Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest Read online

  Lift is generated by the down-force of the rotors against the air’s density. The higher the altitude, the less dense the air, and the less force the rotors can provide. At a certain height, there’s not enough lift to counteract the weight of the chopper. In addition, the engines suffer a loss of power due to the low oxygen environment. Landings and take offs at Base Camp always threaten carnage. The pilots never stop the blades spinning. It’s been calculated that if a person was transported from sea level to the summit in a helicopter, they’d die within thirty minutes due to improper acclimatisation. It looks like there’s only one way to the top, and that’s the hard way. Nor are there any easy tickets home.

  Ted pulls equipment out of his pack.

  “Watch carefully.” He places the kit onto the glacier. “This is how to screw a firm anchor into ice.”

  He demonstrates the process and then attaches rope to the ice-screws.

  “Now it’s your turn. Pair up and grab some screws. Practice it for twenty or thirty minutes.”

  We twist ice-screws into the glacier and test them as a firm anchor point for ropes. We shouldn’t need to perform this on Everest as the Sherpas will lay a fixed rope all the way to the summit. But if something goes wrong or an avalanche sweeps away the rope, then these mountain skills and all available improvisation will be called upon.

  “Ok, that’s plenty on the ice-screws,” Ted says. “Let’s get back to climbing and rope skills. I’ve put some ropes onto that ridge. Everyone go up it, walk along the top and then abseil down over there.” He points. “Do it a few times.”

  It’s similar to what we did in Base Camp yesterday but on a larger scale and on snow and ice. We test ourselves and our equipment. The weather contributes to make this simulation as real as possible. Clouds have rolled in, and a biting wind reminds me we’re challenging nature near the roof of the world.

  While ascending, we use our jumars. It’s an essential piece of mountaineering kit. The metal gadget is just larger than a fist, with a rubber coated handgrip. It employs a cam that slides in one direction along a rope, the intended path of movement, but grips it when pulled in the opposite direction. It attaches to my waist harness with a piece of strong webbing about the length of my arm. While up on the mountain, we should be attached to the fixed rope at all times via our jumar. As we ascend, we slide the jumar up along the rope. This keeps us secure. If we slip and tumble backwards, the jumar mechanism locks onto the rope and arrests our fall.

  Several times I ascend the hard packed snow of the ice ridge and then abseil down the far side. Angel stands at the crest, observing technique and rope work.

  “Yes, that’s it, just lean back,” he says. “That’s perfect, super. Hand by your side. All the way down. That’s it. Excellent. Now back up and do it again.”

  He could be a commentator at the Grand National.

  Hugo stands close by. He ensures no one puts themselves into danger with an ill-fitted harness or through misuse of equipment.

  As a backup, we’ve a second piece of webbing attached to our harness, which has a simple carabiner at its end. We clip this “safety” to the fixed rope. It has no gripping mechanism; so, if we tumble we’ll fall all the way back to the last knot on the rope, maybe fifty metres below. But at least we’d still be connected to the rope and might manage to grab it and slow our fall en route. But the safety serves a purpose when ascending and reaching an anchor point. This is where a rope ends and is tied to ice-screws that have been fixed into the glacier. We must disconnect the jumar at this junction as it cannot slide over a knot to the next rope. But this leaves us exposed, even if just for a few seconds. If we slip at this moment or are thumped by a piece of debris from above, it’s a one way ticket down. So before disconnecting the jumar at an anchor point, we first clip the safety onto the start of the next rope. Now, even with the jumar released, we can lean backwards as we’re already fastened to the next rope. In theory, a climber should never fall off Everest. The reality is more complex. More than sixty-five climbers have fallen to their death off this mountain or died at the bottom of a crevasse.

  Self-Rescue Practice

  This procedure simulates a rescue from a crevasse. The jumar in my right hand is connected to my waist harness. The jumar in my left is connected to a sling in which my left boot sits. The inactive safety rests just above the right jumar. Spare carabiners, a spare jumar, and an ice axe hang from gear loops on my harness. I should be able to ascend the rope without pushing off the snow face.

