by Fergus White
A little over an hour after leaving Camp 2, we see the first target of our last day on this mountain.
“There’s hardly anything left,” I say.
“Yeah, everyone’s clearing off the mountain. That’s our gear there.” Angel points to a pile of equipment. “Let’s drop the stuff beside it, and take a few minutes.”
I chew on a bar and take a few slugs from my bottle.
“That sun’s disappearing. It’s got cold all of a sudden. I’ll put on my warm stuff here. There’s no point in waiting,” I say.
“That makes sense. How are those eyes?”
“They sting like a bitch, but I can see. Let me try without the goggles.” I take them off. “Yeah, that works. I’ll leave on the shades till it’s dark.”
I tighten up the fleece zip to my neck and then attach the head torch to my helmet.
We stride towards the Icefall. The lighter load frees Angel. We reach the fixed rope and negotiate the crevasses that act as a warm up to the monster ravines and ice boulders that loom ahead. When I first saw these obstacles over a month ago, they struck me as foreign features, not from the world in which I lived. But I now recognise each one of them. I notice where they’ve changed. I spot where the ice has moved. I can identify where a succession of climbers over five weeks has altered the landscape. I can distinguish where the ice doctors have reassessed the placement of a rope or ladder, and repositioned it to a safer location. The moving glacier has warped several aluminium legs; they’re no match for nature’s power. Every day it moves. Each day these ladders bend. I don’t care that it shifts today, just as long as it doesn’t do so tonight.
“Do you recognise that smell?” Angel stops walking.
I breathe in. I catch something but can’t place it. I sniff in again and try to categorise the odour that surrounds us. It’s not something I’ve smelt before.
“I get something. What is it?”
He points to a small pile of equipment fifteen metres away. On its fringe lies a parcel, two metres long, thirty centimetres high, and half a metre wide.
“A body,” Angel says. “I think it’s a climber who died some time ago, maybe two years back. Sherpas are carrying him down.”
“How can a corpse smell after two years?”
“Most likely the body was down a crevasse, out of the sun.”
“But even still?”
“Now, under the sun, the gases are released. It’s no different than if you’d a piece of fish in the freezer for two years. You take it out and put it on the window sill. Same thing.”
On top of the many new experiences this adventure has gifted me, I can now add another item to the list: the smell of death.
Daylight has slipped away. We’re standing at the edge of the colossal crevasse that marks the start of the Icefall. I take off the shades, no longer troubled by the sun’s rays. The pain has waned. The darkness of the night will help my eyes further. In the distance, and six hundred metres below, the lights of Base Camp glimmer.
Head torches on, we stare down into the final challenge of the expedition. This last stretch lies between us and success.
“Fergus, on the steep sections, walk with your left foot sideways. You don’t want to bang those toes against the front of the boots.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
With that in mind, there’s nothing more to be gained by considering what lies ahead. It’s time for action. We clip ourselves in, turn around, and abseil over the edge, into the blackness of the Icefall’s biggest crevasse.
Silence surrounds us. We concentrate on what we must do to descend in safety. The narrow beam of our head torches confines our focus. Outside the shaft of light lie the Himalayas, odd shaped forms of ice and snow, and a starry sky above. We progress from rope to rope. Every step down carries us closer to home.
We’ve put the difficult upper section behind us and continue our steady progress. A crevasse, which had two ladders tied together across it a fortnight ago, has widened. The ice doctors have been busy, and we’re now challenged by four ladders, bound as one, to bridge it. It’ll make for a fabulous photograph with a flash bulb. Four ladders straining and bulging downwards under the weight of a climber, the unknown darkness gaping below him, alien ice forms as the backdrop. But this is not the time for frolics. Angel has waited all day at Camp 2 to protect my eyes. He put me on oxygen to save my toes. I lug a heavy load, he a heavier one. Whatever energies I’ve left I’ll direct into exiting here as quickly and safely as possible, so we’re both out of danger.
