Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest

by Fergus White

  “Preseason’s going to plan.” Greg takes a swig from his bottle.

  “That wasn’t too bad today. I thought the pull up to the monastery would be worse. I feel ok. And you?”

  “Not too shabby. That’s four days trekking in the bag now,” Greg says.

  “Yeah. And close to four thousand metres. Pity about Roger. Will he recover?”

  “He’s a gritty Scot. He’s got time to come around.”

  At about 5pm we reach the village, a series of one and two story stone structures along the side of the trail. We find our lodgings, which I recognise from my previous visit, and settle into a small room in an annex. After unpacking and a quick rest, we step back out for the short walk to the main building, where the team has gathered.

  “Damn, it’s freezing. Where did that come from?” I fold my hands under my arms. “It must be close to zero. We didn’t climb that high today, did we?”

  “Keep going, keep going, let’s get out of this,” Greg says.

  Above this altitude, frostbite threatens. When that happens, capillaries becomes so cold, the blood crystallises into ice. It afflicts more than a dozen climbers a year on Everest. Fingers and toes get hit hardest, often ending in amputation. Sir Ranulph Fiennes, the English explorer, suffered it on the fingertips of his left hand during a solo shot at the North Pole. On returning home, his doctor had instructed a wait of almost half a year before going into surgery, to allow the surrounding area recover. After an impatient and painful four months, and exasperated by the sight of blackened, shrivelled tips, Fiennes strode down to the garden shed with a saw. He spent two hours performing the unthinkable on his little finger. Over the following four days, he severed off the tip of each digit in turn. I now find myself trying to emulate this man; he too has stood on top of Everest, successful on the third attempt.

  A stove burns in the middle of the dining room. Doug and I are sitting beside each other at the table. The two of us laugh our way through dinner. The slices of pizza get inside me, but I have to force them.

  We strike up a conversation with a man and women in their twenties. They look like models from the cover of an outdoor magazine. They reveal that they’re on some sort of world tour, having set out from the USA.

  “So what are you doing here?” Doug asks.

  “Ama Dablam, we’ll climb it this week,” the woman says.

  “Serious? Ama Dablam? You’re kidding?”

  “No, we’re all set.”

  They look too pretty, at least compared to our grubby bunch, for such hardship. Good luck to them. Forget the advertised views from the monastery today; she’s the best sight I’ve seen all week.

  April 5

  Trek from Pangboche (3,800m) to Dingboche (4,400m)

  After breakfast and a mug of coffee, we stroll to a small monastery for a blessing. It seems a bit late to bank on words in a foreign language to protect us. If there’s any karma on the mountain, it’ll be based on a life well lived or otherwise. I’m aware that I’m trying to steal a deathbed conversion: to place my faith and hope in the well-meaning consecrations of a stranger, only days before we pitch ourselves at Everest proper. But I’ll keep my thoughts to myself and show reverence for the tradition.

  “It’s the building over there,” I say, pointing for Greg, “the one with the red and yellow roof.”

  “You were here before?”

  “Yeah, same deal as last time.”

  We drop our backpacks outside, file in, and take a seat. Lama Geshi shuffles into the room. His face is an artist’s dream, etched by decades of history. The personal Sherpas stoop in his presence. He rattles off prayer after prayer at an unstoppable pace. Handfuls of rice are thrust into the air as the aromas of incense and smouldering juniper envelop us.

  In between prayers he giggles, similar to his boss, the Dalai Lama. I’d listened to a lecture by the Dalai Lama in Cape Town a decade ago. I’d been struck by how happy he seemed and his constant schoolboy-like chuckling. The Buddhist monk in front of us struggles to contain another dose of laughs. Perhaps it’s a part of their training, or maybe they just study The Beano for seven years.

