Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest

by Fergus White

  I gaze at the mind blowing gradient of the Lhotse Face. I determine to have a word with Ted later. If I try to lug a pack this heavy up there, in the thinner air, my legs will crumple. Today I’ll concentrate on hauling myself and this oppressive load to Camp 2. By whatever means, I’ll strike a deal with Ted or a Sherpa to get assistance with my sleeping bag and a few kilos above there. There’s no point heaving weight up that incline and over the Yellow Band, only to fail to reach Camp 4 due to exhaustion.

  It would be more virtuous to carry everything myself. Then again, it would have been even better to walk from Ireland rather than fly. It might have been nobler to lug two months of food up the trail instead of via porters. But how would the porters make a living? It might be more honourable to tow my own tent above Base Camp. But how could the climbing Sherpas make ends meet? No one travels through this life as an island; assistance is always given and received.

  We trudge up and across the valley. Every few minutes, climbers stride down against us on their own rotation cycles. Occasional Sherpas march past us, hauling equipment up to Camp 2 or returning with an empty load. Camp 1 has long since disappeared from view. Behind us, the trail snakes along the glacier, punctuated by the dark specks of mountaineers that contrast against the brilliant, white snow.

  “Where are Khalid and Amit?” Greg asks.

  “I can’t see them. None of those shapes back there are them.”

  “They set out before us. They can’t be slower than us?”

  “No one could be slower than us.” I swig from my bottle.

  “They were full of beans back at the crevasse.”

  “They must be shooting a feature film.”

  We reach the boulders.

  “That’s two and a half hours,” I say.

  “Not too far now,” Greg says.

  “Damn.” I’m still looking at my watch. “The altimeter puts us at six three fifty. Can that be right? We’ve another hundred to the tents?”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  They should be pitched at the far edge of the rubble. That’ll allow us step straight onto snow once we push for Camp 3. Unfortunately, of course, it means we’ve to do all the hard work on the rocks today.

  “Let’s get to it.” Greg turns to face the slope.

  I remember these rocks from our first visit; they went on forever. Crampons tied to the side of the packs, we labour up. We reach tents, but they’re not ours. Minutes and minutes of climbing pass, they feel like hours. My legs demand for this to end. The altimeter keeps me sane. Unknown forces are not conspiring to hide our camp from view; we’re still gaining altitude.

  We slog around more boulders. My throat burns to get anything from this air. My legs strain to push me and the pack higher. To reach our target, carrying my overnight kit and some summit gear, will be a massive achievement. My body cries out for a release from the pain. Three hours after setting off, I stumble into Camp 2.

  “Mess tent? Water?”

  Greg nods his head.

  I free myself from the backpack. I feel a ton lighter. I give a thumbs-up to the faces inside and reach for a flask of water. In a moment I’ll absorb who’s here, for now I just need liquid. As the fluid fills me and my breathing calms, I can once again engage in a civilised fashion.

  I’m sitting on a bench of stones, at a three metre long table built from rocks. The others relax on a similar bench on the other side. Our Sherpas have been industrious. Just beyond the table, close to a hundred orange oxygen tanks, weighing three and a half kilograms each, rest in a neat pile.

  “Hi lads.” I nod to Hugo and Roger. “No problems getting here?” I fill another mug.

  “Fine, we’re settled in,” Roger says. “Good to see you guys.”

  “You look to be enjoying yourself, Roger. I see the mountain can’t hold you down.”

  “Take every day as it comes.”

  “Who’s here?” Greg asks.

  “Just Khalid, Amit, Ade, and Martin still to arrive,” Hugo says.

  “We saw Khalid and Amit. They can’t be that far behind us,” Greg says.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Greg and I stroll back out to pick a tent that’ll be our home for the next few days. We look around and soak in Camp 2 and its environs. We’re pitched at 6,450 metres, on boulders and scree at the left edge of the Cwm Valley. Behind camp, a wall reaches up to the summit of Everest, more than two kilometres above. The jagged, sheer face holds no snow. Rock avalanches must rip down it; that’s what’s produced the surface on which our tents sit. Boulders must smash and explode outward to where we’re standing. We’d be unlucky to be struck, but the material under our feet came from somewhere.

