by Fergus White
“Yes.”
“Well done.” He shakes my hand.
“I had a quick look this morning. There’s some life there,” Ted says.
I sit on the patient’s bed. The doctor drags over a gas heater and positions it by my left knee. He sits on a chair in front of me.
“Ok, let’s have a look.”
I strip down the layers and leave the foot exposed to his expert eye. He holds it for a few moments.
“Is that it?” he asks.
“What? I-” I fall silent.
I look at him. I fear I’ve misunderstood. I read his face. He looks genuine.
“It’s ok?” I ask.
“Frostbite damage for sure. But this will recover.”
Worry, fear, the shame of losing a small body part flows out of my body. Now I can enjoy the achievement. A smile creeps over my face.
“I’ll clean the foot and then rub aloe vera cream on it.” He walks to the medicine counter. “That’ll help the skin. Then I’ll put a dressing on it.”
As he gathers what he needs and tends to my foot, we discuss the season ER has had. Many patients have had less serious injuries than me, but for a few, there’s been a high price to pay.
One climber spent a night just below Camp 4, too exhausted to cover the last hundred metres. He slept without a tent or bag. Confused and probably suffering HACE, he lost his right mitt. He was assisted down the next day. He suffered severe frostbite to his hands and ears. He was helicoptered out from ER. Amputation of fingers on the right hand is expected.
An exhausted mountaineer stopped at the Balcony while ascending. He waited five or six hours as his teammates summited. He could have descended; the route back to Camp 4 is roped. Angel performed a similar feat at the Balcony, but he bit the bullet to ensure no man was left behind. The halt has extracted a heavy penalty. Most of the climber’s toes and one finger will be lost.
Danish climber Tom Jørgensen got HACE on the north side in Tibet. He was descending to safety when his condition worsened. Despite rescue efforts, he could not be saved. He died on the 19th.
Japanese climber Hiroshi Ogasawara died at camp 3 on the north side after summiting. The details have not yet arrived.
While I lay awake in my tent in the early hours this morning contemplating my injury, I was one of the lucky ones. Others suffered a long night of desperation and frostbite to save an injured climber. Scotsman Peter Kinloch summited Everest yesterday about 1pm. Blindness struck him on the descent, and his condition then deteriorated. Sherpas ascended to assist his teammates with the rescue. Eventually, the harsh night-time weather threatened the lives of all who remained on the mountain. There are reports of extreme frostbite. Those involved were unsuccessful. Last night was the Scotsman’s final night. He rests in an icy grave.
A ladder across a crevasse, at the top of the Icefall, collapsed yesterday while a Sherpa carried a load over it. He fell thirty metres and broke several ribs. A female climber also fell; it’s presumed the two accidents were linked. ER received a message that her head was bleeding, she was vomiting blood, and could not use one of her legs. Several hours later, and with assistance, the Sherpa descended to Base Camp. The woman is thought to have suffered a broken hand, broken knee, broken back bones, and facial injuries.
Also yesterday, a climber with severe frostbite presented himself at ER. His oxygen flow had ceased on the mountain. A Sherpa found him and got it restarted, but the mask may have been silent for thirty minutes. The man only remembers the incident from that time forward, at which point he noticed he was missing a mitt. It’s expected he’ll lose several fingers. He refused the helicopter option and is trekking back to Lukla.
At the same time, another drama unfolded near the Balcony. A mountaineer became irrational and combative. He refused help and had to be dragged down. Several climbers and Sherpas assisted. They gave him dexamethasone and encouraged him to take oxygen. Even at the base of the Lhotse Face, he insisted they were trying to poison him with argon gas. A helicopter evacuation was planned for Camp 2, but I’m not sure if this took place.
I’m the second from our team to sit here in as many days. Ade, whom I last saw as he set out alone to descend from Camp 4, has withstood a harrowing episode. On the night of the summit push, he had to retreat as his throat’s swelling restricted his breathing. That condition did not improve, probably worsened, on the two day slog back to Base Camp. By the time he arrived, he had to walk with his head pointing upwards to keep a clear passage open in his throat. He spent just ten minutes at his tent, to drop off equipment, before presenting to ER. His speech was limited. They were appalled by the gravity of his ailment and set about treating him straight away.
