icefall the better. Three Sherpas died at its hands on the same day in 1982. Six were taken in a moment back in the early seventies. Ice avalanches, falling seracs, and a tumble into a crevasse pose a constant danger.

  Greg and I start the final stretch into Lobuche. Despite illness, I’m in better condition than at this point six months ago. I can remember pounding along this section with my head throbbing. Chatting with Greg, the metres disappear behind us into the weak afternoon sun. An hour later, we turn a corner to be greeted by the sight of tonight’s village at 4,900 metres.

  “I see standards drop as we get higher,” Greg says.

  “You can write off the comforts of home here.”

  We see half a dozen stone lodges and not much else. A small stream that trickles through provides the drinking water. We’ll experience freezing conditions here tonight. I remember my last visit here: a cold damp room, so-so food, and a hole in the ground for a toilet. I read a sign requesting that the toilet door be shut to seal in the smell. That’s all well and good, unless of course you’re inside suffocating.

  We find the lodge where the team is staying. Greg and I settle into a room barely wider than the two single beds within and only half a metre longer. It’s not as bad as I’d recalled. A sheet of plywood separates each bedroom from the next. I’ll be glad to lie down later. After a night of horrors and a trek with no food, I’m more than happy with our lodgings.

  We head back to the mess for tea and biscuits. On the way I spot the trekker who’d been ill at lunch. She’s sitting on a bed in her room, her face white as a sheet. Hopefully she’ll improve, but I suspect her rough afternoon will be trumped by a harrowing night.

  “You’re looking much better,” Martin says as I approach the table.

  “My appetite’s back anyway. Pass me down that flask will you?”

  Angel gets up from the group and does a tour of the rooms to make sure no one’s lying down. Being horizontal is thought to increase blood around the brain and contribute further to altitude sickness. I’ll set up my mattress tonight to make sure my head is well raised.

  As the sun sets, a pack of cards appears. We spend the evening eating, sipping tea, playing cards, and chatting. One by one we head off to bed and leave this room for the Sherpas to sleep in.

  Back in our room by 9:30pm, Greg and I are stretching out our sleeping bags. Ice on the small window distorts what lies beyond in the dark, but these bags will have us cosy in no time.

  “Take a Cipro,” Greg says, “and another one tomorrow morning. Then you should be ok.”

  “Thanks. I’ll open this window a little.”

  “What? Are you mad? It’s freezing out there.”

  “Last time I was here, I’d a killer headache,” I say. “These rooms are tiny. The little oxygen that’s here will be gone in no time. By the time I tried to open the window in the middle of the night last time, it had frozen solid.”

  “Ok, just an inch.”

  I push it open a crack. The momentary touch of the glass chills my fingers. We’ve ascended far above the night time freezing level. Every metre above here will deliver yet colder evenings. On a single day in the mid-eighties, four Indian climbers succumbed to exposure near the summit and froze to death. Next month I might reminisce on tonight with warm, fond memories.

  “Hugo was in bad shape today.” I reach for the light switch. “Will he make it back?”

  “He’d better. If we’re down a guide, we’re seriously compromised.”

  “Let’s hope no one else falls before Base Camp.”

  After a distressing twenty-four hours, I consider the positive as I wait to drift off. Last time in Lobuche, I’d been one of those lying on a bed mid-afternoon, struggling to stand. I’d taken paracetamol but to no effect. And that night, I’d woken up for about two hours. Sitting on the bed, I’d thought my head would explode. I’d convinced myself that the small room was almost airtight and the oxygen in it had been used up. This evening, at most, I feel a slight dullness.

  I’m on track. If I can stay healthy tomorrow morning, I’ll reach Base Camp fit by early afternoon. When we set out from Lukla a week ago, I expected more than a few dints in the armour. As Greg says, just keep drinking and peeing to stay strong. Although maybe not right now; this is my sleeping bag for the next seven weeks.

  April 8

  Trek from Lobuche (4,900m) to Base Camp (5,350m)

  One day to Base Camp. My illness from two days ago has vanished.

  “That’s too bad about Blake.” Greg steps out into the cold morning air.

  “Blake? What happened to him?” I’m pulling on my skinny gloves.

  “He’s out -”

  “What?”

  “He’s out. His heart was racing over one twenty all night, same problem this morning. Ted says it’s too high. The only safe option is to go down.”

  “No Island Peak for him?” I ask.

  “His lips were blue when I examined him. I guess if he recovers down low, he can try. Maybe he could catch up with the others. Just skip the Base Camp visit.”

  “That sounds like a long shot. That’s the end of the Chuckle Brothers.”

  “Reckon so,” Greg says.

  “Damn. There’s Blake now. I better go over and say something.”

  He looks healthy, but the spark is missing. We exchange a few words. A couple of minutes later, he descends the valley in the company of a Sherpa who’ll keep an eye on him.

