by Fergus White
If nature calls again later in the night, there’d be a problem. That’s where Hugo’s tip from a few days ago will assist. On settling into a tent, he advises crafting a hole about five centimetres wide and ten centimetres deep in the snow in the rear vestibule. Fill a pee bottle as required. Then pour the contents into the hollow. The warm liquid will melt a narrow vertical channel, that’ll go down over a metre. Done correctly, it’s clean and odourless.
“I’ve already made that hole in the back,” Greg says. “And it works.”
“I’m getting the gold star treatment I see.”
Greg eats his dinner. I struggle with mine; it tastes so bad. I force it down. I must live on this for the next month. If I can’t get sufficient calories into me each day I will crash out of the team. I manage a few smaller snacks. It’s probably not just the altitude. Dehydration thrashes the digestive system.
“Try soup, it might go down better,” Greg says. “Mix this packet in a mug of hot water.”
My body can only take half a mug before it rebels against me. I open the rear inner zip in time to throw up into Hugo’s disposal system. The soupy barf disappears to become a part of the Khumbu glacier. The few solids I’d eaten remain in my stomach. At least there’ll be some source of energy for tomorrow.
“Man, you’re a mess,” Greg says.
“I’ve got to keep trying. A few sweets might stay down.”
Darkness has crept upon us, and our head torches light the tent.
“Goodnight lads!” Hugo says from next door. “Up at six tomorrow and leave for Camp 2 at seven.”
“Any word on Doug?” Greg asks.
“He turned back in the Icefall. He’s at Base Camp.”
“All right. Thanks. See you then.”
It’s after 6pm. We realise there’s not a lot to do in a tent by the light of a torch in subzero temperatures. It’s best to copy Hugo’s example and get wrapped up in our sleeping bags. Greg has turned off the stove. We each have a bottle for the night. We slide into our bags. I pack some gear under my head and shoulders to keep me raised while I sleep. I set the alarm for 6am and clip my watch to a clothes line that stretches just above me. That’ll allow me to check the inside air temperature during the small hours.
The mountain destroyed me, but I gain some relief lying flat. I’ve had plenty of liquid in the last two hours and will sip more during the night. The sleeping bag warms up. The inflatable down mattress does its job; coldness does not penetrate from below. Greg, however, has a problem. He carried up a thinner air-mat that’s not down filled. It’s much lighter to transport, but not as good an insulator. He suspects it’s leaking. The frigid glacier chills him from beneath. There’s not much we can do other than hope sleep arrives soon.
Lying in the silent dark, I reflect upon the events of the day. Who would have thought that when we met Angel our troubles were only beginning? We were not even halfway to Camp 1. How are Ade, Martin, and Matthew? It’s unlikely they’d anyone to make water for them. In what condition are the others? Pete looked like he’d strolled to the shops to buy the newspapers. How can I recover from this? What demands will the climb to Camp 2 make? The altitude gain will be about four hundred metres. Perhaps I can make it.
A sensation below brings me back to the physical world; my bladder makes itself known. I consider the next move, uncertain. The experts can fill a pee bottle in their sleeping bag. This is to play with a loaded gun; too much can go wrong. Others zip the bag down, open it a crack, lie on their side with the container just outside, and perform the necessary manoeuvre. At least if it slips, it can be retrieved and the bag is kept dry. I’m more of an amateur. I prefer to zip it open halfway, kneel up with my lower legs still warm inside, pee, and close the lid. I’ll lose a little heat, but it keeps risk to a minimum. In a shared tent, I’ll keep my back to my climbing buddy; I don’t want to show off.
“Eh, I must pee.”
Greg lies centimetres from me. We’ve not gone through the protocol in any great depth, and I’m about to unzip more than just my sleeping bag.
“Sorry about the light. I don’t want to mess this up.”
I kneel on the mat and turn my back to Greg. I score a perfect ten: no stage fright, no overflowing, and no spillage.
