Ascent Into Hell- Mount Everest

by Fergus White

  “That’s good news.” Angel arrives at the table.

  “This breakfast will help too. It’s nice to have some decent food,” I say. “We’ll head to Namche today?”

  “Yeah,” Greg says, “within the hour. Khalid has already left.”

  “Early to bed, early to rise.” I dig my fork back into the plate. “I’ll grab a shower in a few minutes, be the first one for two weeks.”

  “Are you going to change the dressing?” Greg asks.

  “Yeah, I’ll do the iodine rinse on the foot after the shower. Then I’ll put on the new bandage. You might give me a hand with that?”

  “Sure. Just shout when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at my watch. “We should be out of here by ten thirty.”

  “Fergus, the shower is ready.” Kieron arrives at the table.

  “Thanks buddy. Greg, I’ll give you a shout in ten minutes.”

  Sitting on a plastic chair beside the shower, I take off the right sock. The big toe and toe next to it have swelled up and are black. I feel no pain, but the appearance surprises me. They look worse than I expected.

  I begin unwrapping the bandage from the left foot. It doesn’t look as fresh as when the doctor applied it; this concerns me. A drop of liquid lands on the tiled floor. My anxiety increases. I unwind the last of the dressing. The sight shocks me. The end of my left foot bears no resemblance to when it was examined. It’s the creation of a Hollywood special effects department. The digits have swollen so much as to be not recognisable as toes. Black covers all five. Huge blisters have formed. Fluid oozes from several. The big toe has grown to twice its normal size. The nail, by comparison, is dwarfed by the surrounded, bulging black flesh. After yesterday’s prognosis, this vision thumps me.

  “Greg! I need you.”

  He steps in onto the tiles.

  “Good God.” He stares at the spectacle. “I’ll get Angel.”

  The two of them examine the foot.

  “Just take a shower and wrap it up as planned?” I ask.

  Greg looks at the shower.

  “No. A shower is out. With so many open blisters, the risk of infection is too high.”

  “Ok.”

  “Can you walk on that?” Greg asks.

  “Well, I got down the mountain, but this is entirely different. This is a mess.”

  All three of us look at the foot.

  “This is some frostbite. I should document it. Do you mind if a get my video camera.” Angel walks away.

  “The trail’s covered in yak dung dust,” I say. “Two days walking on that could cause a problem. I mean, if you’re saying I can’t even step into the shower tray over there.”

  “If that gets infected, you’ll lose toes,” Greg says.

  “I want to get out of here with ten toes. I don’t care what it takes.” I look down at the foot. “How on earth did that happen?”

  “If it gets infected, it could be more than just toes.” Greg puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “That foot won’t even fit in my boot. Walking out of this valley isn’t an option. Damn.” My head drops into my hands. “Sitting on a horse for another two days might also trash the foot. Look what happened yesterday. And then I might have to sit in Lukla for a day or two waiting for a plane.”

  “That needs medical care,” Greg says. “You need heat and oxygen, lots of it. Let me drop into HRA next door. I’ll bring back the doctor.”

  I fold my arms and stare at it.

  Greg walks back in.

  “No joy. They’re already closed for the season. There’s a sign on the door.”

  “Closed? Sure it’s only now that the real injuries are stumbling out of Base Camp. Ok. What now?”

  “It’s up to you. Maybe you should get a helicopter. If you walk out, you risk losing the foot.”

  “Decision made. Chopper it is. That’d be a foolish way to lose a foot.”

  “It’ll be about five thousand dollars. Will your insurance cover it?”

  “That’s another day’s problem.”

  Three months ago, I was amazed to be quoted a premium of just a hundred and fifteen US dollars. It covers me for two and a half months in the wild, including a shot at one of the most dangerous places on the planet. The nature of the challenge placed me in harm’s way from the moment I stepped off the plane. But the paperwork buried somewhere in my duffle bag suggests that coverage will now kick in. In theory, I can suffer all manner of illness, amputation, emergency medical evacuation, and death, and not worry about the financial side up to a quarter of a million US dollars. Somewhere on the far side of this globe, in a tall building very soon, an actuary will puzzle over how that policy was drawn up.

