Andy reached me.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay,” he puffed. “Except I’m exhausted.”
“Needless to say,” I commented, standing up to make room for him on the small ledge. “I’ll keep going. See you at Camp III, we’ll have to make that really soon because the sun will be gone in an hour.”
I set off. No longer did any effort have to be expended lifting my body up step by step. Now it was a simple matter of traversing. At 7500 metres nothing is easy, but it was a relief not to be dragging myself upwards. The excitement of new ground brought an extra burst of energy. Tim and Greg had already disappeared out of sight in the Couloir.
Moving “across” rather than “up” meant turning side-on to the slope instead of facing into it. I became much more aware of the huge drop below. The snow-covered slabs of White Limbo opened out beneath me and the bottom third of the Face, being steeper than White Limbo, was hidden from view. Over one and a half vertical kilometres below lay the glacier. Almost the same distance above was the summit. Whatever lay between me and the top was unknown territory. For the next few days we would be totally on our own. It was a good feeling. Whatever the final result, we would push ourselves to our physical and mental limits, and in the process redefine the boundaries of our spirits. The hardship and the danger seemed worthwhile.
Greg and Tim had found a perfect camp site inside a deep crevasse with an entrance where the crevasse gaped open. To the right, the roof had closed over, forming a perfect natural snow cave. A short shuffle along the inside downhill wall led to the completely sheltered and comfortable ledge they had dug in less than an hour.
“What a great spot!” I said, as I peered into the icy chamber. “And we won’t have the torture of pulling down a frozen tent in the morning.”
Small benefits such as these become major issues in extreme cold, especially when under the influence of high-altitude-induced lethargy.
“It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” agreed Greg.
Tim, the perfectionist, was shovelling a few final lumps of snow from the wall.
Andy arrived a little too exhausted to express his admiration. Sunset was only minutes away so we hurried to settle ourselves into our sleeping bags. The ledge was just large enough to fit all of us. We knew that once the sun had gone the temperature would plunge twenty degrees within a few minutes.
Set up with stoves, and dozy in our sleeping bags, we radioed Geof. He was safe at Camp II but sounded in a great deal of pain from headaches. The altitude drop of five hundred metres would be enough to relieve his symptoms. All we could do was tell him he would feel better in the morning. Small comfort.
The low atmospheric pressure at high altitude means that every part of one’s body is starved of oxygen. Oxygen-deprived minds become slow and unreliable, and soon one learns to think every decision through a few times to search for forgotten considerations and errors of logic. In order to keep vital tissues supplied, the flow of blood (and hence oxygen) to one’s extremities is severely reduced. A legacy of bad frostbite suffered in the past was poor circulation to my feet and hands. My feet had been numb since I had put them in my frozen boots that morning and, here at an altitude of 7500 metres, they did not want to warm of their own accord.
I accepted Andy’s offer to use his stomach as the equivalent of a hot-water bottle. For a couple of hours I sat with my feet tucked inside Andy’s sleeping bag. Six years before Tim and I had spent a night out at almost 7000 metres without sleeping bags. We warmed each other’s feet in our armpits, but neither of us had much heat to spare. My feet did not thaw out till two days later (after our climb to the summit) by which time they were severely frostbitten, to the extent that parts of my toes had to be amputated. This time I was going to do everything in my power to avoid the pain, frustration and permanent incapacitation of being frostbitten again. With fourteen hundred metres of mountain still to be climbed it would be a difficult task.
Tim cooked a simple but magnificent meal of soup, followed by cheese and noodles. We chatted optimistically about our chances of success then settled down to sleep. After several nights at 6900 metres, sleeping six hundred metres higher was not as difficult as we had feared.
We woke in the morning well rested and reluctant to relinquish our warm sleeping bags. Over the radio Geof spoke of the dreadful night he had spent, but was confident of being able to descend safely. Once again Greg was the first to leave, followed by Andy, Tim and finally, as the sun reached our crevasse, by me.
It was another brilliant day. The wind continued to blow but the gusts were infrequent and comparatively gentle. Higher up, where the Couloir narrowed, we hoped to be more sheltered from the wind.
The climbing conditions were perfect. The surface of the snow had frozen hard so that our boots did not sink in and our crampons bit firmly into the slope. The only problem was that a fall would certainly be fatal as it was impossible to stop a slip on the ice. A hundred metres below Camp III, the Great Couloir plunged over a huge ice cliff, the most prominent feature of the North Face, then continued in an unbroken sweep to the bottom of the mountain. For the sake of speed we climbed unroped, though each of us was very aware of how serious a fall would be.
