Dead Lucky (11 page)

Richard and Christopher spent a lot of time in the film tent. They were busy setting up the solar panels they had brought to power their computer, satellite phone, and weather station. They also used the tent as storage space. Mike was often with them, both to organize the camera equipment and to film Christopher as he attacked the Sherpas with his inflatable kangaroo and crocodile, or as he adjusted the weather station which he had set up just outside the big dome. I spent time there as well, just chatting or helping with the wording of the Web dispatches, which Richard would then upload to Christopher's website. We had a very stable satellite phone, not only for uploads but for phone calls as well.

It was great to be able to talk to Barbara, Dylan, and Dorje, but it was also difficult. I wanted to hear how they were and what they were doing. I was happy to hear their voices, whatever they had to say. On the other hand, I knew that success on a big mountain depends on commitment and perseverance, and that there are times of great discomfort, danger, and emotional turmoil. Tough times could lead me to question what I was doing here—and it was only a small step from there to the desire for warmth and comfort and the need to be safely back at home with the family I loved. It was much harder to talk myself through such times of doubt when my loved ones were only a phone call away.

On my first eight major expeditions, spread across fifteen years, we had sketchy radio communications at best; at worst, we had mail-runners—or nothing. By 1999 things had changed. In March that year I was a cameraman on the Australian-American expedition to Makalu, where we filmed a documentary about Michael Groom, Australia's most accomplished high-altitude mountaineer at the time. After Michael and Dave Bridges had summited and were back at Base Camp, they were able to use the expedition's satellite phone to ring home with the news. The arrival of such portable technology had dragged me away from the intense isolation that had once been a major characteristic of expeditions. The new generation of climbers is blind to such complete remoteness, as almost every team now has a satellite phone and, often, a live website.

In October 1999 while I sat at my desk in Blackheath writing a newspaper column, I was stunned to receive an e-mail from a friend at Shishapangma Base Camp explaining that a few hours earlier Alex Lowe and my good friend Dave Bridges from our Makalu climb had disappeared beneath a huge avalanche, and that Conrad Anker, who had been with them, was definitely alive. The next day the deaths of Alex and Dave were confirmed on the American Ski Expedition website. It was bewildering to be sharing from the other side of the world the unfolding of the tragedy at the same time as those who were living it at Base Camp. The hope and horror of the avalanche hit me right there at my desk. This time around, on Everest, the members and organizers of our expedition had five different websites among them. I had been dragged into the seemingly innocent world of mountaineering websites.

WHEN VIEWED FROM the Tibetan Base Camp, the initial section of the climbing route is obscured, with only the upper reaches of the North Ridge visible above the foreground mass of Changtse's peak. The unmistakable asymmetrical triangle of Mount Everest towers behind, with its West Ridge cutting down to the right at an angle of forty-five degrees. The Northeast Ridge drops to the left at a much gentler angle. Access to this ridge is via the North Ridge, a broad snow spur that rises from the North Col. Climbers reach the crest of the Northeast Ridge at 27,900 feet, with only a little more than a thousand feet of height to gain before they can stand on the world's highest point. The catch is that the horizontal distance to the summit is more than a mile. There are no quick dashes to the top on this route, and this is what makes summit day so dangerous.

The low angle of the highest sections of the Northeast Ridge belies the difficulty of the climbing, as both sides of the ridge are steep. Only in a few places is it possible to walk along the crest. The rest of the time climbers traverse downward-sloping ledges on the North Face, often with loose rock underfoot. Each ledge finishes at a sheer drop or simply merges into the smooth slabs of the face. Climbers gain height by clambering from one sloping shelf up to the next. Usually this is a matter of straightforward rock-scrambling, but there are a few tricky sections where technical climbing skills are necessary. Those without the skills pull up on the fixed rope, which runs all the way to the summit of the mountain. However, this is a dangerous technique because the cord— which is only one-third of an inch in diameter—is sure to be seriously weakened in places. The damage is done by rockfalls or abrasion, or by a careless mountaineer puncturing a rope that is lying on the snow with the sharp point of an ice axe or crampon. The anchoring devices that attach the rope to the mountainside can loosen with time, which means they can pull out under a climber's body weight. Some ropes are old and have not been checked in years. Caution is required on all fixed ropes, and experienced climbers keep as much weight on their feet as they can in order to lessen the load on the rope.