  I’m sitting in the chair. Angel videos the foot. Greg provides the medical commentary. He points out the features of the enigma that resides at the end of my leg.

  The hostel owner enters the shower room.

  “Oh goodness, I did not realise.” He takes a step back.

  “Nor did I.” I look up to him.

  “We need to arrange a helicopter,” Greg says.

  “Of course, he cannot walk on that. Let me make a phone call.” He walks out.

  I discuss the situation with Greg and Angel. The owner reappears.

  “I’ve been on to my brother-in-law. A chopper can come. It’ll be four thousand dollars. They’ll need a credit card number.”

  “Damn, my credit card is in Kathmandu; I didn’t think I’d need it. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Sorry. But you know how many people take needless helicopter lifts. They say the insurance will pay, but they were never injured. The helicopter company cannot operate without payment.”

  “I’ve got a card. We can put it on that,” Greg says.

  “Man, thanks. As soon as I get back to Dublin, I’ll transfer those funds to your account in Australia, straight away.”

  “No rush.”

  Greg and the owner stroll to the main room to arrange the helicopter and authorise payment. I see Kieron standing just outside the shower room.

  “Do you want to have a look?” I beckon him.

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “I do not wish to see such a thing.”

  “Chopper’s arranged,” Greg says. “There’s cloud in the valley; it can’t arrive till this evening. If that’s not possible, it’ll be here tomorrow. However, they also said it may come at any time; so, be ready.”

  “Cool, sooner the better. You guys will hop in as well?” I look up to Greg and Angel.

  “There’s room for one other,” Greg says.

  “If one of you wants to jump in, please do. There’s no point in the seat being empty.”

  “Do you want to fly out with Fergus?” Angel asks.

  “Great, saves a walk down the valley,” Greg says.

  “Ok, I’ll leave soon. I’ll see you guys in Kathmandu.” Angel walks out.

  “Ok, that’s all sorted. Give me a hand with this bandage. Then I’ll pack my stuff, just in case.”

  Yet again a shower has been stolen from me. I take a few minutes to freshen up at the hand basin. A mirror hangs above it. I stare at my face, the first time I’ve seen it in two weeks. I’m bewildered by Angel’s assertion that my snow-blinded eyes look much better this morning. They look like strawberries. I’m worried to think this is an improvement, but at least the mind-numbing pain has diminished to just an unpleasant irritation. The bridge of my nose has been cut by the oxygen mask and has scabbed over. My cheeks are weather beaten; the atmosphere has cracked them raw. Two months of altitude, poor appetite, and bad food have hollowed them. My hair flops lifeless and unruly. Fissures crisscross the skin on the back of my sore hands. I hope that thick air, rest, heat, and nourishment will reverse the damage.

  Greg and I relax at a table.

  A man and a woman, late twenties or early thirties, walk into the room. He’s good looking. She’s very pretty, perhaps a touch slimmer than normal after a week of trekking. The whiteness of
her teeth strikes me. Greg shares my weather beaten face and cut nose. His ribs stab him with pain every time he coughs. We make a harsh comparison to the beauty of the two newcomers. We strike up a conversation with them. I’m flabbergasted to learn that they too summited Everest. Greg and I piece together our experiences over the last two months. We compare our present condition to this couple. Greg needs to recuperate near sea level; I’m on my last legs. This pair looks fresh as daisies. What team were they on, and how did they do it?

  Kieron rushes to our table.

  “The helicopter’s on the way.”

  “What? I’ve still got to pack a few items.” I stand up.

  “Get moving,” Greg says.

  We thank the owner and head outside. Greg walks the hundred metres to the landing spot. I follow behind while Kieron carries my pack.

  “Wait in here for a few minutes. It’s warmer.” Kieron points to a small hostel.

  Within five minutes we hear the thumping sound of rotary blades racing up the valley. They echo off the mountains that surround us. We step outside and look to our left. In the distance, just above the ground, a speck grows larger. The dot becomes red. As the noise intensifies, it takes on the shape of a chopper. The blast deafens us as the machine passes just over our heads. The pilot swings it around to face down the valley and then drops it.