He’d suffered an airway obstruction due to swelling and accumulation of dried secretions. It’s common up here, as the fast breathing of cold, dry air damages the airway tissues. Dehydration further dries the tracheal emissions. A few nights ago at Camp 2, the same affliction almost killed a woman. ER pumped Ade with medicine, pain killers, and hot water to open his throat. They kept him under observation here for about three hours, in case an intervention was required. He moved out of danger, and they released him. But they’re still concerned for his recovery.
ER received almost four hundred and fifty patients. Nineteen were evacuated by helicopter, or otherwise carried or assisted out of Base Camp. While people presented with all manner of problems, the following groupings were recorded:
High altitude pulmonary edema (HAPE): 8
High altitude cerebral edema (HACE): 3
Frostbite: 17
Urinary tract infection: 29
Bladder and / or kidney infection: 7
Acute mountain sickness: 5
Perirectal abscess: 2
Asthmatic bronchitis: 5
Bronchitis: 19
High altitude cough: 66
Cough: 17
Dehydration: 3
Diarrhoea: 19
Gastritis: 25
Headache: 8
Haemorrhoids: 5
Laryngitis / Pharyngitis / Tonsillitis: 29
Insomnia and periodic breathing: 7
Palpitations: 2
Sinusitis: 9
I made my contribution to those numbers.
“Take Ibuprofen for the foot.” The doctor sits back up in his chair.
“I have loads.” I look at the dressing on my foot.
“And if the pain gets too much, take these.” He places a plastic bag containing a few tablets into my hand. “There’ll be a lot of pain as the recovery starts.”
“I don’t mind that.”
“Keep the rest of this aloe vera and apply it.” He hands me a small plastic bottle. “And here’s a clean bandage. Replace the dressing tomorrow.”
“Ok. Can I walk out of the valley?”
“No problem.”
I feel like Lazarus. For all this good news and treatment, he charges me twenty US dollars. He could have hit me for twenty thousand.
“Will you need a receipt?” he asks.
I’m hobbling out of ER with ten toes.
“I think we can skip the paperwork this time.” I smile to him. “One last thing, can I have a beer tonight?”
“As many as you want.”
I limp back to camp with Ted. I feel great. It is done. I have climbed Everest and returned in one piece.
“Ted, I know he said I can walk, but the boulders from here to Lobuche, I’ll bash my toes for sure. There’re a few places where you have to jump. And there’s loose rock underfoot. Should I risk that?”
“A horse might be better. I’ll see if I can arrange one down to Pheriche. It’ll be five hundred dollars.”
“It is what it is. I can’t see any way I could walk out of here without doing more damage.”
“It might be tomorrow before I can get a horse. It certainly won’t be early today.”
“Whatever can be arranged, I’ll take it.”
We reach the edge of camp.
“Can
you believe that?” Ted asks.
“That’s the first one I’ve seen up here,” I say.
A battered old mule, with a light load, stands metres from us.
“Keep going, Fergus. I’ll see if I can find the owner and strike a deal.”
Back at camp I share the good news with Greg. Sitting in the mess tent, enjoying a breakfast of muesli, yogurt, and tea, we discuss the events of the last two months. The yogurt adds unexpected flavour, and the grub slides down. Everything is going my way.
“Hey Fergus.” Ted steps into the tent. “That horse will take you down to Pheriche.”
“Brilliant. Thanks.”
“Ok,” Greg says. “Let’s get our tents down, and be out of here in an hour. Another mug?”
“Please. Pour away. I can’t wait for Pheriche. A decent bed and a beer.”
I’m sitting on a rock, just in front of my tent, packing my gear. The injury limits my movement, and I’m aware that my bandaged foot is susceptible to damage. My celebratory shower at Base Camp, to wash away the summit push, must be foregone. I’ll carry two weeks of toil and sweat to Pheriche and rinse it off there. But a set of clean underclothes for the trip down makes me feel more human, and prepares me for integration back into civilisation. Whatever I need for the three day trek back to Lukla goes into the backpack. I keep it as light as possible. I shove the remainder into my two duffle bags, which will be transported by yak later this morning.
