by Fergus White
The party’s over. Discipline is required once again. I must boil two litres of water and pour it into my blood stream. I have to fill a bottle for the night ahead. Once that process is started, I’ll return to the treasure. I must be deliberate and make no mistakes; this is thin air at 7,100 metres. I craft a little platform for the stove.
I light a feeble flame from a frozen canister. As the water warms, I place the next canister into the liquid. Once it’s hand hot, I turn off the stove, switch in the hot canister, and restart. It blazes, roaring, as the fire attacks the pot.
Two hours pass. The temperature has plummeted, but my down suit matches the challenge. A full bottle, too hot to drink, is heating my sleeping bag. Soon it’ll warm my insides. I’ve set up the tent for the night ahead. Water has not been a problem as I didn’t have to split it. But this has been weird, Greg is missing. This is the first time on the mountain we’ve not shared a tent. Cooking and recovering in the confined space required mutual understanding and economy of movement. Over the last month we learnt each other’s ways. We could have done with more space, but tonight’s shelter feels empty and lonely with just one occupant. I wouldn’t mind being cramped by another person right now. What in God’s name am I doing up here?
I try to settle down. The gale increases. The tents suffered a hammering at Camp 2, but nothing like this. Sleep will not come quick. Only a madman could doze in this. The wind attacks from every direction. A battalion of soldiers beat and tug the material from all sides at once. I try to spread my weight, so the gusts cannot raid underneath and toss my lodgings into the air as a dog might a rag. Locked into a mummy sleeping bag, I can do little.
Not here. Not now. Not like this. Not alone. The prospect of going to a solitary demise becomes much less appealing than doing so in company.
Ade lies just two metres away in the next tent. The wind will not pick him up. But he might as well be on the far side of the planet. An un-roped walk on snow, in pitch black, separates us. We’re perched on a ridge just wider than the tents. Many climbers have met their fate at night stepping out to answer the call of nature. One misstep and it’s into the Bergschrund, to join the collection of bottles, gloves, XTC’s, and cameras. In 2002, after a fierce storm hit the Lhotse Face, the body of a British climber was found there. But from up at this height, I’d bounce right over it and end up far down the Cwm Valley. Either way, I’d hope to be long dead before stopping.
The wind delivers its assault in surge after surge. The tent feels massive on my own. I hope Greg improves tonight and reaches Camp 3 tomorrow. But I’m not certain what he might find. Flying debris has loaded the black glacial air. Will the material withstand the night? One airborne sliver of ice will be enough to pierce it. If it tears in this gale, I’ve no Plan B.
May 21
Climb Up from Camp 3 to Camp 4 on the Second Summit Push
Iopen my eyes. I see tent material. I’m relieved.
I’m almost through my preparations.
“We’ll be leaving soon.” A Sherpa’s head looks down into my tent.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
I calculate how much food to carry. Hugo had told me to expect no appetite above Camp 3. He’d planned to eat little more than a few energy gels over the three day push. My legs already look like something from a famine. I must eat to succeed, but I don’t want to over-pack and carry nourishment I’ll never eat. I’ll be gone for between two and a half and three and a half days. I decide on an MRE, a packet of dry noodles, some snacks, and my three remaining gel pouches. It’s precious few calories. It pains me to leave grub behind, but travelling light is crucial if I’m to reach the South Col today.
Breathless, I stare down the Lhotse Face. Early risers dot it on this clear, crisp morning. Three times we’ve toiled up the beast below; there will not be a fourth.
At the edge of camp, Khalid and his two Sherpas are clipping into the fixed rope.
“Morning Fergus. How’re you today.” Ade screws his regulator into an oxygen tank.
“Good, set for another one. And you?” I clip my mask to my regulator.
“Good, thanks. I’m glad that wind disappeared.”
I strap on my crampons, and yank them tight for the blue ice just outside camp.
“Ade, can you double check my set-up? Put me on one and a half litres.”