We overcome twists, turns, and crevasses. Angel, ever the professional, insists on clipping into two ropes while crossing the ladders. I only do so when he’s looking. Otherwise I just clip into a single rope to keep our speed up and save energy. On the regular sections he always clips in. Moving behind him, I often just run a gloved hand along the line, in a less safe habit I picked up from Hugo. Bending down to a connection point under a heavy load breaks momentum. Unless a section looks very dangerous, I take my chances that I won’t slip, nor the glacier shift.
Half the challenge remains. The extra oxygen boosts me. I’ve hit my left toes off the inside of the boot a few times, but Angel’s tip has kept it to a minimum.
I think he’s tiring. He’s suffered his own health problems in the tummy department, but he put his personal requirements second to those of the team. Crossing a ladder, a rope tangles in my pack and dislodges his sleeping mat that I’m carrying. Once safe, I take off the pack and mat to retie it. I’ve confused Angel. I think he presumes I’m just dumping his mat and refusing to take it. He tries to add it to his pack. It takes a few moments to explain that everything is cool.
We attack the last three hundred metres of altitude. Over the night sky floats music and the sound of high spirits. Celebrations will have surged for the last twenty-four hours as climbers arrived back, flushed with success. Some of those echoes must emanate from our tents. Angel talks into the radio to inform them of our progress.
“Fergus, two Sherpas are on the way up. They’ve got food and a flask of tea for us.”
“Great stuff.”
“We should meet them below somewhere. We’ll stop for a break when we do.”
The thought of imminent grub and copious fluid lifts me. But with no danger of hunger or dehydration and so close to home, I’m bewildered why Ted is sending up this Sherpa party now. Plenty of times over this last fortnight we were slammed by a lack of such basics. If Sherpas are available, he could at least have arranged for one to clear out Camp 2, rather than force a tent onto Angel’s crammed back.
I should come face to face with Ted in about an hour and a half. I’ve better things to do than get into a petty argument and listen to excuses. As resolved in Camp 4 on the night of our bungled attempt: we made it to the top, we got back down, end of story. I gave Ted my constructive criticism six months ago; the less said about such matters from now on the better. I hope I can keep my mouth shut.
We climb down, peering into the darkness for the glow of a head torch that promises food and hot tea. We round ice formation after ice boulder and still nothing. Rope after rope is left behind us, each one for the last time, and still no sign of the Sherpas. And then as we round a chunk, we see a glimmer of light just twenty metres below. We link up.
We’re sitting on a snow ledge, with Penba and young Deshi from the kitchen.
“Thanks guys,” Angel says.
“It took a lot of effort to get up here, lads. Thanks.” I loosen my pack.
“Here you go.” Deshi hands us a mug each. “Keep steady.” He tilts the flask.
As we gulp back lemon tea, he places food on two plates.
“No way, is that chicken?” I ask.
“And potatoes? And vegetables?” Angel takes a plate.
We lean back against the glacier and relish the taste of real food, real meat. Deshi refills our mugs. Few people relax for a picnic in places as dangerous as this. As we’re sated, conversation increases. More gr
ub is added to our plates. Penba has suffered no ill effects from his extended stay on the mountain ten days ago. That was the last time I saw him.
“More potatoes?” Deshi asks.
“No, I’m done. Thanks man. That was good.”
“Ok, let’s pack up, guys, and get ready to move,” Angel says.
“That liquid and food will make a difference. Less than an hour from here, Angel?”
“I reckon so.”
The four of us stand up and push down into the night. The passage becomes less challenging, at least compared to the previous two hours. A moment I’d envisaged so often while trying to fall asleep in my tent arrives. I always presumed I’d be in Greg’s company when it occurred. He’s not here, but against all odds, the two of us made it to the top and back. Barring the absolute unexpected, success can now be registered. Below this point the ice doctors saw no danger; I stand at the end of the fixed rope.
