by Fergus White
Khalid and his two Sherpas descend just behind me. The pain moves up a notch as the gradient increases. But the recent snow, and bashed in footsteps, lend a hand on the sheer ice.
I won’t need to stop at Camp 3; I’ve half a bottle. I glance to my left and see only a ridge of snow. Our Sherpas have already pulled down the tents.
“Khalid, let’s take five.”
He gives me a thumbs-up.
Just below the old camp site, we park our bums on the snow. I feel the efforts of the last three and a half hours drain from my legs.
“How’re you for water?” Khalid asks.
“No problem, thanks. That was good progress. Not too far now. How you doing?” My head rests on my hands.
“Good, thanks.” He pushes the mask back over his face.
I’m exhausted, but not in the same way I’ve been for the last two months. This feels like the tired fulfilment after a hard day’s work. Beneath us in the grey light, two dozen climbers are descending the Lhotse Face towards home.
We push ourselves back to our feet for the last challenge of the day, reaching the Bergschrund. Under a heavy load, I’ll need steady footwork and alertness. Each step takes its painful toll. I disappear back into my bubble.
I hear a constant hiss from a Sherpa just ahead. An unused tank is strapped to his pack. He has opened the valve to lighten the load. Yesterday, that would have been a crime. But today we travel to a place where oxygen is the norm; we’re heading back to our lives.
I pull the hot mask down to my chin. The fresh, cool air lifts me. I can better see my boot placement. I’ll still get a benefit as pure oxygen drifts towards my nose.
Greg has disappeared into the grey soup below. Above, Khalid clips his safety to the rope and descends towards me. I wait a minute for my legs to stop burning. Then I hook up my abseil gear and walk backwards down a steep section into ever more oxygen.
The Bergschrund and today’s dangers behind me, I set out for Camp 2. I staggered along this section last time, but the murky sky and breakfast gave me a great start today. It’s 3pm and the clouds have lifted. I slide the goggles back down from my forehead. I pace myself in the last kilometre.
I fall in behind two climbers in matching orange suits. They sound Australian or New Zealand. I follow them over the glacier’s melt water streams. On this near flat surface under a warming sun, I enjoy being here. I’ve made it to the top and returned to Camp 2. One more day and I’m out of harm’s way.
I round the last of the three-metre high glacial formations that surround Camp 2. The mess tent has already disappeared, as have most of the sleeping shelters. These Sherpas may be all about climbing Everest, but they don’t hang around when it’s time to get off the mountain. I dump my pack on the snow and walk into the kitchen tent.
“Nice one, buddy.” Greg passes down a flask.
“Fergus, congratulations,” someone says.
I look around. I see Teshi and a few Sherpas crowded around the cooking table.
“Thanks guys. It’s good to be back.”
Two mugs of warm water are dispatched. Chatter jams the air around me.
“Fergus,” Teshi says, “this is the man you climbed with.” He gestures to a Sherpa.
This is the first time I’ve seen his face.
“Thanks mate. Thanks for the help with the jumar. My hands were hopeless. Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” He stretches out his hand to mine.
“And I think my mind might have abandoned me up there.”
Laughter fills the tent.
“Sorry if I was a hassle.”
“Not necessary. Everything fine.”
I feel strong. My body bathes in what it thinks is a sea of oxygen.
“Some food?” one of the Sherpas asks.
“Sure, load me up.”
We exchange tales of adventure around the table. In two months, this is the first time I’ve sat in the kitchen tent, the Sherpas’ tent, and chatted with them. We should have done this from day one.
“Are the Turks down at Base Camp?” I ask.
“Yeah, but not without incident,” Greg says.
“Why, what happened?” I dig a fork back into the rice.
“They set out from Camp 4 yesterday about five pm. It struck me as late, but they’re the experts.”
“That is late.”
“Nurhan was behind Yener. It was dark. Coming down the Lhotse Face, Nurhan went down an old rope.”
“No way, you’re joking.”
“Serious. Well, he reaches the end of it, and there’s no more rope. He called out for Yener, but the wind just sucked his words away. He tried to climb back up and rejoin the route, but he couldn’t find it.”
