A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (2 page)

From this point, the central ridge of the main roof was within reach. On the far side, some eight feet down, stood a tall, narrow chimneystack. I clambered over the top ridge and slithered down to it. Now free of the parental restrictions that lay far below, I rested against this brick structure, opened my cigarettes and lit one up. The taste was repulsive, and when I inhaled it made my head spin. However, I was sure if I persevered I would begin to enjoy these nauseating sensations.

Surveying the land round about, rooftops dominated the skyline; far beyond, I caught a glimpse of the North Sea. In each direction, tall chimneystacks stood like sentinels in this alien world. Forty feet below, the neatly manicured gardens held no interest for me, except that is for the reinforced concrete air raid shelter at the bottom of our rear garden, a relic from the Second World War. My brothers and I had managed to excavate it from beneath several tons of earth, much to our mother’s consternation. Built by a previous owner of the house who had worked for the War Department, it had a small but very thick metal door with a sabre painted on the inside surface, wood-panelled walls and even bunk beds. The seemingly unyielding nature of this wartime structure had sparked our imaginations.

High on the rooftop, I felt untethered. The breeze at this lofty height stimulated my senses. Spurred on by this elation, I wondered what excitement I might feel if I moved out from behind the stack and onto the main roof, where I would have less control and no support. My heart began to beat faster as I edged away from the chimney. Once I was beyond arm’s length, exhilaration spread from my stomach throughout my whole body, my arms tingled and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I had never felt so alive. That was, until I slid forward about three inches. On this the northern side of the chimney, a thin layer of lichen covered part of the roof. Beneath the palms of my hands and soles of my shoes, it was beginning to detach from the slates. In an instant, extreme pleasure turned into abject fear as I began to inch downwards. Carried by tiny balls of lichen, I gradually picked up speed. Between me and the edge of the roof, which was getting ever nearer, there was nothing I could grab to halt my descent. Far below, across the rear of the house, were a flight of concrete steps, a garden rockery and a holly tree with gnarled branches pointing upwards. If I fell, there seemed little chance of escaping death, and serious injury appeared certain.

I pushed my hands flat against the roof, the soles of my shoes also. The denim on my backside scraped across the dusty surface, but still I continued down. Less than six feet from the edge, I ground to a halt. Fortune had saved me. The tongue of lichen stretching down the surface of the roof had come to an abrupt end. I froze, not sure what to do next. I was terrified that if I relinquished any of my contact with the roof I would simply slide over the edge. I did my utmost to control the panic that was welling inside. Twisting my head around, I could see the marks where I had slid down. There was no way I was going to risk trying to climb back up the same way. Inch by inch, I shuffled left along the roof, further still from the now distant chimneystack. Here, it appeared to be clear of the lichen that had launched me down this deadly slope. I manoeuvred myself backwards up the roof. It took me two heart-pounding minutes to regain the centre ridge.

The familiar slope on the other side, which led back to the veranda, now held nothing but fear for me. My nerves were shredded. I slid precariously over the slates with my eye firmly fixed on the ironwork I needed to grab on the way past. Within moments, I was kneeling on the playroom floor, my hands trembling. The initial exhilaration I had felt by moving out across the roof was undeniable, but so was the fear that followed the audacious manoeuvre.

However, I was still young and my memory short-lived. The carefree and experimental nature of youth had still to run its course. My appetite for thrill-seeking adventure was undiminished.

I had yet to learn to curb this reckless risk taking, to maintain an element of control over the objective dangers. If I did not, life could end up being far shorter than I had expected.

May 1995

Ahead, the expansive snowfield rose at an angle of 45 degrees. Hanging down over its glistening surface was a length of 9mm climbing rope. To the left of this single strand was a trail of footprints heading up. I leant forward and pulled at a short section of the rope. It had been buried by the light breeze and gently drifting snow. Breaking through the crust of this frozen wasteland was the occasional dark outcrop of crumbling weathered rock. In the distance, I could make out the tents at 27,200 feet. They were still some half an hour away. I was high on the North Face of Everest. The date was 16 May 1995. Far below and out of sight were the two Russian climbers, Anatoli Boukreev and Nikolai Sitnikov, with whom I was climbing. We were on our way to our top camp. From here, we’d make our summit push in the early hours of the next day. I’d been on the mountain once before, but this was my first realistic shot at reaching the top.

