Dead Lucky (10 page)

DURING THE TWENTY-TWO YEARS since I had turned back on Everest, much had happened on the mountain. In 1984 there were no operators of pre-organized mountaineering expeditions looking for clients, but today most climbers attempting the world's highest mountains join exactly that kind of trip. Professionally operated expeditions can be divided roughly into two categories. In the first are those who offer serviced expeditions, meaning that all services are provided—from permits, transport, and accommodation to food, tents, and oxygen. The climbers turn up with cash and their climbing partners and use their own expertise to climb the mountain as they see fit. In the second category are the commercial expeditions. These differ from serviced expeditions by their high ratio of guides to clients, their strict management of climbing protocols and processes, and their high standard of facilities, which generally include a doctor, a Base Camp manager, and modern communications. Also high are the prices.

If you asked any nonclimber how it is that people get to climb Mount Everest, a common answer would be along the lines of “they get fit and are escorted to the summit by a guide.” Many would add the words “and pay $65,000.” This perception of climbing Everest emerged from Jon Krakauer's enormously successful book
Into Thin Air.
Krakauer was commissioned by
Outside
magazine to write a story about the commercialization of Everest; because Jon was a climber, he figured the best way to approach the article was to be a participant.

He did not set out to write an overview of the different facets of modern-day Everest climbing but rather kept to the allocated topic of commercial expeditions. Fate intervened and gave him a tragic saga. Rob Hall and Scott Fischer were both charismatic mountain guides—they were friends but also rival expedition operators. The core of the action occurred on May 10, 1996, when thirty-three people were heading for the summit after leaving their high camp in the middle of the night. Most had turned back by early afternoon, but many were still close to the summit when a ferocious storm hit the peak. Climbers hurried down, but several remained near the summit. Rob Hall was one, staying beside an exhausted client. The storm worsened into a blizzard that raged through the night and into the next day. Both lead guides survived until late on May 11. Twelve people died on Everest that season, the deadliest on record. The death count would have been higher had not the members of other expeditions climbed up into the storm to rescue the survivors.

Around the world, people read Krakauer's account of these events, as much for the gripping nature of the story as for any insights into Everest. However, Rob Hall's and Scott Fischer's commercial expeditions became the prime examples of how Everest is climbed. The other ways of climbing Everest—private teams of world-class climbers tackling the steepest faces of the most rugged peaks, and small teams coming together on serviced expeditions to achieve their own private dreams—saw no limelight, leaving the myth that high-altitude mountaineering was all about being guided and being told what to do every step of the way.

Our 7Summits-Club expedition was somewhere in between these categories. Alex provided everything a serviced expedition includes, but he also managed the acclimatization and climbing program. Our twenty climbers would remain divided into the A-Team and the B-Team, with each team allocated one guide and one assistant guide as well as Sherpa support.

There was some discussion that first evening about the mind-blowing nature of our base camp. The facilities were those that I would have expected from a more expensive expedition operator. The consensus was that Alex had found the effective level of economy of scale, and while I appreciated the luxuries of our tents, the food, and the sauna/bath tent, I was stunned to discover the multimedia tent, where half a dozen lap-tops were laid out and a large television sat at each end of the room. I wondered what kind of economies might be enforced high on the mountain. Being famously tough mountaineers, the Russian climbing regimen might be very challenging. This possibility did not worry me because I was committed to attempting only what was safe and achievable regardless of what instructions I might be given. That was the only way to return home safely to my family.

EVEREST 2006

T
HAT FIRST NIGHT, snuggling into my sleeping bag after dinner, I had a mix of contradictory feelings. I was nervous about how Christopher would perform on the mountain. I remained nervous about how I would perform personally. The refrain “I have given myself only seven weeks to train for this Everest attempt” kept repeating itself in my head like the chorus of an overplayed popular song. Nevertheless, I was excited by the prospect of being among these mountains again because I knew I would thrive on the physical and mental challenges. The only time I perform at my limit is when circumstances demand it, and I was looking forward to finding out just how far I could go seven years after my last big expedition.

