by Fergus White
The Cornice Ridge follows next, a hundred metre long horizontal section of rock and hard snow. Jagged and uneven, in places it’ll be less than two metres wide. The Southwest Face plunges down 2,700 metres on its left. A misstep to the right promises a fall off the Kangsung Face of more than three kilometres. I’d heard someone refer to the view of the Rainbow Valley below. It sounded romantic, until the vista was explained. The rainbow spectrum is composed of a variety of coloured down suits. Inside each lies a mountaineer who’d slipped off the ridge over the years. This mountain has ended the lives of more than two hundred climbers. It has kept and preserved scores of them.
That ridge will deliver me to the Hillary Step, a twelve metre wall of rock and snow. First climbed in 1953 by Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, I hope it’ll be the last obstacle en route to the ever nearing summit at 8,848 metres. If conditions are favourable I can expect about -25C, but down as far as -50C threatens.
May 22
At the South Col
“God, it’s cold up here.” I push the mask back over my nose.
“Yeah, this morning sun makes no difference. What time is it?” Ade asks.
“Eight. I’ll get the stove going.”
“Good man. We’ll spend the day drinking. Let’s have two bottles each ready before six.”
I’m half in, half out of the sleeping bag as I crawl to the vestibule. Cold air attacks my socked feet. The night’s body heat escapes. The oxygen hose tangles in the pack. My gloved fingers fumble with the lighter. The flint will not ignite its frozen contents. I slide the frigid lighter inside the elastic of my underpants.
“I’ll give it a few minutes and then retry.”
♦ ♦ ♦
We’re boiling the second pot.
“I can’t keep my feet warm. Every time I move, the damn cold gets in,” I say.
“Try sticking the next bottle in your bag. It’ll be too hot to drink straight away anyway.”
“Will do. You’re in good shape today. Nothing wrong with your appetite.”
I slide a silver packaged MRE with the words “Vegetable Jalfrezi” into the pot. I doubt it’ll bear a resemblance to the Indian dish of the same name. I’ve only eaten one MRE on this expedition, after our first climb through the Icefall. It promised barbequed chicken but tasted dreadful. I threw up just afterwards. But I’ve no choice; I must eat.
The once frozen bag of Indian promise has been bouncing in the boiling water for over ten minutes. If nothing else, its warm contents will heat me up. I drag the mask down under my chin and take a forkful.
“This tastes great.” I push my fork in again. “It’s fantastic.”
The aroma, the taste, the heat, this dish has everything. Why did I not pack a pile of these for the mountain? I should have carried several for today. Perhaps I was dehydrated and wasted when I had that first MRE. I’ve been a little hasty writing these off. In a foxhole, this small, silver bag is a lifesaver.
All too soon it’s gone.
“Man, I’m hungry. Hugo said it would be impossible to eat up here. I’m ravenous.”
I snack on the few remaining bits of food I have. We place another lump of ice into the pot and seal up the inner zip. The only grub I’ve left is a packet of dried noodles and the three small gel pouches I’ll need for the climb itself.
“How are those feet?” Ade asks.
“Impossible to keep warm. I’ve got a bottle down the bottom of the bag. I’m playing with it, keeping the feet and toes moving.”
But as soon as I move it away from my feet or attend to the stove, they remind me again just how high up in the sky we are. We’re at 8,000 metres; this is the edge of my tolerance.
Noon has passed, and we’re hydrated. It occurs to me that the boots will be a problem. They’ll be frozen solid and inflexible, probably about -20C. If I put them on just before we leave, I’ll be in big trouble. My feet might not recover from that. Usually on the mountain, they heat up by 9am as the sun rises over Lhotse. Today will be different. We’ll set off at sunset and climb through the night. The rays will not come to save me for twelve hours. It’ll be colder than I’ve ever experienced. Less oxygen than ever before will float in my blood stream. I have to face reality: if my feet are not warm before the off, they’ll not survive the push.
I pull down the zip of the rear vestibule to get my boots. The space is half the size it should be; tattered material flaps in the wind.
