by Andrew Lock
The downside of the trek, though, is that it has a reputation for porter strikes and demands for increased wages. Several expeditions have failed even to reach the mountain. To avoid that issue, we booked a large Russian Mi-17 helicopter to fly us and our equipment from Lukla to Base Camp. However this too, carried risks. A number of these helicopters appeared in Nepal after the breakup of the Soviet Union, but over the years most have been lost through crashes in the treacherous flying conditions of the Himalaya. Indeed, the flight to Makalu Base Camp is one of the most difficult, as the route penetrates a narrow gorge enclosed between the walls of giant mountains. A few years earlier, one of the same helicopters had disappeared there with a full load of Sherpa passengers, never to be found. Still, the flight seemed a better option than the trek, given how much time we’d already lost while trying to get a Shishapangma permit.
We first flew by light plane to Lukla, where we waited for our scheduled helicopter flight. The next morning we were told that our flight had been put back three days because the helicopter was being used by the Nepali government to collect ballot boxes from the recent national election. We used the time to train on the steep mountain tracks that crisscrossed the surrounding hills, which I’d never previously had the time to explore. Three days later, the chopper arrived.
Our flight was to be the second trip of the morning, since another expedition had also booked the helicopter to Base Camp. We filmed the first team take off, then sat back to await the chopper’s return in an hour or so. After two hours and four cups of tea, it had not appeared. Three hours and six cups of tea later, it had still not returned and we went in search of answers. It had crash-landed at Makalu Base Camp. While no one had been injured, the helicopter was inoperable, probably for several months. That left just one operating helicopter big enough to ferry us and our equipment in all of Nepal.
Our trekking agent contacted the owners of that last chopper and was told that we’d be able to access it in another four days. We considered whether to give up on the flight and make the long trek, but the advice I’d received from climbers who’d done that was to avoid the porter problems at all costs. So we took the risk and waited for the helicopter. In the meantime, we hiked in the surrounding hills to keep fit and acclimatised, and drank beer to give ourselves more reason to go hiking to keep fit.
The risk and the beer paid off, and after a full week in Lukla, we were finally able to experience one of the most spectacular flights in the world. Because of the unpredictable winds, the high altitude and the tough flying conditions, the helicopter, which could carry 4 tonnes at sea level, would only take a load of 1600 kilograms in total—passengers and equipment combined. Given the recent and previous accidents, we were happy to comply. The helicopter swooped over Himalayan passes, past massive mountain walls that towered thousands of metres above us, and along seemingly bottomless gorges with thundering mountain rivers pounding down below—probably not the place to run out of gas.
We were deposited onto an open rocky plain at the base of a glacier, immediately below the south ridge of Makalu. Known as Hillary Base Camp, the site is still a day’s trek below the actual Base Camp for our intended route on the north side of the mountain, but it provided a suitable landing place for the helicopter and a safe altitude for us to spend a few days furthering our acclimatisation.
While there, we took the opportunity to examine the chopper that had crashed a week earlier and now sat forlornly on the cold glacier. It had come in too fast, hit hard and broken the undercarriage. Another climber showed me a video of the accident. It appeared that the helicopter was lucky not to have broken in two, such was the speed at which it hit the ground.
After a few days we trekked to our Base Camp, accompanied by a small team of porters. We couldn’t take all our loads with us, so we prioritised them to allow us to start climbing with the bare essentials while the rest of the expedition stores were brought up over the next week.
To save costs, we’d arranged to share camp logistics with a Kazakhstani team. Not finding them at the Hillary Base Camp, we were intrigued to learn that they’d already moved up to the higher Base Camp—they’d been there for over a week. Virtually without food, fuel or equipment, they’d survived on charity from other climbers. Undaunted, they’d already started their climb and established their lower camps on the mountain. I soon came to understand the driving force within the team. Their leader was Denis Urubko, a highly accomplished 8000-metre alpinist who had a bucketload of tough climbs to his credit.