  On the other side of camp, just a few paces away, serrated ice ridges rise up several metres. Beyond them lies the snow of the Cwm Valley. On the far side of the gorge, Nuptse soars to a height of 7,850 metres. A route to its summit twists upwards in front of my eyes, but I cannot pick it out. From where I’m standing it looks un-climbable. They were some men who headed into the unknown to conquer it, not knowing if such a feat was possible.

  Our site is perhaps twenty metres by thirty. Just above it the scree ends. After that stand more ice formations and then the snow trail that heads for the Lhotse Face. We can see several camps around ours. Judging by the equipment that’s arriving, more tents will be pitched soon.

  Our large, circular mess tent will be for eating and team meetings. One could also say it’s for relaxing; although, that might be too choice a word. Even the midday sun did not heat it. A kitchen tent is pitched beside it. A few Sherpas are chatting inside there. The gastronomy will take the form of boiling something in a big pot that sits on a gas stove.

  Through the middle of camp runs a small, icy stream less than a metre wide. We see roughly ten sleeping tents. A catalogue might describe them as three-man, but two climbers and equipment will cram them. At both ends of camp stands a toilet tent, about a metre square each. Inside them, the bucket awaits. Abandon hope all ye who enter there.

  “What about those three tents together, just over the stream?” Greg asks.

  “They look good.” I leap over the water. “Hugo’s stuff is in this one. We’ll take the one on the right.”

  We know the drill. We inflate our sleeping mats and spread out items on the floor to insulate the gaps to the cold rock. It doesn’t take long to get unpacked and set-up. At least the rock underneath won’t steal the heat as quick as the snowy base at Camp 1.

  Sleeping Tent – Camp 2

  I settle into our new home, which has been warmed up by the late morning sun.

  “I think I’ll crash out for a while, Greg. This mattress feels great.” I let out a long, deep breath.

  The strains of the climb slide from my body, my legs weightless. My shoulders delight, liberated from the backpack. My eyes close, no longer alert and searching for a hidden crevasse. My mind drifts away.

  Late afternoon, I walk back into the mess tent. Khalid tells me that Amit struggled to ascend. They arrived long after us. Khalid carried some of Amit’s gear in the later stages, possibly even his harness.

  “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Amit says.

  Perhaps it was just a bad day. He must know this is nothing compared to what lies ahead. In the world above Base Camp in which we now live, today was a stroll in the park. The day after tomorrow, we’ve to climb the wall that is the Lhotse Face.

  Other teams also struggled in the Cwm Valley. Some people toiled for six hours to cover the ground from Camp 1 to Camp 2. But one mountaineer who’s experiencing no such delay is the Nordic, Anne-Mari. Her contest with our Charlene rages. We hear she touched Camp 3 two days ago. Charlene, who’s a day behind us, has become consumed by the duel to the top. She’s placed all her eggs into the one basket of being the first woman from her nation to summit Everest. For her, reaching the peak after her competitor holds no merit. Because Charlene’s on our team, we’re rooting for her. But
Anne-Mari also has every right to ascend first. I bear her no grudges. I hope they both stand on the roof of the world, and the better climber wins the race.

  If they’re both as good as each other, then may fortune favour the brave.

  April 27

  Rest Day at Camp 2

  Today we’ll allow our bodies adjust to the new altitude. On our last visit, we touched Camp 2 and descended. This time I’m asking a lot more of myself; I’ve been here almost twenty-four hours already. Nothing grows up here. A kilometre above us looms the death zone. Up there without oxygen tanks, humans cannot live. Some may survive an hour and die. Others may function for days. But the lack of oxygen to the brain has the same effect on all comers. Death is certain.

  I woke up with a headache. A Brufen has dulled the throbbing, but the discomfort nags on. Mercifully, the pain is far removed from the agony I suffered on Pumori. This is the highest I’ve ever been. Simple chores tax me. I don’t reckon I’d score too well in a test of Sudoku right now, but there’ll be plenty of time for that when this is finished.