As I slid my jumar up the cord, it wiped clean the snow that had frozen to the woven outer layer. A fine coating of this crystalline spray covered my right glove and forearm. I placed my boot firmly onto the next foothold and pulled on my jumar. The sprung-loaded quadrant with its serrated metal surface gripped hard against the rope. I heaved myself up and lifted my other foot into the next placing, then slid the jumar up once more. Ten steps in a row were as much as I could manage before having to rest for a moment so that the oxygen level in my muscles could catch up. Four hours had passed since I had left Camp 2, 1,300 feet below. In that time, I had hauled myself up this slope with what seemed an agonisingly slow and protracted effort.

Taking my last few paces into Camp 3, I wearily dumped my rucksack onto the soft snow. I strained to give a grateful smile through hacking coughs and gasps for air. The recipients of my appreciation were our three Sherpas. Having positioned a second tent for us, they were eagerly preparing to descend to a far more comfortable altitude. They too were feeling the debilitating effects of this elevation. All summit attempts this year, by our eleven-strong team, would be without Sherpas – hence their rapid departures back down.

Over the preceding weeks, they had made trip after trip up the mountain to place and supply three camps, each higher than the one before. Due to their hard work, the chances of our success had been greatly improved. However, because they covered the ground so quickly, none would need to sleep higher than the North Col: the first of the three camps, located at 23,000 feet.

I watched with some envy as our Sherpas scampered down the steep slope and out of sight. Then, turning my attention, I began to protect the two well-positioned tents with extra rocks and guy ropes. It was impossible to make the tents overly secure. The North Face of Everest had a notorious reputation for wind.

A few hundred feet below, another expedition was placing a small number of tents. They too were planning to begin their summit attempt that night.

We had no weather forecast of what lay ahead. Although we’d been enjoying clear skies and minimal winds for several days, conditions could turn with little or no warning. Instincts, experience and a watchful eye would be our guardians.

A week earlier, we’d listened in Base Camp to the radio calls of those attempting Everest from the Nepalese side of the mountain. Normally, we were unable to receive these transmissions, as they were blocked out by the huge snow-covered ridges several thousand feet high that separated Nepal from Tibet. However, as the climbers got higher on the mountain, this restriction no longer applied.

It had been a gloriously sunny morning when we picked up the calls of New Zealander Rob Hall, owner of a company called Adventure Consultants: an outfit that specialised in upmarket guided expeditions. He was accompanied by four of his clients, one of whom was an American postal worker by the name of Doug Hansen. They were attempting Everest via the South East Ridge. In support were Sherpas and professional guides including the highly experienced Ed Viesturs.

I remember hearing that they were progressing well and hoped to be on the summit within the hour. All we could do was stare upwards, wishing it had been us. We hovered around the radio as these climbers started to make their way over the relatively short distance to the top. The next communication expressed frustration. They had encountered deep snow that had dramatically slowed their progress. Every 30 minutes, they made contact with their team lower down the mountain. On each occasion, they extended their expected arrival time at the summit.

Eventually came the despondent radio call: ‘OK, we’re turning around and heading back down.’ The voice was that of Rob Hall.

Due to both the time of day and deep snow, they were abandoning their attempt. While this decision must have been difficult to make, given that they could actually see their goal so tantalisingly close, it was nevertheless the correct choice. We understood the immense disappointment they must have been feeling. With hindsight, we were glad it had not been our attempt.

Now, several days on, it was our turn to test our luck but by a different route.