We were also sharing our permit with Portugal’s João Garcia, with whom I’d climbed on Nanga Parbat in 1996 and Kanchenjunga in 2006. João had a Belgian climbing partner, Jean-Luc. Initially we considered climbing together as a team of five, but a clash of personalities early in the expedition obliged us to stay separate.
The climbing, at least at first, was easy and we made quick progress. Hector and Neil were good teammates. Hector was a true comedian—no matter how exhausted, he always had a joke to suit the situation. Neil was uncomplaining and quick to take on chores, like setting up the tent or collecting snow. I found it very motivating to share an expedition with like-minded souls who truly enjoyed just being on the mountain—none of us was there for self-aggrandisement or sponsorship endorsements.
The climbing was fantastic. The route was interesting and varied, with steep snow and ice sections, rock steps and lots of exposure. I was in my element and buzzed with adrenaline as we climbed higher and higher, jumping crevasses and forcing our way through the mountain’s barriers. My entire focus was on the climb, with the dullness of normal life forgotten. Everest stood just a few kilometres away, and we were treated to extraordinary views of its remote Kanshung Face and the Mother Goddess in all her moods.
Our focus was interrupted one night when we cooked up a packet of tom yum Thai soup. High altitude affects your taste-buds, so that nothing is very appetising and most things taste bland. When we’d shopped for the expedition in Kathmandu, we’d thought the tom yum soup might be tangy enough to have some flavour. But as we ate it, I had no idea whether it had any flavour or not because it simply blew our heads off. At minus 20 degrees Celsius, the sweat ran off us. Snow never tasted so good!
The real problem on this expedition, though, was that we were constantly sick from colds and flus. Hector was the worst affected, but Neil and I were also knocked down at different times. No amount of antibiotics seemed to clear them up. Antibiotics don’t work as well at altitude, and they also leave you more susceptible to other infections. Hector lurched from one chest infection to another, never quite getting on top of them. It affected his fitness and, understandably, his morale.
Despite these challenges, we progressed up the mountain until we were ready for a summit push in mid May. While resting at Base Camp, however, Hector and I became sick again. Days ticked by and so did the good weather. Worried that he’d miss his summit chance, Neil set out for the top on his own. I didn’t see any need to rush, though. Julie was sending me weather forecasts by SMS from Australia, and I judged that the best weather would come on 21 May.
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On 17 May Hector and I started out from Base Camp and climbed directly to Camp 2. We continued up to Camp 3 on 18 May, where we stopped for a day while strong winds pounded the upper slopes of the mountain. Several climbers challenged the winds and went for the top the next day. As Hector and I sheltered in our tent, a number of them, including Neil, returned dejectedly to join us, having been defeated by the wind. Some were frostbitten but, thankfully, not Neil.
Hector and I pushed up to Camp 4 on 20 May. The next day, on a brutally cold morning, we set out for the summit at 3.45 a.m. This was quite a late start, given the long climb ahead of us and the forecast for strong wind around midday, but it was just too cold to leave any earlier. We needed the sun. Even so, I almost instantly lost the feeling in my toes. My high-altitude boots were rated to minus 40 degrees Celsius but seemed to have no effect that morning.
Whi
le the slope wasn’t too steep, Hector quickly dropped behind. It was obvious that he’d been severely weakened by the perpetual colds and flus he’d suffered. We kept climbing, but when I stopped around 6.30 a.m. to rewarm my frozen feet, I could see that Hector was finished. At 8100 metres he turned back. This was a great disappointment to him; he really wanted to summit. His departure also meant I was on my own for the rest of the climb, and my safety net and the camaraderie of the climb went with him.
Such was the bitter cold that morning that I came close to turning around myself. The usual toe wriggling did nothing to get the blood flowing. For a full thirty minutes I swung my legs back and forth, trying to force some blood down so that I could regain just the slightest feeling in them. Normally I can feel a bit of movement in the joints of my toes even when the toes have lost all sensation, but on this occasion I couldn’t feel anything at all. I knew I was on the very precipice of frostbite. The summit wasn’t worth a smaller shoe size, I decided, but just when it seemed that I would have to forgo the top and retreat to the warmth of the tent, I felt a slight twinge and knew that my toes would stay attached for a while longer.
