“It’ll be a great film, Mike,” I said. “It looks so dramatic from here.” And I remembered how dramatic it looked from up there, with the huge expanse of steep snow sweeping down below.
Suddenly Howard shouted.
“Mike! Quick! Over there!”
Across near the West Ridge, the North Face had avalanched. Thousands of tonnes of snow were sliding down the Face. Howard’s cry had been to alert Mike to the filming possibilities, but for the first time on the trip Mike’s reaction was one of panic—an entirely justifiable response. It was a huge avalanche. Mike ran towards us, but there was nowhere to go.
“Are we safe?” he asked.
Howard and I stared at the enormous cloud of snow, now almost at the bottom of the Face. Neither of us wanted to commit ourselves to an answer. Neither of us was sure.
“I think so, Mike.”
But Mike was already lying on the snow filming the rapidly approaching avalanche.
“We should be all right …”
“I’ll just zip up the tent …”
A few seconds later snow was harmlessly swirling all around us. The force of the fall had been lost as it rolled across the kilometre-wide glacier.
Howard and I laughed hysterically. What a thrill. What an amazing sight. The radio crackled to life. “Mike,” it asked. “Did you like that one?” And then laughter. From up on the Face where Jim and Colin were waiting to film the climbers there was a good view of the avalanche, and Jim, who had the radio, had imagined the fright it would give us. He had recovered the good spirits he had lost for a while after painfully damaging a tendon in his foot on the climb up to Camp II.
The summit of Everest was a dramatic sight. Strong winds blew a huge plume of snow from the top. The three of us stayed at the Stash all day watching the climbers gradually progress and the wind continue to blow. Tim was the first to reach the snow cave, at about three in the afternoon. Immediately he spoke to us on the radio.
“It’s incredibly windy up here, Lincoln. If this keeps up we’ll have to come down. What do you think if we come down this evening?”
“Better to wait till morning. Remember it was six o’clock in the evening when that huge avalanche swept over us last time. And there’ve been enormous avalanches at this end of the Face.”
“Okay. Will you listen to the Radio Nepal weather forecast tonight and relay it to us? We’ll be listening at ten, and make our decision then.”
“Okay.” My hopes began to rise. “Over and out.”
If they came down it would be a day or two before they went up again. By then I would probably have the strength to go with them. That hope brought with it the realisation that I had felt relief not to be going to the summit. I had begun to accept that the dangerous part of the trip was over for me. Relief had filled the space where fear had been. Now I had to stem that flow, and turn the hourglass upside down again.
Back at Camp I that evening we listened to the special weather bulletin for mountaineering expeditions broadcast from Kathmandu. It was a bad forecast. At 7000 metres, about the height of the snow cave at Camp II, the temperature the following day would be minus 15 degrees Celsius and the wind twenty knots. At the top of Everest those figures were doubled. It certainly held little prospect for climbing.
The next morning dawned clear but still a plume of snow blew from Everest’s summit. The others decided to descend. A big advantage of our direct route up the North Face was the speed with which we could retreat. Greg was the first back to Camp I early in the afternoon, and Tim, Geof and Andy arrived not much later. Jim and Colin took some good footage of the climbing up to Camp II but were frustrated by the climbers’ descent from filming anything above there. Colin arrived back late and tired. Jim did not arrive at all. He had collapsed exhausted at the Stash, having been slowed down by the pain of the injury to his foot. Two days up high had been too much for him. The mountain was an inhospitable place. Both Jim and Colin lacked the psychological spurs which we used to drive ourselves to the summit. Their aim was to film, and at 7000 metres it was one of the toughest jobs in the world.
