by Fergus White
“Khalid, thanks for helping me yesterday. How did it work out with the guy at the Geneva Spur?” I ask.
“Which guy?”
“My buddy: the man who tried to untie the fixed rope.”
“Oh yes. He was in a bad way. He’d tried to summit the night before. His Sherpa had got frostbite, I think in his legs, so they’d turned back. The man had given his oxygen tank to the Sherpa.”
“Where was the Sherpa’s tank?”
“I don’t know. We got the man down the Geneva Spur, and I gave him a bottle of water. There’s more oxygen there, and he was able to walk down further.”
“There were a few injuries on the summit push. Angel pointed out a Mexican guy in that camp just there.” I point to a tent, twenty metres away. “He got frostbite, supposed to be pretty bad.”
“What happened?” Khalid asks.
“I don’t know.”
We learn that the body tied to the fixed rope was that of Sergei Duganov. He was on a Russian or Kazakhstani expedition. One person said it was cerebral edema; another said it was a fall. He died a few days ago at about 7,800 metres while descending Lhotse. A team of Sherpas had been carrying down his corpse when we came across it.
It’s mid-afternoon. I’m standing outside my tent. Hugo strides into camp, grinning.
“Congratulations Hugo, nice one.” I stretch out my hand.
“Thanks Fergus, good to have done it.”
“How was it?”
“Not too bad. Now it’s your turn. You guys get up there.”
“I’ll do my best. You’ll be down the valley drinking beer in a few days?”
“Oh yeah.”
“It hurts me to hear that. Any tips for up there?” I ask.
“Yeah, don’t take any crap from the Sherpas. They’re here to do a job, and it’s well they know it. It’s up to them to carry the oxygen tanks. Do not walk out of Camp 4 with more than one tank in your pack. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Got it. One tank only, they carry the spares. But I thought this’d all been arranged ages ago.”
“So did I. Pete, always the gentleman, gave in and carried tanks up.”
We’re sitting in the mess tent eating dinner. Questions fire at Hugo. About 6pm, Pete stumbles through the entrance. I’ve known this man over six weeks, a silent machine. No one tames this mountain. I thought he might be the first. I was wrong.
“Congratulations Pete,” Khalid says. “Sit here, just here, there’s space. Greg, pass down the flask.”
Pete looks like a man who stared into hell and didn’t like what he saw. The bookies’ odds for me have just gone through the roof.
A paraffin lamp throws shadows around the tent. We’ve zipped up our down suits. About 7pm we hear voices outside. Charlene enters to a chorus of cheers. She slumps onto the rock bench. She smiles. Mingmar stands tall behind her, beaming. He has given six weeks of outstanding service. In one more day, he can rest and put himself first.
♦ ♦ ♦
Greg – Week Seven
The elements have taken their toll on Greg. The liquid in the bottle is fluid he has coughed up from his lungs.
The 19th is a day of waiting. I nibble biscuits and hydrate in the mess, or lie low in our tent with Greg.
“I heard no one summited from this side yesterday,” I say.
“I think that’s what we expected. That was a good call by Nurhan. It wouldn’t have been good up there,” Greg says.
“We’d have been in trouble if we stayed.”
“Too right.”
“Pete looked shattered last night. I didn’t expect that, Greg.”
“It won’t be easy.” He turns sideways and coughs up more phlegm. “Pete told me he passed Navy Seals near the summit. One of them was literally crying. He didn’t want to go on.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Pete would say that; he’s Air Force.”
Tomorrow we set off for the final attempt. There will be success or failure, nothing in between.
May 20
Climb Up from Camp 2 to Camp 3 on the Second Summit Push
Pressing the backlight on my watch, I understand what it means.
“Five o’clock, Greg. Time to rise.”
We sit up in our bags, head torches on, postponing the cold’s attack for another few minutes.
“I can’t go.” Greg’s head drops.
“What? What’s up?”
“My lungs are a mess. I’d a rotten night. I can’t climb coughing up this rubbish.”
“You could try, I mean, it’s not the end.”
