A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (35 page)

Apart from operating a commercial expedition, Henry was a service provider, supplying essential and expensive bottled oxygen to some of the other expeditions. With a price tag of around $300 per bottle, and with each climber requiring several bottles, this was not an insignificant operation. I could understand him not wanting to make further comment on what I had said. Year in year out, he still made a significant portion of his income from his Everest operations, including the supply of valuable oxygen supplies. Adventure Consultants and Mountain Madness had been taken over after the demise of Rob Hall and Scott Fischer. Both still operated on Everest each spring season, as did others who had been present in 1996. It was entirely sensible that Henry would be more cautious than me and be hesitant about getting involved in further discussion on the subject until I had good evidence to support such a claim.

If indeed I was correct, then Henry had been badly let down by those he had trusted, but now was not the time to press him further on this matter.

The appearance of the waiter at the side of the table holding the food we had ordered interrupted our conversation. The aromatic fragrances carried upwards by the steam rising from the freshly prepared ingredients gave Henry his opportunity to change the subject.

‘How’s business going for you?’ he asked.

It was my cue that our previous conversation was over. The next time I raised the subject with Henry, I needed to be armed with much more information.

Through the oval and lightly crazed Perspex window the Terai came into view. A mostly flat alluvial plain containing a mixture of fertile farmland and subtropical jungle fed by mountain run-off, it extends the entire length of Nepal’s southern border with northern India. Set only marginally above sea level, this mosquito-infested area is often referred to as the breadbasket of Nepal. Covering one-sixth of the country, it contains more than half of the entire population.

The tyres of the green and white de Havilland twin-engined Otter of Yeti Airlines screeched momentarily as Catherine and I touched down at Bharatpur. The marked increase in the temperature, as compared to Kathmandu, was instantly noticeable as we made our way to the rear of this 20-seater plane. We clambered down the short flight of steps that were suspended from the aircraft’s fuselage by a lower hinge and two wire cables.

Collecting our bags from the terminal building, which consisted of little more than one large room overlooking the airstrip, we made our way outside to where several taxis were parked. Amongst this random selection of vehicles there was one particular wreck that stood out from the rest. It was a Datsun that was so old I didn’t know the model. Forty years plus would have been a reasonable guess. The driver, an elderly gentleman aged around 65 with a leathery sunbeaten face, scruffy clothes and worn-out flip-flops, began to show off to the younger drivers about how to get a fare, using us as guinea pigs. Enamoured by both his bravado and the condition of his car, we couldn’t resist. After a brief negotiation, one that was followed by a grin from our driver to his bewildered young onlookers, I got into the passenger seat in the front and Catherine into the rear.

As we pulled out from the entrance to the airfield and onto the Mahendra Highway, I took time to observe more closely the interior of our transport. It looked marginally worse than the outside of the vehicle. The old plastic seat covers that stuck to our backs were perished and cracked from the intensity of the sun. Carpets and floor coverings had long since been removed, as had the headlining, door panels and anything else that might deaden the sound of the badly patched exhaust. The wiring harness hung down from the dashboard in apparent disarray. Between my feet was what I took to be spare petrol in a plastic container. That was until I spotted fuel being drawn up a tube that passed through the cap and out towards the front of the vehicle. Only then did I realise it was our fuel tank.

After we’d travelled only a short distance, Catherine began to clap her hands intermittently.

‘What’s the matter back there?’ I shouted above the noise of the car – not just of the engine and exhaust but of the rattling windows and doors.

‘It’s the mosquitoes,’ Catherine called back, ‘there’s more of the damn things in here than there are outside.’

I turned around to see Catherine with dozens of the wretched insects swirling around her head looking for a place to land. It was at this moment that I decided I preferred sitting in the front with the rising petrol fumes and tank between my legs, in the forlorn hope that it might keep them away from me. After all, such a dangerous undertaking was man’s work.