The most intimidating obstacles of the entire climb are encountered on the upper section of the Northeast Ridge. They are three in number, each of them steep cliffs, which have the unpoetic names of the First, Second, and Third Steps. Prosaic names are not surprising, as there is not much scope for poetry at extreme heights. A more likely mental state is the hallucinatory one that comes when the mind rebels against exhaustion and lack of oxygen. At the roof of the world, the absurdities of an illusory state can be easier for the mind to accept than the logic of deadly reality.

The First and the Third Steps offer few challenges apart from sheer effort, but every climber who tackles the route approaches the Second Step with trepidation. Many climbers turn back here, and of those who continue onward to a summit which lies beyond their limits, the Second Step is often where they retreat to. For those who really have gone too far, this is where they can expect to die.

Above the Second Step, the ridge seems to broaden. In fact, it remains narrow but feels wider because there are fewer boulders, buttresses, and cornices cluttering the crest. Climbers heading for the summit along the ridge have the unbelievably precipitous Kangshung Face to their left and the steeply sloping North Face to their right. The lack of obstacles along the crest only makes the sheer drop on each side more obvious and the climbers more frightened. By this stage, climbers are either fired up to reach the summit or coming to terms with having bitten off more than they can chew. Two options remain for those who are struggling. Death is one. The other is retreat. The tragedy is that by this stage many climbers no longer have the capacity to make a choice.

I know these details because my life has been linked to Everest for over twenty years. My work as a trekking guide has taken me to the Nepalese Base Camp many times, and three times to the Tibetan side. I have climbed lesser peaks in the region which has Everest as an ever-present backdrop. Trekkers always ask me about Everest, about my 1984 climb and why we didn't use oxygen, and about how I felt about not reaching the summit. They ask my opinions on topics such as rubbish on the mountain, the deadly 1996 season, and how dangerous it really is. None has an easy explanation.

I am particularly knowledgeable about the North Ridge route because of the book I wrote in 2004 about my longtime friend Sue Fear. Sue was the second Australian woman to climb Mount Everest and the first to climb it from Tibet. Sue used to stop by Singapore for a few days or a week on her way to an expedition to the Karakoram or the Himalaya. During those few visits I taped thirty hours of interviews, which covered every aspect of Sue's Everest climb. I needed from her as clear a picture as I could get of the climbing route so that I could write about it as accurately and convincingly as possible. I kept asking questions until I could visualize each camp and each obstacle. It helped that I had hiked up the East Rongbuk Glacier approach to Everest a few months after Sue had reached the summit. Now I was about to discover how close my descriptions in our book had been to the truth.

EAST RONGBUK

O
N THE MORNING that the A-Team were getting ready to head up to Intermediate Camp on an acclimatization hike, I entertained myself by watching Slate pack what he thought was necessary for a few days up the valley. The hike to Advance Base Camp and back would take three days, so with tents, sleeping bags, and the catering already set up at the camps, not much gear was needed.

Most intriguing among his gear was a black Darth Vader-like mask that Slate had constructed all by himself.

“So, you're intending to blast off into space from the summit, are you?”

“May the force be with me.”

We got along very well. I never had to explain my bad jokes and I always nodded politely at his. He was very proud of his construction, so I did not criticize it any further.

“You know how I was really ill back at Nyalam with that cough?” he asked. “This will help me keep it under control.”

“But how?”

“The beaklike thing is a heat-exchange breath-warmer.”

“Like the Norwegians have?” I had been intrigued by the strange cigarette-packet-sized objects the Norwegians had been shoving into their mouths. “The ones they've got are white.”

“Yep. Because they are Jedi.”

“Right.”