“I won’t make it. Wearing a mask tomorrow, no way. Up above the South Col, with lungs full of fluid, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
He’s had this problem for two weeks, but this is not a Greg I’ve seen before.
“Is that it?”
“I think so. I could stay here today, see if I improve. Set out tomorrow morning. If it works, I’d skip the sleep at Camp 4 and join you guys for the summit push.” He coughs up phlegm.
“Will a day make a difference?”
“I don’t know. I can’t go today.”
“That means getting hydrated in a few short hours at Camp 4,” I say.
“I’d leave Camp 3 early, about 4am. Get there for noon.”
“Well, it’s worth a try.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty chance.” He coughs. “Tomorrow, I’ll go up or down.”
My chances of reaching the summit are hardly fifty-fifty; his are much less. He’s been a great climbing buddy for seven weeks. He was always the stronger of us two. But now our paths will diverge.
“I’ll let Angel know in the mess.” I crawl out into the black.
Angel looks like he’s been hit by a freight train.
“Morning, Angel. You ok?” I sit on the stone bench.
“Not really. Terrible toilet troubles.” He rubs his hand on his brow.
“You’ve been like that for days. Is it worse?”
“Every couple of hours now.”
“Oh no, that bad? Where do we go from here?”
I’m chewing tasteless food with half closed eyes. The Sherpa cook has laid out a few flasks of hot water. Without the mugs of tea, the nourishment would not pass my throat.
“We go as planned. The window is there.”
“Angel, I’m not sure you should go up like this.”
“There’s no choice. There’s one window. This’s your chance. I’ll go up with you guys.”
“That’s some huevos, but there’s a limit.” I crunch on a biscuit. “Greg can’t go up today; his lungs are rubbish. He’ll try tomorrow and then join us at Camp 4 for the push. How about you go up with him?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, you might be better by then. You can’t be any worse. Greg is the sick guy climbing alone. It makes more sense that you go with him.”
“And what about you guys?”
“Jingbar’s going up with Khalid. He knows this mountain backwards. Ade and I will tag in with them. I think Khalid also has a second Sherpa. He grabbed one from one of the guys that went home.”
Ascending without a guide to 8,000 metres was never on the agenda; this is extreme high altitude climbing. But this is what we came to do. If required, we’ll be medics, stretcher bearers, water carriers, solo-climbers, maybe even Everest summiteers. It’s all improvisation from here.
“Makes sense.”
“Why not? You’re the guide; you should be with the person in most difficulty. We know the route. If it hits the fan, Jingbar’s in charge,” I say.
“Ok, let’s go with that.”
“Right. And Nurhan and Yener, they’ll go up tomorrow?”
“Yes, on their own schedule. Perhaps Greg and I will climb with them.”
Ade, Khalid, Jingbar, Khalid’s second Sherpa, and I stand outside the mess tent. I’ve a single packet of biscuits in my chest pocket. It’ll be at least four days before we return. The planned foo
d delivery to Camp 3 better happen.
“Up to us now, Fergus.” Ade seals his black hood across his mouth.
“Left foot, right foot, you know the drill.” I clip on my helmet. “Keep going till we get there. Khalid, looking good?”
“All set.” He tightens his waist harness.
“Ok guys, take it steady today,” Angel says. “I’ll join you at the South Col in two days.”
We stride onto the snow as a tight team of five. Our numbers have been decimated, but in this small, self-contained unit, we’ll look out for each other. Ade is a fabulous man: steady, deliberate, upbeat. Not since the brutal ten hour ascent of the Icefall have I toiled side by side with him. His climbing buddy Martin has descended, and I in turn am without mine. A new alliance may form. Being leaderless is almost refreshing. Today, I’ll mature into a mountaineer. We’ll look to no one else. Our squad will not wait on the direction of another.
Up above, in the cold morning light, we see Camp 3. We must close off six hundred and fifty metres of altitude. We lessen the gap to the Bergschrund on a quiet route. Most teams will start the big push tomorrow; they’ll not spend a night at the South Col.