Thundering past us in both directions were countless numbers of ornately hand-painted Tata trucks with tinsel, coloured lights and similar decorations garishly displayed on the upper edge of their windscreens. These overloaded monsters of this fragile road system often leant to one side with their uneven cargo as they belched forth clouds of black smoke. Many had large pieces of rubber flailing from the re-treaded tyres, which were utilised to the point of destruction. At regular intervals, we saw lorries precariously balanced on a bottle-jack, as the driver replaced his burst tyre with one that looked little better than the one that had just expired. No one was really safe on this manic thoroughfare, where an accident could befall you at any time.

It was with some relief that we turned off this crowded highway into more rural surroundings. Oxen laboriously ploughing small fields under the scorching sun bore witness to the simplicity of this area’s everyday life. Houses and farm buildings constructed from wood and mud with either corrugated steel or thatched roofs were intermittently positioned along the roadside. Ears of corn still on the stem had been placed on the tarmac road to be threshed by any passing vehicles that might inadvertently lend a helping hand.

Nearly an hour after leaving the airport, we pulled up at our destination: the Riverside Lodge at Sauraha. This was a concrete carbuncle of a hotel beautifully situated on the bank of the Rapti river, the far side of which designated the northern boundary of the park.

In the hotel’s garden retreat, we settled back into cushioned chairs, Catherine with a neat Bacardi and me with a cold beer to calm our nerves. The slow-moving Rapti, broad and shallow at this time of year, reflected the pace of life. Nepalese women dressed in traditional
khurtas
brought bowls of washing balanced on their heads down to the water’s edge. Alongside them, mahouts washed their elephants with scrubbing brushes. Villagers living within the boundaries of the park strolled alongside their bicycles, laden with the day’s purchases, as they wheeled them across the shallow water. Long and narrow dugout canoes steered silently up and down stream, the standing boatsmen using a long pole to push against the riverbed.

We watched this ever-changing scene as the large watery sun gradually sank behind the jungle, until its evening colours, which reflected off the Rapti’s mirrored surface, gently faded. The sound of peacocks emanated from a jungle coming back to life after the intense heat of the day. It was a timeless scene that only served to raise our anticipation for the jeep safari we’d booked for the next day.

Around 6 a.m., having crossed the river in a dugout, we entered the park in a white open-top Suzuki jeep driven by Bikrum, accompanied by our official park guide, Babu.

For three hours, we slowly crisscrossed Chitwan’s network of rough tracks, patiently searching for glimpses of its wary residents, a jungle foray that had been rewarded with the sighting of deer, crocodiles, rhinos and a spectacular array of birds for which this park is famous.

All of a sudden, Babu shouted, ‘There, on the road,’ as he pointed in front of us.

By the time we all turned to look, it was gone.

‘It was very low and might have been a tiger,’ Babu said.

Bikrum gradually drove up to the spot Babu had indicated and turned the engine off. The two of them then got out of the jeep, each holding a short piece of bamboo stick little more than a foot long. They proceeded to look for a tiger that would have weighed far more than the pair of them put together.

Deciding that a vantage point could be useful at this time, I climbed onto the roof of the vehicle. From where I was standing I could see the unmistakable black stripes running across the tiger’s otherwise orange back contrasting starkly against the dark-green vegetation that rose no more than four feet high and through which the tiger was trying to move slowly away. This huge animal, measuring more than eight feet in length, can’t have been much more than twenty-five feet away from me, and only a few feet further than that away from Bikrum and Babu, who were poking around with their sticks.

‘It’s here,’ I said as softly as I could.

The tiger, hearing this, stopped in its tracks and turned its head to look directly at me. I was the only one it could see. Within seconds, we were all crowded on top of the vehicle as this most magnificent of animals slipped deeper into the undergrowth and disappeared out of sight.

We returned home from Nepal in 2005 with my enthusiasm renewed. Our fortunate sighting of the elusive and rarely seen tiger told me my luck was changing.