From Camp I to Camp II there was a total height gain of a thousand metres prefaced by a three-kilometre trudge up the glacier. At this altitude it was a hard day’s exercise even without the extra demands put upon us by the danger. At this stage of the climb, each time we climbed up and retreated we were using strength we needed to save for the summit attempt. Now we were as acclimatised as we would ever be. Excess body weight, both fat and unused muscle, had been burnt off by our exertions over the past weeks. We were trim and fit but with no strength to waste. We could not afford the effort of another fruitless climb up to Camp II and down again. The next time we would have to continue to the summit. The problem was to judge whether a spell of fine windless weather would last long enough for our climb. To be able to succeed we needed at least four good days.
The monsoon had definitely finished and the winter weather pattern of clear days and strong winds was firmly established. All we needed was for the wind to drop, and that was most likely to occur when the dying monsoon interfered with the constant windy weather. Such a break would last only a few days. When the conditions were right precious time could not be wasted by the whole team waiting at Camp I if I felt unfit.
It was back to playing the waiting game again. With every day that passed the others became increasingly frustrated. For me, each day gave more time to recover my strength. Failure to climb a mountain because it was technically too difficult, or because one’s reserves of strength were inadequate, was acceptable. But to return home without making a solid attempt for the top because the weather conditions did not allow it was intolerable. That outcome would teach us patience and remind us of our insignificance before the mountain. However, thoughts of such lessons in virtue were little solace as we sat and watched the wind blow.
Rather than dying, the wind picked up. Fantastic clouds blew past the summit, changing their shapes like swirling foam in a rockpool. For hours clouds continued to boil up from behind the West Ridge and accelerate over the summit before being blown to nothingness in the sky beyond. The mixture of airborne moisture and snow was a magnificent sight but frightening and frustrating to our mountaineers’ eyes.
It was a difficult few days. We had passed the point of optimum fitness and now the altitude was beginning to eat away at our reserves. The psychological pressure of not knowing when our chance would come, if it came at all, increased our restlessness.
After our third day of waiting the wind lessened considerably. Greg arrived at our tent door in the morning urging us to leap out of our sleeping bags and head up the mountain. Our sleeping bags were warm and cozy; outside, with the sun hours away, the morning seemed unbearably cold.
“Better to go back to bed, Greg, and if it’s still good tomorrow we’ll go up then.”
We wanted to be sure that the fine weather was a lasting spell and not just a temporary easing of the wind.
Greg was not sure whether commonsense or laziness was the stronger force in our argument. At any rate, he reluctantly agreed.
Everest did not bother to obey weather forecasts. The strong winds predicted for the following day did not arrive. As soon as it was light enough to see that no snow was being blown from Everest’s summit—a sure sign that the winds were gentle at the top of the world—we began to get ready to leave.
An hour later we were trudging slowly up the glacier in the bitter cold of the early morning. At the Stash we strapped our crampons to our boots, warmed our fingers, and plodded on across the upper nevé to the foot of the Face. We travelled at different speeds. Some were impatient to tackle the problem before them. Others walked slowly with their thoughts, saving strength for high on the mountain when every ounce of energy would be needed. There was a great deal to think about—so much that Andy had lain awake half the night in nervous anticipation. Finally, at 2 a.m. he took a sleeping pill which kept him dopey until about ten in the morning. He wandered along i
n a daze behind the rest of us.
By contrast I felt wide awake. My feelings about the climb were all positive. The dangers had not diminished but my attitude had changed. I felt strong and aware, and secure in my ability to survive. I was ready. All that we needed was luck with the weather. Without that, no matter how strong we felt, the climb would be impossible.
Since little film had been taken above Camp II, Colin came with us to record our departure from the snow cave and the first few hours of climbing above. To make things easier for the climbers he broke the trail up the Face. It was a slow process since he had to kick new steps in the snow and free the rope where it had frozen to the slope. For the rest of us the lower ropes, which had been such an effort to climb a month before, seemed easy now. That comparative easiness—exaggerated by our slow climbing pace—was very welcome because the next few days were sure to be amongst the most demanding of our lives.