“Bollox, there’s snow everywhere.” I lift in my boots and close the zip.
A thin covering of snow coats the inside of both boots. I scrape it away, cautious not to melt any, which would refreeze as ice.
I take the chill out of the inner boots, one at a time, with a bottle of hot water. Then I place my feet into them while still in the sleeping bag. I’ll leave them there till the last minute. For as long as I’ve a hot container to hand, I’ll leave it down the bottom of the bag and massage my feet with it. I must keep my toes moving all afternoon.
Ade sits just to my left elbow, half wrapped up in his bag. The masks limit a good natter, but the tent karma is positive. In this extreme environment, this ex-paratrooper is as good a friend as I could hope for.
“Damn.”
“What’s happened?” Ade asks.
“This suit is rubbish.” I hold the zip handle up in my hand.
“Will it still work?”
I wrestle with the zip.
“I can push it down, but I can’t bring it up.”
“Let me try.”
I hold the jacket closed as Ade tries to force the zip up towards my neck. He cannot.
“What sort of mickey mouse material was used to make this? I’ve not even tested it in anger yet. I can’t go out there tonight like this.”
“It won’t budge,” Ade says. “Let me get my penknife. What else do we have that’ll help?”
We try various options for twenty minutes. A key ring attaches an emergency whistle to the shoulder strap of my backpack. I’d spent time getting its placement just right, putting it where I could reach it with my mouth if my hands were unavailable. Change of plan, I attach the key ring to the zip and throw the whistle into a pouch at the top of the pack.
“Does it work?” Ade asks.
“It’s flimsy, but yeah. Up and down. It’s moving.” I hand the penknife back to him. “Thanks.”
It’s early afternoon, and we hear voices outside.
“Hi guys.” Angel shoves in his head. “Make space.”
His red suit and equipment fill the tent. He positions himself between Ade and me.
“Greg and the Turks are here,” Angel says. “The Sherpas brought up a tent from Camp 3. How’s that stove going?”
♦ ♦ ♦
The three of us are lying on our backs with our heads raised. A movement by one is felt by all.
I keep wiggling my toes in the bag. It’s mid-afternoon and my appetite rages. I drop half the packet of frozen noodles into the empty MRE foil pack and pour in boiling water to the brim. Huddled over it in the cramped tent, with mask under my chin, I spoon it into my mouth. I’m careful not to waste any. I repeat the process with the remaining noodles. They’re plain, half-cooked, and delicious. Hugo got this one wrong; I’d eat the tent if I could.
It’s 5pm and time to get serious. After hours of massaging my feet and toying with bottles in the sleeping bag, they don’t feel cold. I place a bottle in the outer boots for several minutes to take the subzero chill out of them. Then, in a swift movement, I tie up my feet in their home for the night. They’re warm; I’m relieved.
Now for the final call of nature. I crawl out of the tent into the frigid air and walk twenty metres through shallow snow past the edge of camp. I’ve tied the tank over my shoulder with a piece of string I rescued from the destroyed Sherpas’ tent yesterday. There’s been a lot of foraging and jury rigging of late. Money has no value up here. Guts and experience are the currency of the South Col. But too much of the former, and not enough of the latter, is
the worst of all combinations.
I pass a few corroded metal items of rubbish from previous expeditions. I can imagine the state some climbers may have been in when they dragged themselves off this mountain. A little litter was probably the last thing on their mind. A few years ago, Sherpas undertook a clear-out and hauled old oxygen bottles and destroyed tents from here. Apart from a little old rope, I’ve seen no rubbish all the way back to Camp 2. Given the enormity of the Himalayas, nature will handle our laziness along this narrow trail from Base Camp to the summit.
A thirty centimetres high ridge offers little to protect my modesty, but at least it shows I’ve made the effort. I need to be quick. I zip open the bum flap on the down suit and attend to business in the arctic temperatures. I may as well not have bothered. Days of eating almost nothing produces, not surprisingly, almost nothing. But I can tick the action off the checklist. Having to expose myself on the mountain tonight could cause frostbite in the most tender of places.