Ted shouts over to a Sherpa to give me a hand to take down my tent. In less than ten minutes, two of them have stuffed it into its sack.
Greg has packed away his tent. He’s squeezing the last few items into his duffle bag. Ten metres away, Angel’s backside pokes out of his shelter, gear everywhere. It’ll be another hour or two before he’s ready to move.
I see clouds over the valley. I’ll be stationary on the horse today and will take no chances. I zip up my down jacket. Insulated pants cover my legs. On my left foot, I’m wearing a bootie plus two soft over-boots (the left and the right). I’ve packed fresh heat packs around the ankle. Goggles are at the ready, and my gloves are already on.
With the duffle bags ready for transportation, and the pack over my shoulder, I limp to the mess tent where my chariot is being prepared. This old mule has seen better days. A Sherpa adjusts a saddle. Old rope has been knotted to the reins. Twenty minutes pass as modifications are made.
As I wait for the mule to be readied, I’m told the story of the last person who left here by horse. Two weeks ago, trekkers stayed at our camp. One of them was struck with altitude sickness. It was determined that she should descend several hundred metres by horse to safety. On the way down, her stead reared up. She was thrown off, landing on her face. Her injuries necessitated helicopter evacuation to a hospital in Kathmandu.
“Let’s get moving,” Greg says, about 10am.
I mount the mule. I think he’s unimpressed by my presence. I place my feet into the stirrups.
“No, no.” Deshi, from the kitchen, rushes over. “Do not put your feet there. Best to get thrown clear.”
Greg throws his pack on his back. We say our goodbyes to the Sherpas.
“I’ll see you guys in Kathmandu in a few days,” Ted says.
“I’ll follow you down to Pheriche in a while.” Angel waves from his tent.
A young boy takes the reins. He leads the mule out onto the rocky trail. I take a last look back to the colourful tents, to Nuptse, and to the Icefall. The summit is already hidden from view.
Every hundred metres, the mule stops and kicks up a storm. The boy shouts at him, tugs on the reins, and threatens violence, before we restart. Trekkers pass against us. I’m ashamed to sit on this stationary animal that’s fit for the knacker’s yard. We’ve not even passed all the tents of the other teams.
“I’ll have to go on, or I’ll get cold,” Greg says.
“No worries. We won’t be far behind.”
Within minutes, he has disappeared.
For two to three hours, the sequence of stopping, tugging, pushing, and shouting repeats itself. We’ve made pitiful progress. This is more dangerous that what we did on the mountain. I’m astounded Ted put an older lady on such an animal. On the steep, uneven downhill sections, the horse’s head is far below me. It’s all I can do to hold onto the saddle and not get thrown forward as the animal lunges for a rock lower down. I might not be using my legs, but my upper body is working overtime to keep me in the saddle. One hand grasps the front of it, while the other clenches its rear. I return to my bubble. I presume I will eventually make it to Pheriche.
My mind drifts to the thirteen year old American who’d set out from Base Camp on the north side. What was I doing when I was his age? Word on the mountain is that the Chinese authorities, who control Tibet, will now copy Nepal, and ban under-sixteens from attempting to summit. It can never be tried again. Records are made to be broken, but perhaps this one will stand the test of time. Jordan Romero, at thirteen years and ten months, has walked off the mountain. Four days ago he achieved the impossible, and stood atop it.
Halfway between Gorak Shep and Lobuche, a local man with a horse meets us coming in the opposite direction. A short negotiation ensues, and I’m informed that I’m to switch rides. I think the boy has realised we’ll never make it to Pheriche at this rate. The new, bigger horse has a lot more interest in the task. The local knows how to handle his steed, and there’s no more stopping and starting.
♦ ♦ ♦
The sky has clouded over. The temperature has dropped and a light snow falls. Sitting stationary in snow is about the worst thing I could be doing right now. It’s mid-afternoon, and my patience has worn thin, but I know it’s not the fault of the two locals.