  He bestows an individual blessing on everyone and ties a piece of coloured string around their neck. To complete the formality, he taps his forehead against the recipient’s. My eye catches Ade’s, and I fight to keep a straight face. I step forward to receive my virtual Kevlar jacket. I must show dignity to the office, if not to this cheery and delightful old man. I imagine he’d be a great gent to share a few drinks with, if there was a translator to hand. What stories he must possess. I presume he’s studied in Tibet, perhaps met the Dalai Lama, whom I’ve heard is just a notch or two above him in the Buddhist pecking order.

  Six months ago, I’d sat in this exact seat. At 3,800 metres I’d battled to follow the proceedings. It’s the first memory I have of feeling wasted. This morning, I can appreciate what’s happening around me.

  “That should do us no harm.” Ade slips his shades on as we step back outside.

  “Yeah, just the small matter of climbing the mountain left. How’re you doing today?”

  “Top notch. Another beautiful day.”

  Green ferns brush against our legs as we cut back to the trail proper. Chatter emanates from the group. Charlene and I are chatting about our training, our first chat in a few days. I’m struck that most of us do not know each other, and yet in a week’s time, we’ll attack Everest as a team. I think the two of us will get on well together over the next two months.

  “I’ve not felt great since yesterday,” she says. “I shouldn’t feel so bad this low down.”

  “Oh it’s normal-”

  “But this low? My stomach has turned against me. I don’t feel fit at all.”

  “You should have seen the state of me here last time. This place thrashes everyone. Look at Roger.” I step over a rock. “Most of us will get sick. I’m just trying to put it off as long as possible. Half of us either threw up or had worse problems last time.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Yeah, the life expectancy in this valley isn’t great. In any case, we’re not that low. We’ll be over four thousand metres soon.”

  “So it’s not just me?”

  “Far from it.”

  Trailside Views

  We trek for two hours beneath mountain peaks, before reaching the village where we’ll stop for lunch. I remember the high stone walls that enclose this narrow path. The teahouse where we’ll eat is still a distance away at the top of the settlement.

  I turn a corner and, to my surprise, come upon the place where we’ll dine. I remember trudging up past buildings for ages last time.

  The midday sun chases us off the patio to a lunch inside. We squeeze in around a few small tables.

  “How on earth can you eat seconds, Greg?” I push the rice and small pieces of vegetables around my plate. “It’ll be all I can do to clear this.”

  “Man up, dude.”

  The meal quality deteriorates the further up the valley we climb, but I force myself to finish what’s in front of me. Hydration, though, hands me an easy victory. I down several mugs of lemon tea and sip on a bottle of Coke. I’ll de-alkaline my body en route over the next two hours.

  “How about you, Roger?” I ask. “You look better. I see your appetite has returned.”

  “Can’t keep me down.”

  Between bites, he entertains us in his strong Scottish accent. His recovery astounds me. I thought the trek yesterday on a sick and empty body would finish him. He’ll strengthen our team.

  Lunch finished, we rejoin the trail with the trekkers. Greg and I hike at a restrained pace near the rear of a spread out group.

  “What are we at?” Greg asks.

  I glance at my watch.

  “We’ve just gone over four thousand one hundred.”

  “Steady as she goes.”

  An hour after lunch finds us walking along the banks of a small river. The thinning air, however, has stolen th
e energy with which I’d enjoy the sight of this Himalayan stream cutting through the landscape. The vegetation becomes sparser. Green yields to stone on the edge of the trail. The team is ascending out of the lowlands.

  We reach a split in the river, where the trail diverges at a wooden bridge. Everest lies somewhere to our left, but we persist on straight ahead. Behind the next spur lies Dingboche, where we’ll spend two days acclimatising. After our sojourn there, we’ll trek parallel to the valley we’ve just ignored and then merge with that route to the top of the world.

  At the far side of the bridge, a steep gradient over dusty rocks faces us.

  “I see there’s no stopping the Chuckle Brothers.”

  “Where are they?” Greg asks.

  “They’ve already blasted over those rocks and are around the back.”

  “The joy of youth.”