I replace the top with care. I hold it up in front of the head torch for examination, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Four hundred mills and pretty clear.”
Greg emits an encouraging noise. I test out Hugo’s disposal system in the rear vestibule. The contents vanish into a colder world below. I drink more water and then get wrapped back up into the monstrous bag. My only hope of passing this acclimatisation rotation is constant hydration and peeing. At least that process has started. Camp 2 sits at 6,450 metres. The highest I’ve climbed before is 6,300 metres. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ascend higher than that. Perhaps I’ll make it all the way to Camp 2? What if I don’t?
Despite exhaustion, the possibilities of this new environment flood my mind. This is our first night above Base Camp. We’re on Everest proper.
April 19
Acclimatisation Climb from Camp 1 (6,050m) to touch Camp 2 (6,450m)
The cold found its way into Greg’s bag. He’s cuddled up to my left shoulder. I’ve squeezed over a touch on my mat to make room for him, but it’s only the width of my shoulders; so, there’s not much I can do. Darkness surrounds. I can’t fall back to sleep. I check my watch, but the digital readout displays garbage. Time, temperature, alarm; everything has folded. I’d put in a new battery last month. This is the Suunto Core, the outdoor man’s outdoor watch. I’m astounded it has bombed. Perhaps the battery or LCD has frozen over, and it’ll recover once warmed up. I hope so; I’ve no spare.
An hour passes. I hear a noise from the tent on our right.
“Hey Linda, what time is it?”
“5am.”
“Thanks.”
I gave the pee disposal system another test during the night. The quantity and clarity analysis reassured me. The litres I drank in the tent have made a big difference to my health.
Sleep will not visit me; so, I decide to get up and start boiling water. Even though we face a short acclimatisation climb today, we still plan to kick off early at 7am. Once the sun rises high, a blazing heat can engulf the Cwm Valley. Rays reflect off the ice and snow of the West Shoulder to the north and off the white sides of Nuptse on our southern side. A solar oven develops in between. It can reach +35C on a windless day. Of course, if clouds fill the sky, the temperature can drop to subzero in a matter of minutes.
The flame from the stove flickers. I can hold my hand a little above it. Ted had warned us they’re inefficient when the gas is cold, but I didn’t expect them to be this hopeless. Warming up the metal jam jar sized canister in my hands is out of the question; I’d stick to it. I watch as the reflected heat of the tiny fire defrosts the container. For fifteen minutes, the snow in the pot ignores my attempts to melt it. We need a better arrangement.
I hear Greg stir behind me.
“God, I was freezing all night. Be glad to get a hot drink,” he says.
“I should have something ready soon.”
We eat a small breakfast and enjoy a warm drink.
“We should have a bottle each in an hour. They won’t be full, but close enough,” I say. “That flame was useless earlier. We’ve got to figure a way to keep that gas warm for later.”
Geared up and bottles filled, we crawl out into an ice cold morning under a clear blue-black sky. The sun won’t peek over the mountain crest for another two hours. I turn around and absorb my first view of the Cwm Valley.
I’m staring up a broad, gently undulating glacial valley. Also called the Valley of Silence, it was carved out by the Khumbu Glacier, which starts at the base of the Lhotse peak. Massive lateral crevasses cut the central section. We’re pitched on the far right of the lower valley, beneath Nuptse. Dead ahead of us, maybe five kilometres away, stands the Lhotse Face.
“Yeah, we’ve got to get up that to summit,” Greg says.
“That’s another day’s problem,” I say.
To the left, between us and the face, Everest asserts its gigantic grandeur. I haven’t seen it since Kala Patthar, and I’ve never seen it from so close. The huge, brown pyramid rises up to the sky, the tip still hidden from view.
Mountains hem us in on three sides. To the left and north, the West Shoulder and Everest stand. Lhotse blocks our progress some eight kilometres ahead to the east. On our immediate right, the snowy flanks of Nuptse soar up just short of 8,000 metres. Only behind us can we find an escape route. That’s back down through the Icefall, some getaway plan that is.