“So what did he do?”
“Well, he knew that one misstep was a one way ticket into the Bergschrund. Eventually he found a tiny ledge. He took out his sleeping bag and bivouacked.”
“What? He spent the night on the face? And where was Yener?”
“Well, after a few hours at Camp 2, he figured something was wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“He went back out into the dark and spent hours on the lower slopes, searching and yelling out for Nurhan. He feared the worst.”
“Did he find him?”
“Gone all night,” one of the Sherpas says.
“About six this morning, some passing Sherpas find this guy sleeping on the Lhotse Face. He was only a few metres off the route.”
“Brilliant. Better him than me. Lads, pass over that flask again. I wish I’d been on the summit with him. He could have pointed out what I was looking at. It’s a shame I wasn’t on the top with you as well, Greg.”
“You were, you idiot,” Greg says.
“What?”
A Sherpa spoons more rice onto my plate.
“I was a few metres away. I tried to get your attention after I arrived. You ignored me,” Greg says.
“What? No way.”
“You were handing out your camera, getting people to take a shot.”
“Maybe I just saw another mask in a red suit. Not intentional. How stupid. We spend two months climbing together, and then I miss you on the summit. Well, at least you can vouch for me. You saw me at the summit?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m afraid I can’t return the favour.”
Greg recounts how his Sherpa’s oxygen seized as they climbed up a rock slab above the Balcony. It had probably frozen. They were half balanced, half suspended off the rope for twenty minutes as they tried to get it flowing again.
“Where’re we sleeping tonight?” I ask. “I see the tent we were in is gone.”
“We’re sharing. Here, I’ll show you. I’m going there now.” Greg stands up.
A beautiful afternoon has unfolded, the sky a deep blue. If it wasn’t for the trouble lurking in my boots I’d be exhilarated. I unpack my sleeping gear into the tent and have a short rest.
Back in the kitchen tent about 6pm, food is dolloped onto plates. Angel, Khalid, and Jingbar have arrived. The cramped conditions are irrelevant as we savour the success of the last few days. Appetites return. Conversation flows as we drink mugs of tea. I’m within a day of cementing our achievement but will take nothing for granted yet. My eyes feel irritated, probably the smoke from the stove.
As the sun dips, the chatter continues.
“Is it smoky in here?” I ask. “Are anyone else’s eyes stinging?”
I’m met with blank stares.
“No problem here,” Khalid says.
“Let me see.” Greg turns to me.
He examines my eyes.
“It’s snow blindness.”
“What? It can’t be.”
My shades broke yesterday. I wore goggles this morning. They were hot and limited my vision. When we walked through the clouds I saw a featureless yellow / grey tint.
“I pushed up my goggles.” My head falls into my hands. “But there’s no way. It was cloudy, completely grey.”
&n
bsp; “There’s no smoke in here. It’s snow blindness,” Greg says.
Darkness has fallen, and we’ve returned to our tents about 7pm. Greg studies my feet.
“The right foot is fine. Those toes should recover. I can’t see a complication. The left has taken a beating, but the toes aren’t dead. They should heal, as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Hi guys.” Angel crawls into the tent. “I’ll take a look.”
He’s seen a lot of frostbite from his days as a mountain guide in Argentina. His opinion will be appreciated.
“The left toes are in a serious condition, but I’ve seen worse recover. Keep them warm, drink lots, and don’t do anything foolish. Ok, put that sock back on and get it into the bag.”
“What’s the plan tomorrow?” I rub my eyes.
“We’ll get up at six. Base Camp says the Icefall is moving. I want to get through it before the sun gets too hot. It’s becoming unstable.”
“Ok. We’ll see you then. Good night.” Greg zips up the tent.
Feet wrapped up warm in the sleeping bag, Greg and I settle in for the night. But the nagging irritation in my eyes has spiralled to something far more painful. It feels like someone is grinding sand into my eyeballs. My vision has become patchy behind a curtain of tears. The pain intensifies over thirty minutes. Groans and curses fill the air.
“This is killing me.”
