by Fergus White
I feel nothing in the left boot. I keep stepping downhill.
The slope below drops another hundred metres before the walk into camp. A guy ascends against me. He’s the second person I’ve seen in an hour. I’ve got to get down. I’ve got to hold it together a little longer. I must drink water. I have to remove these boots. Take it easy, one step at a time. The slope punishes my legs. I should make it.
I reach the long walk into camp. The rope ends. I will make it. I’m a mess. I must drink. The left foot is frozen solid. Steady now, just a few more minutes and it’s done. I suck in air. I must concentrate all the way. I must cover another few yards.
I reach the tents. What will I see when I take off my socks?
May 23
Camp 4
It’s 10am. Camp 4 looks deserted, just a collection of tents and colours on a rocky field high in the sky. I presume the only people here are the few that descended before me and those who turned around. I collapse beside my tent. I pull out the water bottle from my pack. I shake it. Nothing moves inside. One of our Sherpas appears at my side. I don’t know who he is, but I’m glad to see another person.
“Water.” I hold out the bottle.
My head limp, the pain eases from my body. He returns after two minutes and stuns me, the bottle now full of liquid. I gulp down mouthfuls. The midmorning sun finds me sitting in a down suit. I slip off my gloves as my breathing slows.
My hands pulsate with pain. I’m an idiot. I remember Greg’s warning. The air bites my flesh. I cannot stop the throbbing. I dive into the tent, my boots trailing in the vestibule. Ade is sitting inside. I shove my hands into the sleeping bag and rub them together. The air’s a little warmer in here.
“Sorry, Ade, hands.”
Against the heat of my face, my hands re-start. I glove them. My brain is hazy, but I remind myself that they stay covered until I escape this mountain. My breathing calms again.
“Ade, sorry again. I’m good. That was close.” I look up to him.
“Did you make it?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well done.”
“How about you?”
He does not respond. He stares down.
“No.” He swallows. “I had to turn, at the Balcony, just after we met. My throat closed over.” He stops for air. “I could hardly breathe. It’s still bad. I’m getting ready to leave and descend.”
I know that decision killed him. We slogged through the Icefall together. I heard him drink in air, refusing to quit, as we acclimatised. I saw him on the Lhotse Face, doubled over, put that slope beneath him one step at a time. Snow blindness stabbed his eyes, but we heard no more about it. His throat must have been shut for him to turn around. I’d been gutted the last time I was here. Just above me people were summiting while I lay in a frozen, dark tent. I presume he was visited by the demons of what might have been last night. He may never get this close again.
“Sorry man.” I roll over to face him.
“Thanks. I’ll be gone in half an hour. Get down to Camp 2. What’s your plan?”
“I’m in no condition to move. I’ll stay here for the day, I think. Are you descending alone?”
“Yes.” He shoves equipment into his pack.
“I’ve a problem. Frostbite. My feet.”
“Really? Is it bad?”
“Don’t know. The right foot has some movement. Not sure of the left. You might take a look with me. See what you think.”
“Of course.”
“Screw triage. I’ll do the right first. Good news before bad.”
I’d rather spend a little time on it before seeing the horror of what lurks in the left boot. I expose the right foot.
The big toe and the next one are dull in colour, but the main body of the foot appears perfect. There’s been a little damage, but overall the limb looks good.
“Wow, much better than I thought.” I examine the foot with my gloved hands.
“Should be fine,” Ade says.
“I can move it. I’ve got sensation.”
“I can’t see a long term problem there,” Ade says.
“That’s a weight off my mind. I expected worse.” I exhale. “That should recover, I hope.”
The prognosis for the left foot must be better than I’d feared. It’ll not be pretty, but it must be comparable to the right.
“Ok, let’s get this left sock off.”
I slide it down. We stare at the sight.
The toes have taken a pasting. We see purple, grey, and touches of black. All five have been overwhelmed. But the rest of the foot looks healthy. A future that involves walking is on the cards again.
