A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (3 page)

The term ‘using oxygen’ is one that conjures up an image in the public mind of climbers making their ascent breathing pure bottled oxygen. This is not the case. A manually operated regulator sets the volume of oxygen being supplied from the bottle to the climber. This is set in increments of half a litre per minute, up to a maximum of four litres per minute. The gas is fed via a narrow rubber tube to a bladder on the fighter pilot mask that is worn over the climber’s mouth and nose. The oxygen being supplied in this manner mixes with the rarefied air being breathed in through the front of the mask. At over 26,000 feet, the effort required to climb is immense; the breaths taken are deep and rapid: up to 30 per minute. With each breath, the painfully thin ambient air is exhaled and then inhaled, into which a small quantity of oxygen is fed. This effectively raises the amount of oxygen within the air the climber is breathing from one-third of that found at sea level to just under half. The biggest benefit is that it makes for a warmer climb and reduces the chance of frostbite. This injury occurs under low oxygen levels because the body constricts the vessels carrying blood to the surface in an effort to maintain core temperature. With warm blood not reaching the outer layer, both hands and feet are far more susceptible to cold injuries. The use of supplementary oxygen significantly lessens the risk of this happening.

The method of raising the oxygen level through an artificial supply seems straightforward; it’s easy to assume that if the climber ran out, the effort to continue would simply become marginally more tiring. However, this is the area in which the danger lies. The consequences of a climber running out of oxygen at high altitude can vary enormously. Some continue on at a slightly reduced pace but with little other effect. Others slow dramatically and their thought processes become impaired. In the most serious cases, the climber can collapse into a heap as the body and mind begin to shut down in response to the sudden change in the oxygen levels. The problem lies in not being able to predict how either yourself or a fellow climber might react to this eventuality. This is complicated further by the fact that the effect it has on one occasion does not mean you can guarantee the consequences of future occurrences. These can vary according to the level of acclimatisation at the time, fitness, health, state of exhaustion and even the climber’s age.

When climbing with the use of supplementary oxygen, it is imperative that climbers know the exact number of hours their total supply will last. At the flow rate they have set, there must be a safety margin built in for their return to the top camp. To move beyond this time frame is courting disaster.

Nikolai and I were faced with three options. We could climb without using oxygen. We could abandon our ascent that night and try again in a few days. Or we could use two steel bottles for our summit attempt instead of the much lighter Poisk bottles. We mulled over our individual options and each decided, independently, to go for number three. The weight of the two steel cylinders, regulator, mask, Thermos of water, spare gloves, goggles, camera, rucksack and other equipment was going to give us 44 lb each to carry to the summit of Everest. This was half as much again as we’d been expecting to shoulder. A daunting prospect!

That problem dealt with, in theory anyway, we now needed to decide at what time we should depart for the summit.

Anatoli called to me from the other tent: ‘Graham, I think we should leave at midnight.’

In quick response I replied, ‘Can we agree on two o’clock? I was hoping for a lie-in.’

I heard Anatoli translating this for Nikolai. There followed a roar of laughter from the two Russians. Two o’clock in the morning it was for our departure towards the summit of Everest.

As the evening light began to fade, I ventured out of my tent to gaze upon the Himalaya, most of which lay far below. It was as though I had stepped out into the firmament. Through gaps in the clouds that gently blanketed the valley floors, glaciers could be seen as rivers of flowing ice. They twisted and turned on their creeping downward journey. Huge crevasses looked like small splits in their fractured surfaces. Majestic snow-capped peaks reached skywards through billowing clouds, their upper reaches bathed in infinite soft pastel shades of red and orange cast by the setting sun. High on Everest, I stood amongst the very phenomenon I’d observed so many times from far below. I felt humbled by what I was witnessing. Yet, at the same time, my spirit was lifted by the sense of being unbelievably privileged to glimpse such a vista.

With the diminishing light, the Himalayan summits that still managed to reach through the layers of cloud took on a colder, darker and more sinister appearance. They reminded me I was in a place where I should not exist. I was surviving on little more than borrowed time.

