Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest

by Fergus White

  I scramble up a rock and snow vertical face. My breathing increases. I’m not climbing well. Darkness surrounds me. I’m focused on the fixed rope. That is what I must follow. I’m aware of people close to me. Just ahead, mountaineers push upwards. Someone stands right beside me. So many behind are trying to get past.

  I reach a wider section. I plod upwards, every step painful. The light of head torches reflects off snow or is absorbed by rock. The Sherpa unclips my jumar again and again. I must stay in the train. I must follow the person ahead. I must push up along this rope. I feel coldness in my toes. The sun will not rise for hours. How will they warm up?

  I should take some food. The sugar may work its way down to my toes. I stand to one side of the rope, clipped into a connection point. I open the small zip on my chest pocket. I manage to grip one of the three-inch long pouches through the mitt. I tear it open with my teeth and squeeze the gooey contents into my mouth. I should not lose my place but better to take on grub early rather than later.

  I pull down the main zip and grab a few swigs from the water bottle. That should help. The mitts complicate every task, but they’re warm and comfortable. I wiggle my fingers to be certain I’m not imagining how good they feel. I need to rejoin the line and try to stay close to Angel.

  I think we left camp two hours ago. My legs cry out for a release from the pain. The mountain has stolen the heat from my feet. Otherwise I’m not cold, given that it’s far below -20C, and the mercury is still dropping. But so little oxygen fills my blood stream, it’s no surprise they’re starting to suffer. I was worried this would happen. I must keep going, keep my place in the line. Stay in touch with Angel; he’s just a few climbers ahead.

  I wish I could manage this damn jumar on my own. Where’s Greg? I’m wrecked.

  Climb over this steep rock, gasping. Now left boot up. Push myself. People are close to me. It’s black. Turn on my head light. Moving shapes. Keep going. Where am I going? Just follow the rope. I’m slowing up the people behind me. They want to get past. Where’s the rest of the team? Just go up. Shit, my feet are cold.

  I look back over my left shoulder. Piercing the black, a trail of white lights, hundreds of yards long, snakes down from where I’m standing. It looks like Christmas. Underneath each bulb, a climber pits themself against this monster tonight. There’re so many behind me. I cannot linger. Get moving.

  Oh man, that’s sore. What the hell is that? It feels like someone has just poured acid into the veins in my feet. It’s as if my ankles have been cut open, and someone is packing ice down the void. This is a new sensation. I feel pain. But mostly, I just sense ice. I don’t know what this is. Fuck, I think this is my feet switching off. I think my system has made its choice. My body is cutting off the extremities to save the core, to save me. Stupid damn system, send blood down there and don’t quit now. Now what? Turn back? I must make a decision.

  What’s the intelligent choice? Go back, do so now. I’ll lose my feet if I continue. That is certain. I must return to Camp 4.

  But what’s there? I’ll sit in a tent on my own through this subzero night. The bag of ice we had is finished. Boiling water will take ages. Damn, I may lose my feet there as well. Last week, I sat at the South Col while others made it to the summit. Those climbers have stood on the peak of this brute and are now far down the valley near Namche. To turn around and still damage my limbs is the worst of all worlds. Either way, I’m going to suffer harm. Shit. This was a call I didn’t want to make. I have to choose. I have to stop now and decide.

  Go back now. Write off seven weeks of suffering. I could try again in two years. I’ve learnt a lot. I might be stronger then.

  Will I ever get this close again? It’s just a few more hours to the top. Where do I draw the line?

  What does going on mean? Is it madness and stupidity? Is it balls and determination?

  What does descending entail? Is it failure? Is it common sense?

  It’s only a mountain. But damn, I came here to climb this thing. I’m still alive. I’m still breathing.

  Oh shit, I must decide.

  My left foot will be beyond repair. I’m right footed. I knew coming here was a risk. I don’t need to be the healthiest corpse in the grave.

  Ten seconds, and I must make a choice.

  Sit in Camp 4 on my own, in glacial conditions, surrounded by the stench of defeat?

  Make the most foolish decision ever and press on. Complete what I started and write off my feet for the rest of my life?

  Decide.

