Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest

by Fergus White

  “Like a big piece of smoked salmon”, he’d said, his gallows humour tuned from years of active service in the army. He’d seen a human leg sticking out of the ice. I’ll leave the dead to nature.

  We hear breaking news from nearby Annapurna. A Spanish climber was struck by high altitude cerebral edema (HACE) and spent two nights in the open on his own at about 7,500 metres. Weather conditions prevented both Sherpa and helicopter searches from reaching him. His is another body that will be left on the mountain.

  Mid-afternoon we hear Charlene arrive back from Camp 3. Her race to the summit is back on course. Mingmar steps into the tent.

  “You look very fresh, Mingmar.” I reach for another biscuit.

  “It was a good day today. Not hot. We climbed well. Charlene is happy.”

  As the dim light fades further behind Nuptse and Pumori, we eat dinner and plan tomorrow.

  “Fergus,” Hugo says, “you and I will leave at six tomorrow. Be ready.”

  “Ok. Beat the heat?”

  “Yeah, that’s the plan.” He dips a spoon back into his soup bowl. “Charlene, you’ll descend with Mingmar?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  “I thought you’d try a dash to the summit, while Anne-Mari’s looking the other way,” I say.

  Hugo laughs.

  “I wish, if only it was that easy,” she says. “I’ve got to wait for the fixed rope. Then we’ll race from Base Camp.”

  “Well, good luck. The acclimatisation’s over now.”

  “And Khalid. You and Jingbar are together tomorrow?” Hugo asks.

  “Yeah, no problem,” Khalid says.

  Before nightfall we’ve retired to our tents. The damp clouds never lifted today. I got no respite from the headache. I battled food for hours and mostly lost. Lying in the dark, I wish I’d left for Base Camp. But this was my decision. No one forced me to trudge up here. As long as I make it to the top, then I’ll write off the troubles along the way. But if I don’t make it, what a waste this all is. I keep hearing that the journey is the adventure, not the destination. I don’t share that view right now. I get no pleasure from this. Bear Grylls, you can take the wonders and beauty of the wilderness and shove them where the sun don’t shine; now survive that.

  Get me to sleep, so I no longer suffer my body’s draining fight against altitude. Pull me out of here and down the valley tomorrow, to oxygen, food, and warmth. By some means, drag myself to the summit of this mountain, so I never have to return.

  April 30

  Climb Down from Camp 2 to Base Camp

  We’ll set out at 6am and put much of the Icefall behind us before the sun’s assault. I rise at five. A frigid dawn breaks to reveal low clouds and falling snow. I’ve packed my gear and am ready on cue.

  “All set Hugo!” I call out.

  “Let’s wait till the snow eases,” he says. “Heat won’t be a problem today.”

  “All right.”

  I lie back on bulging stuff-sacks. Arriving in the Himalayas, I knew if I only reached Camp 2 it’d be an achievement; it’s a different world to the lower valley and far removed from trekking. Sitting at Everest Camp 3 has handed me a minor victory. I hope to climb higher, but for now I must descend into oxygen. The last twenty-four hours have flogged me. Hugo’s strategy entices me: drop down a kilometre today and then escape to the green valleys a kilometre lower tomorrow.

  Close to 7am I hear noises from Hugo’s tent.

  “Ok Fergus, that snow has eased. Let’s push out in ten minutes.”

  “Cool.”

  I must cap off this cycle with a solid performance this morning. I’ve left my sleeping bag, mat, and other equipment in the tent. Travelling light will make matters easier. More important, I won’t have to cart up that weight on my return. However, I’ll store nothing at Camp 1. When we start our summit push, I’ll have to ascend straight to Camp 2. If I’m exhausted, breaking the journey is no longer an option. It’s a risk, but I’ll take any opportunity to reduce the cargo.

  We trek down through the boulders. My legs revel under the simple load. No one else stirs. Silence surrounds us in the Cwm Valley. Under the fresh snow, I cannot recognise the spot where we should move off the rocks and start the day proper.

  “Let’s put on the crampons here.” Hugo throws his onto the snow.

