A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (28 page)

Iñaki and I knew each other well from the previous year, when he’d also made an attempt on Lhotse, only abandoning that attempt after the extreme temperatures threatened to freeze the corneas on his eyes.

With Henry’s agreement, and a favourable weather forecast, Iñaki and I teamed up to make an early bid. This was to be the first attempt by anyone that season. The plan was for me to make my way up to Camp 3, where Iñaki would catch me up. His preference was to sleep lower down.

On the morning of 29 April, Iñaki rolled into Camp 3, travelling light for our onward climb to the South Col. His intention was to try for the summit without oxygen – an option I’d considered and discussed at length with Henry. The conclusion we’d come to was that if I wanted to be the first of the contenders it was far better to plug in and get on with the job rather than take the risk of missing out. Although carrying an oxygen cylinder and mask, along with the BBC cameras, I followed Iñaki’s lead and did not use supplementary oxygen as we climbed up towards the South Col. The logic behind this decision was the higher you climb without using oxygen, within reason, the stronger your body becomes acclimatised. In the event you do run out higher up, the effects of oxygen depletion do not hit home quite as hard, leaving you in a position to cope far better than otherwise might have been the case.

As Iñaki and I made our way along the left-hand side of the Geneva Spur, the South Col came into view: a place I’d last seen on 11 May 1996. Moments before our departure that day, I’d taken a photograph of Mark Pfetzer with Rob Hall’s and Scott Fischer’s tents in the background. At that time, we were still ignorant of the tragedy that had struck some of those who had left these tents only 30 hours before. Now, three years on, I stood there once again, aware of the events of 10 May. I could not understand why or how this catastrophe had happened.

The sight of the South Col devoid of tents gave me the impression that both time and the wind had cleansed this barren landscape of the images of distant head torches and half-seen figures that still haunted my mind. Now all that lay on the Col were a few supply dumps from expeditions making an attempt that current year.

Glancing at his watch, Iñaki gave me a smile. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘We made that in Messner time.’

I presumed from this comment he’d been gauging our progress relative to the climbing times Reinhold Messner must have published in his book. I didn’t know what those were, nor had I been timing our ascent.

After a quick scour of the separate piles, we located the appropriate supply dump. Soon, our tent was erected, and we rapidly embedded ourselves in the depths of our sleeping bags. It was the warmest place to be. With the stove boiling a continuous supply of fluid, we began to make plans for our ascent during the early hours of the following morning. A midnight start was agreed. Iñaki didn’t want to depart too soon. As he wasn’t using oxygen, he wanted to do as much of the climbing as possible during the warmer hours of daylight. The time we had chosen also left us ample opportunity in case we encountered sections of deep snow.

Settling down, I began to breathe supplementary oxygen. Alongside me I could hear Iñaki restlessly shuffling about. As the hours passed, I began to fear that he might not have left a long enough gap since his recent ascent of Lhotse. He’d had precious little time to recover before this next endeavour – Everest. If so, this was partially my fault for persuading him to try so soon after. Around 11 p.m., rather than saying ‘time to get ready’, I asked him if he was up to the climb ahead.

He sounded relieved that I’d asked him the right question. ‘I don’t think so,’ came his reply.

Although setting off alone crossed my mind, it was not a sensible option. No one, not even the Sherpas, had been higher than the South Col that year. If I encountered snow of any depth, I would have to break trail all the way up by myself. Being realistic, it would have been a good way to blow any chance of success.

Shortly after daybreak, Iñaki headed down. I was now the sole occupant of the South Col. During my scheduled radio call with Henry at 8 a.m., I explained my position. I was surprised to be informed that the rest of our team were en route to Camp 2. From there they would climb to Camp 3 the next day and the South Col the day after, in readiness for their summit attempt. As if this wasn’t bad enough, Jon Tinker and Mike Smith were moving up at the same time.

‘Can you give me 30 minutes? I’ll let you know then what I’m going to do,’ I asked Henry.

‘OK, your choice,’ came his reply.