We walk the last twenty minutes into Base Camp, up and over the ridges that hide it from view until it’s almost upon us. The ice turns to snow, and then to rocks and water. Sometime after 10:30pm I crouch down for the final time and unstrap my crampons. Penba insists on carrying them in the last fifty metres.
I’ve sailed pretty close to the wind these past few weeks, sometimes on the wrong side of it. But now my secret millstone can drop away: that my shortcomings might drag a conscientious climber or Sherpa into jeopardy. However, this is not the way I’d dreamed our return. I know I’ve injured my left foot. I can’t celebrate when there’s a good chance I’ve inflicted permanent damage. While I knew the chances of making it to the top of Everest were less then fifty-fifty, I’d imagined what arriving back successful might look like. I’d pictured a beer at the edge of camp. I’d seen a big smile on my face. I’d envisioned a hearty handshake with Greg, perhaps even a big bear hug. I’d considered dipping my bare feet into the icy stream that I’m now crossing. I’d even thought of stripping right down and jumping in, a moment of unbridled festivity and madness. But it’s not to be. I cannot allow myself any sort of festivity; there may be trouble ahead.
We walk into the bright mess tent.
“Fergus, Fergus, congratulations, well done.” The boisterous and lovable Finns jump to their feet.
I’ve not seen them since our sojourn at Pheriche. Half-empty vodka bottles litter the table.
“Well done, buddy,” Greg says.
“Congratulations.” Ted shakes my hand. “You’ll have a drink.”
“Best to skip that for now.” I drop into a chair at the rear of the tent, next to the heater.
“I’ll try a slice of that cake though, and a mug of tea.”
Questions fire at me from all angles. Angel relaxes in a chair on my right. I pour another cup of tea amid the high spirits.
“Bring in a basin of warm water.” Ted turns to a Sherpa. “Not too hot.”
“Ok, Fergus, let’s have a look at those feet.” Ted pulls up a chair beside me.
The conversation around the table stops.
“I’ll do the right first. It should be ok.” I untie the boot.
Ted holds the foot in his hand. The big toe and next one are blackened.
“They’ll recover. There’ll be some pain. Ok, let’s see the other one.”
A Sherpa places a basin of water on the ground beside me. Ted dips his hand in it. He adds a touch of cold liquid. No one speaks. I slide off the left sock. Ted kneels down. He’s holding the foot with both hands. All five toes are a mixture of light black and grey. I feel little pain.
“I hope summiting was worth losing your toes for,” he says.
I look down, presuming he’s kidding. No one knows what to say. The Finns lower their drinks.
“The top of the middle toe will be lost, probably the top of the big toe. The tips of some of the others may be lost also.”
I struggle to take this in.
“The grey at the top of the middle toe indicates dead flesh.”
Angel leans forward to look.
“The black isn’t too bad. It shows the flesh is alive. It’s trying to recover,” he says.
Blood is not flowing to the grey areas. Without oxygen or heat reaching them, they’re as good as gone. The prognosis slays me. It’s a lot to take on board. The trade-off, of aims achieved versus disfigurement received, is not a debate I wish to consider right now. Making it to the summit is a hollow victory.
Success is meaningless without a risk of failure. I knew the hazard of injury was a constant companion on a venture such as this. But I’d banked on something mendable like a broken leg. Losing a body part for good, however tiny, feels very personal. The thought of asking a surgeon to cut off a piece for ever sickens me to my core. The night’s elation in the tent has been killed.
“Don’t give up, Fergus,” one of the Finns says. “Nothing lost yet.”
“Heat, oxygen, rest. You never know. Stay positive,” another Finnish voice says.
Greg seems unsure what to say. My toes have deteriorated since he saw them yesterday. Angel examines the foot.
“I’ve seen worse recover,” Angel says. “Many of these toes can be saved. But there’ll be a lot of pain as the blood flows back in. Once you fly to Dublin, you need to go to Spain. The best frostbite clinic is there.”
I nod my head.