We reach the graveyard. I’m apprehensive as to how the horse will descend a two hundred and fifty metre drop through boulders, with me on his back. Just before the crest of the hill, he stops and will not budge. He cannot see the incline but seems to know what waits ahead. He’s given the rough end of a stick. I hang on to the roller coaster.
With the second most risky descent of my life behind me, we reach the green fields that separate us from tonight’s lodgings.
Another hour brings us to the edge of Pheriche. I relish the extra oxygen, the green colours, and the sight of basic civilisation. But my focus is on dismounting this animal and warming up by the hostel’s stove. At 5pm, seven hours after leaving Base Camp, I shuffle into the hostel.
“You made it. I heard you reached the summit. Congratulations.” The owner stares down at my footwear. “Oh dear. A problem?”
“Small problem. A little frostbite, but I’ll recover.”
“Painful?”
“A little. There’s much more to come I’m told.”
“A speedy recovery to you, sir. Let me take your bag.”
“Thanks.”
Over in the far corner sits Greg, all smiles, enjoying food and a beer. Khalid and the crazy Finns fill the table. Glasses are raised as I limp over.
“How’d it go?” Greg asks. “I’ve been here for hours.”
“Don’t talk to me about that damn horse.”
“Fergus, we hear great news on your foot. Fabulous.” One of the Finns rises and holds up his arms.
“Great news. Success.” Another Finn lifts up his glass. “A drink.”
“I’ll hold that off for a few minutes, lads. I best get this foot warmed up.”
I know the stove in the centre of the room is not the place to dry off gear, but I’m in no mood to compromise. I pull up a stool, whip off my footwear, and hold my feet to within centimetres of it. Within ten minutes I can feel the heat and life return to them. Sitting still in the cold and snow for seven hours was not what the doctor ordered. His words this morning were nothing short of miraculous. But as with all miracles, I have to keep my side of the deal.
Young Kieron approaches me.
“Sorry about this, I’ve got to keep it warm.” I point to the bandaged foot.
&n
bsp; “No problem. Frostbite?
“Yeah.”
“Get well quick. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll need a room in five minutes. And once I’m settled, I’ll have a few more orders.” I indicate to the bar.
Kieron shows me to a bedroom. He gives me the first one in the corridor, to lessen the distance from the main room. It has a double bed and an en suite toilet.
“Thanks Kieron. This is perfect. Appreciated.”
“My pleasure.” He places my pack at the end of the bed. “You need hot water for shower?”
“There’s no point in wrecking the bandage. I’ll wait till tomorrow. I can put on a fresh one after the shower.”
Back in the main room, I’m standing in front of the beverage selection.
“That bottle of red there, please Kieron, and a few glasses.”
Hands full, I return to the lads and place the reward on an already full table. The Finns let out a cheer as the cork is liberated.
Laughs and tales follow each other in quick succession. Some of us are men who’ve summited Everest; some are not, it matters not a whit. Excluding Sherpas, just over a hundred and sixty climbers reached the top from the south side this season. The Finns inform us that the Nordic woman, Anne-Mari, touched the summit the same morning that we stood there. Whether setting out from Nepal or Tibet, and including all nationalities, over three thousand one hundred people have now stood at the peak. Glasses are charged. Glasses are emptied. Angel joins us after dark. Kieron brings forth more beer. Future plans of epic proportions are traced out on the table. Food, good food, fills our bellies.
As the drink flows, the banter increases. The other patrons have retired by 10pm. The Finns bribe Kieron, with a few cans of Red Bull, to keep the bar open. I stay till the end with them. I have nothing more to prove, just good times to be enjoyed. I will sleep tonight.
May 27
Out of the Himalayas
“That was a great sleep.” I lift a mug of coffee to my lips.
“How’s the foot?” Greg asks.
“No problem. A big cosy bed and the extra oxygen probably did a world of good. I had the booties on and a heat pack in the left one. I didn’t look at them; there’s no point in letting cold air at them. I presume the toes were warm inside the bandage.”