by Fergus White
Wait. No. Fuck no. No. No. No. I’m climbing Everest. There’s nothing higher. It’s impossible. No way, it can’t be. Oh shit, I’m doomed. That up there is the damn mountain I’m climbing. It’s so far away. How can it be? I can’t make that. It’s beyond me. I’ve already given everything. I’ve lost my feet for nothing. At this pace it’ll take over an hour. My feet, my damn feet, they’re destroyed.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Just keep ascending. But I won’t make it; I cannot climb what I’ve just seen.
I push upwards. My pace falters. I’ve moved far past exhaustion. I trudge up the narrow ridge. I round jagged walls that twist left and right. I aim for the next bend. In between, my eyes look down. I must keep lifting my feet. I will never see the top.
A sheer face, several metres high, stands in front of me. My legs give what they have. I heave on the jumar. My arm aches. I search for footholds. I need my arm to pull me up a few more inches. Breathless, I make a huge effort, and another. I push again. I drag myself over the crest. I pick myself up. My eyes drop. I pant. I continue forward.
I follow the rope. I must keep it together. I must walk upwards.
I stand at the base of another rock face and stare up. The Sherpa climbs to the top and beckons me. His rear crampon spike presses into the rope. He knows what he’s doing. He’s been trying to kill me for ages. Why did he drag me up so far to kill me here? It would have been easier, for both, if he’d done it hours ago. It would have been quicker down lower. I don’t understand this guy, but I’m onto him. The line to the left looks old but reliable. I clip into it and test the jumar. It takes my weight. Mask pressed against the stone, I lever and scrape my way up. I heave myself over the edge. I stare him in the eye. I’m on to your game, buddy. But he could take me at any time. I’ll keep a careful watch on him.
I toil on. There is no top. I’ll never see it.
The sun blasts onto us. I cover my eyes. I lean against the ridge on the right and take out my shades. The Sherpa slips on his. I slide mine towards my ears. They get caught in the hat, helmet strap, and mask elastic. I push them back, agitated. Bollox, I don’t believe it. The arm has snapped. What a time to break. This is all going wrong. Ok, stay cool. They’re just glasses. The Sherpa pushes them into my pack. I keep walking. I’ll get my goggles later, if I ever see the top. My feet. Oh God, what have I done?
I lift each boot in sequence. I struggle to stay upright. I follow the ridge. There is no top. There is nothing but snow beyond each turn. I expect nothing but white after each twist. I heave in empty air on this endless trail. I trudge around corners. I push up. The pain stabs me. How am I still standing? I must stay calm. Hold it together. Concentrate on each step. Each step is important. Each step counts. Just one at a time, and breathe.
Half a dozen colourful climbers stand ten yards away. A snow slope leads up to them. They are not in a line but clumped together. They converse. The Sherpa taps my right shoulder. I look at him.
“That’s the top,” he says.
Silence.
Disbelief.
Stationary.
Nothing.
His words have stunned me. I’d given up all hope. I didn’t expect this suffering to deliver anything but abject failure. I’ve damaged my feet beyond repair, but I’ll make it to the top. A year of training, two months of torment, the reward is just a few paces away.
I take two steps forward and then think better of it. This guy has been trying to kill me, but he’s been with me all night. He’s not so bad. I go back. I put an arm around him. We walk up the last few paces together.
I’m here. This is it. It’s 6:30am. Twelve hours of slog.
Prayer flags and string encompass a mound of snow, three yards long and a yard high. I put celebrations on hold; I must take off the pack and find the goggles, or I’ll suffer snow blindness. The hose tangles around my neck. I get agitated. I cannot free myself. I gain a man’s attention and point to the pack. He spots my predicament and steps towards me. He untangles me. I give him a thumbs-up.
I protect my eyes with the goggles. I must get that litre bottle of water. I’m parched. I’ll take half straightaway. That’ll make a big difference. Shit, it’s frozen solid. Not even a drip. Nothing I can do. Damn, I needed that. What a waste carrying that kilogram. Ok, so be it, what’s done is done.