We tighten the straps on our cheeks; the need for oxygen supersedes ease of conversation. The heavy tank, hose, and mask now feel like a second skin. We communicate via hand signals. Packs are secure. Harnesses are snug. Helmets are fastened. Our outer gloves envelope our intermediate ones. Ade gives me a thumbs-up and a nod. We stride out to a quiet fixed rope. Most mountaineers aiming for our window have just set out from Camp 2. Very few will stay a night at the South Col as we plan.
Ade and I tackle the sheer ice face just outside camp. This had been a brutal start to the morning last time. But a week of climbing by hundreds of boots in both directions has kicked in steps. We take advantage of the grip and slog beyond it.
I’m setting the same pace as when Greg and I were here: left foot forward, two slow breaths in and out, and then lift the right foot. The thin air takes its toll on me. Ade labours just behind; I can hear him breathing through his mask. There’ll be no Olympic medals for either of us. But we progress, and with each step, with every two inhalations, we push upwards.
♦ ♦ ♦
Every ten minutes I glance back over my shoulder, nod to Ade, and receive a thumbs-up by way of response. We’re climbing as a pair, but each exists in his own cocoon. In my bubble I concentrate on ascending, saving energy, breathing to a measured pace, staying calm, and holding it together for another forty-eight hours. If I get to the top, it’ll have been worth it.
First success of the day, we reach the traverse. We turn around and plant our backsides on the snow. The Himalayas stretch out in front and beneath us.
“OK?” Ade stretches his mask down over his chin.
“Yeah. That was good, steady progress. And you?” I fish out a chocolate bar.
“Yeah, not bad.” He reaches for his bottle.
“Half a Mars bar?”
“Thanks.”
A few mountaineers labour past us on their way to the Yellow Band. Beneath us, few climbers pepper the route. The sugar and water should keep us ticking over till noon.
“Let’s stay another five minutes. We’ve plenty of time today.” I take a slug from my bottle.
The traverse across the face is mild on my legs, after this morning’s relentless incline.
Failing to reach the summit was a desperate let-down, but we are at least familiar with the route. No sooner am I at the bottom of the Yellow Band, than I’m clipped into the vertical rope and pushing myself up the snow and rock features. I switch at the next knot, try to calm my breathing, and ascend further. Below me, Ade searches for a handgrip, inhales, and pulls himself higher. I do not question why I am here; I just keep climbing.
We plod up the long, white trek to the Geneva Spur, encased in the valley between Everest and Lhotse. Ade’s pace has been dropping for the last hour. Behind us, the trail lies empty. Slogging at 7,700 metres, the highest and fourth highest peaks on the planet encircle us. Apart from the ever shrinking few specks of climbers up near the Spur, we’re all alone out here. If someone was to look back from the top of the ridge and see us now, they might think: “What great mountaineers are these?”, “Now that’s how to climb, two men in a sea of white”, “No fear”, “Old school, give it socks, gentlemen”, “Climb on you heroes!”
If only they knew.
Ade’s pace falters a touch more. I’ve eased off a little. I can hear his heavy breathing behind me. Regardless, we’re making progress, which is all that matters at this altitude. We should reach camp in an hour and a half, where we can start the recovery and hydration process. We’re aiming to recoup at close to 8,000 metres, in one of the world’s most perilous places.
♦ ♦ ♦
We ar
ch our heads upwards and take in the sheer face of the Geneva Spur. Ade has dragged himself to here over the last hour. I’ve a little in reserve; the pace is slower than I’d otherwise set. The oxygen in my tank has kept me alert. On our left the drop has grown. As it’s increased, the afternoon has slipped away.
“Last challenge, Ade. Over this and then a thirty minute walk to camp.” I transfer my jumar to the vertical rope.
“Good.” He sits down to regain himself.
“See you at the top. Take it steady.”
Hand over his mask, he draws in air.
I try to leave the hard work to my legs. I control my effort and take breaks for a few seconds as needed. Within ten minutes I’m crawling over the crest. I catch my breath on a rock and wait for Ade. A carpet of cotton wool clouds floats below me to the horizon. Some of the biggest mountains on the planet jut through it.