  I attach mine. I look up and do not see Hugo. I walk out onto the snow but cannot find him. I return to the rocks. I trek twenty metres in each direction, still no sign. Was he not crouched a few metres behind me fixing his crampons? Ten minutes pass. I daren’t walk out onto the glacier and head down the valley; snow has hidden the trail. Thin crevasses lurk under a white camouflage. I feel like a fool. Hugo’s a man who likes to make progress. He’ll be none too impressed with this start to the day. I consider if he might have stumbled behind a boulder and been knocked unconscious.

  “Hugo!” I roar out.

  My voice echoes around the valley. It better not start an avalanche; that’ll be my crowning moment.

  Hugo reappears further down among the rubble, having back tracked. This was not the exit point onto the snow. I trek down to him and mumble an apology. The day’s adventure re-commences.

  I feel my crampons push down into the new snow. We’re breaking trail; it’ll be our prints that others follow.

  “There’re hidden crevasses,” Hugo says. “Drop back ten metres. There’s no point in us both disappearing.”

  Should he vanish, I’ll arrange a rescue. I place my boots in his footprints to lessen the chance of discovering a fissure the hard way. It’s good of Hugo to go on point.

  “I’ll watch our rear,” I say.

  “Idiot.”

  On the modest downhill slope we eat up the distance. Hugo spots the metre high poles that mark known, narrow crevasses and aims for them. We bound across each.

  Halfway down the valley, two climbers appear out of the gloom marching against us. They look professional, breaking trail from the other direction. We exchange pleasantries. A path has now been shaped from Camp 1 to Camp 2. It’ll remain till the next snow fall.

  “They look like real climbers,” I shout ahead.

  “Of course you do,” Hugo says. “We’re the trail breakers today.”

  He’s misheard what I said, but he’s correct. It’s early morning above 6,000 metres in the Himalayas. We’re preparing for an assault on Everest. I look down at myself; harness on waist, equipment clipped in, crampons stomping on the snow. The climbers we just passed might have pegged me for an experienced mountaineer, entitled to have a shot at the summit. Maybe I’ve become less of a tourist. Perhaps I’m transforming from a city boy who was out of his depth in the mountains. We’ve several more weeks of this to go. I’ll keep putting left foot after right and see where it gets me.

  We negotiate the large crevasses above Camp 1 with a minimum of clipping into ropes. Hugo must be confident I won’t do anything stupid. Our momentum is not broken.

  Within an hour of setting off we reach Camp 1. The Bimble Brothers of Ade and Martin are crawling out of a tent. They spent the night at their Café One. We chat for a few minutes as they pack their gear.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Hugo says. “We’ll see you guys down at Base Camp.”

  As we approach the Icefall, we only run a loose hand along the fixed rope. Our speed amazes me. We’ve eliminated bending down to clip in and out every fifty metres. Fiddling with carabiners in gloved fingers is, it seems, for the prudent newbie. One and a half hours after leaving Camp 2, we touch the lip. We can see Base Camp in the distance, six hundred metres below us. We drop down over the edge.

  “It’s dangerous in here, more so with every day and hot afternoon,” Hugo says. “Get through as quick as possible.”

  For a moment, I thought he was going to suggest we use caution.

  On the ascent, the demands allow for nothing faster than a trudge. Now we let our momentum take us down. If we see half a gap around stationary or slow groups, we take it. We power do
wn the vertical abseiling sections near the top. I place my full faith in the rope each time and head for oxygen.

  An hour of descending delivers us to the easier lower sections of the Icefall. I feel like a pro as my swinging right arm snaps the safety carabiner onto rope after rope at each anchor point. I sometimes get too close to Hugo and interfere with the line he’s on as we move over and around obstacles. Often we favour speed over vigilance and do not clip in. We only slow down for the bottomless crevasses; they still demand restraint. But mostly, we just use the line as a handrail for balance and leverage.

  “For God’s sake.” Hugo turns back to me. “Stay off the damn rope when I’m on it.”

  A week ago, his speed descending the Icefall astonished me. I could do nothing to stay with him. He moves no slower today. He mentions that his knees give him trouble and he needs to watch out for them on downhill sections. Eventually I get the pacing right. I keep a connection point between us so as not to intrude on his movement. But this far into the adventure and in such an infamous place as the Icefall, I don’t mind that my worst crime is going too fast.