I emerged from the tent to stretch my muscles, aching from a restless night on the unforgiving ice. The plateau of the South Col had not a single tent other than my own protruding above its rocky, frozen surface. It was a spot referred to by many as the most desolate, godforsaken place on earth. For the first time ever, I stood alone in the middle of this lifeless, windswept col, complete with its imaginary border separating Nepal from Tibet. All around lay empty oxygen cylinders discarded in previous years. Their precious gas had sensed the struggles of bygone times, in the precariously fine line between life and death, when noble actions given in the aid of others and those of self-interest had passed in varying measures. Each cylinder’s single vibrant colour of yellow, orange or green contrasted starkly against the shards of grey shattered rock. They looked as bright as the day they had been discarded, their thick metal walls untouched by the driving wind, no corrosion from their decades of exposure. They had not sunk into melted hollows that curved with their form but rested on the uneven surfaces where they had last been placed. The temperature here never rose to anywhere near zero.

Small remnants of abandoned tents flattened by the wind and then partially engulfed by ice flapped in the brisk morning air. It was a breeze that was eerily reminiscent of a distant time.

I was totally unprepared for the thoughts and questions that suddenly exploded within my mind. We should have known. I could have helped. These phrases were repeated over and over in my mind. Why had we not been told? How could we have not known? It hit me as hard as I’ve ever been hit before. Without answers or explanations, they were unable to escape from my head. The empty cylinders lying at my feet were silent witnesses to the events that had happened. Their threaded valves, to which regulators had once been fitted, gave way to empty interiors that long ago had been charged with life-giving gas. The questions that troubled me were all about life, a fragile state to which we all cling. But sometimes to survive, help is needed. That assistance we could have provided – but we had not.

Then, as follows the final loud strike of a drum, BADOOM, my thoughts fell silent. A gust of breeze that blew across from Tibet brought sounds of the past.
‘I know you.’ ‘What are you doing back this year?’ ‘OK, we’ll have another cup of coffee, then I suppose we’d better go and get her.’ ‘Thanks for your help, mate.’

What help? I’d lain in my bloody tent and done absolutely nothing. We should have known. We could have helped. The tears fell silently over the stubble of my unshaven face.

Even at this point I was still unable to see the obvious. I was blind to the fact my teammates and I had also been victims of the storm. I naively thought that the only victims were those who had been injured or worse.

I was standing alone at 26,000 feet. Iñaki, the nearest human being, was by now more than 4,000 feet below me in the Western Cwm. I had to confront my demons, to face the scene of the tragedy on my own. It seemed that destiny was taking control. The wind was blowing exactly as it did on the morning of 11 May 1996. The landscape was unchanged. Only a short distance from where I stood, the nearest of the bodies still lay in its icy grave; the others lay beyond, in the exact places they had taken their final mortal breaths. I was haunted by the thought of them praying for help as they clung on to the final vestiges of life. Help that in the end never came. Fate would decree they were to spend eternity where they fell. I was overwhelmed by this alien experience, for which I was ill prepared. The scene was far more powerful, more haunting and real than I was able to bear.

I turned and made my escape to the only place possible: my tent, the very place I’d spent the night of 10 May while the storm raged outside. I knelt on the nylon groundsheet as I tried my utmost to relieve my mind of these guilt-ridden thoughts. They wouldn’t go away.

Rescue came by virtue of the handset lying next to me. ‘Graham, what have you decided to do?’ came Henry’s voice over the radio.

This question was the escape I craved so desperately. I had needed to hear the voice of the living. My mind switched instantaneously. It slammed the door once again on these painful memories.

I paused as I hurriedly considered my options. If I were to join the rest of my team, I had two choices. First, I could spend the next two nights alone on the South Col, waiting for them to arrive. Given the emotional turmoil I had just experienced, this was something I really did not want to do. The other problem with this approach was that after so much time at 26,000 feet my chance of success would be greatly reduced. The second option was to leave the South Col and climb back down to Camp 2, in readiness to climb back up to Camp 3 the following day with the rest of my team.