  With the blades still turning, the pilot throws a few heavy bags of foodstuff onto the ground. He beckons us to come forward. We shake hands with Kieron. Crouched over, protecting our heads, we cover the last ten metres to the powerful, noisy machine. I climb into the front seat. Greg pushes our packs into the rear and sits beside them. Doors shut, the pilot passes us both a headset. He presses controls and the tone of the engine changes. He gives us a thumbs-up. The noise increases; the blades spin faster. The rear of the chopper picks up and we shoot down the valley, just above stone walls.

  Two months ago, I arrived into this valley by air in the company of Greg. That is how I now leave. It was a crazy idea I had: to summit Everest because it is there. I was approaching forty. I knew I’d have to slow down sooner rather than later. It was not a realisation I wanted to accept. But I felt that one last effort, a monumental challenge, would allow me to move on with no regrets, to a quieter, less physical life.

  As I slumped on the snow below Camp 4 ten days ago, shattered after our futile summit bid, I knew I’d had adventure. I’d pushed myself to my limit. That escapade has now been trumped with a success that was far from guaranteed or expected. There’s been a cost; I’ll limp for some time to come. But mentally I’m where I need to be. No regrets. No easy options taken. Nothing left on the table. I can glide into middle age and close off the youthful chapter of life.

  Everest stands behind and above me. But I know I’ve been above it. It will always be the tallest. It will always be better than the mountaineers who climb it. Many will try and many will fail on its slopes, not all will live to tell the tale. I’d not have got there without Greg. Somewhere below us, Angel treks alone out of this valley. Without him, I’m not sure how much of me would have returned. But I have returned. A chair in front of the fire awaits. The adventures are over. Nobody beats this mountain, but for two months I was a worthy contender. And for a few brief moments, I shared that same spot as Hillary and Tenzing.

  The End

  (Epilogue Overleaf)

  Epilogue

  2 Years Later

  After flying out of the Himalayas with Greg and landing in Kathmandu, we went straight to the Ciwec Clinic, as Angel had advised. The doctors started the mending process. They warned of a sixty per cent chance that a surgeon’s knife would be required on the left toes. Around me, unknown climbers, with exposure damage to their faces and huge bandages at the end of their arms, were confronting amputation prospects.

  The medical staff directed me to stay off my feet completely for several weeks. After each afternoon sitting on my hotel bed, watching TV and downing fruit juice and decent food, I limped out for a little entertainment after dark. The remnants of our team had arrived back to the city in dribs and drabs. Angel, Hugo, Greg, and Khalid revelled in the city, having met the challenges that the mountain had thrown at them.

  Greg and I swapped our fatigued conversations in cramped tents for lively banter around tables overflowing with exotic dishes and foreign beers. The two of us relived our adventure as we packed back on the weight. Forgotten incidents emerged from our two memories. One tale led to another. A few caused us to realise how lucky we’d been. Several had me thanking Greg for yet another moment of aid. All the episodes reminded us that we’d pulled off a stroke. It was hard to believe we’d been strangers only eight weeks earlier. And yet, as much as we knew each other, we didn’t know each other at all. We had existed only as mountaineers. I’d never seen him in doctor’s scrubs; he’d never seen me slice a golf ball out-of-bounds. We’d reached the top of the world together; we would cross continents in the future to meet up, to fill in the gaps, and to remember the time we kept climbing, kept climbing till there was no more.

  For Ade and Martin, having come so close, words did little to console them. I was keen to avoid any mention of summits as we’d sit around a table with them and tuck into pizza. They were considering another attempt at a distant, future date.

  Charlene had already flown back home before we reached Kathmandu. Before heading, she, Mingmar, and Hugo had hosted a press conference on her achievement.

  The mountain had taken little out of the two experienced Turks, Nurhan and Yener. They arrived back in Kathmandu and joined us in the hotel.

  I returned to the clinic every day for treatment and fresh dressings. The right foot was declared out of danger; although, it would need several months to recover. The size and colour of my left toes transformed every twenty-four hours. Watching the bandage being unravelled each day was like waiting for a jury’s verdict.