Fiddling with the pack, goggles, and bottle took ages. I still haven’t taken in the view. The clock is ticking.
I unclip myself, move out of the shade of the snowy mound, and sit down.
I take in the vista over Nepal and Tibet. Ridges of mountains and snow stretch out in all directions. For the first time in a long while, there’s nothing but sky above. This is the top of the world. This is what I set out to do. I am here. The cost will be high; my feet will not recover from the last twelve hours. There will be trouble ahead. I should exit as planned. But screw it, I’ll sit and enjoy the moment. This pain and damage won’t be in vain. The sunrays find me.
A few climbers push up the last yards. Behind me, mountaineers from the Tibetan north side ascend towards the apex. I take out my camera. The lens or electronics have frozen; an error displays on the screen. Then it works. I take a snap of ranges in every direction. So many mountains squeeze between me and the horizon.
“Take a photo?” I pass my camera to another climber.
He aims it at me and obliges.
“More, more, be sure,” I say.
He clicks off a few shots and passes it back to me.
I can’t confirm if the camera has worked. Either I’ve forgotten how to review a picture, or I’m pressing the wrong button through these mitts. I ask a few other climbers and my Sherpa to take a few photos as well. Hopefully one of the shots will come out.
I wish Greg was here. We could share this. We’ve gone through much the last two months. I played this moment out in my mind many times. He was always standing next to me. I hope he makes it.
Wouldn’t it be super if Nurhan was with us also? Such a great climber, he could point out and name all these peaks below. I don’t have an idea what I’m looking at. I can’t figure out which way is Base Camp. Nor can I trace out the route we followed through the night.
I’ve been sitting for ten minutes. The Sherpa indicates we should descend. I know he’s right. But so what, I’ll take five more and soak in the occasion. I may regret all this; so, I may as well enjoy the panorama and the moment. I take a few more photos. I relax a little and let the location drift over me.
That was some night, but what’s done is done. I’ve made it to the top of Everest. How did someone like me scramble all the way up here?
With calm breaths, I absorb all that extends out below me.
If I get down in one piece, I’ll remember this tale till the end of my days. Fifty years from now, I’ll be the old man in a leather chair beside the fireplace. Slow of movement, time will have taken its toll. “He doesn’t do much but sip whisky,” the bartender might say, “but rumour has it, that he once climbed Everest.” My youthful years are almost behind me. I’m not too far off forty. Plenty of decades lie ahead, but from here on, I’ll take them slower and enjoy them more.
Some people journey here thinking that the summit will alter them, add something to them. I hope it will change me, but perhaps by taking something away. Leave me a bit more chilled, less to prove, no more hills to climb. That’s for younger men. That’s for the next generations. If they pursue thrill seeking exploits and world records as much as I’ll enjoy reading about their daring acts, then I reckon we’ll both have a great half century.
Sitting here has magic. I allow myself a cheeky grin. Was it worth it? Ask me when I’m in hospital next week. Ask me in that leather chair fifty years from now. Ask me on my death bed. For now, I’ve done something beyond myself. The closer I got to the top, the more I knew of its hardships, the more I wished I’d never started. But I had begun, and I had to see it through. It is done.
/> I take a last gaze in all directions. The landscape melts me. I’m sitting on the same spot where Hillary rested five decades ago.
It’s time to descend, to my life below. To the life I left two months ago. That is where I belong.
The Sherpa pulls on the end of my safety. I must get down alive and then do what I can to save my feet. Goodbye summit.
We walk off the slope, the downhill allowing for bigger steps than when we ascended.
A line of mountaineers ascend against us. If I stop for even one, the following climbers will presume to come past also. I cannot remain stationary. The clock is ticking. Every minute up here tempts death. A fearsome drop terrorises the edge, but escape is my only concern. We waste little time getting past them. Rather than spend time clipping and unclipping ourselves as we move around them, I just grip their upper arm as we step by. My legs hurt so much. As others see us coming, they’ll know we’re now descending summiteers. If they stay cool and still for a few seconds, we’ll be through and on our way.