As the last remnants of the day departed from the evening sky, my thoughts had been wiped clean of our climb ahead, now only a matter of hours away. As the temperature plummeted, I slipped back inside the tent. Wrapped in the warmth of my goose-down sleeping bag, I rolled slightly inwards. The sensation was that of being embraced. Although I knew this was in my imagination, the feeling of security was almost overwhelming. The platform had probably been hacked out of the slope many years earlier by a previous expedition. Either by chance or design, it sloped gently into the face of the mountain. Wearing my oxygen mask, with my regulator set at a rate of one litre per minute, I enjoyed the best night’s sleep I have had on any climb. There was no fear or apprehension. A complete sense of calm wafted over me as I slept.

17 May 1995

I was woken from my unexpectedly comfortable sleep by the continual bleeping of my Timex Indiglo watch. This had been given to me as a Christmas present a few months earlier. My mother-in-law had purchased it, not because it was hi-tech but rather for its good alarm and the face that lit up brightly at the touch of a button. It was simple to use, robust and weighed little: factors that were essential up here.

The time was just after midnight. As ever with these early starts, my mind tried to convince me to remain in the relative comfort of my bed a while longer. Five more minutes, I thought. However, in fear of nodding off again I knelt up. I was still cocooned in my sleeping bag. Anatoli and Nikolai would be relying on me being ready at the agreed time. If I was not, they couldn’t stand around getting cold while waiting.

As my head brushed against the roof of the tent its icy lining showered down. The fine particles melted instantly on my warm face. The intense tingling sensation woke me abruptly from my soporific state and into reality. Everything I did from that moment on would have a direct effect on my chances of reaching the summit of Everest. There was no one looking over my shoulder to check the equipment, set oxygen flow rates or steady the last-minute jitters. I was alone. Logical, calm preparation was required. My nerves hid just beneath the surface.

I’d been on the north side of Everest once before, without success. In the year and a half that had passed since that time, I’d spent many a waking hour dreaming of this opportunity. The glorious fantasy of those musings seemed very distant. The apprehension I felt in my tent over the potential dangers that lay ahead was far more real. I also knew that once we started the climb this would pass.

I switched on my head torch. My first priority was to light the gas stove. It was imperative I made myself a hot drink before our scheduled departure in little more than an hour and a half’s time. Unzipping the entrance to my tent slightly, I could see that Anatoli and Nikolai were also awake. The beams from their two torches flashed erratically against the side of their tent as they shuffled around.

‘Morning!’ I shouted in a deliberately cheerful voice.

The mutterings I heard back were those of acknowledgement. The Russians were as reluctant as myself to emerge from the warmth of their slumbers.

Looking around, my vision was swallowed up by the night sky. The moon was so small and cast such little light that it took on the appearance of a distant planet. High above, I could make out the North East Ridge, distinguishable as a solid black outline contrasted against a sky filled with pinpricks of light from innumerable stars. This ridge would lead us to the summit. I listened carefully. There was no wind. The air was still.

I withdrew my head back inside the tent and knelt over my freshly brewed yet already lukewarm cup of tea. I sipped reluctantly at this tepid fluid, knowing it was essential for the climb ahead. As the time moved all too quickly from midnight to after one o’clock, I slid into my down suit and neoprene inner boots, each warmed in my sleeping bag over the last half-hour. My rucksack lay ready, carefully packed with my supplies and oxygen cylinders the previous afternoon.

As the agreed departure time of two o’clock approached, my controlled calmness began rapidly to disappear. I pulled on my outer climbing boots in preparation for stepping outside. My crampons were the last items to be fitted, once I had stuck my legs out of the tent.

As I stood upright, the sensation of being engulfed by the pitch black came as a shock. I looked down at the pitiful puddle of light provided by my head torch. It shone a few feet onto the ground ahead. I stared anxiously upwards at the distant vague outline of the North East Ridge stretching towards the summit of Everest.