“It could be worse. I have a foot.”
“There’ll be some trouble ahead. But a lot worse happens up here,” Ade says.
The Sherpa appears at the entrance.
“Can you get a basin of warm water?” I point to the damage.
For ten minutes I immerse the foot. I’m agitated. I know I can’t trust my senses or instincts. For the first time in twelve hours, the blood in five toes de-ices.
Ade has departed. The sleeping bag surrounds my lower body. The mask covers my mouth. I only remove it to sip through what remains of the litre of water. Hydration will make a big difference to my predicament. I wiggle my toes and massage the feet at intervals.
I need more water but decide I shouldn’t play with gas and matches, not in this distressed and confused state. Angel will arrive an hour or two behind me. He’ll fire up the stove as soon as he returns. I’ll wait and keep my feet warm.
I hear noise outside about 11am.
“Greg, that you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make it?”
“Yes.”
“Well done. How you doing?”
“Tired. Very tired. How about you?”
“So-so. Frostbite in my feet. It could be worse.” I press the mask back against my face and breathe. “My brain is a mess.”
“Ok. We’ll stay here for the day. Descend tomorrow. Drink plenty and stay rested for the feet.”
I hear the zip close on his tent.
♦ ♦ ♦
The heat builds in my shelter.
I try to open the down suit. The damaged fastener breaks in my hand and pulls out some of the zipper’s teeth. Sweat is running off my brow. I try to squeeze my shoulders and arms out of the half open suit. I cannot. I feel myself getting agitated again. I must force this blue bulk towards my waist, but it won’t budge. I draw up the lower zip from the crotch to the missing teeth. Heat escapes. It’s the best I can do. Had there been wind last night, this outfit would have killed me.
The afternoon passes. I’ve not moved. Angel has not made it back to camp. I think I hear the Turks but am only half-aware of what’s going on outside. I should have collected ice and tried to start the stove. Dehydration will exacerbate the frostbite. This morning’s litre is long gone. I need to douse my insides and send thin, oxygenated blood down to my toes. But placing my feet in freezing boots for ten minutes to collect ice carries its own risks.
“Fergus!” Greg calls from his tent.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“I got word that Angel’s waiting for Khalid.”
“Thanks.”
If I’d known that, I’d have amassed snow while the sun was high. I’m damaging my feet by not drinking. It’s after 5pm; he should be back any moment.
When I left Khalid this morning, he was facing four hours plus to the summit. He’ll have had to deal with traffic also. He’ll descend a little slower than me, at least he will if he has any sense. Adding those numbers together, he could be eight hours behind me, which means it’ll be 6pm by the time I see them. It’ll be dusk, a full twenty-four hours above the South Col for him. Even with a dodgy mind, I should have put a match to that gas at noon.
Darkness closes in. About 6:30pm I hear their voices. They’ve made it off the mountain just before the intense cold descends again. Angel crawls into the tent.
“How’re you doing?” I ask.
“Not good. My fingers. I think I’ve frostbite.” He kneels up, panting.
“Bad?”
“I waited at the Balcony for hours. Cold. Waited for Khalid. He summited.”
He grimaces as he takes off his gloves.
“Seems ok.” He flexes his hands.
“The colour looks good from here,” I say.
“Have we got water?”
“No.”
“What?” He looks in the vestibule. “Is there ice?”
“No.”
“What? Nothing? Nothing? What have you been doing?”
If I’d been in any decent condition, I would have exited long ago to the safety of Camp 2. That was the original plan. As it is, it’s about all I can do to stay calm and not do anything stupid with fire.
He clambers outside to get snow.
As he boils a pot by the light of his head torch, he understands I have frostbite problems. He offers me half the water, which I take.
The gas runs out. We prepare to settle in for the night. I stay sitting, thinking. I know that for the sake of my foot I must get more water.
“Greg!” I call out.
“Yes.”
I only just hear him over the wind.
