A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (17 page)

Days were largely built around a routine that began at 7 a.m. with a mug of hot tea being brought by one of the kitchen staff to each of the climbers’ tents. Still embedded in my sleeping bag, I relished this early-morning brew, sipped at whilst I listened to news from the BBC World Service on my shortwave radio. I would watch as the sun’s first rays crept across the roof of my tent above my head. The advancing light melted the inner tent’s frosty lining and delineated the point the warmth had reached on the outer layer. This in itself would send me diving under the covers as the newly formed liquid coagulated into drops that began to rain down on me.

The loud banging of a spoon against a large aluminium bowl would signify that breakfast was ready, normally around 8.30 a.m. Slowly, all would emerge from their individual tents and make their way to the mess, although at times some would decide that the early-morning tea was enough, continuing their slumber late into the morning, occasionally up to lunchtime at around midday.

Days passed by at a leisurely pace. Nothing at Base Camp was hurried. It was surprising how a few chores completely filled the time. Cleaning a small number of clothes, having a wash, shaving, reading a book, listening to music, checking equipment, an afternoon snooze – the list of arduous tasks seemed endless. Somehow even going to the toilet felt like an appointment that took up part of the day.

Situated a short distance away, the toilet facility was a tall, narrow tent, similar in shape to a sentry post. It had been positioned at the edge of some raised ground. The lower area, immediately behind, had been boxed in with a newly constructed wall, and then a blue plastic barrel was positioned in the enclosed space. At the upper level, two flat pieces of rock had been placed on the floor inside the tent. Bridging the three-foot gap between solid ground and the wall behind, they gave the occupant footholds and a dubious sense of security from what lay below.

Paul, myself and a few others were enjoying a mid-morning coffee in the shade of our mess tent. The entrance flaps were fastened back to let the warm air percolate through. Paul was busy writing and I was staring blankly into space when something caught my eye.

‘Paul,’ I said, trying to catch his attention.

‘What?’ he responded without looking up, slightly irritated at the interruption.

‘Some guy has just jumped into our toilet,’ I said in a nonchalant fashion.

Paul looked up, his eyes wide with bewilderment. He turned to look in that direction. The sides of the toilet tent had been lifted back. Sticking up above ground level, a man’s head could be seen bobbing about.

Paul, in an overstated theatrical voice, shouted, ‘Oh my God!’ The others crowded round. We all stared in total disbelief, wondering what on earth had driven some poor soul to this desperate course of action.

The sight of a second person appearing into view carrying an empty barrel gave a clue. It dawned on us that the first gentleman, now standing in the bowels of our less than fragrant toilet, must be an employee of Sagamartha Pollution Control. His job: to change the barrel we had already half-filled, before it became too heavy to move. This would presumably be transported back down the valley by yak, so that its contents could be disposed of properly. Our genuine sympathy went out to this poor man who was squeezed alongside the current container.

We had been instructed to urinate to one side; only the solids were to be collected. The problem was that the barrel had been placed some three feet below the point of release. Not everybody’s aim was that good, especially if the occupant was suffering from a bout of diarrhoea. Excrement in various states of solidity had slid its way down the outside of the container. On the list of the worst jobs in the world, this particular guy’s had to be pretty high up. We couldn’t see if he was wearing gloves. None of us had the courage to go and find out.

The opportunity to socialise with climbers on other expeditions played an important role that filled many an hour. Our most frequent visitor by far was Anatoli. He knew all our Sherpas, our Sirdar Kami, Henry, and had climbed with Michael, Paul and myself only ten months earlier. He’d also met Brigitte the previous year when she’d been climbing on the north side of Everest with her husband Jon Muir. Anatoli got on well with all of us; he felt relaxed in our company. His presence, when he was not away busy fulfilling his duties for Scott Fischer, had a natural feel to it. He knew none of us possessed fat chequebooks and that we had all made considerable sacrifices to be there. He also understood we each showed a degree of independence and self-reliance in our climbing, that we enjoyed the mountains. However, all these friendships paled in comparison to the budding and rather serious relationship he had struck up with Linda Wylie. When they had first met, this spring season, the chemistry between them had been unmistakable. Linda and her 16-year-old son Jake had joined up with us in Kathmandu. They were accompanying Mark Pfetzer to Base Camp along with a documentary film crew. Mark’s mother, who had commitments back in the US, would be joining us later on in the expedition.