  Des, what remains of the Chuckle Brothers, is standing at the door with Greg and me.

  “I didn’t count on that.” Des looks down.

  “It’s a shame to see him go. Well, keep your spirits up. At least he’s alive and well.”

  I’ll miss Blake’s jesting. The reality dawns on me as I watch him disappear; we’ll probably never see each other again.

  Other teams have suffered similar illnesses as us. We hear that six o
ut of nine climbers on the Alpine Ascents squad have already picked up infections.

  We stroll out of Lobuche up a gently sloping grass valley. Under the warming sun, Greg and I natter with two Canadian trekkers from the group at the rear. We debate politics, the environment, and bankers, the bad guys of the day for all nationalities. They determine that their next holiday will be focused on leisure and relaxation. They’re many years older than us. This excursion has demanded more of them than they’d planned. With luck they’ll experience a night at Base Camp and then descend to lower altitudes and better times.

  After an hour and a half we reach the end of the valley. Greg and I stare at a boulder strewn slope in front of us.

  “We’ll really push into the highlands now,” I say. “After that slope, it’s mostly rock and dust, very little grass.”

  “You know the route all the way?”

  “No, somewhere this afternoon it becomes glacier. That’ll be all new to me.”

  I plod up the track and wind around the boulders. The altimeter indicates that the 5,000 metre mark has been broken. Under normal circumstances this would be the summit of something very high. Here it’s just a point in the valley. As yet we haven’t even started climbing. I wipe my brow. Each step stings my legs. At the top of the hill I find the team sitting on rocks. I join them, recover, and then enjoy a snack and some water.

  The end of preseason approaches. Up ahead I see Pumori, now colossal. To the right of where we’ll trek stands Nuptse. Just past it, Everest rises, its summit almost four kilometres above us. Resting on this rock, I can’t pretend it’s not there. All this effort, the training, the planning aims to get me to that peak I can now see in the sky. God, I hope I make it.

  We press on. I toil up over rocks and past boulders into thinner air. Just a few hundred metres to our right I see the Khumbu glacier. It’s not the glistening white the Discovery Channel leads us to believe is the preserve of all glaciers. It’s a dull grey. I can’t comprehend the size of its menacing presence. Jagged ridges reach up along its length. Beside them I see shadows, darkness, probably crevasses. I suspect they’re huge, lethal drops, but I’m bewildered trying to interpret this alien spectacle. It doesn’t look trekker-friendly. There’s something sinister to this weird shape that stretches beside us. As yet there’s no sign of the famous Icefall, where millions of tons of ice soar up six hundred metres towards Camp 1.

  “I don’t think we’re last,” Greg says. “And we haven’t gone any faster today.”

  “It’s everyman for himself now.” I breathe deep. “I’ve no idea how stretched out we are. But yeah, there’re a lot behind.”

  We turn around a rock corner.

  “In the distance,” a person sitting at the side of the trail says. “That’s Base Camp, the coloured spots.”

  I strain my eyes and focus on tiny yellow dots at the base of the West Shoulder. They must be seven kilometres from where we’re standing. Preseason will soon be over.

  For an hour the altitude clouts me, before the village of Gorak Shep presents itself. This is the last settlement prior to Everest, probably the highest in the world. At this height of 5,200 metres stand half a dozen teahouses. Excluding people with internet satellite accounts, this is the highest point from which an email can be sent. Many climbers from Base Camp will drop down here over the next two months to stay in touch with home.

  View back down the Trail

  The Khumbu glacier runs down the left of the photo between the rocks and the mountain. Vegetation has ceased. Clouds cover the lower valley.

  Greg and I step into one of the buildings. I drop down on a bench and lean back against the wall. I let out a long breath. Over twenty minutes I consume three mugs of tea, pretty much drinking till I can take no more. It’s a welcome break to sit with the lads. Our conversation is clipped.

  “Anyone got tablets? My head’s killing me,” one says.

  “Me too,” another says.

  Small containers kick around the table. I root out my medical kit and offer its contents.

  Greg, Doug, and I push back onto the trail for the concluding stretch. Two dozen trekkers and climbers from other groups hike across a dry lake bed. Only a hundred and fifty metres in altitude remain for us. The trail splits. I know the route to the left; an hour that way sits Pumori Base Camp. But a signpost directs us right. Black writing on a yellow metal sign reads “WAY TO M.T. EVEREST B.C.”.

  The Path Diverges

  Last time I went left. From here on, everything is new. The lower slope of Nuptse is on the right of the photo. The glacier is hidden, but lies between me and Nuptse. A few more kilometres and we’ll round Nuptse. The peak above and to the right of the signpost is the West Shoulder. Base Camp lies below it.