  I may as well be done for sheep as for lamb. Let’s get to the top as quick as I can, then turn around, and get the hell off this mountain. Tomorrow I’ll deal with the consequences. No second thoughts from here on up. Right or wrong, judgement has been made. Left boot forward.

  I concentrate on each step. I switch to the next rope. I follow the Sherpa. I must keep going.

  I’m staring up a short, dark wall, waiting for the rope to clear. I peal back the forearm of the mitt to glance at my watch by the light of the head torch. It’s 10:30pm, later than I expected. We’ve been on the move for four hours. It doesn’t seem like I’ve been slogging for that long. I must have put a chunk of the mountain beneath me. But in the dark, on this unfamiliar route, I don’t know what progress I’ve made. The altimeter suggests I’m on track. I’m standing a few hundred metres above Camp 4. The Balcony cannot be much further. The line clears, and I push myself up the rock.

  Panting, I force myself up a slope that’s steeper than the Lhotse Face. My feet are so cold. I need to warm up my body. I must go faster. I’ll get a fresh tank at the Balcony.

  “Turn up my tank to two.” I tap the Sherpa on the shoulder.

  I set the pace of a lunatic. I’m in oxygen debt, but I must generate heat in my body. I slurp in air and then blast it out. I’ve almost doubled my speed. Over and over, I lift my boots in quick succession to defeat this steep section. The noise of my breathing blocks out all other sounds. But nothing hides the pain. The Sherpa is bound to notice that something has changed. The pace murders me, but I must keep it up. My feet are in a place I’ve not felt before. The sun will not appear for hours; there’s little if any chance they’ll warm up.

  This must be the Balcony. A dozen climbers stand in the dark on a flat section. It’s the size of a living room. It’s almost pretty in the glow of the head torches. There’s a wall beside me. At the end is a service counter. There are lights on top of it. I think those two guys are attending to people. I’ve nothing left, exhausted. Chunks of ice form my feet. Let’s do this oxygen change as quick as possible and move on. My Sherpa makes the switch. I mumble thanks and help him swap his tank.

  I’ll take two minutes for a snack. I squeeze the second gel pouch into my mouth. I lower the main zip of the suit and draw out the bottle. I gulp back a few mouthfuls, no point in just carrying this liquid to the top. That’s the basics taken care of: oxygen, sugar, and water. I push the container down into the suit and pull the zipper back up. Oh bollox. My repair job from this afternoon has come undone. The zip jams mid chest. I cannot budge it. The Sherpa assists but to no avail. Now I’m screwed. I stick the Velcro pads together to give me some insulation, but a lot of body heat will escape up past my neck.

  “Let’s catch Angel.” I stretch my mask down over my chin.

  “Angel is behind us,” the Sherpa says.

  “What? Behind? He is not up there?” I point to a ridge on my left.

  “No, he has been behind since the bottom.”

  Who was the tall guy in the red suit I was following? When did we pass Angel?

  “Hey Fergus,” a voice says.

  I turn and look over my right shoulder. Ade stands a pace below me. I thought I’d raced up the last section. He must be strong tonight, or maybe I’m slow.

  “Hi Ade,” I say. “How’re you?”

  “Not good. My throat. It’s hard to breathe. Can’t breathe.”

  “That bad?” I slide the mask back up.
/>   “I don’t think I can go on.”

  “Take it slow.”

  “I’ll rest here. See if it gets better. You go on.”

  “Ok.”

  The Sherpa and I pull out of the Balcony onto a steep, narrow ridge. My crampons bite into the hard snow. He leads. I see white to the right. I’ve no idea what’s to the left. Two climbers ahead slow us. We adjust to their speed. I’ll freeze solid at this pace.

  “We must pass them.” I hold the mask at my chin. “I’ll get cold at this pace.”

  “You are cold?” he asks. “We must turn back.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. But this pace is too slow. It will make me cold. In the future.”

  “This is ok.”

  “No. We must pass.”

  “Ok.”

  We press up right behind them. They hear us, step aside for half a minute, and let us pass. We pick up the pace again.

  I feel nothing but frozen winter beneath my ankles. The damage will get worse and worse as I ascend into this night. My hands and fingers, however, are snug and comfortable inside these extraordinary mitts. Whoever designed them is a genius.