  Over in the mess, Ted updates a few of us on the mountain conditions.

  “The fixed rope is well above Camp 3,” he says. “The weather forecast for the next few days is good, just light winds. If it holds, then the rope will reach Camp 4 at the South Col in the next few days.”

  We hear that the weather on the north side has tormented mountaineers. Harsh winds and extreme temperatures have blocked progress for several squads. Details are sketchy, but the Tibetan conditions have already reduced a six-man team to just two climbers.

  Camp 2 – The Team Next Door

  Since the draw strings on sleeping bags are pulled tight at night, perspiration cannot escape. On clear mornings, it’s normal to drape the bags over the tents under the direct light of the sun. All manner of gloves, hats, and underclothes are being dried on the leftmost tents.

  All day, like a magnet, the Lhotse Face draws my attention. I cannot pretend it’s not there. I’ve heard it said that the real difficulty only starts above Camp 2. If people are going to crash and burn, then up there just ahead of me is where it’ll happen. I’m gazing at it, transfixed, and contemplating that this is where any weaknesses will be exposed. Our team has already dropped one person. Other groups have suffered attrition. All but a few members of a squad turned around in the Icefall and quit last week. Two weeks ago, a porter almost died down the valley from altitude sickness. But the experienced mountaineers are telling me that the scrambling is only beginning.

  My stare focuses on a precipitous, white slope that rises up one and a half kilometres. At the top of the ice, another five hundred metres of near vertical rock soars to the Lhotse’s summit. Tomorrow I must ascend the first seven hundred metres of snow and ice to Camp 3. I strain my eyes and focus on a point halfway up the incline. Irregular dots must be the tents. Located on a thirty degree gradient, the tent platforms were levelled with ice axes and shovels by our Sherpas. They’ll be just wide enough to permit a safe sleep.

  Many climbers pit themselves against the Lhotse Face in pursuit of all fourteen summits above 8,000 metres. All mountaineers aiming for its crown, or for Everest Camp 4 at the South Col, must ascend 1,100 metres of this glacial ice and snow. The incline climbs at forty and fifty degree pitches, with intermittent eighty degree sections. Perhaps this is where people succumb? Thus far, we’ve progressed using a regular stride. For the most part, the full sole of our boots has been in contact with the snow underneath. Tomorrow we must front-point. In the steeper segments of hard ice and packed snow, it won’t be possible to rest our full weight on the soles and heels of our footwear. It’d be like trying to stand up straight on a Disney World water slide. Instead, to get traction and progress, we’ll jam the two spikes that stick out the front of our crampons into the icy face. It will be technical. It will be exhausting.

  View of the Lhotse Face from Camp 2

  1: Just to the right of the number, four dots are climbers ascending to the Bergschrund.

  2: This ridge is the Bergschrund. The safest place to climb it is just to the right of the number. There are two specs at that point. One is a climber at the base looking up it. The other has just peeked over the top.

  3: Just to the left of this number is a dark spec. It is seven hundred metres above the camera. This is Camp 3.

  The summit of Everest is two and a half kilometres above the tent and left of the photo.

  I fix my eyes on the lower section. If I am to stand atop Everest, then I must complete this acclimatisation rotation and touch Camp 3 tomorrow. If I cannot reach it, then how can I hope to sleep there during our summit push next month? Above those tents, we’ll strap oxygen tanks to our backs. I’ve only ever seen that in photos or on TV. I never dreamt I could be the hardened mountaineer from those old photos. It’s within touching distance.

  Most Sherpas refuse to spend a night at Camp 3, as it has only forty per cent of the sea level volume of oxygen. They climb from Camp 2 to Camp 4 in a single push. A gain of 1,500 metres in one day asks a lot of the body. I’ll need the rest and gradual ascent. It’ll put my body in an oxygen deprived state and squeeze out the last few red blood cells. Most people can produce no more above Camp 3. My sleep at 7,100 metres on the summit push will complete the acclimatisation process. Once higher than that, I’ll mask-up.