The last time I set out from Camp 2, my climb almost ended. Today I feel better. My mind is clear, my vision crisp. I must stay upright today; there’s no Angel to save me if I collapse.
An hour and a half has us at the Bergschrund.
“Let’s take a break here, guys,” I say. “That was a good start.”
The extreme cold relents as the sun rises over Lhotse. The snow around where we’re sitting glistens.
“That’s colder than normal,” Ade says from behind his hood.
“Yeah, that wind’s coming off Everest,” I say. “I’m glad of the sun. A biscuit?” I pass the packet over to him.
“Thanks.”
“That was the last pack I could find. Here, Khalid, fancy one?”
Three biscuits won’t put much fuel in my body. I’ll try to reach the summit and return before I disintegrate. I sip water and gaze down the white valley and at the mountain ranges beyond. The four lads hunker down beside me.
I pull out my camera. I capture Ade, protected in his black down jacket and hood. His dark shades hide the man within. He cuts a fine silhouette against the outline of the Western Shoulder. Cold, blue Himalayan skies complete the frame.
Ade Takes a Moment before the Bergschrund
Jingbar, half the size of Ade, is wrapped up in a bright, yellow down suit. Reflective shades obscure a brown, weathered face. He’s stood on top of this mountain before and intends to summit again within the next three days.
Khalid’s orange down suit sports a large Omani flag on the left breast. He’s climbing for national honour and personal pride. The shutter catches a picture of concentration as he adjusts a glove, oblivious to the camera.
“Pass that camera here, Fergus.” Ade reaches over to me. “Let’s capture those good looks.”
Might all five of us stand together at the summit in three days’ time? The law of the mountain dictates otherwise. Nature will whittle our numbers down further.
“Are we ready?” Khalid asks.
“Ok, let’s go.” Ade pushes himself up.
We ascend the Bergschrund and climb up the Lhotse Face. Up front, I inhale and exhale between each step. Calm, relaxed progress carries us to within three hundred and fifty metres of camp. Three more hours will get us there. We almost have the slope to ourselves. I concentrate on lifting one boot up and over the other. My hands move in sequence as I clip in and out of the fixed rope.
“Hey Ade.” I face him below me and fight the wind. “Your pace, there’s an easier way to do this. You’re taking several quick steps and then stopping to catch your breath. That’ll kill you. Slow pace all the way. Try a full, slow breath in and out between each step. I know it sounds silly. Never let your breathing rise. Time is on our side.”
I’m nervous giving this survival expert my wilderness advice. But this is our team today; we must look out for each other.
The wind hurls in from the left and scours across the surface. Our faces point right, hoods pulled tight. Every ten minutes a biting gust punches us. We hunker down on the slope, backs to the gale. Left arms protect our heads; right hands grasp the jumars. Snow and ice particles shoot across our vision on their own Himalayan adventure. The journey pauses. Is this a passing squall or the start of a tempest that will end our exploits for good? But as quick as they strike, they relent. In between, we edge up the mountain.
A glance at the altimeter every half hour rewards me with the knowledge that our exertions are not in vain. Metre by metre, our summit push moves higher into the blue sky.
Halfway up the slope I reach a metre high ridge. I crouch against it, take a gulp from my bottle, and slide it inside my open down suit.
“Let’s take five here, Ade. I don’t see any more shelter between here and camp.”
“Sounds good.” He drops onto the snow, panting.
I lean down to share what’s left of my biscuits with him. My water bottle slips out. As it bounces off the hard snow, Ade catches it.
“That was close. Thanks Ade. That would have been in the Bergschrund.”
Khalid and Jingbar squeeze beside us. In clipped conversation over the wind, we acknowledge we’ve had none of the drama that accompanied our last climb up here. We agree we should reach the tents in less than two hours. The only concern is food.