“In Kathmandu, go to Ciwec Clinic. They’re very experienced with frostbite. They’ll help.”
For twenty minutes I sit with my left foot in the basin. Every now and then, Ted adds a little hot water to bring the temperature back up. I don’t wish to take everyone down from their exuberance.
One of the Finns made it to the top of Everest. The two who’d tried to summit Lhotse turned back several hundred metres below the endpoint. Ropes, which they’d expected to be fixed in advance, were not there. Discretion was judged the better part of valour. I’m astonished they got as far as they did; I could never have survived this altitude with a hangover. Not reaching the peak has not diminished their enthusiasm, and they’re busy devising the next adventure. If someone doesn’t write it down, the finer details may be lost in the ensuing bottle of vodka.
As of now, nothing else can be done for my foot, other than keep it as warm as possible. The appointment at 7am tomorrow in Everest ER will reveal more. Ted fetches my booties from my tent, so I don’t have to put my feet back into freezing boots. A few heat packs are rustled up. They don’t work higher up as they can’t activate in the thin air. But here at 5,350 metres I’ll get a benefit from them. I bid the lads goodnight and hobble to the tent with Ted. Good wishes follow me out of the mess, with encouragements to stay snug and reminders that all is not lost.
I crawl into my tent. Two weeks of glacier movement has dropped its height and width. It feels more like a coffin than a tent.
“I’ll be back at six forty, and we’ll walk over to ER,” Ted says. “Keep the foot warm till then.”
“Ok. Night.”
He pulls down the outer zip. I’m on my own.
I’m wearing the same clothes I’ve had on for days. I’ve packed two heat packs into the left bootie and can feel their warmth. A hot bottle lies in my bag near my ankles. Despite the subzero temperatures, this’ll be the warmest night for me in over two weeks.
The full weight of what has happened lands on me. In this thicker air, my mind becomes sharper. It does not like what it finds. Lying in the dark, I go over and over the events of the last few days. I keep returning to the prospect of presenting myself at a surgeon’s office in Dublin next month, to have the tops of two toes cut off. I consider if this was an adventure too far. I try to balance the achievement of climbing Everest against a permanent injury.
I never intended to live forever, or to be the healthiest corpse in the graveyard, but I know I’ve made a mistake. Parts of toes will be lost. I’ve never been overly bothered about my toes, nobody is, but I now feel like a damn fool having caused the loss of them. Neither the nights at Camp 4, nor the illness down the valley,
or the sleepless, headache-filled darkness on this mountain compete with the depths of my despondency now.
Hours of blackness pass. My mind will not let me sleep; it torments me. The accomplishment of summiting is buried somewhere within me. It cannot be taken away. But it has come at a price, a very personal price.
My watch reads 3:30am. What will the doctor say tomorrow? I’ll have to grin and bear it, and take the future as it comes.
May 26
Last Day at Base Camp
Dawn has broken, and I’m preparing myself. On cue at 6:40am, I hear footsteps outside.
“You up, Fergus?” Ted draws open the outer zip.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s have a look at that foot before we go.” He crawls in just past the entrance. “Just for a few seconds, keep it warm.”
I slip off the bootie and sock. Half sitting, half lying in the slumped tent, I can’t see my foot. Ted touches the end of it.
“Yes.” He touches another toe. “Yes, they’re warm. They look the same as last night, but they’re generating heat. It’s not just the heat packs. The toes themselves are warm, even the middle one. It’s not cold. There must be some blood flowing.”
My spirits soar on this prognosis.
“This is better than I expected. Wrap them up. Let’s see what the doctor says.”
I hobble the few hundred metres to ER, supported by a trekking pole. I’m wearing a thick sock, bootie, and a soft over-boot on my left foot. It offers no grip or protection on the rocky trail. If I stub my toes on a stone, there may be no pain, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be damage.
The doctor is waiting for us.
“Come in, gents. Take a seat there. It’s frostbite, isn’t it? You made it to the summit?”