  It’s a clever technique, but it requires an understanding of the process and repetitive practice.

  “In thinner air than this, the muscle memory in the hands must be automatic,” Hugo says. “They must operate in the right order.”

  Deprived of oxygen, the mind can play terrible tricks on the body. Hugo recounts the story of an experienced climber on a previous expedition who’d unclipped himself from the rope at high altitude. He’d sat on the edge of a cliff and had declared to all and sundry that he was enjoying a row in his father’s boat. He’d then planned to dive in for a quick swim. He had to be tied down until help arrived to drag him off the mountain.

  Most of us are accustomed to these routines. But I’m amazed that one of the team has never been in a harness, abseiled, or had exposure to ropes and jumars. He has no understanding why procedures must be followed in a certain order, to eliminate the risk of falling off the mountain. At one point he appears to be upside down.

  After three hours training we stroll back to camp. I stride with confidence in my full mountain gear. Sherpas appear from out of the Icefall. They sport similar insulated cloths to us, although years of abuse and sunrays have worn and faded them.

  “The Sherpas have been busy.” Greg loosens his boots. “I just heard in the mess that they got the tents up to Camp 1.”

  “Great stuff, everything’s going to plan.”

  “So far so good.”

  While I’ve honed a few skills, the real progress is that I’ve pushed past Base Camp. It may have only been a short incursion, but beyond it nonetheless. As long as I can stay on track and stick with the program each day, then bit by bit I’ll get closer to a summit push, with an increasing chance of success.

  Tomorrow will be another day of small gains. We’re planning to enter the Icefall proper. We’ll ascend halfway to Camp 1 and gain more acclimatisation. We’ve no particular altitude target, just follow the climb high-sleep low rule. I’m certain I can pass such a task with honours. I’ll stare these ice formations in the eye. I’ll see what stands between me and the upper camps. I’ll know why so many people have died in there.

  Swimming togs are optional.

  April 14

  Into the Icefall

  We’ll push into the Icefall at 7:30am before the sun heats it up. I’ve eaten breakfast. Outside my tent I’m finalising my gear. I’ll carry a light pack: water bottle, a snack, chocolate, and sun block. The sun hides behind Everest in a clear, cold sky. I walk over to the mess tent, where some of the team has already left. I slot in towards the rear of the group and head out of camp.

  Less than a hundred metres from the tents, we reach the ice and strap on our crampons. Now I’m pressing into the Icefall. For so long I wondered if I’d ever see this day, advancing past the trekking stage, beyond Base Camp and onto Everest proper. This is it.

  The trail winds around and over the ridges we practiced in yesterday. Up five metres and down the far side, then another and then another. I pant in the thin air and remind myself to keep an even pace. I tell myself there’s no point rushing and then getting stuck behind the others in a bottleneck.

  I cannot imagine a more alien environment. I’ve never seen anything like it. Jagged white ridges stretch up in every direction. In places, the track is only the width of a person, with sharp ice protrusions reaching up to knee height on both sides. A fall onto one of them will be nasty.

  Despite the climbing, we’ve gained no altitude; we keep descending again. All cha
tter has ceased. I follow Doug who’s a few metres in front of me. Whoever’s leading seems to be tracking the series of metre high poles that we pass every few minutes. This must be how the ice doctors mark out the best route. I can’t see the fixed rope I’ve heard so much about. I wonder when it will appear.

  Looking ahead, I can only spot three or four of the team. The next ice formation blocks my view. I look behind and see Ade, Martin, and Angel. I think they’re the last.

  “Heavy going, Ade.”

  “You said it.”

  Three quarters of an hour passes. I don’t know how far we’ve pressed into the Icefall, but we’ve started ascending. No longer am I looking at ridges. Up above, snow-covered ice bulges. It goes up and up. Just ahead of Doug I see some of the team clipping into a rope. This must be it: the famed fixed rope. It looks so anonymous and ordinary. It’s just a loose end lying on the snow. It trails alongside the climbers and then disappears behind a white block higher up. No sign reads “This way up” or “Everest straight on”. There’s no indication why it’s here or what we’re supposed to do with it. I clip in my jumar and safety as those ahead have done and keep slogging upwards.