I slept well, waking with the slight headache that I expected after my first night at 17,000 feet. One of the most welcoming aspects of a Himalayan expedition is the wake-up call given by the Sherpas. That first morning, despite gloomy skies and fresh snow still settling on the ground, pairs of kitchen boys came by with thermoses of coffee and tea, welcoming everyone to our first morning here. This was a signal for us to get dressed and ready for the day. I stuck my head out, but there was no view of the landscape beyond the perimeter of the camp. Most of us stayed in bed until breakfast was announced half an hour later—the unmistakable clanging of a big spoon against an old oxygen cylinder which hung in the doorway of the kitchen tent.

As soon as I stepped out of my tent, I was surprised by the amount of snow that had fallen, more than double the quantity of the evening before. It was very unusual for spring and much more like a winter fall. On my way to the mess tent, I poked my head in the kitchen and greeted the crew in Nepali, and they beamed back at me. Such greetings were easy, and while I managed to converse in the language, I did it very poorly, with inappropriate verb forms and messy sentence structures. Sherpas and Tibetans have their own distinct languages, so they don't worry about others speaking bad Nepali.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair, largely because the weather did not favor any kind of outdoor activity. The cooks produced a huge variety of food and drink for breakfast, and I marveled at the range available on what was a relatively low-budget expedition. Alex had obviously discovered the economic benefits of buying in bulk. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, with many of the climbers happy to sit there indefinitely, talking and joking.

My priority for the morning was to catch up with my diary. I knew that as soon as the weather lifted, life would get busy, not just with sorting gear and meetings about procedures and logistics but also with the mountain itself. I needed to finish writing about the last two weeks so that I could put the past behind me and give my full attention to being here at Base Camp.

When I had eaten enough, I returned to my tent and jotted down details, filling in some blank days from early in the trip. Then I set about organizing my tent properly by dividing it into zones. My sleeping zone ran down the middle, with my feet at the door. On my right side, next to where my head would be when I was lying on my back, were my books, notebooks, and cameras—my creative zone. Also on my right was a sports bag for clothes and a big nylon drawstring bag for bulky garments, like my fleece bib-and-brace and jackets. My weatherproof Gore-Tex gear was near the door, so that if it suddenly got cold while I was wandering around camp, I could just reach inside the tent and grab what I needed. To my left were my snacks, of which I had quite a lot. As a vegetarian, I was not sure how well I would fare in the mess tent. I had chocolate, sports bars and gels, plus suckable sweets to soothe my throat, which I knew would be made raw by the constant gasping of freezing oxygen-thin air. Barbara had helped me dry all kinds of fresh fruit. Next to the food were two plastic boxes containing my Pharmanex nutritional supplements, the best quality I could get. The rest of the left side housed my toiletries, a second empty bag ready for dirty clothes, my daypack, and finally, by the door, my footwear. I love the simplicity of having a tent to myself because I can really make myself comfortable.

When I emerged from my tent, I noticed that the huge dome that Harry had brought specifically for the two film teams was being set up, but nothing much seemed to be happening. At first I thought it was a case of too many cooks—there were three people in Harry's team, plus Richard, Christopher, Mike, and several Sherpas—but as I approached and became involved, I realized the problem was more fundamental. Whatever we tried to do, the tent fly appeared to be too small. Sherpas are always keen to get a job done, and a few poles were bent as we tried to bully the fly into place. Harry had wandered off but now reappeared with another tent fly. He told us that the tent fly that we had been struggling with was designed for suspension from inside the frame, so that the tent could be pitched as a single-skinned weatherproof tent. What Harry now brought was a larger fly that was meant to go over the top of the frame. The correct fly slipped into place easily. Our timing proved to be perfect. As lunchtime was announced by the clanging of the oxygen cylinder, snow began to fall more heavily.

