The Chomolungma Diaries: What a commercial Everest expedition is really like (Footsteps on the Mountain travel diaries)

by Mark Horrell

  It's painful getting ready, and I end up having to use my pee bottle in the middle of the tent with the others packing around me, but peeing in this wind wouldn't be a happy experience and the risk of frostbite doesn't bear thinking about. I've had so little to drink in the last 36 hours that my urine is dark brown and looks like real ale, but even so I'm not tempted to drink it.

  Outside the tent other team members have already packed and are leaving one by one. The wind is hammering down the rocky slope of Camp 3, and an old plastic bag and a sleeping mat strike me on their journey down the North Face. I rush to put my crampons on but struggle with them. For the third day in a row Chongba has to help me with this normally routine task. The Sherpas are struggling with lashing tent poles as they work furiously to put the tents away, and it seems certain something else will be lost in the violent wind.

  Just after seven o'clock I'm ready to leave, and inch my way across the rocky slope to get back onto the trail and clip into the fixed rope. I have a new problem this morning. Fed up with my snow goggles fogging up yesterday, I decide to wear my Julbo sun glasses instead, but these are even worse. Every rope length I have to stop and wipe them clean, but they fog up again almost immediately. I can hardly see where I'm going, but there's easily enough sun to cause snow blindness if I don't wear them, so I struggle on, cursing my luck. None of the route seems familiar from when we came up, but the pink rope leads me onwards in the direction of Camp 2. After about half an hour of descent I decide to try my snow goggles again in sheer desperation. Much to my surprise they don't steam up, and suddenly I discover I have perfect vision again. Yesterday the goggles were dreadful and it doesn't make any sense – I will never understand how any of this equipment works! It doesn't matter, though. I'm just relieved to be able to see again, and I quickly descend to Camp 2 on a straightforward path overlooking the North Col far below.

  Descending from Camp 3 in a gale

  (Photo: Grant 'Axe' Rawlinson)

  When I reach the rocky slabs at the top of Camp 2 where our tents used to be, I sit down for a rest and feel satisfied that the first part of my long descent is over. The wind isn't so fierce here, and for the first time since summit day I feel relaxed as I look upon the breathtaking view across Changtse that in all probability I will never see again. At some point today it may all begin to sink in, and I will start to understand what we've achieved.

  There's still a long way to go, and it takes another three hours to reach the North Col. The first part is laboured as I tread carefully between the rocky outcrops on the zig-zagging trail between the tents of Camp 2. Many tents have been trashed by the wind, with torn fabric and broken tent poles swaying in the breeze. I have to be careful where I'm putting my feet and can't rely upon the safety of the fixed rope, which has already become badly frayed in places from the many jagged rocks that make up the terrain here. This has to be one of the most sprawling campsites in the world, and I have to stop frequently. A Sherpa overtakes and greets me enthusiastically, but he's wearing an oxygen mask and I can't work out who it is.

  "Are you OK?" he says. I can see by his eyes that he's smiling cheerfully as Sherpas always do.

  I've been having trouble with my oxygen mask slipping again, and I ask him if he can help me fit it properly. Only when he's finished do I realise it's not one of our Sherpas at all, but Mingma who works for the Asian Trekking team. Mark and I know him from an expedition in the Annapurnas many years ago, and it's typical of him to help me out with my kit even though he's not working for us. After he's finished the mask fits perfectly, and I feel much more benefit from the oxygen when I resume my descent. Before he leaves he even gives me a boiled sweet.

  I'm glad when I finally descend through Camp 2 and reach the snowfield. I rush down the fixed ropes, hand-wrapping past each one in turn. I'm still tired, and every two or three anchors I stop and sit down, but the going is much easier now and it only takes an hour to descend the 500 vertical metres of the snowfield. As I walk slowly up the rise into the North Col campsite, I wonder what I'm going to find there. I know I'll need a long rest before tackling the steep slopes of the North Col Wall, so I'm pleasantly surprised to find Phil, Mark, Ian, Grant and Mila sitting outside the tents sunning themselves. It's 11.30, and I flop down next to them. The weather is pleasant again, and there couldn't be a nicer contrast to the howling gales of Camp 3. This hour in the sun at Camp 1 is just what I needed. Somebody gets hold of some water, and I begin the long process of rehydrating. The liquid feels soothing on my sandpaper dry throat, and I can feel the little bit of loose gullet still hanging on.