Angel stands inches from me, masked-up, but recognisable in his red down suit. He should make it to the top in less than fifteen minutes. I stop for just a second and give him a thumbs-up. He nods back. He has not been near me all night, but he’s done more than his share to get me to the top. An avid mountaineer for years, his reward is close.
We follow the ridge left around a spur and come upon the two Turks. The thin air has smashed Nurhan’s hope to be one of the few to climb this mountain without a tank. He gave it a good shot. I wonder where he had to admit defeat and put on the mask. Beside him stands tall Yener. We exchange a thumbs-up and squeeze past.
We race past climbers. I look down a near vertical rock face. The Sherpa descends first, and I follow him. I arm rappel down with the rope running through my safety. I place all my trust in the rope. Gravity tears at my shoulder joint. I don’t have time to mess about looking for perfect foot grips. I must descend and get my feet out of their icy prison. Breathless, the crampons scar the rock. Those ascending step aside, for their own safety.
We put most of the twisting ridge behind us. The Sherpa is behind somewhere. I don’t need his assistance at the connection points, as the jumar has no value descending. I can manage the simpler clipping and unclipping of a safety carabiner by myself. Panting, I concentrate on keeping my legs moving. I’ll keep this momentum going for as long as they last.
A vista opens up beneath me. Under the intense rays of the sun, I see red rock and sand in the panorama below. It looks like Arizona. It stretches for miles. Wait a sec. Slow down. Take a breath. What’s going on?
I stare back up and see snow. I know the summit is up there. I know I just sat atop Everest. That, I did not dream. That was not my imagination. I was there. It’s one of the coldest places on earth. I see snow above but a desert landscape below. Only one can be real. I must make a decision. Which is the illusion?
It’s the desert; the desert is fake. It has to be. Oh shit, my mind is gone. I’m loopy. I’m hallucinating. How long have I been out for? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Longer? On the way up? The Sherpa trying to kill me? Of course he wasn’t. Oh God, I’ve been a basket case for ages. Reaching the top is tainted. I was at the summit; that, I know. But there’s no pride in getting there like this. It doesn’t really count. I’ll have to be honest when I meet people at home. What I did is hardly half a summit.
I keep descending, but aware that I must focus from here on in. I’m not sure how much I can trust my own judgement. Most people who don’t return meet their end on this journey back down. I must move fast, but steady, insofar as such a thing is possible.
The scorching rays of the sun take up the assault where the intense cold of the night left off. My body heats up inside the suit. I hope the warmth can reach my feet. Very few climbers dot the route near me. Most climb above, or they turned early, and are long back at the South Col.
I can see the end of the ridge. Up ahead the route turns left. I scan the mountain to trace out the trail. I follow the rope’s outline for a hundred yards before it blends into the snow. This is a new experience. For the last two months we’ve walked up and down on acclimatisation hikes. I know the route up to Camp 4, but everything above it is alien. I climbed it in the dark of night. Standing here, I recognise none of it. I’ve no idea how far I have to go or in which direction are the tents. I’m beyond dehydrated. But every step down is a step into thicker air. I’ll descend as fast as my legs can carry me.
I reach the junction where I’ll turn left. Three climbers are sitting on the snow. I recognise Khalid and Jingbar. I collapse down beside them, panting.
“How’re you?” Khalid slides down his mask.
“Water. Have you water?” My elbows on my knees, my head slung. “Mine frozen. I’m wrecked.”
He hands me a heavy bottle. I’m too tired and thirsty to be bewildered. I gulp back a few mouthfuls. This could be the difference between reaching the tents and not.
“You ok?” I exhale.
“Jingbar’s ill. He has a headache. I’ve been with him all night. He cannot continue.”
Jingbar, this great climber, looks ashamed.
“I was on the radio. I thought I should go down with him. They told me to go on. Jingbar agrees.”
I take another gulp of water.