Some of the others appear from their tents. All around, crampons are tightened and helmets are clipped on. Climbers from different teams stride past us.
“You guys ready?” Hugo sticks his head out of his tent.
“I will be in two minutes, just working on this harness,” I say.
I know I must re-prove myself after yesterday’s fiasco. I overhear mention of TC, but I’m not certain if she made it here or not.
“There’s no point in standing here getting cold,” Greg says. “It’s just before seven. Let’s go.”
The two of us and Sherpa Penba push out, hoping to touch Camp 2 and then return.
My breathing labours on the pull up out of camp, but the light backpack is incomparable to what I lugged in yesterday’s ordeal. Within the first hour we negotiate four crevasses. The drag up from each extracts its toll. We follow footprints up the white valley. They lead us from the right edge, where we started, towards the valley’s upper left side. A gap has opened to Penba, who’s ahead. Greg walks a pace behind me on the gentle slope. There’s no fixed rope; if a climber stumbles here, they’re not going to roll away.
My shoulders, in the freezing air, hunch down. My head droops. I’ve little in the tank. I concentrate on lifting my left foot and then the right. I’m certain Greg could go faster, but I’m just glad to be moving in the right direction and to be ahead of the posse. I can’t see the rest of the team behind us. So far we’ve beaten the sun; although, I’d be glad of a little heat right now.
“I think Camp 2 is in those rocks. Up at the end on the left,” Greg says.
I watch the dark specs of mountaineers dotted along the trail up ahead. They seem to disappear into the boulders in the distance.
“Yeah, looks like it’s up there somewhere.”
“Take bigger steps,” Greg says over my shoulder. “A wider stride. Your pace is fine, but you still think you’re on yesterday’s climb. You’re letting the crampons pull your feet down too early.”
“Eh, I’ll try it.”
I stretch out my legs further in each stride. I thrust my heal spikes half a dozen centimetres further forward, before they meet the snow. Within a minute, I adjust to the new stride. It’s brisker and takes no extra effort. To my astonishment, Greg drifts back off my shoulder a few metres.
The improved walking style lifts my spirits. The rocks up ahead grow larger. If Camp 2 is somewhere within those stones, then I’m certain I’ll make it. That’ll place me over 6,400 metres, which reminds me to check my watch. My body heat appears to have thawed out the battery or LCD. It’ll stay on my wrist from now on. We’ve been out two hours and are over 6,300 metres. I’ve never been this high. I look back down the valley and stare over to Pumori. I’m level with the point where we retreated on that aborted attempt. Every step from here will carry me to a new height.
We cross a few simple crevasses. Ladders bridge the wider ones. Metre high flagpoles alert the unwary to the very narrow ones. In front of these, we first catch our breath and then leap across.
We come upon strange ice formations, half metre high mushrooms. I don’t know what wind or glacial phenomenon has created these shapes near the roof of the world, but they look like seats. We stop for a rest.
“Probably an hour from here,” Greg says.
“This can be done.” I take a swig from my bottle. “It’s not all that far away, if you’re telling me that camp is somewhere within those rocks.”
“It’s a big turnaround from yesterday for you.”
Too right.
I pull out a bar of chocolate and munch on it. Sitting down, we watch a few climbers pass us. My breathing calms.
“Set?” Greg asks.
“Let’s get back to it.”
My new found legs carry me to the start of the rocks, but we’ve more to do. The trail rises alongside the boulders for several hundred metres in front of us. The route then veers left into them and away from any crevasses. Penba urges us to follow him. Panting, I press upwards.
We reach the general area of Camp 2 but not where our tents will be pitched. Our crampons scratch over the rocks. We remove them, tie them to the side of our packs, and hike upwards through the scree. Each step guts my legs.
The sun appears over the Lhotse Face. The predictions of frying an egg on a stone have been off the mark. I relish its rays on my cheeks, a big change from yesterday when it was our enemy. I’m amazed to have done so well this morning, but that doesn’t make this steep pull up any easier.