  The clouds lift to reveal a warm, bright day. We enjoy a short break for a snack and water.

  Back on the move, I recognise the ladder under me as the last one. A little lower we reach the end of the rope; the danger has passed. I can’t but imagine how it might feel the next time I descend through here. If I stand on the summit, then once I return to this spot I can start the celebration.

  After two hours pushing through the Icefall, we stride into Base Camp. The day’s descent has taken three and a half hours. I didn’t think it possible. I’m starting to get a grip on this mountain.

  “Congratulations.” Ted stands up in front of the mess tent. “Acclimatisation complete.”

  “Thanks Ted.” I get busy with my first mug of tea.

  I’m sitting on a rock under the sun and staring up at the Icefall. I’ve now travelled it twice in each direction, and am on track. I refill my mug. I’ve climbed the Lhotse Face to over 7,000 metres, where the men get separated from the boys. So far, I’m clinging to the men’s unit.

  I swagger to my tent and toss down the backpack and crampons in front of it. More melt water is flowing through Base Camp than when we left; summer approaches. The Sherpas have constructed small channels to divert it down the valley. Two of the lower tents sit on their own island, surrounded by a moat. My own has sagged, the price of living on a moving glacier. I tweak the cords and shift a few rocks. It springs back up to its former shape.

  Base Camp feels like a hotel compared to the Spartan conditions up higher. I stand under the shower’s trickle and relish the feel of warm water on my skin. I contort myself to wet every part. A week of mountain toil runs off me and joins the stream.

  I pop into clean clothes and take a short nap in my cosy tent.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Remembering how much every kilogram hurt me on the ascents, I seek out Ted. It’ll be a disaster to fail in a fortnight if my legs buckle under the bulk of the pack. I’d trained on inclines with twenty-five kilograms in the pack. In hindsight, a weight of thirty-five would have better prepared me, but it’s too late for that now. Ted accommodates me. We arrange for my down suit to be ported from Base Camp to Camp 2. A Sherpa will carry the sleeping bag to camps three and four on the days I need it. I’m not sure I’d make it all the way to the South Col with a full load. Now at least, I’ve stacked the cards in my favour.

  I see the Bimble Brothers sitting on a rock outside their tents and stroll over to them. They’re leaning in over Ade’s transistor radio. I recognise the regal tones of the BBC World Service.

  “Hi guys, well done. That’s the acclimatisation behind us.”

  “It’s good to be back,” Martin says. “Well done yourself. It’s all happening back in Europe.” He gestures to the radio.

  I’d explained the wonders of the euro to Ade only a few days ago. The broadcaster now reports on the EU’s woes. The airwaves expound on the wretchedness of Greece’s economy. An expert mentions the possibility of default. The currency is tanking and shedding value against sterling.

  “It won’t last the week,” Ade says.

  The three of us listen to the unfolding story and postulate on where it might end for Europe and the euro.

  “It’s still not too late for you Brits to join,” I say.

  Just beside us sits an empty stone platform; a tent has been taken down. A man who usually chats in this little group descends the valley. On his way to Lukla airport, Doug’s climb has ended.

  The only other news of note at Base Camp is bad news. Four days ago, a group of climbers were descending on the north side. At about 6,500 metres, an ice wall above them collapsed. It thrust them down a slope in a thirty metre wide plume of ice and debris. It ripped the fixed rope from its anchor. The force tossed one of the men into a crevasse that was then crammed with icy rubble. A search was launched. Yesterday it was called off. The mountaineer was named as Hungarian Laszlo Varkonyi. He’d planned to summit without supplementary oxygen. In a previous expedition, he’d got to within a hundred metres of the peak without a tank. The mountain takes yet another climber.

  May 1

  Trek from Base Camp down to Pheriche

  This is the end of the glacier living for a while. We came here, busted ourselves for a month, and climbed higher than any mountain outside the Himalayas. We’ve put preseason and the main season behind us.

  It feels counterintuitive to squander a day’s energy trekking away from Everest. But if a fraction of what Hugo says is true, then several days down the valley with oxygen and food will reward me. A sleep in a warm, comfortable bed will do no harm either. My throat rasps, my nose often bleeds, and I’ve shed kilos. I need to regroup.

  “We’ll head off in half an hour.” Greg stands up from the breakfast table.

  “Excellent. What about the others?”

  “Hugo’s already gone. I think Charlene and Khalid are about to leave.”

  “What about Angel?”

  “It’ll be a while before he’s ready. He’ll follow us down.”

  “Cool.”

  We’ve packed light; we won’t need the bulky sleeping bags. Normally for a week’s holiday, I’d bring several changes of clothes. But for a week in the valley, the odd t-shirt and under items are more than adequate, added to the gear we’re wearing. I don’t think Pheriche will have bouncers at the nightclubs. I pull on a windproof top and skinny gloves to protect me from the cool morning.

  “It’s good to be out of those mountaineering boots. These feel like slippers.” I point to my hiking boots.

  “This’s a lot easier than our last walk over this.” Greg strides over a rock. “And it’s not as tough as when we first came here either.”

  Within an hour we’ve climbed off the glacier and trek onwards to Gorak Shep. Another thirty minutes sees us the far side of the village. Rocks underfoot make the going tough. The altimeter puts us at much the same altitude as Base Camp.

  “This’ll be further than Hugo suggested,” Greg says.

  “I’m still waiting for all this oxygen he promised.”

  At the two hour mark we reach the first big drop of the day. The trail plunges a hundred metres through rocks in just a few minutes. This leads us into the short valley that heads to Lobuche. Grassy shrub covers both sides of the trail. We’ve broken below the 5,000 metre mark. For the first time in weeks, I walk on hard clay rather than rocks, snow, and ice. The ground is in our favour and our stride widens. The extra oxygen hits me and works its ways around my brain and muscles. No longer having to watch our every step, the chatter increases. Gone is the crouched, slogging gait of high altitude mountaineers. We seem ten years younger than this morning. The laughter flows. A small, bubbling glacial stream joins us. We leap across it as it criss-crosses the track. It reminds me of the Irish hills on a spring day. This is how it’s supposed to be.

  We trek into Lobuche. The village bustles with the
construction of a large hostel. I don’t remember these building works from our hike up here. The world may be in recession, but it’s boom time for the two dozen workers around us. The walls look like a dry bond, cut slabs of rock fitted together and held in place by gravity. If there’s mortar involved in this erection, it’s well hidden. But the structure outclasses the surrounding dwellings. The owners will have the luxury market to themselves if they build something decent here.

  “I think that’s where the builders have to sleep.” I point to a pile of building materials with some lean-to corrugated plastic.

  “You’re joking. You’d freeze in there. At night, up here?”

  “Look at it. People live there.”

  “God, you’re right.”

  If a tornado struck, it could do a thousand dollars’ worth of improvements.

  “I hope those guys are well paid for their troubles,” I say. “But it’s probably peanuts by world standards.”

  Greg and I compare what we see to the recent tales of Irish builders and developers. They got paid a fortune, but then through a series of ever greater gambles and borrowing, blew it all and ended up millions in the red. We surmise that perhaps somewhere in between the two extremes is the place to be.

  We leave the village behind us and continue towards the graveyard.

  “You get that?” I inhale deep through my nose. “That smells great.”

  “Yeah, super. What is it?”

  “I don’t know. It must be one of these plants. First time I’ve smelt anything nice in weeks.”

  Greg draws in a long breath.

  “I think my nose might still be in shock after the toilet tent,” I say. “It’s nice to see a bit of colour again too.”

  After the graveyard, we drop two hundred and fifty metres through boulders. My legs propel me down and around the obstacles; they know what’s at the bottom. Our starved bodies become the beneficiaries of some serious oxygen.

  We approach Thukla, where illness struck Hugo three weeks ago. At the time, only a madman would have placed a bet on him getting back on his feet. He’s most likely kicking back in Pheriche by now. He reckons the ailment was dysentery. We’ll never know what it was, probably best not to.