View from the Geneva Spur - Nuptse Stands above the Clouds
I lean over the edge and snap a few photos of Ade ascending. I’ll send them on to him when this is all over. Turning around, I capture the massive brown and white colossus that is now the last nine hundred metres of Everest. Only those who’ve scrambled to the South Col can appreciate the boldness and majesty from so close. It stands, oblivious to me, Ade, and the other climbers who are now up at Camp 4. Pyramidal in shape, it taunts me, its presence now magnetic. This is why I am here. Tomorrow I will give it everything to reach the summit.
Peering Over and Down the Geneva Spur
Camp 2 is pressed up against the right flank of the valley on the grey rocks, one and a half kilometres below.
The broken, slate-like rock of the Spur is in the foreground. A misstep here will lead to a fall off the Spur, a tumble down the Lhotse Face, big air over the Bergschrund, and a final stop somewhere down the Cwm Valley.
Ade’s head appears over the rim. He hauls himself over the top and sinks onto a rock.
“Go on ahead.” He slides his mask back over his nose.
“No, no, we’re fine, no rush.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“No, you go on. Get settled in. Unpack your stuff. Easier, more space.”
“Ok, that makes sense. You’re cool to walk in from here?”
“Yeah.”
“Thirty minutes, slight uphill. No rush. Ok?”
“Yeah. See you there.”
I round an outcrop of rock and see coloured shelters a couple of hundred metres ahead. I expected to see more. In a stiffening wind, eight kilometres up in the sky, I close the gap over loose rock and snow. I can’t find our camp. I’m in the right spot. I’m standing beside two orange tents. What on earth happened here? The sight shocks me. I stare down at a flattened mess of what had been our Sherpas’ main tent. I see a tangled mass of string, bent poles, and ripped material. What struck our settlement?
“Hi.” Jingbar pokes his head out of the tent at my right knee.
“Jingbar, what happened? What’s left?” I bend down so I can hear him.
“The storm. Three tents finished. Two others ok. We make from pieces.”
If Angel, Greg, and another Sherpa had climbed with us today, we’d now be in serious trouble. Of the two tents standing, the fly sheets are torn and the outer zips look busted. They wouldn’t fetch a dollar apiece in a shop. Up here though, tonight, they’re all that stands between life and death.
“Angel wants you.” He passes me a walkie-talkie.
“What does he want?”
“He wants to know. He does not understand.”
“This is the button, Jingbar? Just press?”
“Yes.”
“Fergus to Angel. Fergus to Angel. Over.”
“Fergus, this is Angel. Tell me the situation. I do not understand the Sherpas. Over.”
I strain to hear his voice above the wind.
“A storm has hit Camp 4. Two tents remain. I repeat. Two tents remain. They are damaged, but working. Over.”
“Can you find the two down suits of Nurhan and Yener? Have they been damaged? They cannot summit without them. Over.”
“Let me check. Over.”
I stick my head into the tent.
“Hi Khalid, all good?”
“Hey Fergus. Yes, I’m fine.”
“Any sign of the Turks’ down suits here? There should be two somewhere.”
“Not in here,” Khalid says.
I riffle through the debris of the main tent. It’s just twisted metal and fabric, no suits.
I bend down to what will be my home for the night. The outer tent zip has jammed three quarters of the way up. Above and below the fastener, the zip teeth have not bound and defy my attempts to fix them. The wind is swirling around the small vestibule. The inner zip functions. I open it and crawl inside, dragging the oxygen tank behind.
A few stuff-sacks of equipment lie in front of me. I identify the one that contains my sleeping bag. Another one looks like Ade’s bag. At least our vitals are here. I rummage through the other packages. One of them contains a red, fluffy material. I recognise the sponsorship logo of a Turkish company sewn onto it. The outer sack is sound; I can presume the suit inside has survived. Burrowing within the next piece of baggage, I find yellow material that has the name of a Turkish company embroidered on it.
“Fergus to Angel. Fergus to Angel. Over.”
“Go ahead, Fergus. Over.”
“I see two down suits. They are good. Over.”
“Please confirm. The suits are ok? Over.”
“Yes. The suits are ok. Over.”