  Each step up bites my thigh muscles. We adopt a drawn-out pace. We place one boot forward, let it rest flat on the ground, and then lift the trailing boot through. We’ve no momentum. If someone was to glance at us, they’d presume we’re standing still. I learnt this technique towards the end of our training climb. We’re never compelled to breathe through our mouths. Conversation dries up. My eyes point down. Every few seconds, I force a knee straight.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Half an hour of ascent pushes us higher.

  “Ok?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Speed?’

  “Fine.”

  We’ve each noticed sometimes a tiny, almost imperceptible numbness in the back of our heads, just above the neck. It would be easy to ignore or not even recognise. It signals an approaching headache. If either of us feels this sensation, we ease off the pace still further. The other waits.

  Up over 4,300 metres, and we’ve put the arduous work behind us.

  “That’s Dingboche ahead there,” I say. “We just follow the trail through the grass.”

  “Cool, same height as us, more or less.”

  “Yeah, won’t be too long now.”

  Two huge stupas stand above a village of some twenty homesteads. The brilliant white coating and colourful upper sections of the monuments glisten in the sun. A maze of small fields surrounds the buildings. From this distance, the soil doesn’t appear too fertile. I can’t imagine many crops thrive on it.

  The oppressive heat of the midday sun has eased into a fine afternoon. Conversation resumes, and Greg and I return to our normal trekking pace.

  “The team is all over the place today,” I say. “Most are probably close to the lodge. I think a lot of the trekkers are behind somewhere.”

  “Suits me, we’ll get there when we get there,” Greg says.

  “It’s a pity there’re no rocks around here. I’ve got to go again,” I say.

  The pee stops are now worn like a badge of honour.

  “It’s just grass.” I look around.

  “There’s no one ahead or behind,” Greg says.

  “Right so, I’ll try to spell my name in the grass.”

  Greg and I reach the edge of the village. We pass the imposing stupa and progress to the lodge at 4,400 metres.

  “Wow, I never thought I’d feel so good at this height.” I drop my pack.

  “Yeah, that was a good one,” Greg says. “Three more days and we’ve passed preseason.”

  “Let’s just keep it cool and do nothing stupid.”

  Most of the lads have already arrived at the hostel. I recollect that the rooms here were comfortable. They even offered an en suite, an en suite hole in the ground that is. Unfortunately the nice ones in the upper section are occupied; the price we pay for our leisurely pace. We stroll down to the lower annex and walk till we find a vacant room, the last one by the toilet. A plain one with two single beds offers us what we need.

  “We passed eight doors in the corridor,” Greg says.

  “So?”

  “That’s sixteen other people who’ll use the toilet. It might be another noisy night.”

  “I hope not.”

  He pops into the toilet. He shakes his head on returning.

  “Time well spent is not time to be spent in there.”

  I stride in undeterred, delighted that my kidneys are doing such a fine job. My audible yelp of shock elicits a burst of laughter from Greg next door. I’m standing in a dark room just over a metre square. A hole in the ground looms below. A large barrel of water rests beside it. The aromas of springtime meadows do not float here. Eighteen people, foreign foods, the effects of altitude, a hole in the floor, and no hand basin threaten carnage.

  The Chuckle Brothers, Des and Blake from Canada, land in our room. The mountains can’t hold these men down.

  “We’re going exploring in the village. We’ll pick up some water. Do you guys want in on the action?”

  “Absolutely.” I pass them cash. “As much as you can carry.”

  Greg and I settle in for a mid-afternoon rest on our beds, with our heads raised. The raised head is supposed to lessen headaches at altitude; although, we’re unsure of the medical reasoning behind it. The stresses of the day ease out of our legs. When not hiking, we should be hydrating, eating or resting. Better still, we should perform all three at the same time.

  “What are we looking at in this place?” Greg asks.

  “We’ve got two days at this lodge. Tomorrow is a climb high-sleep low day. We’ll climb up the hill that’s just behind here. It goes to five thousand metres. Then return here for the night.”

  “Sounds good. Now back for a snooze.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The Chuckle Brothers burst in the door.