  Not everything about this hour is comforting though. Phil tells me a man died of exhaustion on his way down from the summit yesterday, and I immediately think of the young climber with the big red Crispi boots who held us up on the Second Step. He was slow and ponderous, and appeared to have great difficulty with the rock scrambling on the Northeast Ridge. Perhaps he wasn't a competent enough scrambler to be tackling Everest yet, but to think he died after we passed him – it makes me very sad. What he needed most was someone to help him, and persuade him to turn around when they realised he was going too slowly. I know I couldn't have helped him in the state I was in, but still it makes me feel terrible. Then I remember the man we passed at the bottom of the Third Step, who was still going up very late in the day. He had many hours to go before he reached the summit, and if he kept on going then he would be putting his life at risk for sure. And this man I could have helped – I could have told him how far he still had to climb. It wouldn't have taken much for me to do this, and it might have made a difference. If somebody died yesterday then it was almost certainly one of those two, and it's very poignant because in that case the death was preventable. All they needed to do was remind themselves of the mantra must get down safely, the words that were echoing around in my head for almost the whole of summit day. They needed to be told that getting to the summit really doesn't matter if you can't get down again.

  One person with a bit more wisdom was Margaret. I learn that she was the only one of us who didn't summit. She was suffering from an infection, and at the Third Step she realised she was going too slowly and went no further. She was behind me at the time, so it was a decision that probably saved her life. I'm sorry for her, but she is already an Everest summiteer, so perhaps her disappointment is not so crushing. And her Sherpa was Chedar, who is the only one of them who had already summited from the north side.

  After an hour of resting on the North Col I leave with Mila for the final leg of our journey, the last really dangerous bit of the whole climb. When we touch down on the ice plateau 400 metres below us in an hour or so's time, we'll know that we're safe and the relief will be palpable. In an earlier rotation two weeks ago, I found the steep ice gully down to the ladder beneath the North Col absolutely terrifying, so much so that I christened it the Ladder of Death. After all the scrambling high up on the Northeast Ridge yesterday, however, it feels positively tame. The steps are now like huge great buckets, and I stroll down them easily and onto the ladder. Still I'm relieved, and feel a few minutes closer to safety as I sit in the snow at the bottom. I look out over Khartaphu and Lhakpa Ri on the horizon in front of me, and wait for Mila to follow. She has a little more difficulty with it, but not through fear. As she moves off the gully and onto the ladder, a rope becomes looped around the sleeping mat tied to the back of her rucksack. Each time she walks down a couple of steps, the rope tightens and she can descend no further. I sit at the bottom of the ladder staring out over the ice plateau, giving her as much time as she needs, and I don't see what's happening. She's saved by Phil, who arrives at the top of the gully and calls down to me when he sees she isn't getting anywhere. I can see immediately what the problem is, and shout back up to Phil, who climbs down to her and unloops the rope.

  Mila is breathing heavily when she joins me in the bed of snow beneath the ladder. She must have been worried when she realised she couldn't move down the ladder, and although I'
ve had a good long rest and am ready to continue, there's no hurry and I can wait a little longer.

  "Sit down, Mila, and get your breath back," I tell her. "We have all the time in the world now."

  She sits down in the snow, and Phil speeds on ahead as we wait for her to recover her breath. She doesn't need long and soon we're moving again, but we take our time and complete the descent at a leisurely pace. After every steep and tiring section we stop for a rest in the snow and get our breath back. I never forget the mantra – must get down safely – but each time we stop I know we're a little closer. It's a massive feeling of relief when we touch down on the ice plateau at the bottom of the wall and trudge wearily across it. The technical parts are over, and now it's just one foot in front of the other. When we reach Crampon Point at the bottom of the ice plateau, two of our Tibetan kitchen boys are waiting for us with milk tea and hot orange juice. I don't protest when they reach down and take off our crampons for us as we sit lazily (exhaustedly) and rehydrate.