  My altimeter indicates a slow, steady gain. I feel like an ant walking up a pile of sugar cubes thirty metres tall, but without their furtive energy. White surrounds me in every direction. On all sides and extending far above our heads, large, swollen, irregular shaped formations threaten. It’s as if someone filled a soccer stadium with five-metre high clumps of paper, and I have to get from the centre circle up to row Z. Problem is, these lumps aren’t soft. They’re hard and cold, and if they move at the wrong time, it’s game over. If my fellow climbers were to disappear and take the rope with them, I’d not find my way out of here.

  Doug and I tilt our heads back and stare at a vertical face. He gasps and tugs on his jumar as he ascends the sheer wall. Now it’s my turn. I’ve clipped in my jumar, but I let my legs do the majority of the work, just using my hands for grip. Pulling with my arms would burn up energy. Yanking and levering off the jumar would exhaust the shoulders and push a climber into oxygen debt. I’ll save that till when my legs might abandon me much higher up the mountain.

  My hands search for grips at head height, my nose pressed against the snowy face. Below, my legs push me higher. Previous climbers have kicked in rudimentary foot holds. I pull myself over the crest, catch a few breaths, clip into the next rope, and trudge on. Doug wheezes a pace ahead of me. It’s very early in the day’s adventure, and I’m not sure he has much left.

  We climb from anchor point to anchor point. The fixtures appear with much greater frequency than just at the end of a fifty metre rope. Since the route twists, turns, rises, and occasionally falls, the rope has to be fastened to follow the trail. In addition, the ice doctors have bolted in ice-screws at strategic locations to increase safety. At the top of each face or sheer section we usually come upon a small loop that we can clip into. If there was to be a slip, we’d not tumble back down.

  These anchor points will be crucial on the return journey. The jumar has no value going downhill, as it always slides in the direction of travel. If a climber slips on a modest slope while descending, they may tumble down to the next anchor point. That’s why it’s so important to have a big knot at the top of each vertical face. If a climber were to go over a cliff without stopping, there’d be no recovery.

  I squeeze through a narrow passage and find myself in a kind of box. It’s like looking down into an apartment from the mezzanine level. We’ll have to climb down into it and then walk across. And to enter, here it is: the first ladder. It’s not a difficult horizontal one over a crevasse with a drop on either side, but it’s my introduction to putting mountain boots and crampons onto aluminium rungs. The ladder has taken a beating from spikes all its life. I descend it and cross the room. The thin air slaps me as I climb up the face on the far side. A step ahead, Doug wanes. Behind, Ade and Martin look like me, inside their limit but only just.

  We push up further. The steep gradient bashes me. Doug struggles a pace ahead. Beyond him I see no one.

  The sun rises over the crest of the Icefall and blasts down on us. I didn’t expect such heat. Within minutes the temperature soars from arctic chill to stifling desert. We keep climbing. I knock back water and note I’d only packed a seven hundred mil bottle, of which little remains. Sweat runs down into my eyes.

  Scaling the Icefall

  Doug looks back down to me. I catch my breath and give my legs a respite by kneeling.

  Another steep section. Then another. And another. The heat cripples me. The climbing is ceaseless. The track rises up again. I come alongside Doug, his pace now sluggish and irregular. I’m not sure it’s my place to check up on others. Compared to the mountain specialists that now inhabit this space, I’m no outdoor expert, but I can’t ignore his deterioration.

  A few ice boulders always block the view back to Angel, who’s bringing up the tail. I have a few words with Doug. He’s further gone than I’d expected. It looks like heat exhaustion; his actions have become clumsy. This mountain is giving us a beating. How on earth will we get through the Icefall to Camp 1 later this week? I turn around, wait for Angel to appear, and indicate that he must join us. He strides past Ade and Martin, and links up with Doug.