The excruciating pain of blood returning to my severely frozen feet was almost crippling, though, and I had to clench my teeth to stop from crying out as I buckled over my ice axe. Wave after painful wave swept over me and I could do nothing except curse. After a few minutes it passed and I could breathe freely again. On with the climb. I started up the steep rock and ice slope, climbing quickly to keep the blood flowing to my feet.
There were two other climbers going for the top that day: a Czech named Radek, whom I soon overtook, and another man who was coming up behind me. He was making very quick progress and was actually catching up. I realised that he was using oxygen, and as he caught me I saw that he had a new type of oxygen mask. It turned out to be Ted Atkins, the British climber for whom I had searched for and eventually sourced an oxygen bottle on Mount Everest in 2004. An engineer, he’d since invented his more efficient mask and regulator system for the oxygen bottles that are used in the Himalaya, and he was testing it out. Clearly, it worked well.
We rested together on a little ledge. To save weight, I left my pack and a water bottle there, then led off and climbed towards the summit ridge. It was fantastic climbing. We scrambled over and around rocky outcrops, linking short snow ramps and tiptoeing up occasional ice patches. The sun shone, the snow sparkled and Everest glittered in the distance. It was great to be alive! This was my environment, climbing hard but smoothly, the whole world dropping below me, my goal just another hour or two’s effort away.
My exuberance was interrupted when, about 10 metres from the ridge, my left boot suddenly felt quite light. I looked down and saw that I’d lost my crampon, which had dropped into the snow about 8 metres down the face. The loss of a crampon can be devastatingly dangerous, particularly on steep rock and ice. Without it, I was at great risk of slipping off the face. Luckily, Ted was below me, and was able to recover the crampon. While I refixed it to my boot as securely as possible, he led through and up to the ridge. I joined him there a few minutes later and we sat together, enjoying the sun’s life-giving warmth. We couldn’t stop too long, though, as we anticipated strong winds around midday.
We started the final traverse along the summit ridge to the top. Ted took off at a great pace, supercharged by his diet of oxygen. It’s incredible the difference it makes. He was stronger, warmer and faster than I was, despite the additional weight of the oxygen bottle.
Radek was well behind us, so Ted and I continued along the ridge. We climbed for ten minutes or so, and then there was a short, steep step up a rocky outcrop. The left side of the ridge was corniced, with a very steep drop down. Ted went up the snow and around the rocky outcrop—a false summit. As I followed, I looked back and photographed Radek on the ridge. It was as if he was walking on a strip of snow suspended in the sky, with fluffy clouds all around and below him. Spectacular!
Once over the false summit, I expected to have to down-climb a little before ascending to the true summit, but it was just a delicate snow traverse with a short rise at the end. Ted was approaching the top, so I photographed him and then traversed over. I arrived about 11.15 a.m., seven and a half hours after setting out. That’s a day’s work in the public service. Where does the time go, I wondered, when you are just putting one foot in front of the other?
On top, I stood for Ted to take a photo, and then I unfurled two small strings of prayer flags that Julie and I had bought in Namche Bazaar during our trek. They had been blessed by a lama during our puja ceremony.
The summit was steep, snowy and small. There were some other prayer flags there, so I tied mine onto them. I pulled out my Thuraya satellite phone and called Julie. It was hard to talk as I was puffing hard, but it was great to speak to her from the top. I also put in a call from the very summit to Kelly Higgins-Devine, an afternoon radio host from ABC Radio in Queensland. I’d promised to make the call if I could, as Kelly had followed my climbs with interest for a number of years. I think she was more excited than I was and she cut into her normal program to do the interview live.
By this time the wind was whipping me and it was time to get down. It took just two hours to descend to Camp 4, where Hector was waiting. Despite his own disappointment and exhaustion, he kindly started up the stove and made me some drinks before we packed up and dropped down to the greater safety of Camp 3. The following day we descended to Base Camp.