  I reach ABC at four o'clock in the afternoon after a laboured stagger along the moraine, stopping frequently. I realise the back of my down suit must have been badly torn as I scrambled down rocks on the Northeast Ridge yesterday. I leak feathers from my backside as I walk, and they fly past me in the breeze. It's not sunk in yet, I still don't know what I've achieved, but it's just a five hour walk back to Base Camp now. I have a tent to myself here at ABC, and a few short paces away is the dining tent where they will feed me. I can begin to eat and drink again after five days on the mountain. The feeling of relief is hard to express in words; it's like no feeling I've ever experienced before. I know I brushed with death up there yesterday. It's the closest I've ever come to that, while being aware of it. It probably sounds melodramatic to say this, but I feel like a prisoner who's been granted another chance: a chance to live that I certainly won't take for granted. It's an indescribable feeling, but a very satisfying one. I'm safe again.

  47. Heavenly rest

  Monday 21 May, 2012 – Advanced Base Camp (ABC), Everest, Tibet

  We have the blissful experience of enjoying a rest day here at ABC before we continue to Base Camp tomorrow. After six consecutive days of hard toil and eating very little, it's hugely appreciated. The kitchen tent is quite empty at breakfast time. Our Sherpas have gone back up to Camp 1 to dismantle the tents, and how they are able to after the summit push I cannot imagine. Most of us resemble zombies this morning, apart from Grant, who is unspeakably boisterous. I'm not just physically, but also mentally very tired, and my body seems to be compensating by filtering out anything superfluous. This means Grant's jokes go over my head like a raven passing over camp, only much higher. They barely register on my consciousness, although I'm aware they are jokes. Luckily, Phil is finding himself the butt of most of them, and he's in much better shape than the rest of us. After comparing summit day notes we realise he blew on most of our masks when he passed each of us on his way down from the summit, allegedly to defrost the ambient air intake valve, though Mark is accusing him of "trying to give his clients a good tonguing".

  On a less frivolous note he also brings news of summit days elsewhere on the mountain. He has learned there were four deaths on the south side during our summit day two days ago, and possibly two on the north side. I'm shocked. When combined with all the Sherpa deaths earlier in the season on the south side, this would make 2012 one of Everest's deadliest ever years. Yet although most of the fatalities have occurred on the south side, the two on the north (if they are confirmed) shock me more, because we had perfect summit weather and the route really wasn't that crowded. The most likely reason for deaths in these circumstances is bad decision making – people continuing to the summit when they really should be turning back. It's all just rumours at the moment, though, and there's even the possibility some people braved the howling gale yesterday morning to try for the summit. This means the fatalities could have occurred yesterday instead, but if two died on Saturday then I know who they were and I passed them by. I try to summon emotion and compassion for these people, but exhausted as I am my feelings are dead, and I find it all very hard to comprehend.

  It's a day of total rest today, and I barely leave my tent for a moment. I don't even get up to pee, using my pee bottle and emptying it in the back vestibule. Pemba cooks some delicious chicken dishes, but my stomach is still recovering from five days up high, eating very little, and I can't eat so much yet. On the other hand, my throat is slowly recovering from its sandpaper dryness. I no longer feel like a small piece of my throat is about to be retched out. The rest day is heaven.

  48. The last obstacle

  Tuesday 22 May, 2012 – Base Camp, Everest, Tibet

  One last wee push, just a few short hours of exercise, and then it's done. But at least we don't have to climb any more; it's just trekking from now on, so what could possibly go wrong?