My fellow aspirants arrived into camp mid-afternoon. Anatoli, aged 37, was a tall, blond, wiry climber of international acclaim, who had been born in Korkino, a mining area in Russia’s southern Ural Mountains. He now hailed from Alma-Ata (Almaty) in Kazakhstan, where he had taken up citizenship in 1991 following the break-up of the Soviet Union. Prior to this upheaval, he had held the honour of Master of Sport and a place on Russia’s national high-altitude climbing team. He was a man of relatively few words. Those he did use were carefully thought through. Not a person to suffer daydreamers, he would come straight to the point.

When we’d first met as a team, he’d asked others the direct question: ‘Tell me what you have climbed. Do not tell me about the Alps; I want to know about high altitude, over 20,000 feet.’

This year he was working for our expedition run by Henry Todd. He was not employed as a guide in the Western sense of the word, rather as a ‘rope bullet’, as Henry described him. Should anything go wrong, or a member of the team find themselves in trouble, he was there to cover ground quickly and sort matters out.

Nikolai, in his 30s, spoke virtually no English and also came from the Urals. He was a distinctively muscular man with a round face and shaven head. What had particularly caught the attention of others on our team was the stylish way in which he strutted between Base Camp and Advanced Base Camp. He would set off on this 12-mile hike wearing tight-fitting shorts, a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a handkerchief placed over his exposed scalp. Proud of his own strength, he’d held his head high, taking the required effort in his stride. He was a very likeable character who’d apparently had his place on the expedition paid for in full by Ural Electrochemical Integrated Plant: the world’s largest uranium enrichment enterprise and manufacturer of advanced process control technology for the nuclear industry. Quite how he’d managed this, nobody was sure. We were, however, highly impressed that he’d pulled it off.

I sat outside the tents and watched as Anatoli and Nikolai mustered the effort to drag themselves up the last section of the fixed rope and into camp. Our two tents had been erected on precariously small pieces of flat ground excavated out of the mountainside. Differing in size, they had been placed about 15 feet apart. As Nikolai and I struggled with a language barrier, we decided my two companions should share the bigger of the two. The final planning for our summit push would be made by calling to each other from our respective accommodation.

During the afternoon, we each began to prepare our personal equipment. It was at this point that I came across an unexpected problem.

We had two types of oxygen cylinders with us. The steel ones, weighing in at a rather heavy 13 lb each, were for sleeping. They had a valve that could be turned by hand and to which the regulator could be directly fitted. The other, much lighter, Poisk cylinders were for climbing. These had a thin metal lining surrounded by a thick resin and fibre wrapping and weighed a more enviable 5.5 lb. However, this type required a spanner to remove a threaded hexagonal cap before the regulator could be fitted to the fixed valve to allow the flow of oxygen. Only then could it be turned on. The Poisks were the ones Nikolai and I needed for our ascent. We were going to climb using supplementary oxygen. Anatoli was climbing without gas.

After I’d laid out my equipment, I turned my attention to the oxygen I was going to use during the attempt. Looking around the tent, I realised the spanner wasn’t packed with the equipment I’d brought with me.

I shouted across to Anatoli: ‘Can you ask Nikolai if I can have the spanner for the Poisk bottles?’

A conversation ensued in Russian between my fellow climbers. Moments later came the mortifying words from Anatoli: ‘Nikolai says you must have it.’

My heart sank. Looking back now, I find this hilarious, but at the time it seemed somewhat less amusing. All the careful checking of equipment I had carried out in preparation for my summit attempt and I had forgotten to bring the one item I needed to turn the oxygen on!

In such a harsh environment, overlooking the smallest detail can have dire consequences. We were responsible for the error and had no one to blame but ourselves. The solving of this problem was up to us.

Tentatively, I made an attempt to loosen the hexagonal cap from one Poisk bottle by tapping it with my ice axe. However, tackling an oxygen cylinder charged to 2600 psi with an ice axe seemed a slightly dangerous option. An image flashed through my mind, rather as the oxygen cylinder would have done, of the outcome if my improvisation went wrong. My concern was not just for myself but also for anyone within 300 feet. This included those below us on the mountain who might be hit by falling debris. Sheepishly, I put my ice axe down as common sense prevailed, and I sank back on my sleeping bag to further ponder this unexpected complication.