  Some teams plan an acclimatisation sleep at Camp 3, in addition to their summit push. But most will follow a similar strategy to us and only touch it while preparing. This approach avoids excessive wear on the body, notwithstanding that the stress itself stimulates the body to adapt. Days at a new altitude are required to fully acclimatise. Hopefully our mere contact of Camp 3 tomorrow will allow us to climb higher next month. More important, however, is that I actually reach those tents within the next twenty-four hours.

  More mountaineers arrive around us. These rocks in the middle of nowhere now look more like Base Camp.

  Aside from staring at the Lhotse Face, I pass the day taking photos, nibbling food, eating meals proper, and chatting with the team in the mess.

  “Hey Charlene.” I swing my head around to the mess tent entrance. “You got here.”

  “Yeah, I just got in.” She sits down with her personal Sherpa Mingmar.

  “Hi Mingmar.”

  “Hi Fergus. Good to see you.”

  “How’s the cold, Charlene?”

  “Better, I think it’s gone. The time in Pheriche helped.”

  “What’s your plan now?”

  “I’ve got to catch up. Anne-Mari has been to Camp 3. I’m far behind her. I’ll rest here tomorrow, acclimatise. You guys will touch Camp 3 tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll touch it the day after.”

  “Good stuff. Hot water?”

  “Thanks.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The sun dips towards Pumori. I scrutinise the Lhotse Face, trying to understand it, to convince myself I can climb it.

  “Hey Fergus.” Hugo’s head is stuck out the tent beside me. He’s been staring at me. “What are you doing? What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing, I mean … the face. Trying to see it, you know, understand it for tomorrow.”

  “That’s no problem for you. Not everyone gets up that. You’ll stroll up.”

  Now I’m the one staring at him. I think he’s genuine. This is not a meaningless pep talk. He has no doubt I’ll sail through the rigors of tomorrow. What did he see over the last month to have such faith in me? He has observed something. Perhaps tomorrow will just be a matter of lifting one foot up in front of the other.

  April 28

  Acclimatisation Climb from Camp 2 (6,450m) to touch Camp 3 (7,100m)

  This is where it gets serious. Today we ascend the infamous Lhotse Face. We’ll push off at 7am.

  “Greg, I’m going to be fed, geared up, and ready to go at ten to seven. I don’t think this is a day to bring up the rear.”

  “That sounds good.”

  �
��I’ll travel near the front. With so many on a single rope, there’ll be twenty minutes from first to last person. If I need to rest, I can let a few past and slot in halfway back.”

  “I’ll be ready with you. How many are we?” Greg pulls on his top.

  “Nine of us, plus Ted, Hugo, and Angel, that’s twelve. There’ll be a few personal Sherpas as well.”

  “Who are we missing again?”

  “The two Turks are doing their own thing; they’ve already been to Camp 3. Nigel’s finished. And three didn’t get through the Icefall this time: Doug, TC, and Matthew.” I squeeze into my boots. “And Charlene, she’ll go up tomorrow.”

  “Do you think the guys in Base Camp will catch up, get back on track?” Greg asks.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think you can just skip a rotation. If it was that easy, then what are we doing here?” I slide on my gloves. “Time for breakfast.” I crawl out into the bitter darkness.

  On cue, I slot into third place, behind Ted and Hugo. I’d intended to test out the over-boots that slip on around the mountaineering boots. The temperature of the first two hours would justify them. I’d also planned to try out the mitts. I’m unsure how much dexterity I’ll have with masses of padding surrounding my fingers. But in the end I decide against experimenting and to just keep my equipment light. If I can ascend and descend in a reasonable time, I’ll consider today a success. I’m wearing a down jacket over a base layer and carry little more than a snack and a water bottle in my backpack.

  Ted sets a slow pace. We march behind him in a line towards the Bergschrund. No one talks. He sports a thick pair of mitts. A gigantic, red down suit covers Hugo. Khalid also wears his for the first time, a bright yellow one. We look like intrepid explorers heading into the unknown.