“Have you a spare gas canister over there? We have none.”
“Yeah, come get it.”
Boots on, I drag my tank outside into the dark. The wind bites at my face. I’ve only to cover a few paces, but it feels like I’ve stumbled into Scott’s nightmare.
I spend half an hour boiling up three quarters of a litre of water.
“Angel, half for you?”
“It’s ok, take it,” he says from his bag.
The water will slow the continuing damage to my toes; although, I need about three times as much as I just drank. Oxygen will provide the other vital ingredient for recovery. I’ve set the flow to a trickle. The tank will run out about 2am. The last few hours of sleep will edge me close to my limit. Not only will my toes degrade, a lot will be asked of my brain. I’m not sure how it will cope in the cold of the night when the mask stops hissing. I switch off the head torch and pull the mummy bag tight around my face. I’ve no thoughts of mountaineering success or achievement. We face another two days of toil, out of the death zone and into the Icefall, before we elude danger. This will be another harsh night at Camp 4.
May 24
Climb Down from Camp 4 to Camp 2
Angel and I shove our gear into our packs in the tent about 7am. For the last few hours I’ve had no supplementary oxygen. I struggle to force my sleeping bag into its stuff-sack.
“We’ll leave in a few minutes.” A Sherpa’s head appears in the vestibule.
“I’m not leaving till I boil a litre of water for now and another one for the journey.”
“There is no time. We’re leaving.”
“If it takes an hour and a half, then that’s what it takes. I am not leaving this time without water.”
“We must leave.”
“I am not leaving. I did that last time. It nearly killed me. Do what you like. I am drinking water before I leave. That is the end of the matter.”
With two months of suffering under my belt, injured feet, damaged hands, a sore throat, an empty belly, and an oxygen depleted brain, I’m in no mood to take orders to set out on a dehydration march for six hours.
“Ok,” he says. “Go to our tent and get water there.”
His words stun me.
I crawl out into a frigid, dull morning. People are packing. I slump onto a stone and tighten my boots.
“How’re you, Fergus?” Teshi asks.
“Ok. No oxygen. Tank’s empty. I’ll need one for descent.”
“I’ll get one.” He walks away.
We click in the hose to a fresh cylinder, and I pull the mask down over my mouth and nose. The oxygen courses through my veins. In just a few breaths, the day takes on a different complexion. It’s still overcast. I’m still in as dangerous and bleak a place as I never hope to be. But the transformation astonishes me. The elixir washes away the fatigue and confusion.
How did I not think to grab a tank from the pile last night? They’ve always been rationed. I just felt I shouldn’t dip my hand in there.
“Thanks Teshi, much better.”
I consider Nurhan’s attempt to get to the top without a tank. He had to surrender before the summit, but the shot took some guts.
“Hey Fergus, how’re you doing?”
“Ok Greg. There’s water in the Sherpa tent. I’m getting some.”
“I’ll join you.” He follows me.
We step into a much bigger tent than ours. What I see blows me away. A huge pot of boiling water sits on a stove. A Sherpa tends to litres and litres of liquid. Food litters the floor.
“We came for water.” I stare at the bounty. “We were sent.”
He hands us each a full mug. I sip it. It’s hot, sweet tea. Light brown in colour, I taste cardamom or another exotic flavour.
I cannot comprehend that this much hot liquid has been available all the time. I suspect this Sherpa has been on unofficial kitchen duty. I should have cracked Ted’s balls the first time he passed those busted-up, old stoves off on us. But given our current location, I figure it’s not the time to dwell on the fact that I’ve stumbled on these riches so late in the journey, but rather time to revel in my discovery. Our mugs are refilled.
“Can you boil me up noodles?” I point to a packet on the floor.
He does so straight away.
“Greg, a packet for you as well?” I ask.
“No, I’m ok.”
“We’ve got a six hour hike. Good to get something in.”
“Ok. One for me too.”