Once back home, I was straight on the telephone to the IMAX Corporation in Canada. Explaining that I was researching into the events on Everest in 1996, the year the IMAX film
Everest
was shot, I enquired who at their head office might be able to help me with some information. The name I was given was that of Adam Edwards.

I sent Adam an email to let him know that my understanding led me to believe the Imax team had received weather forecasts during the course of filming. I asked if he might be able to point me in the direction of the person I should contact to find out the source of these forecasts.

Adam informed me that the IMAX Corporation had not produced the film. The production company had in fact been MacGillivray Freeman Films in California. His advice:
‘You should contact them directly to obtain a response to your interesting question.’

At this particular juncture, I decided it would be wise to dig deeper before following his suggestion. I began with a visit to the MacGillivray Freeman Films’ website to see if this might shed some light. Alas, it did not.

There was, however, acknowledgement of significant funding for the IMAX film
Everest
out of public funds from the National Science Foundation (NSF). This provided my next port of call.

The point of contact I found at the NSF was Valentine Kass, Programme Director for Informal Science Education. Unable to tell me who might have supplied weather forecasts during filming, he also suggested I contact the production company. More specifically, the name of Greg MacGillivray was put forward as the person who should be able to answer my question.

Considering what precious little information I’d gathered, my hope was to contact the company at a later date armed with much more. Circumstances dictated I took my enquiry there next.

I telephoned their office on five or six occasions in an attempt to speak with Greg MacGillivray. I made attempts to talk to Kathy Burke-Almon, who I’d discovered was their Manager of Special Projects. In 1996, she’d been their ‘US-based communication, liaison and facilitator throughout production in Nepal’. I emailed both Greg and Kathy, each on two occasions. I left messages.

Finally, I got Greg MacGillivray’s administrative assistant, Susan Wilson, to consider my enquiry about whom they had used for weather forecasting during the filming on Everest in 1996. I think they realised by this point they’d better say something, as I was quite clearly persistent.

I received the briefest of emails. The reply came back:
‘Greg does not know the answer to your question. We will try looking through old files and get back to you if we come across the information.’

The IMAX
Everest
film was one of MacGillivray Freeman Films’ most successful productions. The gross takings within the first 24 months of release were in excess of $100 million and still rising significantly. It ended up grossing more than $74 million in the US alone and is quoted as being one of the highest-grossing non-fiction films ever screened.

Two of the most critical factors during filming were, first, would the equipment operate successfully in the extreme conditions and, second, would the weather allow filming to take place? Surely it was reasonable to assume that they would know, or at least have near to hand, the name of the organisation or person who’d supplied the weather-related information that had helped in their amazing success. Importantly, they had not denied having a forecast. They had merely said they would get back to me ‘if’ they found the information.

About the same time, Kathy Burke-Almon also responded:

Ed Viesturs had been a climber and film talent on the Imax expedition. His was a name on my list of people I might wish to contact, but I would do so only when appropriate and if necessary. Yes, Kathy had mentioned they were monitoring weather conditions from the Base, but there was no mention of a weather forecast.

To this day, MacGillivray Freeman Films have been unable to provide any more information, but I appreciate that I was asking for information about a film that had been made nine years previously. Nevertheless, it was frustrating that a simple answer to a straight question was so problematic, especially as any high-altitude weather forecasts would have needed to be arranged before the film crew left for Nepal and presumably eventually paid for.

On the company’s website was an educational resource for teachers about the making of the film. Surely, I thought, given the significant public funding, meteorology would be well represented here. Not least because it is the movement of the monsoon northward from the Bay of Bengal that nudges the jet stream off the summit of Everest, pushing it north over Tibet. This annual change in the weather pattern is what makes it possible to climb Everest each spring. More important still is the significant effect this moving of the jet stream has on the world’s weather. In the 20 pages of this educational resource there were little more than a few passing references to the weather. I list the ones I found: