by Fergus White
“No.” I search for air. “Just wrecked.”
We’re within touching distance of the tents and water, but I’m not certain I’ll make it. We left Camp 1 three hours ago, nine since Base Camp. Two Sherpas catch up to us. I think they’d been with Khalid earlier. They know the problem we’ve had. If I understand what they’re saying, one of these men had been sick in the Icefall.
“Slowly, slowly,” one of them says.
How I could go slower is beyond me. The slope steepens as we approach the last eight hundred metres before the rocks. The pain ratchets up another notch. It’s only numbed by a decrease in my senses as I start to feel less of everything.
A black speck that had appeared out of the rocks grows. It’s coming towards us. It’s a Sherpa. For every few paces I achieve uphill, he makes twenty going downhill.
He has closed the gap and stands just a few metres in front of me. He produces a flask and mugs and offers me a drink. I’m stunned, bewildered. What strange trick is this? Memories of the last thermos I looked into still swirl around my head, if not also my stomach.
“No.” I shake my head.
A bizarre standoff ensues. Two strangers stare at each other. His presence and actions amaze me. My refusal seems to have bamboozled him.
“No problem, he is with us. Our team,” one of our Sherpas says.
“What? Again? He is us?”
“Yes, yes, he -”
I give the mystery man a clumsy thumbs-up and point to a mug. My gaze locks on as he pours liquid into it. It’s passed to me. Panting, I tip it down my throat. I close my eyes as I hand back the mug for a refill. I drop down on one knee in the snow.
Greg gets in on the action. Above me everyone is drinking. Another mug of warm lemon tea is delivered down to me. Chatter increases. I sip this one at a less cannibalistic rate. I piece together that Khalid or a Sherpa had got a message up to Camp 2. The dispatch seems to have been: send down water now or send down stretchers later.
We drink and chat with the Sherpas. The fatigue will not go away, but the liquid will change today’s outcome. We’ll make it to Camp 2. Now it’s just a matter of getting down to it.
We set off again. I fight for air with each step. On our last trip, the length of the rocky trek to the finish surprised me. I no longer expect the next cluster of tents to be ours. If I continue, then I’ll stumble upon them. My body wants the penance to end. I consider every boot placement to see if it can be made easier. It cannot. The boulders go on and on. I hate the rocks just for being here. Eventually, I rise over a ridge and recognise my surroundings. Greg slumps into our sleeping tent. I stagger for the mess.
I collapse on the stone bench.
“Hey Fergus, what took you guys so long?” Hugo slides a flask in my direction. “We’ve been here ages.”
I fill a mug. I strain to keep the flask steady. I drink liquid. I focus on Greg’s advice: water makes the pain go away.
I look at Hugo.
“Nightmare. Damn nightmare.” I stop for air. “I don’t know how Greg got here. The water was bad.”
“What? What water?”
“What we got in Base Camp was shit.” I refill my mug. “Greg threw up in the Icefall, at the bottom. Had to pour away what we had.” I take a mouthful. “We climbed here on nothing.”
“What? You guys ok? How’s Greg?”
“Tent. Alive. And Sherpas sick.” I huff. “And something happened Khalid. Not sure if he threw up. But all over the place, fainting or something.”
“Where’s he now?”
“No idea. Sherpas with him.”
“Sorry. I’d no idea.”
The pain in my legs loses its intensity. My shoulders slumped, eyes half closed, I answer Hugo’s questions.
Greg wobbles into the tent, his face pale.
“I can’t believe what I just heard,” Hugo says. “Sit here. How’re you now?”
“Better. Whatever it was, I think it’s gone.” Greg reaches for a mug. “I should be ok, after a day’s rest.”
“So what was in the water?” Hugo asks.
“Don’t know,” I say. “Stagnant water. Water that had been used for washing?”
“Effluent?” Greg says.
“Maybe fungus in the flask, that’s what it smelt like. Hold on, my bottle, I can check.” I pull the container out of the pack. “Nothing, just a few drops down the bottom. Well, for what it’s worth.”
I open the bottle and inhale above the opening.
“Oh my God.” I put my hand to my face. “Oh God. Greg, you must’ve been asleep when you cleared that for drinking. That’d knock over a herd of elephants.”
I pass the bottle over to Hugo. Pete enters the tent.
“Do I have to?” Hugo wafts his hand over the bottle towards his nose.
His eyes water. He struggles for the right words.
“You idiots drank that?”
“Well, Greg’s the doctor.”
At least he’d been good enough to take the medicine he’d prescribed.
We discuss whether to destroy both bottles, lest a future generation chance upon them. However, we’ll need them for the summit push.
“I’ve got chorine, for times like this,” Pete says. “Pass me your bottles. I’ll kill whatever’s in them.”
He disappears. A little later he declares them fit for use and returns them, smelling like a swimming pool.
♦ ♦ ♦
We settle into our new home. This is now Base Camp. We eat food and sip tea while Pete works on a new creation. He found a piece of wood the size of a cigarette packet. In no time he fashions a closed fist with a finger pointing upwards. He scrapes the surface silky smooth. He etches the words “This way up” onto the outstretched digit. It now hangs above us in the mess tent.
Talk turns to the Bimble Brothers, Ade and Martin, who’ve pitched at their Café One. They prefer it to Base Camp and enjoy the MRE’s. I’d have thought their time in the army and Marines would have treated them to enough of such meals to last a lifetime. They’re probably settling into a brew and cheese now. They maintain it’s the best part of the expedition: hot tea, a little sugar, a chance to relax, and a few laughs.
The weather forecasts occupy our thoughts. Wind is blasting the summit at a hundred and thirty kph. A reduction has been predicted around May 15th. It’ll then strengthen again. Anything over fifty kph poses a risk. A climbing delay in extreme gusts will inflict frostbite, hypothermia, and worse. Several teams have refused to touch the upcoming gap in the storm. They’re calculating that the correct window, when the monsoon pushes away the gales, will be between May 22nd and May 26th.
As the sun sets, the temperature in the mess tent plunges.
“Let’s head back to the tent before it gets any colder,” Greg says.
“Good thinking,” I say. “It’ll be easier to get settled in while there’s still some light. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes. Night lads.”
We’ve put the first day of the big push behind us. The mountain thrashed us once again, but we made it. Might we both stand on top of Everest in four days’ time on the 16th? I try to put such thoughts out of my head and get to sleep. Will we make it? How might it feel to stroll back into Base Camp, having finished the job we came here to do? What if we mistime the storm’s arrival? There’ll be no way down if it swallows us.
May 13 – May 14
At Camp 2 Preparing for the Summit Push
Charlene, who’s been pulling on the leash for a month, set out in the early hours for Camp 3. Accompanied by Mingmar, she’s shooting for the earliest possible gap. She plans to summit on May 15th, a risky venture. The winds up high are deadly now. She’s gambling they’ll peter out the moment she climbs over the Geneva Spur. Fortune favours the brave.
We listen to weather forecasts. They conflict. The wind beats the mess tent. We struggle to hear ourselves talk inside it. Squalls fight the cover from every angle. It’s holding up, but the gusts test the makeshift patches to breaking point. Our
smaller sleeping tents have better shelter, and there’s no danger they’ll tear.
The jet stream is blasting a plume of snow off the peak at well over a hundred kph. Picking the right summit window is crucial. A climber would be dead in minutes up there right now. The forecasts predict a small floating window from May 15th – 18th, but there may be minor storms within that gap. At that altitude, they’ll be anything but minor. For Greg and me, it’s a waiting game.
“My lungs are a mess,” Greg says. “Look at the muck that’s coming up from them.”
“What’s causing it? You seem worst in the mornings.”
“It’s probably a respiratory infection. The Khumbu cough doesn’t help.”
“You’re still stronger than me.”
“Yeah, but for how much longer?”
I force down what food I can. Linda had given me half a dozen dried figs back in Base Camp, after her adventure finished. I ate one in my tent this morning and it tasted incredible. I’d intended to ration them over the next two days, but munched another and another till they were gone. I’m glad to have quality grub in my belly, pity I didn’t have more. I could eat several packets of them at this altitude.
Ade and Martin from Team 2 join us about noon.
“We stayed at Café One, broke the journey,” Ade says.
“Right choice, I feel pretty good today,” Martin says.
“I wish I had,” I say. “Let me tell you how our trip up went.”
Angel, who’ll lead Team 2, arrives in the afternoon. He climbed straight from Base Camp. He assisted TC through the Icefall this morning. She doubted she’d make it. At the top, she decided to split the journey. She’ll recuperate at Camp 1 and reach here tomorrow, the 14th.
The race rages between Charlene and her competitor Anne-Mari, who’s chasing her to Camp 3. Both are ready to strike should half a window open. The contest has left several teams unimpressed. They feel that in light of the weather forecasts, it places unnecessary risk on all those involved. Some teams have decided that the opportunity on the 16th and 17th has now closed, the safety margin too tight. A few have had their equipment at Camp 2 decimated. Most are waiting at Base Camp.
Both teams in the Scandinavian race are keeping an eye on the actions and reports of the other. Anne-Mari appears more aware of the consequences of pitting herself against the might of an Everest storm. In such a battle, there’ll be only one winner. She’d previously written on her blog:
I don’t see Charlene as my competitor … If I am unsuccessful in mountain climbing it is possible to risk my life. But of course my goal is to be the first. My mind is very competitive and I hate losing. If we both have same day summit push of course then I try to be first on the top.
There’ve been suggestions of foul play, with deliberate attempts to mislead. Charlene had set out from Base Camp about 2am yesterday. Anne-Mari’s Sherpa had been answering a call of nature at the time and spotted her. He woke Anne-Mari who then dashed for the Icefall. We discuss the likely outcome for them and the rest of us in the mess.
“Right,” Hugo says over the noise of the flailing tent, “let’s plan this out. Charlene’s already at Camp 3. Team 1 leaves first thing tomorrow to summit on the sixteenth. The forecast is for strong winds on the sixteenth, lighter on the seventeenth. That’s when Team 2 should reach the top.”
“Should we not all wait for the seventeenth?” Nurhan asks. “It’s the safer option.”
“The forecast might change,” Angel says.
“Greg and I overheard other team radios.” I lean in onto the table. “They’ve written off this window completely. Many are waiting for the twenty second. But we’re here now.”
“What seems certain is -”
A gust blasts the tent and throws up dust. We wait.
“What seems certain is that a storm will hit on the eighteenth,” Hugo says. “We need to be well below the South Col by then.”
“I’ll go as planned,” Roger says. “I’m here, I’m ready. Let’s get this done.”
“Me too,” Pete says.
Nothing the mountain has thrown at Pete has slowed him down. He does a morning’s climbing, crafts something, cracks a few jokes, and heads to bed. Day in and day out, he’s a machine.
“I’m going to wait a day,” I say. “I’ve no idea which forecast will be the right one, but it seems the seventeenth will be quieter. I’ve got to go with that. Is that ok with you, Angel?”
“No problem.”
The two experts huddle together and discuss the situation in Turkish.
“I’m in no rush. Safer option for me,” Greg says.
“Same for me,” Khalid says. “I’ll go with the second group.”
“We’ll also wait,” Nurhan says. “Safety first on the mountain.”
“Ok,” Hugo says. “So tomorrow, it’s me with Pete and Roger.”
“And the following day, everyone else with me,” Angel says.
♦ ♦ ♦
It’s May 14th, and the Scandinavian race has heated up. An update from Anne-Mari’s team confirms that little love has been lost on the mountain:
Today … Anne-Mari … started again to climb to Camp 3 in gusty winds. We also received information from our Camp 2 team that Charlene had started her climb towards Camp 4 in the morning. This confirmed our thoughts that the information of Charlene spending two nights in Camp 3 was all along intended to mislead us.
I compare what unfolds around me to a sports event. An athlete would not reveal their strategy to a competitor in advance. But this is not a race inside a stadium. This is mountaineering. We climb to answer the challenge that nature has put in front of us. We climb, because to ignore that challenge is to fail. We climb to test ourselves. We climb because it is there. Anyone who summits this monster deserves a position on the podium. But after Hillary and Tenzing, the rest of us are all tied for second place.
I don’t know if Charlene did push up from Camp 3 this morning. The winds at our altitude here are merciless. Up higher, they’re lethal. But whether she tried and turned back, or never set out at all, we now know she lies low in Camp 3. She’ll be stuck there another night, imprisoned by the storm. Alongside her, buffeted in her own tent, stalks Anne-Mari.
But for one woman, there’ll be no more risk. TC reached us here today. Taking everything into account, she concluded her health is not strong enough to continue. She’ll turn and descend tomorrow.
For the rest of us on the mountain, the concern is also safety, not speed. Any window must be long enough for all climbers on a team to descend; the top is only halfway. Scientific weather forecasts come and go, but the art is in the interpretation. Two people look at the same data and reach a different conclusion. Both agree a storm is coming. One believes it will hit Everest directly, the other that it will slip by just east of the peak. But both concur that a direct strike will kill everyone above the South Summit.
May 15
Climb Up from Camp 2 to Camp 3 on the Summit Push
“Time to get up, Fergus.” Greg nudges me.
“Yeah, I’m onto it.”
We pull on our down suits, staying inside our bags where possible to preserve heat.
“That wind has died, hasn’t it? I can’t hear anything,” he says.
“Great stuff. It’s still cold though.”
Over in the mess tent I coerce down cereal and bread. It’d be easier to swallow sawdust. I stand up from the table.
“Pass me that flask, Angel, I’ll fill my bottle.”
As it nears 6am, colourful down suits appear next to the mess. Khalid, his wingman Jingbar, and a second Sherpa are all set.
“Ok guys, everyone ready?” Angel asks.
“Good to go.” Greg zips up his massive red down suit.
“All set.” Ade, in black from head to toe, gives a thumbs-up.
“Yeah.” Martin nods his head.
Angel walks towards the Bergschrund in a large, red down suit, and we follow. No one talks. Two weeks ago I reached Camp
3; it was straightforward. I’ve a heavier pack this time, but with a steady pace, I should be fine.
Few mountaineers dot the route. A short distance out of camp a woman passes against us. I pay little attention to her. She’s just another climber in what’s a tougher start to the day than I expected.
“That’s her,” Greg says. “That was Anne-Mari.”
“No way,” Angel says. “She’s up above Camp 3.”
“I’m telling you, that was her.”
“Why would she be here if Charlene’s up above?” Khalid asks.
I’d not have recognised Anne-Mari under her full climbing gear.
“I don’t know,” Greg says, “But that was her, and she’s on her way down.”
We’ve put thirty minutes behind us. Angel sets the pace. I struggle to stay with him. He’d never set a foolish speed out of camp; he wouldn’t do that anywhere on a mountain. But he’s walking ten metres ahead of me and I can’t close the gap. Why can I not stay with him?
One step behind me walks Ade. I can hear his balanced breathing. Normally it’s more intense. I keep pacing. Angel creeps away. I glance over my right shoulder. The rest of the team are jammed on top of each other. The sun has not even risen above the Lhotse ridge. I can’t be dehydrated; I’ve only just left the breakfast table. I didn’t eat much, but we’re all in that boat. Being thrashed is one thing, but delaying the lads so early in the day is another matter. I can’t wiggle my toes. My feet are cold.
Ade strides past me. I slurp in air but cannot stay with him. A familiar feeling creeps over me. This was something I’d feared, something that will prevent me reaching the summit. Not a fall. Not a storm. Not an avalanche.
My sight slips away. It narrows. My head droops. Cold sweat sits on my forehead. I can’t pull air into my mouth, just shallow breaths. I can keep walking, but I’ll keel over in less than thirty seconds. Losing consciousness at 6,500 metres will be the end of the adventure.
I step to the side to let the others pass.
“Greg, problem, weak.” I point to my head and drop down onto my hands and knees.
“What’s up?”