  “You lads keep going,” Angel says. “I’ll stay here.”

  We trudge on. The rest of the team has disappeared into the ice structure. On turning another white corner we’re met by a smiling Ted. He has waited for us here; this is the first horizontal ladder. Beneath it looms a deep, endless crevasse. It’s only two metres wide, but we must treat it with respect. The ice doctors have anchored the ladder to the ice at each side. Two ropes stretch across the void.

  “Ok, guys,” Ted says. “Here’s the drill. One at a time. Clip your safety to the rope. You’ll use the ropes for balance, like a handrail.”

  “Does that thing even have a bottom?” Ade peers over.

  “Lean forward as you cross, gripping the rope. It should be tense behind you. Slack rope ahead, tense behind. Play it through your hands as you move. If you come across a very slack rope up ahead, get your buddy to take up the play.”

  “And just one rung at a time?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but don’t place your boot on just one. Position the front protruding spikes onto a rung. Then lower the heel so it makes contact with the rung behind it. That way, the boot rests on two rungs. Once steady, move the other foot forward.”

  I clip in and step to the edge. I’m staring down, concentrating on the second rung. In my peripheral vision I sense a bluish darkness on either side of the ladder. My head stays centred. I’m tempted to focus on what’s between the first two rungs, but I must resist it. Between them it’s blurry, white, then blue, and further below dark. There is no end. I learned a long time ago there’s wisdom in the advice “Don’t look down.” But whoever gave that guidance wasn’t walking across this ladder. I have to look down to position my boot, but somehow just focus on the small metal rungs. I put an anxious right foot forward and aim the front spikes for the target. They rest on it. I drop my heel, hoping the boot is long enough. Contact, it rests on two rungs. Half my weight, half my life, relies on two little spikes that stick out the front of my boot. I take a deep breath. I repeat the process with my left foot.

  “Keep leaning forward,” Ted says. “Further.”

  My hands are far behind me. My upper body is over the next rung. The rope in front is slack, while behind, you could bounce a coin off it.

  “Looking good, Fergus, nice and cool,” Martin says.

  I take another cautious step, then one more. I get rhythm. The end is almost within reach. I could jump from here and probably make it. I take a slow breath and remind myself to stay cool. Three calm steps and I’m there. Two steps, one more. My boots land on snow. I clip onto the next rope to free up the ladder and relax. Another small milestone: I’ve crossed a ladder in the Khumbu Icefall.

  �
��Right, see you guys later.” Ted clips in his jumar and disappears around the next bend.

  Ade, Martin, and I press on. The heat intensifies. We reach another ladder. We need no one’s advice on this occasion. Within a few minutes the three of us reach the far side. We then put a third ladder behind us. As Martin crosses, I finish the last of my water. Panting, blasted by the heat, I slog upwards. Angel catches back up with us.

  “Hi men, how’re we doing?” he asks.

  “Ok. How’s Doug?”

  “He’s gone back down. He recovered a little in a shady spot. We can keep going to catch the others, or stop here for lunch and then descend.”

  I want to catch the others and prove my worth, but my body is running on empty. We’ve only climbed for two hours. It feels like I’ve run an uphill marathon on a summer’s day. Right now, discretion has to be the better part of valour. This is an acclimatisation exercise. I’ve gained experience of the Icefall, crossed ladders, and pushed my blood stream to a higher altitude. But I’m ashamed of my performance.

  “Maybe lunch here?” I say.

  “Yeah, why not,” Martin says.

  “Sounds good.” Ade wipes sweat from his brow.

  We sit down on the snow-covered ice and grab a snack. Angel has plenty of water and passes some over to me. We remain clipped into the rope, just in case the glacier moves and fires blocks of ice our direction. Climbers pass us from above and below, on the way to their targets for the day. The sun beams down. There’s no hiding from it.

  “Angel, am I ok to take off the helmet?” I point to the straps. “My face, I should put on sun block.”