  I’m right behind the Sherpa. No one is near us.

  “Go past.” He steps to one side. “I cannot go faster. I am tired. Sorry.”

  I push past. He’s carrying a heavier load than me. Every kilogram up here feels like twenty. If I do not keep my body moving my feet have no chance.

  I labour up the ridge on my own. Fifty yards ahead of me I see the glimmer of two or three head torches. Beneath me, the light of the Sherpa fades into the night. Where did all those mountaineers go? Where’s that trail of lights I saw a few hours back? I’m clipped to the rope and climbing upwards; so, I must be on track.

  Panting, I fumble with the jumar for half a minute at a connection point. I clip it to the next rope and plod upwards. I have to keep moving. I must lift up my left boot, breathe in, and then the right. The pace is too fast for this altitude, but I must do it to pump blood around my body.

  I reach another knot. I kneel on the snow and fight the spring. I can do nothing in these mitts. No matter what: do not yield to the temptation and take off the outer mitt. I work with computers: no fingers, no job. Gasping, head slung, I pop it out. I clip to the next rope and toil higher.

  This is surreal. This is the weirdest place I’ve ever been. I’m walking in a dream sequence. I’m on my own, climbing through the night, amidst a cold hell. The Darth Vader noise of the mask fills my ears. Outside of that is silence. Darkness surrounds me. My life, my everything, is contained within the narrow beam of this head torch. There is nothing else.

  I battle the jumar. I’m agitated, spent. I have nothing left.

  Three or four people ascend a distance above me. Below, I see the odd glimmer of a head torch. I must keep climbing.

  A near vertical rock slab stands in front of me. Two ropes stretch up it, one red, the other lighter in colour. Pete’s advice springs to mind: avoid the red rope, the other is easier. I look up and see two mountaineers on the red option. I force myself a few yards past it and clip in to the green one. It moves around to the right of the face. The ascent exhausts me. The crampons scrape the rock. But I find just enough foot holds in the boulder to allow me use my legs and save busting my arms.

  I have to keep climbing. Most of the mountain must be beneath me now. Up and up through the snow I labour. The pain will end. Just do this. I cannot move what’s within my boots. I feel ice below my ankles. Forget it; keep going.

  Another rock face blocks the route to the summit. It looks to be seven metres high. Four climbers are standing at the top, leaning against the old stone house, just by the window. I stretch up an arm to find grip. My legs push from below. I clamber up. I try to let my legs do the work. My fingers search for a hold. I scramble over the crest as the four move on. I tussle with the jumar. Hands on my thighs, I try to slow my breathing. I squeeze past the old wall and follow the trail.

  I press upwards, exhausted. How much damage am I doing to my feet?

  Where am I? What is this darkness? What’s beyond this black? How much energy do I burn fighting this jumar every ten minutes?

  What is over there? Where is this? Where am I? What the fuck am I doing here on my own? This is freaky. Jesus, what am I doing out here on my own? There’s no one ahead, no one behind. I must wait. I must. I’ll kneel here and wait for the Sherpa. I hope he comes.

  I wait. Blackness and the resonance of Darth Vader surround me.

  I stay on my knees for several minutes. I must hold it together.

  May 23

  Sometime after Midnight

  “I am tired. I cannot go faster,” the Sherpa says.

  “No problem.”

  I’m just glad to see another human being.

  I must be near the top. It can’t be that much further.

  Up ahead I see a small flat section. I can’t see any snow above it. Is that the finish? This might be it. I check my altimeter. No, it displays 8,750 metres. There’s another hundred metres of altitude. Damn. It’s not accurate to the last metre. It could be out by fifty or more. The reading is based off Camp 4 being at 8,000 metres; that’s what Hugo told me to set it to. I think the South Col is less than 8,000 metres. That means there’s more than a hundred.

  Panting, I lift a boot up and continue.

  What’s that, up in the sky? It’s a shape. It’s dark. It’s massive. No bloody way. It can’t be. It’s the damn silhouette of a mountain soaring up forever. Jesus Christ, it goes halfway to the stars. That’s a lot more than a hundred metres. I won’t make it. My feet will be lost for nothing. Either way they are gone; just plod on. Just keep going.