  We trudge up onto a small ridge, and the yellow dots reappear, this time a little larger. The lack of oxygen saps my energy. Greg draws in air beside me.

  “It looks like we’ll follow this ridge for a mile, maybe less.” Greg pushes himself over a rock. “Then we’ll move onto the glacier.”

  “This’ll be a longer day than I thought. There’s still some way to those tents.” I stare down at my boots, and try to keep my breathing under control.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The others have slipped back. I slog on at the steady pace that’s working for me. A drop of several metres threatens me on the left. On my right and only a stone’s throw away lies the glacier. Up ahead the figure of Des becomes visible. He’s shuffling forward; the thin air has thrashed most of us. High altitude is classified as 1,500 – 3,500 metres, very high altitude from 3,500 – 5,500. At 5,250 metres, we’re pushing our limits today. Des cuts a lonely figure without his buddy Blake. I’ve also never seen him close to me near the end of a day’s hike.

  “Hey Des.” I reach the end of the ridge.

  “Dude. Some day. No Greg?”

  “Just behind.”

  Ted appears from behind a boulder. He must marshal a long string of climbers today, each trying to make it to the finish. A kilometre ahead I spy the first tent. Beyond it stretches a chain of yellow, red, and blue blobs for over a kilometre along the rock covered glacier. This is something I’ve only ever seen on TV. I expected glacial white, but grey-brown is the tint of the day. For white views, I must look up high to the mountains and ridges surrounding the camp.

  “Hi Fergus. Ok?” Ted asks.

  “Grand, thanks.” I exhale. “And yourself?”

  “No problems.”

  “Which tents are ours? How do we get there?”

  “They’re at the very end. Follow the moraine, and you’ll come to them.”

  He may as well tell me to follow the North Star, or the Death Star for that matter.

  “Once again, Ted. Where are they?”

  “They’re over there.” He points towards the West Shoulder, far past the closest tents.

  The moraine Ted referred to is the glacial debris of rocks and boulders that covers the surface of the glacier, hence the dull colour. He stays where he is to encourage struggling trekkers. I commence the last challenge of preseason.

  “All right, Des, let’s go,” I say.

  “Go on yourself.” He shakes his head and waves me off.

  The trail drops down as it crosses a scree slope. The footsteps of Sherpas have hardened a track through the rubble. Twenty metres of gravel hang above me. I’ve no idea what forces of anti-gravity are keeping them from collapsing.

  The route turns right, and the landscape underfoot changes. I plod on. Craters ten metres wide and deep surround me. I stare into one. Only the first metre of what I’m standing on is brown rock. Underneath the rock is solid ice. Water flows beneath that. I’m treading on the Khumbu glacier.

  I slog upwards and reach a flag covered boulder, around which two dozen trekkers have gathered. Mementos and messages decorate the rocks. The first camp stands just fifty metres away. This spot has been declared the entrance to Base Camp. A bottle of champagne passes from hand to hand.

 
I sit on a rock to get air into my lungs. The celebration irritates me. My reaction surprises me; I should be a bigger man and delight in the success of others. But I can see no reason to rejoice on reaching this spot. Drained by the lack of oxygen, I’ve completed no more than ten per cent of what I set out to do. This was the easy bit. Stay healthy and keep on plodding is the preseason mantra. The challenge only begins in earnest in the next few days. I face one and a half months of even less oxygen and more suffering. However, it would be sweet to celebrate something right now.

  I feel like I’m wandering through a quarry. Huge boulders and rocky debris litter the glacier. The trail winds past various camps. For now these settlements are just skeletons. Over the next two weeks, an influx of climbers, tents, and equipment will arrive. I have to retrace my footsteps when I stray off the track into danger.

  I hike for forty minutes on the glacier, moving closer to the last tents. I search for a familiar face that will declare the next camp as ours. Not this one, not this one. Gasping, I step up over another rock. I want the next base to be ours, but I know the closer it is to the Icefall, the less trekking we must do in and out, once we start our acclimatisation rotations. The stretch to the finish drains me.

  The mountain looms in my face. The brown pyramid lump that is the summit of Everest hides behind the West Shoulder. The next time I see the peak, I’ll be up there much closer or down the valley much further away having quit. My lungs get nothing from the air. Each step hurts me.

  It’s been a longer drag today than I’d expected, but there it is. Forty metres ahead I spy our tents.

  I am here. Preseason is over. This is Base Camp. This is now home for the greatest adventure of my life.

  April 8

  Into Base Camp (5,350m)

  This is a big set-up. The Sherpas have been busy for over a week. I see a large mess tent, a kitchen tent, and several smaller ones. All around await sites, the size of large kitchen tables, which have been levelled out in preparation for our personal sleeping tents. Rough stone steps have been fashioned to join the different levels of camp together.