“Actually, they're pretty well the same, just a different brand of breath-warmer. Then I used this duct tape to keep out the wind and make a mask, and so I don't have to clench it between my teeth all day long.”

“Petter swears by his and it hasn't even got cold yet,” I said, “so maybe you're on to something. And if it doesn't work, you'll be able to mug people without them recognizing you.”

“It's a win-win.”

“And it keeps out the wind-wind.”

Then I shut up so that Slate could concentrate. I did not want to be responsible for making him forget something vital. He was very well prepared and had obviously given careful consideration to how he was going to climb the mountain. And while I did not feel inadequate, I did wish that I'd had more time to organize my own personal gear. Six weeks from the day I got the green flag just wasn't enough to get myself fully prepared. As it was, I had done little more than pull out my favorite items of clothing and hardware and take a quick cruise through the Mountain Designs store in Sydney to replace worn-out gloves, socks, and a few other items. With ten expeditions behind me, and several dozen treks, I knew my basic needs. However, I would have liked some extra time to have checked out the latest technologies for keeping hands and feet warm and functional at extreme heights. And now that I knew about breathwarmers, I would have liked one of them as well.

When Slate had shouldered his pack and was ready to go, I offered him a high five, saying, “The American way.”

We slapped palms as he mumbled something about watching too many basketball movies and that this form of hand greeting was not universal practice in his home country. Trust an attorney to be a stickler for accuracy. Then he headed off, pausing at the kitchen tent to stick his head in and say good-bye to the crew.

I decided I should start getting my own stuff sorted in preparation for my departure up the valley the next day. Christopher, Richard, Mike, and I would be hiking with other members of the B-Team—Harry Kikstra, Thomas Weber, Kevin Augello, and Milan Collin.

As it turned out, I was granted an extra day's rest. I developed a cough overnight and an upset stomach by morning. I was not badly sick, but I was aware that it would be a foolish move to sleep at a higher altitude until I felt better. Success at high altitude begins with preventing any illness or injury from getting worse. I limited myself to walking with my Australian companions as far as the turnoff which led up into the East Rongbuk Valley.

Back at Base Camp I relaxed in my tent and enjoyed a light lunch followed by a snooze. Apart from any other considerations, it was a great pleasure to be alone. I could be with my own thoughts and begin to recalibrate my brain to the immense challenge of climbing Everest. To this point, the journey had been excitement and anticipation, but now every action would have its purpose. On protracted expeditions it is easy to be knocked around by the inhospitable conditions. I had found that the best way to remain unfazed was to dress appropriately, keep my hands and feet warm, and not worry too much about anything else. The path to equilibrium is always easiest for me when I am by myself, and so I was happy to head up the glacier the next morning alone.

Most of our climbing gear had been lashed onto the wooden saddles of the yaks. When all the yaks were loaded, they formed a convoy, which was led the full distance to Advance Base Camp in one day. Because I was intending to sleep at Intermediate Camp, I carried everything I needed for a night on the ice, including my down jacket and other warm clothing. All these items remained in my pack as I trudged up the glacier. The weather was perfect and I felt strong, even though my pack was heavier than I had intended.

The first stage of the hike follows the long trough between the slow-moving mass of the Rongbuk Glacier and the unstable scree slope above it. The trough is the seam that separates the stationary mountainside and the movable ice. Such troughs are common access routes because they provide relatively level going, as was the case all the way to the junction of the East Rongbuk Valley with the Rongbuk Glacier.

I climbed steeply up a spur to get upstream of the gorge carved by East Rongbuk River. A mile up the valley, the river emerged from beneath the ice of the East Rongbuk Glacier, but as the flow was small, I was able to walk across a basin of glacial silt. Beyond the basin lay the worst kind of glacier travel, although it was nothing new to me. The lower reaches of every sizable glacier are a maze of ice pyramids, frozen ponds, ice slopes, and obvious but uninviting crevasses covered in loose shards of rock. The East Rongbuk is better than many, but it was still a chore to have to lose height, gain it, and lose it again, all the while knowing that the destination was much farther than it appeared because of the circuitous route.