Five minutes later, calories find their way into our systems. The oxygen and hot beverage slap my senses awake. Sitting in this tent with head room, I feel like I’m at a campfire. This is the way it’s supposed to be. This is the first chat I’ve had with Greg since we separated four days ago. He says he feels strong and has no injuries. He tells me the two Turks set off yesterday for Camp 2 about 5pm. As we chat, a third mug of tea each arrives.
I complete the last of my packing and strap on the crampons. The Sherpas roll up the sleeping tents; they want to get out of here. I drop back over to their shelter where my bottle, now full, awaits me. I’ve been upgraded to the platinum package. Sometimes you have to earn privileges in life; other times you just demand them. With a bellyful of hot liquid, and a small meal inside me, I’m in better shape to set off than I’ve been for several days. Back on track, I push out of Camp 4, with Greg at my side.
I know we’re not out of the woods till Base Camp. But it is done. We have climbed Everest. Nothing can ever change that. It feels odd to have the task behind me. At the edge of the South Col, we stop and gaze back at the cloud-covered summit.
“Greg, I know there’s plenty to do. But congratulations.” I stretch out my hand.
I cannot tempt fate more than that.
“Thanks. And yourself.”
Looking up, the failure I felt yesterday dissipates. It sinks in that I’ve been successful. Maybe the report card won’t be too severe after all. If someone asks if I’ve summited Everest, then I suppose there is only one answer.
Perhaps it’s the knowledge that there’s no more uphill. Maybe it’s because I’ll never have to push myself higher for as long as I live. Possibly it’s just the hot tea. But this is the best I’ve felt since we arrived at Base Camp. We have done it.
I take a final glance at the mountain that challenged me for the last year. I turn and stride out of the South Col, once again through the snow, with my climbing buddy Greg. I leave sixty-five straight hours in the death zone behind me.
We walk along the brown slate of the Geneva Spur. To our right, a large boulder hides the body of Scott Fischer. I’ll not detour and disturb what I presume is his final resting place.
♦ ♦ ♦
&
nbsp; The clouds drop, and visibility reduces below a hundred metres. Back on snow, through the yellow tint of my goggles, I see a featureless landscape. Walking down the narrow trail off the Spur, aware of a cliff to our right, I push them up onto my forehead.
Leaving the Geneva Spur Behind
Descending the valley above the Yellow Band, we join up with Khalid and Jingbar. His other Sherpa takes a few photos of us, shrouded in cloud and light snow. In large coloured suits, masks on faces and with full packs, we give off the look of hardened explorers. Khalid’s national flag hangs from his pack. He’ll be the toast of Oman.
Descending through a Whiteout towards the Yellow Band
From left to right: Khalid, Greg, Me, Unknown climber, Jingbar.
Greg abseils down the Yellow Band. Half a dozen climbers wait at this bottleneck. I’m up next.
I balance on a ridge with my nose close to the snow. The rope has iced up. My damaged hands struggle to bend it into the XTC. I cannot make a strong fist and loop the line into the carabiner. A climber, with a British accent, shouts down a comment that is intended for all to hear. I’m embarrassed. I’m furious.
My obscenity doesn’t go beyond the mask. I don’t have the energy to climb back up and dare him to repeat it. There’s no point in continuing a war of words with an ass up here. Most, if not all, of this small group have just climbed Everest. This guy reckons the mountain is his and his alone. Khalid, who’s beside the stranger, instructs him to watch what he says. It’s a shame Khalid is such a gentleman.
We start descending the Lhotse Face. We’ll now put serious altitude above us. My leg muscles strain under the full pack. Oxygen thickens the air with every step. Visibility improves. Protected from the rays of the sun, and hydrated, I cannot compare my progress to the last time I stumbled down here.
My biceps ache as I arm rappel. My breathing quickens. My face heats up under the mask. But the summit has dispelled the fear of failure that haunted me for the last two months. I’m not elated; there’ll be trouble ahead with my foot. But confidence creeps over me as we move out of danger.