Once the general routine of day-to-day living had been accepted and slipped into, I found Base Camp a pleasant place to relax, to contemplate quietly what really mattered in my life. Time so rarely found in my busy and sometimes stressful everyday life at home. I found it surprising how certain aspects that seemed so crucial at home and usually to do with business were in fact not important at all. What really mattered were family and friends and, above all else, their safety and well-being. Money, success and the like seemed irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. I counted on one hand what was important to me. What I found most enlightening was the personal strength and determination this time to contemplate afforded me.

Once in a while, minor frictions would appear between members of the team: not an unusual occurrence when people are thrust together for a two-month period in such a harsh environment. I remember one such episode. Neil, both tall and good looking, was by all accounts a bit of a ladies’ man: a reputation he rather enjoyed. His sometimes brash manner, although never intended as more than a bit of fun, did not sit well with Brigitte. On one occasion while Brigitte, Paul and I were sitting together, she asked, ‘So, does Neil have a girlfriend at home?’

‘No,’ replied Paul.

‘I’m not surprised!’ she exclaimed.

Paul paused, allowing a tantalising moment or two of silence, and then followed with, ‘He has about 12.’

I remember doubling up with laughter. Paul’s timing had been perfect. Brigitte, despite looking slightly exasperated, managed a smile. She too saw the funny side and quick-wittedness of Paul’s reply.

Sunset came each evening around six o’clock, accompanied by the fragrance of juniper being burnt on the Puja altar. With Pumori standing immediately to the west of Base Camp, we were always shaded from the last rays of the sun, whose golden colours lit up the snow on the upper reaches of Nuptse and the West Ridge of Everest. As quickly as the heat of the day had arrived came the cold sub-zero temperatures of the night. These usually sent me scurrying to my tent and into my down sleeping bag for an hour prior to our evening meal at 7 p.m., which once again was signalled by the familiar loud banging of spoon on bowl.

So each day at Base Camp passed in this peaceful and sedate routine, the relative silence only momentarily interrupted by a loud crack followed by the roar of an avalanche cascading off the surrounding mountains of Pumori, Lingtren and Nuptse, or nearby rockfalls as they tumbled downwards, kicking up clouds of dust.

14 April 1996

Through the night, noise from movement within the Icefall had been particularly prevalent. Sleep was scarce, as I lay awake nervously listening to every sound. It was shortly after 4 a.m. that I heard other climbers preparing to leave. The clanking of their equipment as they set off raised the apprehension about my own departure.

I left Base Camp around 5.30 a.m. A short ten-minute walk took me to the familiar marker wand. For the second time I entered the Khumbu Icefall just as the half-light of morning appeared.

After about 30 minutes of listening to my crampons crunch into the crystalline surface, I came across Rob and his clients. They were sitting on a small snowfield, resting and chatting to one another. I didn’t know any of those with him but waved to Rob as I passed through. None of them were carrying rucksacks as far as I could see. As they were travelling light, I deduced they were intending to climb through the Icefall and return back to Base Camp later that same morning.

Pressing on at a steady pace, I’d reached the midway point when little more than 130 feet to my right a block of ice about the size of a family house toppled forwards. With a thundering crash, it sent shards of ice splintering into the air. My stomach shrank instantly. Fear welded me to the spot. I waited to hear, or feel, what happened next. Absolutely nothing – only a deathly silence followed the incident. A fine cloud of ice particles settled from the surrounding air. With my heart pounding, it took several minutes to regain my composure. Apprehensively, I moved forward to continue my journey through this captivating yet very deadly mass of blue ice.

I reached Camp 1 around 8 a.m. as the sun’s rays edged towards the top of the Icefall. Soon the temperatures within this maze would begin to spiral upwards. Solar radiation and the light reflected back from the icy surface would sap the strength from those climbing later.