“God, why can’t we stop here?” I ask. “It’s just more bloody rocks. Where’s Penba?”
“Somewhere up there. He must know where camp is,” Greg says. “We’ll keep going till we find him.”
“You sure?”
“Come on.”
Up and up, acclimatisation the hard way. Few tents have been pitched. I notice a few bits of old, rusted equipment lying about. Up to here, the route has been spotless. I think we’re off to the side of the glacier; so, any rubbish doesn’t get pushed down the valley. In recent years, the Sherpas have been paid by the kilo to lug rubbish off the mountain; therefore, these few items may also soon disappear. In addition, each team now pays a hefty deposit to the Everest National Park. The authorities only return it once they verify that, on the balance of probability, the team has left no trace at or above Base Camp. I’d heard Everest referred to as a rubbish tip in the sky. Whoever came up with that description has never been to a city in the early hours of a Saturday morning.
“Those lengths of ropes, cordoning things off, that must be where teams have marked their territory,” Greg says.
“How do we know one of these is not ours?”
“Nice try, keep moving.”
We push on and rise further above Camp 1.
“There he is, sitting on that rock.” I point to a lone figure. “Is that the end?”
We close the gap. I drop down beside Penba. My breathing returns to normal. Visually, there’s nothing special about the rock under my backside. But it means the world to me. Our Camp 2 will be pitched here. We’ve climbed four hundred metres in under three hours. This is 6,450 metres, the highest I’ve ever been. A little slower yesterday, and Angel might have turned me back. A touch faster, and I would have fallen over. But now at this spot, my expedition is again on track.
“Great stuff, Greg. Job done.”
The last drag warmed me up. I throw off my upper layers to expose just the base layer. Munching on a Mars bar and knocking back water, I revel in today’s early success.
Pete appears out of the boulders and strides over to us. I’m not sure if he’d been ahead or behind us on the trail.
“Good to see you, Pete.”
“Looking good, guys. That was a short one today,” he says.
“There were a few tough sections though.”
Chatting amongst the rubble, I suspect there’ll be few acclimatisation days as easy as this again. The sun’s rays are penetrating my top and tickling my back. Greg has not warmed up after his miserable night. He’s huddled in heavy layers.
“Take off your jacket, Greg. It’ll be hotter without it,” I say.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
“Serious, it feels great, nice and toasty.”
“Ok, I’ll try it. But I still think you’re mad.”
He peels off his outer layers on this still morning. Within five minutes, the smile returns to his face. Safe, warm and triumphant, these are the moments I could only dream would come our way. Many make it to Base Camp. Few see Camp 1. Less again taste Camp 2. I enjoy the views of the encircling peaks and the occasion. A trickle of climbers passes by. One joins us; it’s Hugo, panting after the stinging finish.
In due course he joins the banter. I don’t think he expected me here before him. There’re no hooplas or high-fives from him. He mentions my recovery rate and sends a few dignified words of approval my direction. I appreciate the comments. I am back.
Penba captures a photo of us, with the lower slopes of Lhotse in the background. On such a bright day, it should be a good one. I’ll have a memento of this morning in the mountains.
Back on Track after Reaching the Camp 2 Site
From left to right: Me, Greg, Pete
Greg’s burst mattress becomes the brief topic of conversation.
“Shove stuff under it,” Hugo says. “Empty backpack, clothes, gloves, stuff-sacks, whatever insulation comes to hand.”
Clever advice, it’s always so obvious after the fact.
Hugo points out what lies ahead in the coming weeks. Two obstacles that I’ve heard much about have come into focus: the Yellow Band and the Geneva Spur. From this distance, I can’t figure out how we’ll overcome them. The former appears as a long ridge of light coloured rock that stretches across our intended path. The later, dark brown, looks like a mountain in its own right. Snow has slid off their steep sides. They’ll be no picnic. I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them. Will I even reach them? How many of us will be left at that stage?