  I made a point of not doing any packing yesterday because I wished to have a day of complete rest. Phil wanted us to have a 6.30 breakfast this morning so we could be down in Base Camp as early as possible, but 6.30 is the moment the sun hits the tents here in ABC, and the moment the temperature inside the tent changes from absolutely bloody freezing to really quite tolerably warm. The idea we should wake up, get dressed and start packing away our sleeping bags during the absolutely bloody freezing phase, especially in our still-exhausted state, when we could wait just a few minutes longer and do it all in comparative comfort, seems unnecessarily silly, especially now we have no need to hurry. Mark and I indicated last night that 7.30 was about the earliest either of us could be dragged to breakfast. Normally this tactic wouldn't work because Phil would respond with the countermeasure of getting the Sherpas to start packing away our tents while we're still inside them, but today the Sherpas are exhausted too. They went back up to the North Col yesterday to retrieve Camp 1 while we rested, so this is the first morning they've had a chance to rest since the start of our summit push. They've earned a lie-in if ever anyone did. Mark and I are safe.

  It's my intention to do some packing before breakfast, but in the end I'm still too tired. When I do rise and head for the kitchen tent for breakfast, I find all my movements are in slow motion. It's good that we have plenty of time, because I'm going to need it today. Grant and Phil, the regular early birds and also the least tired of us, threatened to leave before breakfast when we talked about it last night, and Grant even does. Phil joins us for an omelette but leaves while we're still eating. It takes me about an hour to complete my packing in a daze, a job I could easily do inside 20 minutes when moving at normal speed, as it basically just involves stuffing everything inside my duffle bag. My rucksack is extremely light. All I really have inside is a bottle of water and an extra jacket. Most of the weight seems to be taken up by the radio that I've been carting around with me every day because it might just save my life, but have never actually used.

  At nine o'clock I put my duffle bag outside the tent for the kitchen crew to pack away and give to the yakpas, and then I start descending. I'm the last of us to leave. My main priority on the trek down to Base Camp is to avoid yaks. Having carefully scrambled back down the Third, Second and First Steps on summit day, and survived the hazards of the Ladder of Death and the North Col Wall two days ago, I've nearly managed to come back from Everest alive and in one piece. Having watched a companion get charged by a yak while I was trekking in Bhutan three years ago, I've reached the conclusion that being mauled by a yak is the most likely cause of death on the last leg of my journey, the otherwise easy if tedious trek back to Base Camp. It would be a silly, almost comical, way to go having done the really hard bit, and too embarrassing to contemplate.

  For three hours everything goes swimmingly. I make it down to the icy pinnacles of Changtse Base Camp in little more than an hour, having not seen another soul, and I have a short rest. The tedious, windy, ankle-twisting section from Changtse Base Camp to Interim Camp takes a little longer. In fact, it drags on and on if I'm honest
, but slowly the scenery changes and I feel like I'm making progress. It's just short of Interim Camp that I meet the yaks, and it's the worst possible place. The trail drops down steeply off the medial moraine of the Magic Highway to cross a frozen river and climb back up the other side on another steep bank of moraine. Anywhere else and it would have been possible to just step off the path and let the many tons of bovine flesh and sharp horns safely past, but not here. Here it's just steep rubble that slides from underneath me, and there are dozens of the blasted animals heading towards me. I find a small flat area just above the frozen river and wait. It probably takes about half an hour for them all to come through, and they're quite jumpy because the yakpas keep shouting and hurling rocks at them, but in the end none of them charge me. I then have to trudge back up the moraine bank on the other side of the river, keeping my fingers crossed another confounded herd of them doesn't suddenly appear over a brow. Then I'd be really stuffed. I doubt if I have the energy to hurl my myself up a bank of loose rocks to try and evade them, and jumping down would put me right in the firing line of rock fall.

  Luckily it doesn't happen, and past Interim Camp it's a bit safer, for there are places to step off the path again, but now I have other hazards to contend with. I meet another climber coming up the other way on the start of his own summit push, looking nearly as tired as I do (at least that's my impression – he probably thinks I look like I'm at death's door). He quizzes me about my summit push, how many hours it took me, how many bottles of oxygen I used and at what flow rate. I really can't be bothered, but I answer his questions as politely as I can, and try to sound vaguely interested when he starts telling me about his own hopes and intentions. I'm grateful when I'm able to tear myself away.