I’ve slipped ahead of the lads a little. I turn around, dig in my crampons, sit down, and enjoy the view. I’ve afforded myself few opportunities this past month to smell the roses. Often I’ve been too tired, but mostly, I felt there was a job to be completed first. It’d be a shame to arrive home successful, having not taken time to appreciate the journey. But I’d feel worse smiling for the camera for two months and then not completing what I’d set out to do. When I’d trained for the last year, it wasn’t to kick back on a Club Med holiday in the sky. There’s climbing to be done, and it will demand everything I possess. But right now, I’ll steal a few moments for myself.
The wind has eased. Sitting at 7,000 metres, the great Himalayas once again stretch out in front of me. Even through my shades, the snow and ice sparkle under the noonday sun. Pumori, as ever, nods to me, confident I shall never climb her. The Cwm Valley, silent and white, runs down to the Icefall. Camp 2 is reduced to specks of colour on the right side, crammed between the glacier and the sheer, brown wall of Everest. A blue and grey sky extends out over Asian peaks I cannot name. And much closer, just ten metres below, Ade, Khalid, and Jingbar ascend. I reach for my camera. Khalid, his orange hood tight around his face, waves to the lens. Tall Ade, beneath a yellow helmet, smiles for the shot. Jingbar, just behind, shoulders a heavier pack than each of us. From my brief viewing post, I see that he too is human; he labours to lift one heavy boot up above the next.
Our Small Group Closes in on Camp 3
From left to right: Khalid, Jingbar, Ade.
We Know that Another Day’s Target will soon be Reached
From left to right: Khalid, Jingbar, Ade.
“Keep going, lads, looking pretty,” I say as they toil past.
“Get off your butt and join us.” Ade throws me a smile.
The gradient increases over the last fifty metres. Winston Churchill said it best: “KBO, keep buggering on.” We reach the hard ice. It rips at my muscles. The mountain wants to throw me down into the Bergschrund. The fixed rope strains. My shoulder begs for relief. The crampons scratch the surface, searching for grip.
I disconnect from the rope and step onto a level platform. I am here. We are all here. I slump onto a snow shelf, tired but not exhausted.
“Ade, have you got any food? I’m starving.” I release my helmet.
“Try these.” He hands me a packet of raisins the size of a matchbox.
I pour them down my throat and look at him. He hands me another.
“Thanks,” I say.
It vanishes. I
can’t remember ever being this hungry. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last.
“Damn, there’s been a half a metre of snow since we were last here.” I look at my tent. “I better do this while the weather holds.”
I pick up a shovel and start digging. We’re far above the rescue limits of a helicopter. My breathing increases. This tool is my friend, and it better find a way into the tent.
I drag my equipment inside and set up the tent for the night. I clamber back out and glance over to the Sherpa’s shelter. The sight stuns me. They’ve several MRE bags coming to the boil in a pot.
“Where did this come from?” I ask.
“Come inside,” one says.
I crawl down.
“What on earth,” I say.
Aladdin’s Cave never had it so good; food lies everywhere. Half the tent floor is hidden under grub. I see chocolate, Kellogg’s bits and pieces, MRE’s, packets of dried noodles. Coloured labels abound. Has the damn chain of command between Ted and these guys been completely severed? Was I supposed to starve to death on the side of this bloody mountain?
“What is-” “When was-” “Were you guys ever going to tell me?”
I grab items and stuff them inside my down suit: Snickers bars, Kellogg’s Nutri-grains, silver MRE bags, white packages, something sugary. I spy a small, plastic zip-lock bag, crammed with coloured packets. Written on it, I read the name “Fergus.” I think one of the team who pulled out, perhaps TC, put some thought into preparing food for each of us.
“I, it, what-” I point to the bag and then me.
I stare at the Sherpa. I hold up my hands. I shove the zip-lock bag into my suit.
As I walk back to my tent, some of the bounty slides out the leg of my down suit and pops onto the snow. I grab it. Nothing will go to waste.
I look like a hyena over a carcass. Three Kellogg’s Nutri-Grains, slim and moist, disappear. I find a protein bar, its amino content lower than the ones Charlene gave me but so much more palatable. I wolf it down; my broken muscles cry out for it. I think these were TC’s reserves. She didn’t make it to the top, but her decency might put me there.