As one might do when walking a dog, I scoop the deposit into a biodegradable plastic bag. I’ll tie that knotted gift to my pack tomorrow and then spirit it back to Base Camp. Once there, I’ll throw it into the Base Camp toilet. An unknown local will then collect the contents, and they’ll be dumped in a pit or incinerator lower down the valley.
I walk back to the tent, surprised my rear end is still attached in these bitter conditions. There must remain a little fat back there to protect me. I’d been anxious about that necessity all afternoon. It had to be performed before setting out and I wasn’t sure I’d recover from the exposure. I’ve no idea how I’d perform such a feat clipped into a rope on sloping terrain. I’d overheard that one of the lads has no rear flap on his suit. Lower down, he had a pressing need. He zipped the suit open at the front, pulled it down off his upper body, and squatted down. Unfortunately, the delivery landed in his hood.
Back in the tent I swallow an anti-diarrhea tablet. That’s it now: lock down. The next time I sit on the throne, I’ll have climbed this beast or failed in the process. Like a scorecard in golf, there’ll be no room for comments. One massive, one final, one all-or-nothing, ball-breaking twelve hours and this will be behind me.
I zip up the suit and adjust the pack. I’ve already switched the regular padded waist strap for a simple, lightweight belt. Every gram shed before tonight’s altitude and gradient could make the difference between success and catastrophe. I know it’s not vital equipment, but I shove the camera into my left chest pocket. On the right side wait three energy gel pouches. Inside the down suit jiggles a seven hundred mil bottle of water; in the backpack it might freeze. But regardless, I’ve put the one litre container in the pack. It should be fine. I can’t have two bottles bouncing around my body with only a dodgy zipper keeping them in.
I pull on the large double mitts but have no dexterity in them. I change back to my regular gloves. Up to now on my right hand, I’ve just worn the inner glove, so I can operate the jumar. The inner and outer gloves should be warm enough. I can always switch to the mitts later if needed.
I’m kneeling down outside the tent, tightening the crampons. All around me, everyone is busy in their own world, ensuring their equipment is set-up right.
Camp 4: 5:45pm – The Team Next Door
A Sherpa in a red suit drops an oxygen tank outside the tent. He says something like he’ll be climbing with me, and walks away. I don’t recognise him, but he must be with our team. I presume this is the man who’s been tasked with assisting me on tonight’s push. This is not quite the buddy system I’d imagined. I remember Hugo’s firm advice to me. For better or for worse, this is the job that red suited guy signed up to. Carrying cylinders on summit night is the occupation description. I should get a fresh one at the Balcony and another at the South Summit. Pete had been shattered when I last saw him. I can’t risk my legs buckling on a rock face in a few hours because this Sherpa has a problem with his employment. I recall Greg’s advice to expect no miracles of management from Ted. I’m sure Hugo has given Angel a heads-up.
“Angel, a Sherpa left a tank at my feet over there and walked away. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“Which Sherpa?”
“Just there, in the red. Sorry about this.”
“That’s ok.” Angel walks to the man in the red suit.
The tank that had been left at the tent disappears. I hope it goes upwards.
Our group is standing close together with packs on backs. The two Turks look professional in their sponsored suits. Jingbar assists Khalid with a final adjustment. No teams have set out yet. It’s still daylight, but our lengthening shadows portend a coldness, like never before, that will descend upon us. Once the sun dips beneath the South Col, there’ll be no hiding from the havoc of the night.
“Fergus.” Nurhan beckons me over. “You need mitts. Gloves are no good. You need to keep your fingers together, much warmer.”
I struggle to take off the pack; the oxygen tank is inside and the hose gets wrapped around my neck. I dig out the mitts and make a quick switch to preserve heat. I try to seal them, but cannot. I feel myself getting agitated. I try and try, but cannot grip the forearm sections and close them over the sleeves of the down suit. My hands have not recovered from last week and have little strength. I heave the pack back up and fasten the straps. There’s a gap between the mitts and my sleeves. If I set out like this, I’ll lose my hands.