As it happened, the demands of the following day were intense but of an entirely unexpected nature. We woke before dawn to an impossibly cold and windy morning. At first we hoped the wind would die as the sun rose. When that did not happen we accepted that we would have to wait till tomorrow. Foremost in all our minds was the worry that the wind might not stop for days. Should we descend if the wind continued the next day or should we sit it out here in the snow cave?
“We have to decide whether we lose more strength by going down and coming back up, or by wasting away here because of lack of oxygen,” said Greg.
“And lack of proper sleep,” I added.
“There’s no point worrying too much about it,” said Geof. “We’re committed to staying here today, and tomorrow hopefully we’ll go up.”
In the morning the wind was still blowing strongly. It was another day of lying in our sleeping bags, eating, drinking, dozing. I read stories to the others from an anthology of fantastic literature. This luxury which Andy had carried up was proving worthwhile. Living as we were in a world of our own, imaginations were very receptive to worlds created in other people’s minds.
Colin had been pessimistic and had descended the previous afternoon. He and Andy had shared the second snow cave which Colin had dug close to ours. Over the past few years we had spent a lot of time sitting out bad weather in tents and snow caves. Andy’s method of coping with days of forced inactivity was to drift into slumber almost as deep as hibernation. Alone in the second cave without a watch, he posed a problem.
“How will we wake you in the morning?”
“I’ll leave the radio on in my sleeping bag where the batteries won’t freeze, so you can call me. I probably won’t sleep very well.”
“That’s because you’ve been asleep all day.”
The irony was that Andy had no difficulty in spending whole days asleep to pass time, but here and at Camp I worry and nervousness cost him many sleepless nights.
The next day the wind blew less fiercely but it was still too strong to allow even vaguely comfortable climbing.
Each of us coped with our confinement to the snow cave in different ways. Nobody quite had Andy’s knack for sleeping, though Greg could sometimes manage a good imitation. Once we had accepted our immobility, passing the time was not a big problem. Time operates in a different gear at high altitude. The lack of oxygen slows one’s thinking. With every thought taking twice as long there was effectively half as much time in the day. Meals took a long time to prepare as did the many drinks we needed to combat dehydration. With the hours spent melting snow, cooking and eating, only a few hours of the day remained for dozing and talking and listening to stories.
Greg decided he had tired of my monotone, so he grabbed the book of stories and gleefully cut it up into sections. His joy came not from the destruction but from the feeling of performing a definite act, however minor, instead of lying there bored.
“After all,” Tim rationalised. “Andy bought the library with expedition funds so it’s appropriate that we share the book like this.”
Andy himself was depressed, not about his book, but by the situation.
“Another day of this and I’ll go mad,” he said. “You’ll have to improvise a strait-jacket out of my down suit.”
“We’ll just seal up the door of your snow cave and open it when the weather improves.”
Tim and Greg remained determined to climb the mountain, even if it meant returning to Camp I and waiting another week for the wind to stop. Neither Geof nor I relished that prospect.
“When I go down from here,” Geof said, “that’s it. I’m not coming up again. We’ve been here for two months, and that’s enough. It’s time for me to get on with the other things in my life.”
“But think of the incredible effort, not to mention expense, of getting ourselves into this position,” replied Tim. “All we need is a few good days.”
“Starting tomorrow,” pleaded Andy, hoping that some higher power was listening.
It may well have been, for the next day we were given our chance. The night had led us to fear the worst. The strongest winds we had yet experienced blew a continual stream of spindrift snow in the door until we had to block the entrance with our packs. It was a reluctant move, since there was little enough oxygen at that height without compounding the problem by blocking the door.
We expected the winds to continue through the day so we were delighted when Greg crawled outside and shouted back immediately that it was almost calm.
“But still really cold,” he added.
We immediately began the lengthy process of making breakfast and packing up. There was excitement in my haste and a tightness in my guts. The tightness was the embryo of fear which would remain with me now until I stood safely at the bottom of the mountain again. The sun reached the door of the snow cave and we were ready to leave.