“There’s no relief?”
“It’s getting worse. My eyes are burning.”
I can’t think of the last time I felt such pain. The damage to my feet is much more serious, but I’m consumed by this agony. Sleep is out of the question for both of us.
“Some snow might cool them.” Greg fills a small plastic bag from the vestibule. “Try that.”
Lying on my back, I hold the cold bag on my closed eyelids. It cuts the pain in half. The heat of my face and eyes melts the snow at the bottom of the bag. For thirty minutes I shift the contents, so the coldest part is against my eyelids. When it’s all melted, Greg refills it from the vestibule. I can no longer see.
I will not drift off in this condition. Moans and curses will not let Greg sleep either.
“Should I take anything for this?”
“How about a pain killer?”
“Yeah, anything.”
Greg picks through his medicine kit.
“Here, take this. It’s codeine.” He places something in my hand.
“How long will it take to kick in?” I swallow it.
“Thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes! Jesus, I can’t wait that long. Is there nothing quicker?”
“Not orally.”
I rearrange the snow in the bag. A few minutes later, Greg refills it.
Twenty minutes pass.
My next noise is not a roar, not a growl, not a curse. Air flows from my lips, a quiet groan. The torture subsides. Bearable pain returns. Calm revisits the tent and Camp 2.
Nature has thrown another spanner at me. How will a blind man descend the Icefall?
May 25
Climb Down from Camp 2 to Base Camp
Ican only open my eyes for a second or two before the pain overwhelms me. I see blurs and water.
“Let’s have a look,” Angel’s voice is in the tent.
I try to hold my eyes open.
“Ok, we need to change the plan,” he says. “You can’t travel during daylight. You won’t be able to leave the tent until late this afternoon. Greg?”
“Yeah.”
“You leave as planned with Khalid. Keep packing.”
“Fergus, let me see those feet.”
I pull off my socks.
“This thin air won’t help your foot. You’ve got to keep drinking all day. I’ll have a word with the teams around here and see if someone has a spare oxygen tank. Get you on it for a few hours.” Angel crawls out.
I take an aspirin for the pain. I give it a few minutes, and then I swallow a Brufen for my feet.
About 8am, Greg and Khalid set out for the Icefall. The last piece in their Himalayan jigsaw commences.
Angel arrives back with a tank. I place the mask over my nose and mouth and settle in for a day of waiting.
He keeps an eye on me during the day and makes sure my bottle is full. As the sun rises the tent heats up, and we strip down to our base layers. We snack on the remaining food and stay hydrated with the water the Sherpas boiled.
By early afternoon I can keep my eyes open and see. I hear the Sherpas dismantle tents and pack them away. As the hours pass, the noises outside diminish and the mountain is returned back to nature.
“I was on the radio to Base Camp,” Angel says. “I wanted the ER doctor to examine your foot as soon as you arrive. Unfortunately they’ll be closed by the time we get back. But you have an appointment with them first thing tomorrow at seven.”
“Thanks. We’ll see what the damage is.”
“We’ll set out at five. Your eyes should be able to take the sun behind shades.”
I examine my toes. They don’t look too bad. But it’s clear from Angel’s concern that the damage, while confined to a small area, is severe. I keep my feet warm and wiggle them to encourage blood flow. I think back to the few hours I spent in Camp 4 without oxygen. That will have done a lot of harm. I can’t figure out why I didn’t get a tank when I left the tent to get a gas canister from Greg. That was a bad mistake.
We start packing at 4pm. It’s warm, but the temperature will plunge by the time we move through the Icefall. I’ll have what I need close to hand.
“You said your shades are broken?”
“Yeah, they snapped near the summit. I’ve got goggles.”
“Let me see them.”
I hand them over.
“These are too bright. The yellow tint won’t block out the light.” He rummages in his pack. “Here, try these. These are my spare shades.” He places them over my eyes.
“Perfect. Thanks. That’s dark.”
“Now put these over them.” He hands me his black goggles.
“Who turned the lights out? I can’t see a thing.”
“Excellent. That’s what you’ll wear outside till night time.”