  The two of us reach a level area. Snow does not stand in front of my face. We’re turning right. I think there’s a view. This must be the South Summit. On the left, as before, looms a dark, black void. Up above and in front stretches the night sky. Below my right arm, miles and miles of dark clouds extend out farther than I can see. I’m on the other side of the mountain. That’s Tibet or China. If this is the South Summit, then I’ve another hundred metres to go. Ok, the altimeter was out but not by much. Let’s count this as a mini-achievement. I’ve nothing left, but a last hundred metres may be possible. Wheezing, I bend down as the jumar hits a knot. The Sherpa clips me out. I grunt thanks. We continue.

  I labour along a snowy ridge. My thighs can give little more. I sense a massive drop to the right. I’m not sure what loiters to the left. The dark clouds, beneath me on the right, shimmer. I might be looking fifty miles across them. The black rug bubbles with a white glow. I don’t see streaks of lightening, but the sky below me is on fire. Hugo told me he saw it too. I cannot enjoy it; I must press on. I must get up, get down, and get out of here.

  The end can’t be too far now. Hold it together. Stay cool. I force myself forward.

  In the east I see a thin shimmer, just a faint line against the black. It’s so far away. The sun is heating mainland China. I drag in air. Get up here you bitch and blast me with your rays.

  I must turn away and follow the rope. I must not stand still.

  It’s maybe 4am. I trudge along the ridge. The Sherpa and I, more or less, have it to ourselves.

  We climb down through a narrow, jagged passage. Rock and snow presses against my shoulder. I focus on the rope. The cold attacks me. My feet are beyond repair. I’m unsure how I remain upright. The thin air has drained my body. Frigid vapours find a passage through the damaged zip. The route angles up. I raise the left boot. My arm strains on the jumar. My right boot searches for grip on the stone. My head slumps. I wheeze. I look up again. I drag myself upwards. The incline flogs every muscle. The crampon slides across the hard face. I have nothing left. What comes after exhaustion? My left thigh squeals as it pushes me higher. I scramble over the top. I must follow the rope.

  Three Sherpas are huddled in the dark on the ground. Orange oxygen tanks have been tied to a large rock just to the left of the trail. The Sherpa
is changing his tank. I kneel down and assist him. What sort of place is this? The narrow trail is hemmed in by a ridge along the right. On the left, just at my backside, threatens an endless drop. Where on earth is this? Jesus, this must be what hell looks like. I help the Sherpa lift a tank. He lowers a fresh one into my pack. Good stuff, but I didn’t expect a fresh cylinder. He’s snappy at switching tanks. He points forward; he doesn’t want to hang about either.

  Panting, I force step after step along the slender, serrated, rock and snow ridge. How are my legs still moving? I have nothing, nothing at all. Those feet are finished, definitely the left, everything below the ankle. The summit must be around one of these outcrops. It has to be. It can be no more than a few minutes away. I must get there and exit.

  The glimmer to the east increases. The west remains in darkness. The sun has not yet revealed itself, but I can see where I’m placing my boots. I switch off the head torch. I’ve climbed right through the night, yet still no sign of the summit. It must be around the next bend. It must be. I may make it. Just follow the rope. Keep lifting my feet uphill. I’m finished. Focus on the rope. Keep pushing up. There can only be seconds to go.

  That is spectacular. It’s criminal not to be able to enjoy this. To the left lies probably the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. The shadow pyramid is laid bare. It’s just like the photo I saw in Pheriche. I never thought I’d see it. A perfect triangle stretches for fifty miles, maybe a hundred, maybe more. Half a nation rests in shadow to the west. Linda has a snap of this. She did well to take it. I cannot ass about with my camera. That picture stays in my mind only, what’s left of it. I’ve never known such pain. I cannot stand still.

  I round an outcrop. I look up. A grey ridge extends out into eternity ahead of me. It snakes to the right and soars up into the distance. The huge, dramatic, ragged mountain astounds me here. Snow clings to its edges. This must be the range on the other side of Everest. I didn’t expect to see such a spectacle so far up in the sky.