Greg, who was always quick to organise himself, was away first. He had the unenviable task of breaking the trail up the soft snow of the rib leading to White Limbo. The snow on White Limbo itself was in much better condition—firm and far less prone to avalanche than when we had last climbed it, two weeks before. Towards the middle of the giant snow slab I took over from Greg the task of plugging the steps and freeing the ropes which here and there had been buried under a few centimetres of snow. The last hundred metres to the big rock, where we had deposited our gear during our first sortie up the slabs, was hard going. With every step I broke through the crust into deep white powder which had not consolidated enough to take firm footsteps. Each step collapsed into the one below it, making the climbing slow and frustratingly tiring. Above the rock, on solid snow again, I relinquished the lead to Greg and Tim.
I kicked a ledge to sit on and rested for a while. Here at 7300 metres, Everest’s North and West Ridges no longer provided shelter from the wind. With each gust the cold forced me to turn my face because of the pain and the fear of frostbite. Luckily the gusts were infrequent. Every movement at that altitude was a great effort, seemingly greater after our days of inactivity in the snow cave. Nevertheless, it was a relief to be climbing upwards again, making positive progress towards our goal.
Geof and Andy appeared around the halfway rock. It was time to move on to avoid congesting the ropes. The firm snow was much easier to climb. Every couple of minutes I would stop to catch my breath for thirty seconds, then stagger on. What lay above and beneath, and the magnificent panorama of the mountains and hills of Tibet were forgotten as I concentrated on gulping in air.
Fifty metres below Geof stopped and shouted that he was coming no further.
“I’m dizzy and I can’t see properly, and my legs have gone weak. I’ll have to go down.”
He described the symptoms of cerebral oedema—fluid retention in the brain—one of the most serious ways in which high altitude interferes with human metabolism. The only cure was to descend, for to continue up would cause the condition to worsen and almost certainly result in death. A rescue operation by a small team such as ours would be a difficult, dangerous affair so Geof had to de
scend while he was still capable of looking after himself.
Later, back at Camp I, I talked to him about his decision to turn back.
“Of course, I was disappointed. That morning was the first time I felt strong enough to have a chance of reaching the summit. But certainly I made the right decision. Even back down at Camp II, I had a hard time. My vision was blurred and I had a dreadful headache. I didn’t sleep at all because I was frightened I’d die. It was the worst night I’ve ever spent.”
Andy, who was only a few metres above him, took the communal gear he had been carrying. I watched Geof descend to the halfway rock and abseil out of sight.
His retreat was a sobering reminder of the dangerous situation we were in. Apart from the dangers presented by the mountain we needed to be constantly aware of the insidious effects of high altitude. The highest Geof had climbed was to the summit of Pumori, across the valley in Nepal. It was now a few hundred metres below us. Geof had broken his personal altitude record—a feat which would give him some satisfaction at least. How would the rest of us cope when we passed 8000 metres, the height of Annapurna II’s summit? The only way to tell was to climb on.
I pulled my ice-axe out of the snow and plodded slowly to the top of the fixed rope. Our cache of food and equipment was safe. When I reached the rock which had sheltered our gear, Tim was transferring his share of food into his pack and Greg had already begun the long traverse left to the Great Couloir. Somewhere in the Couloir we would have to find a camp site, hopefully a sheltered one, for the gusts of wind were becoming increasingly frequent. With sunset approaching there was no time to spare, yet it was cold enough for me to waste precious minutes putting on my down suit. Tim, Andy and Geof had been wearing theirs all day. The bitter wind blew away our doubts about the need for clothing which was a great deal more elaborate than we had used on any other climb. Manipulating the zippers on my suit numbed my fingers, and while I warmed my hands by putting them under my armpits, I rested and soaked in the beauty of the view. The lengthening shadows cast by the peaks beneath made a jagged pattern on the glacier. Harmless clouds drifted over the passes from Nepal emphasising our distance above the rest of the world. Evil and ugliness did not seem to exist up here: to experience a world without them was sufficient reason to climb mountains.
White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest Page 15