A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (13 page)

The next morning was bright and crisp as we emerged from our overnight accommodation. The clear night sky had given rise to a heavy frost. Every blade of grass and leafy surface was adorned with delicate but perfectly formed ice crystals. The soft boggy section of the path that led uphill away from the lodge, which bore the deep footprints of yesterday’s travellers, was frozen solid.

Mark Pfetzer, no doubt buoyed by the exuberance of youthful infallibility, left slightly before the rest of us and strode out – as we all did at some point during the expedition in our own competitive way. His intention was presumably to be first to arrive at Namche Bazaar, the largest settlement and trading post in the Khumbu region and our next overnight halt.

Our way led ever upwards, through villages, between small stone-walled fields and along steep forested hillsides to the gated entrance of the Sagamartha National Park. With passports and climbing permits duly produced for the armed park officials, we passed through. An area set aside in 1976 by the Nepalese government, it was given the status of a World Heritage Centre by UNESCO just three years later.

After picking my way along the boulder-strewn sides of the Dudh Kosi’s white-water rapids, I clambered up to the final stretch of the day. A lengthy sagging footbridge suspended 200 feet above the river spanned a vertical-sided gorge. Beyond lay the infamous Namche hill. For the porters and yaks carrying a heavy load, this next section is torture, as it was for an unacclimitised would-be mountaineer with a more modest burden. It rises for well over an hour as it switchbacks its way across the precipitous sides. Above lie the sanctuary and comforts of Namche Bazaar.

Mark, now some way ahead, was unaware that as you enter Namche there is the normal footpath into town but also a steeper and much shorter one. I’d given no thought to how far ahead Mark might be. So, when I came to this point, I took the quicker but slightly more painful second option. This route took me along the narrow earthen alleyways that separated the simplest of houses. I squeezed past sweet-smelling bakeries and the bright displays of souvenir shops that had set up makeshift wooden benches to maximise the narrow space outside each establishment. The added temptation of ‘morning price’, the ultimate weapon in their arsenal to lure a would-be customer, accompanied the eager eyes and broad smiles of the proprietors. Wearily I made my way along this passage. The modest rucksack I was shouldering seemed to increase in weight with every step that brought me nearer to our prearranged destination: a lodge called Kalipatar.

Covering its narrow inconspicuous entrance, one that I nearly walked straight past, hung a traditional white door curtain that bore a dark-blue Buddhist image of Shirivasta: the interwoven endless knot of life. Made of cotton and edged with a two-inch-wide band of matching blue, this flimsy curtain separated the street from the interior. It bore grubby marks on either side where those entering had lifted it out of the way.

Slightly to my left, a narrow wooden staircase rose to the floor above. Here, the half-glazed door that cast just enough light to guide me up from the gloomy entrance signalled the end of my journey for the day. On opening it, I was greeted by a large rectangular room, approximately 40 feet in width and 13 feet deep. Bathed in warm sunlight that streamed through the full-width row of windows, it overlooked the sloping town of Namche Bazaar. The walls, lined with varnished plywood, had glazed cabinets that displayed Mars bars, Snickers and bottles of spirits and beer to tempt the weariest of travellers. Underneath the windows, a long built-in bench softened by thick hand-woven Tibetan rugs offered my first comfort of the day. In the middle of the room stood a cast-iron cylindrical wood-burning stove. Its tubular chimney exited through the timber ceiling.

Dumping my rucksack unceremoniously onto the floor, I proceeded to order two milk teas and a bowl of rara noodle soup. The ordering of more than one drink at the same time was not an uncommon practice, especially in the early days of acclimatisation, when the need for the continual drinking of fluids was foremost in the mind. Infrequent visits to the toilet and anything but light-coloured urine were sure signs that I was not drinking enough. The bodily requirement during this period is so much that thirst alone cannot be used as a measure.

Hearing a squeak from the door handle, I looked up. Standing in the doorway was Mark, busily unfastening his rucksack with a look of triumphant relief plastered across his face. At this point, he had not seen me.