Sitting outside my tent at Camp 1, it was some time before I heard voices in the Icefall immediately below. Over the top appeared Rob with three or four of his clients close behind – but not all.

Those who’d made it thus far looked as though they were vying for position within their team. They were keen for Rob to both notice and acknowledge their efforts. He understood well how to manage his clients. Despite having paid considerable sums for their place on his high-profile guided expedition, none were guaranteed a shot at the summit. If they weren’t up to an attempt, or might put themselves or others in danger, then the final decision was entirely up to Rob. This meant for the whole expedition his clients toed the line, wanting to be noticed as capable, going out of their way to be ‘best buddies’ with him. In equal measure, Rob was no doubt instilling confidence by praising their efforts: telling them they were one of the strongest teams on the mountain.

After what seemed no more than a 15-minute rest, Rob said, ‘OK, time to head back down.’ It was apparent that those who’d not made the top of the Icefall would be collected on the descent. They would be turned around regardless of how far up they’d climbed.

Both that day and my second night at Camp 1 passed by in quiet contemplation, and I got a reasonable night’s sleep. Not wanting to be caught in the intense daytime temperatures, I rose early the following morning and got ready to move on.

Throughout my time at Camp 1, the dry ambient air had sucked moisture from my body. Each exhaled breath had carried with it vital fluid, which my drinks had not sufficiently replenished. Standing outside the orange nylon tent, I bent forward and coughed repeatedly towards the ground. Desiccated phlegm had formed as a thin carapace on the roof of my mouth. Curling my tongue across my palate, I was unable to budge this irritation. In frustration, I removed my glove and resorted to running my forefinger hard across the surface to dislodge the brittle layer – an action that caused me to both gag and salivate. As I pushed the contents of my mouth out with my tongue, a glutinous dribbling mass dangled from my lips. Pursing my lips and pinching two fingers together across them, I freed myself from this light brown crusty sputum, which I flung down into the snow. I wiped my fingers clean across the rubber side-covering of my boot. Rinsing my mouth, I gargled repeatedly with warm water from my Nalgene bottle, spitting it out onto the pristine surface. Only then did a feeling of normality return.

After departing from my overnight accommodation, I zigzagged my way up the Western Cwm towards Camp 2: a route the Sherpas had completed fixing a day or two before. Aluminium ladders had once again been laid flat over exposed crevasses, the widest of which took five twelve-foot sections lashed together to span its gargantuan and seemingly bottomless chasm. Crossing this particular bridge was unnerving, especially as I was carrying a heavy rucksack. The ladders bounced with each step. When I reached the centre point, it bowed in the middle, taking me down a foot below the level of either side.

In the Western Cwm, also known as the Valley of Silence, no sound went unnoticed, my auditory senses heightened by the minimal input. From this alone it became obvious to me that many other crevasses lay hidden below the surface, spanned by fragile bridges of snow and ice. Their presence was given away by the squeak of my crampons as they bit into the surface. The pitch became higher as the ice thinned and deepened in its tone as I moved onto safer ground.

The occasional stone that fell from high on Nuptse also broke the tranquillity of the Western Cwm. These spun through the air to reach terminal velocity, creating a whistling sound that was followed by a dull thud as they embedded themselves in the snow at the bottom of the face. The route, although close at times, kept a safe distance from this constant reminder of danger.

Behind me, in the distance, I could make out the lone figure of another climber catching me up as I approached the site of Camp 2 at 21,000 ft: a place that this early in the expedition was little more than a series of supply dumps; no tents had yet been erected. The climber turned out to be Anatoli wearing a pair of running spikes. He was making a lone acclimatisation foray to this higher camp. We spent the next two hours sitting on the piles of equipment, passing the time of day.

It didn’t take long for our conversation to turn to Anatoli’s home city of Almaty in Kazakhstan and to climbing in the Tien Shan: an area that had infrequent visits by Western climbers. Otherwise known as the celestial mountains, they are a large isolated range surrounded by the desert basins of northern China and Central Asia. Placed geographically north of Nepal and Tibet, they stretch along the Kazakhstan–China border. The range has peaks rising up to 24,400 ft, making them the most northerly summits of such a height.