It’s what is called Hobson’s choice: there wasn’t one. I had to move down to Camp 2 immediately. The focus on this pressing agenda helped me break free from my thoughts of 10 May 1996. It allowed me to force them to the back of my mind, to enter yet again the state of denial that had existed for the last three years.

‘Are you receiving me?’ enquired Henry, as no reply had been forthcoming.

‘I’ll leave the South Col and start heading down to Camp 2,’ I told Henry.

‘OK, see you when you get here,’ Henry replied. ‘Make sure you collapse the tent before you leave,’ was his final comment before signing off. The breeze outside rustled the tent.

First, there was work to be done. I set up the BBC equipment and recorded a piece to camera, explaining my predicament. I put it in no uncertain terms that I might well have squandered my opportunity by having to retreat at this stage. I made no mention of my spine-chilling experience.

My final duty was to collapse the tent, leaving it in position for the next to arrive. I hoped I’d be one of them. I removed the end of the tent poles from the eyelets, causing the tent to lie flat. Then I placed some of our other equipment on top to prevent it from being blown away. After gathering up essentials only, I put on my climbing harness in readiness for the descent.

Before me stood Everest, untarnished by human failings. Its upper reaches pierced the cobalt sky. The towering grandeur and jagged ridges were adorned by nature’s purest snow and ice. Tragedies could not be caused by such places, rather by the actions and decisions of those who choose to be there. I had been there. Surely I had to accept some responsibility for this terrible outcome of the past? How could we not have known the desperate plight of those caught out in the storm? I was finding it difficult to control my thoughts.

I reached Camp 2 by mid morning. The way I’d hoped to make my ascent was beginning to unravel. My climb up to the South Col had left me weakened with little or no time to recover. This was no time for guesswork. I had to get it right.

I could hear Anatoli’s voice whispering advice in the recesses of my mind:
‘Power and acclimatisation must balance, too much of one does not compensate for the other. After going high, you must let your body recover.’

I had not used oxygen in my climb up to the South Col, only on the Col itself. I was acclimatised up to 26,000 feet, higher than most attempting this southern route. But by doing so my energy reserves had been depleted. Ideally I needed to move right down the mountain to allow my body time to rest. I did not have time for that luxury. My competition had arrived fresh for the task ahead.

To make matters worse, I had a bigger problem. I had added a third critical factor to this balancing equation. The climb had reduced the percentage of water in my body. I now had to drink as much fluid as possible to rehydrate myself for the climb back up the following day.

As previously explained, at higher elevations, especially 26,000 feet and above, the rapid loss of fluid results in a build-up of toxic waste products and the blood thickens. It was imperative I drank as much as I could to flush my system and redress the balance. Only then would I have any chance at all.

The downside to this was that I had to drink so much that I was unable to make reasonable headway into the generous portion of dhal bhat the Sherpas had prepared for me. It was a meal they’d witnessed me eat in vast quantities over the preceding weeks. The sustenance would provide the carbohydrates that I so desperately needed to replenish my energy reserves. But at this moment, fluid was far more important: it was required to reduce the viscosity of my blood so it could transport precious oxygen. My body would compensate for the lack of digested food by ravaging its own tissues: breaking them down to supply the huge energy required. The muscle blocks I needed for the climb would be top of its list.

I stared woefully up at the Lhotse Face and contemplated the use of oxygen above Camp 3 for my journey back up to the South Col. Logic made me quickly dismiss the idea. Acclimatisation was the only card I had. Even with the problems I now faced, I wanted to get back up to 26,000 feet unaided.

I spent that night restlessly worrying about the way things had turned out. The resultant lack of sleep only helped to compound my problems. The next day, I delayed my departure for Camp 3 until as late as possible, around 1 p.m., to maximise the precious little time for recovery at this lower altitude. Pacing myself on the ascent back to Camp 3, I caught up with the others shortly after 4.30 p.m. Ray Brown, an Australian climber from our group, had kindly made space for me. He had the stove boiling for when I turned up.