Through the mask, I try to explain my problem to others. They also have their mitts on and cannot straighten out my sleeves and seal me tight. I’d a close call last week. If my hands get cold again I doubt they’ll survive. I’m losing my calmness. Perhaps Angel can help.
I explain the problem to Angel. No doubt he has his own concerns. Regardless, he slips off his outer mitts. He tugs down my sleeves, yanks the mitts up my forearms and pulls the draw strings tight. Not a puff of wind will get in. This man has saved my bacon several times already. Once again, he’s stepped into the breach.
I realise Nurhan’s advice has been priceless. Had I tried to switch over tonight, after my hands were cold, in the dark, into mitts that would be -20C, I’d have fallen short. The blood flow to my hands would have ceased.
I regain my composure. I take a slow and steady breath in. And out. Now I am set.
My hands are warm. The inside of the mitts are soft and comfortable. Their luxury feels out of place in this unforgiving environment. My feet are not cold. I wasn’t sure in the tent today if they’d come round. The oxygen tank is full. Helmet secured, harness tight, my hood is up.
Everyone else looks ready. I nod to Greg. He nods back. Who’d have thought that when he made that indecent proposal to me seven weeks ago, that we’d both stand here to have a shot at the final hurdle? We’re less than half a day from the top.
A Sherpa in a red suit, twenty metres out of camp, is shouting at me. He’s standing alone in the snow-covered field on the way to the Balcony. He summons me to join him. No other squads have started. He’s roaring at me. I presume this is the man who’ll assist me tonight, who earlier pushed his luck and dropped a tank at our tent. I know nothing about this guy. There’s no way I’m heading out now with him. He can screw himself. I’m waiting for the team. I climb one step behind Angel.
May 22: 6:30pm
The Summit Push
Angel leads. I fill third place. My Sherpa walks close by. Ahead of us lies an empty trail. If I can stay with the pace, I’ll avoid the worst of the jams that’ll occur at the bottlenecks and vertical sections. I’m in no rush, but waiting at the base of a rock face will risk frostbite and waste oxygen.
Angel sets an even tempo. I don’t think he has been this high before. He’s never been to the top of Everest, and less than nine hundred metres now separate us from the summit. Every step tonight will carry me into unchartered territories and new elevations.
For half an hour we progress up the slight snow slope. I take measured breaths through the mask. The light dims as the colossal, triangular lump
fills our view. I glance behind. The sight blows me away. Over a hundred climbers trudge in a long, slow line. If it weren’t for the bright coloured suits, it would be a death march. Heads point down and shoulders hunch as the stream shuffles forward. No one speaks. Each mountaineer is following the boots in front. I feel under pressure; I hope I don’t cause a delay.
My mind concentrates on what lies ahead. Two months of climbing will yield a result, or nothing, in the next twelve hours. Anyone who says the summit is just a bonus, that it doesn’t define an expedition, has never pried everything out of their body.
We reach the fixed rope, clip in, and push up an increasing gradient.
Angel moves onto the next rope. I cannot unclip my jumar. The mitts and damaged hands have defeated me. A line of climbers stretches hundreds of metres behind me, but I will not take off the outer mitts to fight this spring. I know if I do, my limbs are finished. I struggle as a climber comes past me. The Sherpa takes off an outer mitt, yanks off the jumar, and pushes it into my palm. I muffle thanks through my mask.
The light fades. My eyes adjust as the sun dips west and the moon rises high in the sky. The moon’s reflected glow illuminates the way. For now, I’ll save the batteries in the head torch.
The gradient slaps me. Every step hurts. Perhaps I’m going faster than on the Lhotse Face with Greg. I’m troubled, conscious that I’m blocking those behind. But I don’t want to lose my place in the line. At almost every connection point I fumble on my knees for twenty seconds, breathless, trying to unclip the jumar. In the dark, bungling with a small spring mechanism, my inability to perform the simple task embarrasses me. Then the Sherpa pushes me aside and jerks it free. We speak no words; masks hide faces. His attitude isn’t helping.