When Mark stepped into the room, he assumed he was first there. No one had passed him on the way. Yet in front of him he found me sitting at the table tucking into my second milk tea and a half-finished bowl of rara noodle soup. His totally bewildered expression was priceless.

Mustering the only question he could think of, he asked, ‘When did you get here?’

Not wanting to spoil the moment, I didn’t let on about my short cut but simply replied, ‘Oh, I’ve been here for ages.’

As I continued with my soup, Mark stood there with a blank look on his face. Tired from the long slog up the hill, he shrugged in resignation and sat down, his rucksack still half dangling from one of his shoulders.

Throughout the afternoon, the rest of our team members arrived in ones and twos, some having stopped for lunch on the way. This was not a race; everyone had to find a pace that suited them. Some, like myself, preferred to walk without stopping; others enjoyed eating en route. This did not make one strategy better than any other, just different. Mark was doing very well. It was still early in the expedition, and he had plenty of time to learn these finer points, although he was to learn another lesson sooner than expected.

Mark was of an age where bragging rights had their importance; not so with the rest of the team. That evening, he couldn’t resist telling us how good looking his girlfriend was and that this ravishing beauty was waiting for him to return. I know he didn’t mean it, but many of us had partners at home that we would miss in the coming weeks. This was dangerous territory for Mark when he knew little about our individual circumstances.

Retiring to one of the modest dormitories, Mark, Paul, myself and three others who had joined our group to make a documentary film about Mark’s attempt settled down for the night. After a few minutes, Paul’s voice broke through the pitch black: ‘Mark, have you any pictures of your girlfriend?’

Mark, delighted that we were so obviously impressed by the description of his gorgeous girlfriend, had a swagger in the tone of his reply: ‘Nah, unfortunately not.’

Silence once again descended, that was until about 30 seconds later when Paul’s voice whispered, ‘Would you like to see some?’

I tried not to explode with laughter; as I pinched my nose, my cheeks ballooned out forcing the air to snort out in bursts through my nasal passages. Others in the room were also trying, hopelessly, to stay in control.

That was the last time we heard anything about Mark’s girlfriend.

The next day the morning sun shining through the thinly glazed window, milky in appearance from its rarely cleaned outer surface, dragged us reluctantly from our sleeping bags.

Built on the slopes of a natural hillside amphitheatre, Namche is where a Saturday market is held, a bustling event that brings a hive of activity. Here, colourful market traders, a good number of whom are hardy weather-beaten Tibetans adorned with necklaces strung with turquoise and red coral beads, peddle their wares.

These enterprising men and women regularly cross the high passes via trade routes that have existed for centuries, escorting long-haired yaks loaded with ornately woven traditional woollen rugs, replica artefacts, clothing and a vast array of low-quality goods from the Chinese market. Still protected from the bitter wind by their traditional thick felt clothing, these modern-day travellers are more likely to be sporting Reebok or Nike trainers than the traditional hand-made footwear. The Sherpa people, native to this area, are themselves descended from Tibetans. Their ancestors came to Nepal many hundreds of years ago to settle in this mountainous but more fertile region, using the same paths that give access to these southern markets.

After an early breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, two milk teas and cup of strong coffee, the latter to act as a laxative to stave off the other ghastly effect of dehydration, I decided to climb up one of the steep paths that rise up behind the town. This was mainly for exercise and would allow me to catch my first glimpse of Everest that season.

I panted and wheezed as I stumbled up the incline of the awkward stony path that threads its way up through the town. Nearing the edge of habitation I veered left alongside a colossal granite boulder embedded deep into the hillside. Towering some 40 feet up the slope, its entire surface was exquisitely carved with sacred Buddhist mantras. Underfoot changed to a dry and dusty dirt track that pushed a fine billow of powder into the air each time my foot struck the ground.

I snaked my way through hardy alpine shrubs and stunted woody-stemmed vegetation towards the top of the hill some 800 feet above. Sweat poured off my brow from my feeble exertion in the rising temperature of the morning sun. I heard shrill laughter and chattering voices coming up behind me. Looking over my shoulder I was greeted by the sight of a throng of schoolchildren aged around seven. Dressed in uniforms and carrying satchels, they were skipping and hopping their way up the same path as me. The difference was they weren’t sweating profusely and didn’t appear to be out of breath at all, unlike the climber they romped past – the one who was here to climb Everest. This humbling episode served to underline how much acclimatisation I needed to undertake before I could hope to match a seven-year-old schoolchild whose physiology was accustomed to this altitude.