I drag my pack outside. Our camp has been reduced to this single tent and a few pieces of equipment. The Sherpas are long gone.
“The arrangement is that we’ve to carry whatever’s left down to Camp 1,” Angel says. “There’s a pile of gear down there. Some Sherpas will bring it all to Base Camp tomorrow. Give me a hand with this tent.”
“Ok, I’ll go this side.”
We fold it into its stuff-sack. Angel straps it to his already enormous pack. We divide the remaining equipment between us. I tie his sleeping mat to the side of my pack; there’s no more space in, or on the edges, of his. I heave the bulky weight onto my back. Angel, who always carries a large load, is dwarfed by his cargo.
At 5pm we set out on the final chapter. Everest stands to my right. I have climbed it. I cannot think of any reason why I will return. I cannot ascend any higher. Even if it were possible, I’m not sure I’d be able. With every trip here a climber pushes his luck. I must tackle half a dozen more hours in the belly of the beast before I can be counted as one of the fortunate ones. Laden down by our packs, we trek out, leaving just rocks and snow behind us.
The weight of our loads demands concentration and effort through the scree, but I know every step down is a pace into thicker air. Angel drops off the oxygen tank that he borrowed earlier. I’ve no idea who gave it to us, but I suspect I’ll benefit from its few hours of use in the recovery months ahead. My mind keeps returning to the frostbite, but I must postpone such thoughts until we make it to Base Camp. A handful of toes will be neither here nor there if something goes wrong in an upcoming crevasse or in the Icefall.
We descend a hundred metres to the edge of the rocks and attach our crampons. We press out onto the Western Cwm glacier. The weight and bulk of Angel’s load exaggerate every move he makes.
&
nbsp; Angel Hikes down the Glacier
We have the windless glacier to ourselves. I only hear our footsteps crunching the snow. The sun has not yet dipped behind Nuptse. The valley, through a double set of shades and goggles, looks stunning under the deep, blue sky. Snow blindness has shattered my eyes, but I can see enough to appreciate the beauty of this gorge as it basks in the late afternoon sun.
This is the first time I notice how spectacular it is. Every other hike through challenged me. I strove to reach the day’s target; I was on a mission. So often I hear it’s all about the journey, rather than the destination. Perhaps that’s true, or maybe that’s too easy an excuse when we fall short of our ambitions. But I know why I came here. It was not for the journey. The destination was the draw.
On April 1st, the menu listed two rough months, and that’s what’s been served. Now, out the far side of it and with the accomplishment sinking in, I can stop to smell the roses. I come to a halt, turn three-sixty degrees, and breathe in the vista. White surrounds me. On two sides, the Nuptse Ridge and Western Shoulder soar up towards the sky. Under my boots sleeps one of the most famous glaciers in the world. At its head looms the daunting Lhotse Face. It taunted and scared me just a month ago. I never really expected to climb it, let alone to then tackle the romantic sounding Geneva Spur. For much of the adventure I didn’t know what form that outcrop would take, just that it was an obstacle between the bottom and the top, one of nature’s many hurdles. But I no longer see impediments. I see beauty. I see stunning, enormous creations. I marvel at millennia of tectonic movements that keep pushing this point higher. This is the Himalayas. This is the great outdoors. It has stood here for weeks in front of me, and now, finally, I see it. I pause. I will never view this again. I bid it adieu.
We descend the moderate slope towards Camp 1. Angel stumbles and falls forward. The pack gives him no chance of recovery. He’s lying on the snow cursing. A fall like that in crampons could be nasty. He hauls himself up with my help, still swearing. By jovial Angel’s standards, he’s in foul humour. I don’t think it’s just the fall; I think he’s annoyed about something else. He’s gone above and beyond the call of duty looking after me this afternoon, even if it is the job he signed up for. But I’m not sure he should help an injured climber off the mountain and carry such a load at the same time. He committed to be a guide; he didn’t register as a concurrent porter. I’m not sure if that’s what’s eating him. Maybe he’s just fed up saving my ass. But this is neither the time nor the place for the discussion. He dusts himself off, and we continue.