The slope I was standing on gave an indication of up from down. But which way we had to climb through the mass of rocks that lay ahead was not so obvious. I had perused the ground above on my arrival into camp the previous afternoon. In the dead of night, what little I could make out seemed eerily different.

Finding our way was one concern. The other was the weather. We needed to keep a constant eye on it, to watch and listen for changes. Especially for the danger of the wind catching us out high up.

As I stood transfixed by the darkness, I had the forethought to take a photograph. At two o’clock in the morning! I wanted to capture the moment, or should I say the fear of that moment. Nowadays, whenever I give a presentation I show this slide. I have yet to find an audience that does not gasp with an understanding that the obvious should have been so unexpected. The sensation each member of the audience feels is one of actually being within the image or strongly connected to it. This is brought about by the fact the audience is sitting in a blacked-out room.

Once Anatoli and Nikolai had emerged from their tent, I cleared my thoughts of the sight of the ground ahead, or the lack of it, and prepared to depart. Heaving the rucksack up, I slid the straps over my shoulders and took the full weight for the first time. It felt as though my spine was being compressed. I heard the sound of my crampons being forced deeper into the frozen crust. I had no illusion that this was going to be anything but hard work.

Three or four hundred feet above and far to the right, I saw three quick flashes of light against the otherwise dark outline of the mountain. Not everyone had had a lie-in. The expedition camped below had set out a couple of hours ahead of us. They were making steady progress. Only the occasional flicker of a head torch gave away their location.

Carrying no rucksack, Anatoli took the lead. I was envious of his attempt without oxygen. I pondered the wisdom of my 44 lb load.

Turning the wheel on the regulator, I set the flow rate at two and a half litres of supplementary oxygen per minute. Pulling the mask over my nose and mouth, I breathed deeply.

Directing my torch into Anatoli’s shallow footprints, I followed his tracks up the snow slope. As we entered the towering rocks above, our dim lights cast ghostly shadows across the gloomy form. The points of our crampons scraped painfully across the impenetrable surface.

Glancing back after ten minutes, I could see that Nikolai, now some way behind, had not yet left camp. I wondered what apprehension he must have been feeling as he saw us disappear into the night. Looking again a short while later, I was relieved to see the beam of light was moving. He’d begun to trace our steps.

Anatoli and I kept moving higher, rarely separated by more than a few feet. No longer did I notice the weight of my rucksack. As I focused on the climb, my apprehension had given way to concentrated effort.

It was at this time I remembered Harry, a Finnish friend of mine, with whom I’d climbed on Everest in the autumn of 1993. ‘Graham,’ he’d said to me, ‘the worst part of any climb is the first half-hour.’ His wise words brought my only comfort that dark night.

Nikolai, despite making steady progress, dropped slowly behind. We were not unduly concerned. Time was on our side, for the moment at least.

Within range of my head torch, Anatoli stopped to sit on a rock. Catching his breath, he asked, ‘Graham, what height do you think we are at?’

I carefully considered his question, but with nothing much to actually gauge it by I gave my best estimate.

Pulling my mask slightly to one side, I replied, ‘Around 27,500 feet.’

Anatoli looked at me, doing his best to muster a smile. ‘You go first, Graham.’

So I took the lead. We moved ever upwards.

As night progressed towards the end of its natural cycle, the utter darkness began to fade into a deep grey. The sky above took on a grainy appearance as the first signs of the dimmest light tried to pierce their way through. The already frigid air dropped several degrees, as though millions of minute airborne ice particles had suddenly evaporated. I shuddered with this sudden change, one that signalled the coming of dawn.

By the time we broke onto the crest of the North East Ridge, night had slipped away. It had done so almost unnoticed. The sun had not risen over the horizon, yet the arrival of this subdued light brought with it a sense of security. This was more a perception than reality. The main difference was that we could now see where we were going. No longer was our view limited to the beams of our torches. It took a while for us to realise they were still on and that we could switch them off.