The wind picked up strongly during the afternoon and not just at ground level. I was writing my diary when the yellow glow inside my tent—instantly followed by an increase in temperature—told me that the sun was now shining. At the same instant Mike called out to me.

“Lincoln, the clouds are gone, so we'll be able to see the mountain.”

“I'll be right out,” I replied, but I was caught up with the thoughts I was scribbling. It was half an hour before I stepped outside, cozily protected from the bitter wind by my down jacket.

The heavy clouds we had been under for days had now been swept from the sky. Our base camp was in a location that offered no view of Mount Everest. In one sense it was good that the mountain was invisible. It was as though we were assembled in a teacher-free classroom, where we did not have to worry about what punishment might be meted out to us. Some of our team had walked a few hundred feet beyond the limits of our extensive camp back toward the road-head to a point where they could see the great peak. I thought it more useful, in terms of fitness and acclimatization, to clamber up the steep moraine wall directly above our camp.

Climbers from other teams were tackling the slope as well, so I followed what was already a well-trodden trail in the snow. I quickly realized the trail had been established by Sherpas, as there were several cables, one of them thicker than my thumb, lying beside the track in the snow. I presumed these were for radio-phone communications.

When I reached what proved to be a false crest, there was still no view of Everest. However, I was startled to see a small but deep lake of perfectly clear water. I was even more surprised when I realized that what I had taken to be a thick cable running to Base Camp was, in fact, a hose that supplied it with water. I wondered what other creature comforts this huge Russian expedition might be holding in store.

Beyond the spot where the hose had been placed in the lake, I followed fresh tracks that led to the true crest of the moraine wall. As I approached, half a dozen figures were silhouetted against the majestic backdrop of Everest. After two days of gloomy skies, the colors and the clarity seemed surreal. I snapped a few photos, then plodded up to where everyone stood. Someone was hunched over a substantial tripod, and I realized immediately who it was.

“Fantastic view, Mike.”

“Hi, Lincoln,” Mike said as he turned and beamed up at me. “It's looking better all the time.”

“Where are Richard and Christopher?” I asked.

“They came up as soon as the skies cleared,” he said, “but they didn't put on much in the way of extra clothes, so they went down as soon as they'd taken some photos. I got some footage of them as well.”

“There'll be plenty of other times to look at the mountain.”

Mike nodded but said nothing.

I stood staring at the mountainscape. I had spent countless hours staring at Everest during our expedition in 1984—it is a sight that has no see-by date.

“Bloody cold,” I muttered. “Makes you wonder why we even think about going up there, where it's going to be twice as cold.”

I looked away from Everest and down at the many expedition camps that took what shelter they could from the low moraine humps that formed the perimeter of the glacial flat. From where I stood, the effect was of a snow-covered sports ground surrounded by different teams with color-coded encampments. The flat expanse of snow was now dotted with people looking up toward me and beyond to the mountain, some of them walking away, having had their fill of Everest. Others walked in pairs, their random tracks telling me they were going nowhere in particular but just enjoying a late-afternoon stroll.

My back was not only to the mountain but also to the wind. I felt warm and secure in my down jacket and thick fleece bib-and-brace. I was at peace among the mountains again, not looking out through fogged-up windows but standing shin-deep in snow with my hands thrust deep in my pockets. There was no sense of the hugeness of the task that faced us all—its discomforts, dangers, and uncertainties—though the fact that we were here implied all these things. Instead, as I slowly adopted the sharpening of focus and the concern with what really matters, I felt myself letting go of my questioning. The time had come for me to begin to listen to the environment and to renew my understanding of the parameters.

THE NEXT MORNING there was not a cloud in the sky. Everything was covered in snow, and although the air was cold, it melted quickly. Reflections from the intense white snow dazzled us and multiplied the melting power of the sun. Now that we were no longer crammed into our mess tents, we were no longer obliged to congregate only as the A- and B-TEAMS. Life became more social as we stood around chatting or sat in front of our tents, fiddling with gear.