Poor Hector was despondent at not having reached the summit. Normally, he was a very strong and fast climber, but he just couldn’t beat the infections on this trip. Neil, too, was disappointed but pragmatic. He had achieved his own altitude record and learned a lot more about climbing at high altitude. We would climb together again.
When we reached Kathmandu, I was a completely different person to the recluse who’d hidden from others after Annapurna the previous year. I was on a massive high. Makalu had been the ideal high-altitude experience: tough conditions, challenging climbing and brutally cold, but achievable, given the motivation. It was one of the most satisfying climbs I’d done. The perfect mountain. I’d felt so alive and happy during the climb that I was almost sorry it was over, despite being 12 kilograms lighter and struggling to climb a flight of stairs for the first couple of weeks back in civilisation.
As well as the summit, I also came away from the mountain with an empty oxygen bottle that was lying on the plateau at Camp 3. It was from the French expedition that had made the first ascent of Makalu in 1955—a real collector’s item.
I knew with absolute certainty that I’d made the right decision to continue with my 8000er project. This was where I wanted to be. This was where I was most fulfilled. Bring on the next one, I thought. Shishapangma, of course, because Makalu had been the thirteenth 8000-metre peak I’d climbed.
14
FINISH LINE
Is this the summit, crowning the day? How cool and quiet! We’re not exultant; but delighted, joyful; soberly astonished … Have we vanquished an enemy? None but ourselves. Have we gained success? That word means nothing here.
George Mallory
THIRTEEN DOWN, one to go. In April 2009 Hector and I returned to Kathmandu with the intention of finishing off Shishapangma. Our trekking agent applied for the permit through the Chinese Embassy in Kathmandu but, just as in 2008, we were stuffed around. Every day the response was ‘maybe tomorrow’. It was never ‘no’, although clearly they had no intention of issuing us a permit with no reason given. After two weeks we gave up and went home. Shishapangma 5, Andrew zip.
I later heard that several climbers on the 2008 Chinese Olympic torch expedition had died in the attempt, and that the Chinese were back on the mountain to recover the bodies before any foreigners discovered them. Of course, that was just a rumour.
Julie wasn’t with me this time because we’d broken up a few months after the Makalu expedition in 2008. It was a great shame. We’d been together for five
years, and she’d always been accepting of my absences for 8000-metre expeditions, and of the dangers they posed. In many of my earlier relationships, including in my marriage, I’d found that my partner had been attracted to the idea of being with a climber but less enamoured with the reality of it, with the regular three-month absences and no guarantee of a safe return. Those relationships had ended rather quickly. Others had ended before they’d even started: ‘Mountain climber? Ah, no thanks. I need a father for my children.’ Julie had been the exact opposite. She’d wanted to get married but with my increasing desire to keep climbing and adventuring around the world, as well as a previous failed marriage, I wasn’t yet ready to make that commitment again. So we’d separated.
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In September 2009 I was ready to tackle Shishapangma—again. Hector wasn’t able to return in the post-monsoon season, but Neil Ward was keen, so we teamed up. I liked climbing with Neil. He wasn’t a big man, but he was hardy and dependable. When we’d met on this same mountain in 2007 and agreed to climb together, we’d clicked. And when he’d stopped from exhaustion during our summit attempt, he hadn’t run down the mountain to safety but had waited for me, freezing, while I pushed on and had a crack at the top. If I’d needed help to descend, he’d have been there. He was solid.
This time around our team was a little bigger. We were joined by Neil’s girlfriend, Louise, and Kinga Baranowska from Poland. Kinga had reached the summit of six of the world’s fourteen 8000-metre mountains, but I hadn’t climbed with her before. Through bitter experience I was reserved about climbing with people I didn’t know, but her boyfriend, Ferran, who’d introduced me to ‘glacier golf’ on Annapurna in 2007, was a highly experienced climber and asked me take her.