  Airplanes took climbers back to the four corners of the earth, to rejoin the lives they had put on hold, and our team dwindled. After ten days, I left the foreign city behind me and boarded a flight with Greg and Khalid. Abu Dhabi connections terminal witnessed big bear hugs as Greg, Khalid, and I gave each other a final farewell. A little later, connecting flights took off to Australia, Oman, and Ireland.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  On returning to Ireland, I attended St. Michael’s Hospital in Dublin every second day for two months. Experienced hands nursed my left toes back from the brink. Every fortnight or so, another digit was deemed to have been spared. The limp became less noticeable with each month. After a year, the last small wound closed. Eighteen months after summiting, I tested running; there was no problem. Barefoot beach soccer will have to wait a little longer, but I’m sure the sand’s not going anywhere.

  Everest hasn’t changed. In this year’s climbing window (two months ago), climbers again pitted themselves against nature. Ted led another group of mountaineers to the Himalayas. Many of the Sherpas on his team were the guys who’d assisted us two years ago. One of them was a man who’d ascended through the biting darkness to the summit, on the same night that we’d pushed for the top. This year, however, his blessings ran out. Stepping across the rungs of a ladder, above a crevasse near Camp 1, he stumbled and fell to his death. All counted, Everest took ten lives this season.

  Hugo was right when he said there’re no old, bold climbers. I pushed my luck to the limit once and got away with it; once is plenty. It brings a smile to my face when I think back on the feat. Having shown to myself that I’d the determination to see something so difficult through to the end has left me with little else to prove. Every now and then, a memory will surface from the expedition: sometimes funny, sometimes bizarre, usually tough, but always a reminder that I lived through some exploit. But aside from that, I’m little changed. Despite all I saw and experienced, those I meet usually ask for two key nuggets of information: did I see dead people, and how did we go for a number two? That’s after their initial reaction: “You … to the
top? No way.” When I chat with the lads who were on the squad, at least they believe me.

  A year after our adventure, I visited Greg in Australia. We picked up our conversation where we’d left it in Abu Dhabi. He’s settled back into his surgeon’s role but is keen for another mountain caper. I just heard that he’s engaged to be married. I’ve no doubt we’ll meet again, but I don’t expect it to be in the highlands.

  Khalid insisted that I visit him in Oman for a stopover. He showed me around his country and treated me like royalty. Settled with his wife and children, he’s now passing on his rock-climbing passion to his young sons. As the first Omani to summit, he uses his climbing repute to encourage the next generation from his nation to strive hard to achieve something of lasting value.

  Charlene wrote her book as planned, and it was published. She resisted the pull of the office job and now leads tours to colourful locations in Africa, Southeast Asia, and beyond. Engagement also came her way since Everest. She’s told me to get on a plane and call into her up north. Perhaps next year I’ll get there, in the summer.

  I’ve kept in email contact with Doug and Hugo, the two firefighters from the US. Hugo’s become a local celebrity. He’s the go-to man for TV correspondents and magazine writers whenever a real-life mountain drama or outdoor survival story breaks.

  Having not reached the summit, Matthew tried again the following year. He turned around near Camp 1. I heard that Nigel and Amit made another attempt on Everest this season. They called it a day near Camp 1 and Camp 2 respectively.

  Angel has since guided more climbers back to the summit. I know they were in safe hands. Back at his home in Argentina, he’s recently become a father. We’ve not kept in touch. I should rectify that. If this were a work of fiction, I suspect the story would close with us meeting up each year for drinks, on the anniversary of our summit.

  But that’s the thing about real life; intentions don’t necessarily align with deeds. Nor do they always blossom into rational consequences. A biography written backwards can be hammered into shape, till themes reveal themselves and float across the pages. Reality, however, rarely surrenders such meaning. Perhaps W. B. Yeats described us best, as that “bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast.” But this was not about what happens at breakfast. This was all about what ensues afterwards: standing up from the table, postponing hesitation and regret for some other day, and just going for it.