As the children raced ahead and out of sight, I continued up at my much slower but steady pace. Far below, a cacophony of sound emanated from craftsmen working on the construction of several lodges that were being built to satisfy the recent increase in tourist demand. Each new building was strategically placed on one of the many small terraces that provided level ground on Namche’s steeply rising slopes, where not so long ago potatoes and other hardy crops had been planted. Echoes rose of the timeless sound of stonemasons’ hammers and chisels chipping away at blocks of hewn granite and that of carpenters’ hand-held saws and planes rasping against rough-cut timber. The sounds bounced back over the deep chasm that fronted Namche Bazaar, echoing from the precipitously rising ground on the other side where conifers clung on tightly to their rocky holdfasts and through which a waterfall of ice, still in winter’s grip, drove a stark crystalline divide. As spring temperatures rose, the water would once again be released from this suspended form, allowing the meltwater from the expansive snowfields of the mountain high above to drain into the Dudh Kosi that coursed along the valley floor.

Reaching the top of the hill, I paused for a moment before I looked up and far into the distance. About 15 miles away, as the crow flies, I could make out the 25,600-ft high Nuptse Wall with the dark rock pyramid of Everest’s upper reaches protruding from behind. Her summit was being battered by the jet stream that left a long plume of ice crystals extending far to the east. The powerful nature of this vision took me by surprise. This was the place George Kotov and I had sat and chatted only ten months earlier, while he lit a cigarette. Now, early in this spring season, it looked terrifying. The savagery of our intended goal appeared beyond hope. However, this aspiration was nearly two months away. Much would happen in the intervening time.

After two days acclimatising at this altitude, our onward journey took us past the spectacularly positioned and deeply atmospheric Tengboche Monastery, the focal point for the Buddhist faith of this region. Set on a broad grassy hilltop, the sanctuary this location affords is unmistakable. This fertile vantage area is where the Sherpa people have built the holiest of places to them outside Tibet or Sikkim.

We ended the day at the Rhododendron Lodge, an aptly named establishment sheltering alone about 20 minutes further on from the monastery. With its off-white walls and bottle-green window frames, this two-storey stone building sits comfortably amongst a forest of rhododendron trees. These were in bud as we passed through in late March but their prolific flowers would have come and gone before I returned this way in May.

The lady who owned the lodge, Ang Kanchi Sherpa, was a long-time friend of the late Sir Edmund Hillary and more recently of Reinhold Messner: arguably the two most important figures in Himalayan climbing. She was far more worldly wise and well travelled than her appearance indicated: her list of foreign excursions included the US, Vienna and, more than once, Dharamsala in the north Indian state of Himachal Pradesh to witness the Dalai Lama speak. She was a delightful character who had an enviable and insatiable appetite for news.

Once Ang Kanchi discovered we were on Henry’s expedition, employing Kami and most of our Sherpas from the nearby village of Pangboche, the welcome she’d already extended to us moved to one you would have shown a close friend. We were brought hot drinks that were accompanied by the words
che-che
(shay-shay), meaning drink-drink, for which she would take no payment. She invited us to sit nearer to the stove, which stood in the centre of the room, while she fuelled it up with even more dried yak dung. Soon we had to slide our white plastic patio chairs backwards across the wooden-boarded floor because of the amount of heat the burning excrement was throwing out.

Ang Kanchi was a deeply religious person: a trait strongly rooted in the Sherpa people. She looked upon her responsibility to others within the community, and to those visiting the area, as her social duty bound by the teachings of her Buddhist faith. Her brother, who lived in the same property, was a monk at the nearby monastery. His daytime hours were seemingly divided between his religious and commercial commitments, as he was often to be found ensconced in the kitchen wearing his burgundy monastic robe.