“Thank you. I will meet you tomorrow with Greg at Camp 4. The Sherpas will bring up tents from Camp 3. Over.”
“Understood. Over.”
“Over and Out.”
I start to unpack my stuff. Khalid pops his head into my tent.
“Hi Fergus, you ok?”
“Yeah. I must get hydrated. I’ll have to go now and collect ice. Bloody tired.” I take a breath through the mask. “It’ll be an hour before I get a drink.”
“No. The Sherpas should get the ice, not you.”
“You sure? I don’t think so.”
“Of course. They should have bags of ice. You stay here. Do not get ice.”
Two minutes pass.
“For you.” A Sherpa pushes a heavy sack into the vestibule.
“Thanks.” I check its contents.
How does Khalid do this? I start smashing its contents.
“Coming in, Fergus. Grab my pack.” Ade pushes his pack into the vestibule.
I update Ade on the situation as he sets up his equipment. The first pot of ice has melted.
“Throw me those boots, Ade. I’ll block up these gaps as best I can. There’s still wind everywhere. The flame is hopeless.”
“Well, we’ll not set the stove up in here with us like last time.”
“Damn right, that was some screw up.” I place a frozen canister into the water. “Once this can heats up we’ll get a decent flame. Just a few minutes.”
A blast of wind and snow blows in on top of us.
“Damn.” I stretch the mask down over my chin. “Those zips are useless.”
“Let’s close up this inner zip while the water heats. We can check on the stove every few minutes.”
“Sounds good.” I grab the zip on the right. “Grab your one. Ok, up.”
Our efforts begin to produce food and liquid. The large down suits and heavy tanks complicate the preparation process. We’re operating from half inside our bags. We explain each move to the other in advance; the water is precious, the flame dangerous, the tent damaged, and our location precarious.
“We did well. I wasn’t sure we’d get anything boiled in that wind,” I say.
“That was two good hours.”
“I was hungry. My appetite’s fine up here. That’s a surprise.” I shove an empty wrapper into a tent pocket.
“Right, that’s boiled. Let me fill this bottle.” Ade leans over the stove.
“Hold on, l
et me get out of the way. Ok, all yours.”
“That’s the last one?” Ade tightens the lid onto the full bottle.
“Yeah, that should do us. We can spend all day tomorrow boiling water.”
By the light of our head torches, I turn off the stove and close up the inner zip for the night. To my left, Ade locks himself into his mummy bag. The down-filled material will protect us from the ravages of a night at the South Col.
I might never climb beyond this point. I find my camera, and stretching out an arm, take a snap of myself for posterity. I view the display screen. My black, fleece hat sits under the blue, bulky hood. The mask hides my nose and mouth. An air hose trails out of shot. The only visible skin is a pair of sunburnt, windswept cheeks. Cracked and worn, I ask a few extra days sacrifice of them. Just above them, tired eyes stare back at me. Shell-shocked, red at the edges, they’ve seen much that is new these last seven weeks. Hopefully they’ll view something higher, newer, and more spectacular in thirty-six hours’ time. But for now, they must rest.
May 22
Dawn at the South Col
My mind keeps running over the plan. To reach the summit, I must do the following:
Walk out of camp at 6pm and climb up to the Balcony. That first challenge will take us to a height of 8,400 metres. The first two thirds look to be a consistent thirty degrees on snow. Then the route turns right and gets steeper. It’s to the far right of Everest as I look at it. Once there, we should get a fresh oxygen tank.
Then we’ll turn left and ascend a long, steep snowy ridge. I’d seen a massive drop on this side of it. I’ve no idea what’s on the other side. An ant-like line of mountaineers had moved along it last week. It had broken me to watch them; hopefully, there’ll be no repeat. The route then turns right to head straight up a slope of about sixty degrees. In low snow years, smooth rock is a challenge in crampons. Deep drifts create their own problems. From what Hugo reported, conditions are good. This’ll take us to the highest point that can be seen from here, the South Summit at 8,700 metres. We’ll get another tank there. Above it, there’s little if anything that can be done to help an injured person. Even strong, experienced climbers will have their work cut out to get themselves back to Camp 4.