“Is the summit much further?” Khalid asks.
I must answer him, but this is no time for foolish encouragement. I must be honest. I cannot send him into danger. The peak is far from where we’re sitting. I’ve been descending for about an hour and a half, as fast as my legs can move. That means it may take over four hours to get to the top from here. A hundred climbers will descend against him on this single-rope narrow route. I’m not sure he can reach the summit and return to safety.
“It’s a long way, a long, long way. Several hours at least.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve been descending about an hour and a half. It’s maybe five hours further. There’s a lot between here and the top.”
He is silent.
“I will go on.” He turns to his right. “Jingbar, you’re ok to get down alone?”
“Yes.” Jingbar does not look up.
“I must get down.” I reach out my hand to Khalid. “He’ll be safer without me. Good luck.”
Old ropes entangle me as I try to stand up. I fight them for a minute and then turn left down off the ridge.
My body has warmed up. Apart from my feet, I’m too hot. If I root my gloves out of the pack, I’ll save time at each connection point. My agitated, confused mind complicates the simple switch. I manage to not expose skin during the exchange. The nimble gloves lose their chill as I open and close them several times. I examine the water bottle. I see a little movement inside it. I try to force out a few drops but cannot break the frozen first inch.
I must get lower. I remind myself that I’m walking on snow, not sand, whatever my eyes might tell me.
I’m looking down a near vertical rock slab. I should abseil. Screw it; I need to get down as quick as I can. My muscle cries with the pain of the arm rappel. Panting, the crampons slide across the surface. I remind myself that it is rock, not sand. I must keep it together. I grip harder. I cannot give up.
I’m walking down a snowy ridge. I’ve dropped a huge distance since the top. My brain will get a bit more oxygen. My legs just about keep me upright. I cannot see the Sherpa behind.
Fifty yards ahead, a climber sits in the snow.
I have to do the right thing and check on his condition, but there’s nothing I can do if he needs assistance. I have no food, no water, no brain to speak of, and it’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the next. I lean down and tap him on the shoulder. We exchange muffled words through our masks. He’s conscious and no worse than me. I must continue.
I don’t recognise any of this trail. Without the rope I wouldn’t have a hope. I remind myself that every step down is a step into oxygen and a step out of danger. The gloves make sh
ort work of the anchor points. This is good progress. Hold it together. I must get back to Camp 4, take off these boots, and warm up my feet. The quicker I arrive, the sooner the damage will stop. God knows what I’ll see when I peel off the socks.
I descend further, drained.
I have the route to myself. This is all good metres to get behind me: more oxygen, more heat for my feet. God, I need liquid. I boil under the rays. My blood must be solid. I was at the top of Everest today, but it’s a tainted achievement. Climbing with no mental capacity, with no ability to help others, counts for nothing.
The route spins right. Beneath me I see coloured dots. Camp 4 lies hundreds of metres below. I remember this white slope. Perhaps one hour more. This can be done.
I must go as fast as I can. But don’t fall over and break something.
To the left I see a platform of snow and rock. It must be the Balcony. I think I saw a pub there last night. I cannot trust my spaghetti brain. But it’s better than it has been for the last twelve hours. At least I can now tell the hallucinations from reality. Hugo had said that when people get HACE, they’ve no idea of it the next day, if there is a next day. They believe their actions were rational. Not me, I’m a basket case, and I know it. I have been for ages. How did I think my Sherpa was trying to kill me? And where is he?
I concentrate on my foot placement and staying upright. At any stage my system might switch off. It’s so far to the tents, but I’m making progress. Every hundred yards in distance I’ll stop for a minute break to catch my breath and minimise the chance of a mistake.
The tents grow in size. I think I’ll make it. I’ll live to fight another day. A climber descends above me, perhaps the guy who was sitting in the snow.
I scramble down a ridge and then lean back against it to calm my breathing.
I must keep descending into oxygen and heat.
My right foot, I can feel it. I can wiggle the toes. It is alive. The nerves must have survived. The foot lives.