  “Success, we cleared out the shop.” Des throws a few bottles at the end of the beds.

  “Great stuff, lads, thanks.”

  I open a bottle, grab a Snickers bar, and lie back on the bed. Water, food, and rest, it’s just what the doctor ordered.

  Evening time find us all up in the main room. Our group of about thirty swells the population of the lodge. Outside, the temperature drops close to zero. A large furnace in the middle of the dim room keeps the Himalayan night at bay. I’m huddled at a small table with the Chuckle Brothers, Nadia, and her two Canadian trekking friends. I couldn’t ask for better company to end the day. The Brothers produce a deck of cards and start to deal. We chat about their five lives in Canada, the rain in Ireland, and everything in between.

  Unknown faces surround us at other tables. This hostel is jammed. That toilet will be the end of someone’s adventure. I hope it doesn’t end mine.

  April 6

  Acclimatisation Hike in Dingboche (4,400m)

  “It looks like a bright one out there, Greg.” I pull back the thin curtains. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Pretty good. And yourself?”

  “Grand. But there was a lot of action in the corridor last night. They were queuing up to make bits of the toilet.”

  Just outside, Nangkar Tsrang soars up to 5,010 metres. We’ll climb to its peak, some six hundred metres above us, stay an hour for lunch and then descend. That should push the red blood cells in our bodies but not over-stress our systems.

  After a breakfast of toast and eggs, we step out onto the patio for what should be a short day. Nadia’s already chatting to Hugo outside on this cool, dry morning.

  “Set to go?” I tighten my pack. The absence of my bulky sleeping bag, spare clothes, toiletries, and various odds and ends will free me up for today’s challenge.

  “Nadia will stay here; she’s not feeling great,” Hugo says.

  “I might try to gain a hundred metres later this morning, if I feel better,” she says.

  This has sprung out of nowhere.

  “How’re you this morning, Fergus?” Hugo asks.

  “Great. And yourself?”

  “Never better. Let’s get to it.”

  I hope she’ll pull through, but once illness attacks, it tends to persist. I’m not certain she’ll get back on track quick enough to attempt Island Peak. Their sche
dule doesn’t allow for rest days, with the exception perhaps of today.

  Greg and I bring up the tail of the group. At the top of this hill six months ago, I’d sat at the summit disinterested and groggy. A numbing headache had spoiled the day. I feel none of those symptoms this morning. But this afternoon will provide the best opportunity so far to evaluate the difference in my condition between this time and last. I’ve been as careful as I can. Slow and steady has been the mantra, Brufen morning and evening, and buckets of liquid. In a few hours I’ll know if I’ve a chance of reaching Base Camp in good health.

  Blake starts to race away from Greg and me.

  “He’s at it again.” I look up to Blake. “Hey buddy, take its easy. You’ll blow a gasket when we get higher.”

  “Screw you, old guys.”

  More for entertainment, rather than thinking it will slow him down, I tell him an old tale I’d once heard.

  “A bull and his young son are grazing in a field. In the pasture above, a wagon arrives. It delivers a truckload of young cows and then leaves. Excited, the young bull pounds the ground underneath him and says

  “Dad, let’s charge up there and have sex with one of those new cows.”

  “No, son,” the old bull replies, “we’re going to stride up there and screw them all.””

  Blake brushes aside the moral of the story and continues to put space between us.

  Up and up we push along the steep clay trail. Each step asks something of me. The altimeter puts us at 4,700 metres, halfway to the top. Dozens of trekkers fill the route, either on an acclimatisation hike or to witness the views from above. Even from this height, as I turn around to take it in, the vista strikes me. Below, the village basks in the late morning glow. Yesterday’s valley meanders away into the distance. On all sides, snowy peaks reach to the heavens. I think the snow line begins about the 6,000 metre mark. Today will drag us up to 5,000 metres. Within an hour we’ll be higher than Mont Blanc, the highest point in Europe. I turn back, breathe deep, and slog on.

  “Relentless, eh Greg?”

  “One step at a time,” he says.