Andy gave himself a considerable fright when, a short way above Camp III, he shoved his ice-axe into the snow as a handhold. The unexpected result was a loud crack as a narrow fissure snapped open across the width of the Couloir. Andy was frightened that the whole slope was about to slip, carrying away not only himself but also Tim and me who were beneath. Nothing happened after the initial shock. Below, Tim and I remained happily oblivious of the new potential danger.
After half an hour’s climbing I traversed to the edge of the Couloir in search of a place where I could remove my pack. Having done so, I radioed Camp I to let them know how we felt and what the conditions were like. It was strange talking to people who were safe and secure on the glacier below. The problems of their existence were so different from ours, almost as if we lived in different dimensions.
I put the radio away and began to climb again. Half my mind concentrated on keeping my balance and on other fine points of not falling off. The rest of my mind devoted itself to the mechanical movements of climbing. There was not enough oxygen for my mind to cope with more than those few thoughts.
Shortly, the angle of the slope eased to about forty degrees. Looking up, the snow slope seemed endless. Somewhere above the Couloir merged into steep rock, but that was too far away to worry about. All I could do was to take one step and make sure it was followed by another. Twenty steps then a rest, then twenty steps again.
Every now and then I used the view as an excuse for a longer rest. It was heartening to see the enormous bulk of Changtse fall further and further beneath my feet. My slow pace was getting me somewhere after all. Andy, whom I had passed earlier, was catching up. Above, Tim was now ahead of Greg but overall there was not much difference in our speeds. We were all climbing well and felt as strong as one could hope to feel at almost 8000 metres.
The walls of rock flanking the Couloir began to close in, bringing with them a feeling of hostility. It was no place for humans. There was no air, no water, no hope. I shook my head and fought away the pressure of those negative thoughts. It’s just another mountain, I told myself. It’s just another climb.
By early afternoon the cliffs on the right of the Couloir were shading our route. The hostility of the mountain was now reflected by the cold and the wind which blew almost continuously. At the first sheltered spot I stopped to warm my hands. Tim and Greg had stopped here and moved on because the spot was not big enough for a tent, and at any rate, we needed the camp to be higher to give the best chance of reaching the summit the next day. I unzipped my down suit and shoved my hands under my armpits. Andy plodded up to me and continued past without a word. There was no spare breath for smalltalk up here. My hands warmed up after about fifteen minutes, the longest rest I’d had since leaving Camp III, and long enough to mu
ster some reserves of energy. I set off again. A hundred metres or so above, Tim had crossed the Couloir and climbed up a snowy ramp on the left wall. It was the wrong direction for the summit so he could only be in search of a camp site. He was in the sun again, and I envied him its warmth. After twenty minutes of slow but exhausting climbing my hands were getting cold again so I had to stop and warm them. I lay on my pack in the snow to keep the wind out of my down suit while my hands were stuffed under my armpits once more. It was frighteningly cold. Another twenty minutes, I told myself, and you’ll be back in the sun at the camp site. Only another twenty minutes.
Somebody shouted down to me, worried that I had collapsed from exhaustion. I hollered back, nothing in particular, just acknowledgement that I was okay. By the time I had put my gloved hands back in their over-gloves and over-mitts they were cold again. It was a losing battle, but at least so long as I warmed my hands frequently frostbite was not a danger. I staggered on across the Couloir, a little alarmed by the many hairline cracks in the slope. Each crack was a promise of an avalanche to come—only small ones but enough to send me tumbling down the slope. I reassured myself with the thought that it was so cold that everything would be frozen in place at least until tomorrow’s sun. At the edge of the Couloir I left the shadow behind. Thirty metres above, the others were digging a ledge for the tent. A short way above them were the distinctive yellow cliffs of the Yellow Band which we would have to climb the next day. My hands were painfully cold again but my wish to stay ahead of the shadow kept me moving.
Basketball-sized blocks of snow came bouncing down the slope from the ledge the others were digging. If I followed their footsteps I would be hit by the barrage. To be safe I plugged my own steps up the soft wall of the gully. With every step I cursed my “friends” for forcing me to break my own trail when good steps already existed. I soon realised it was an irrational anger. The extra effort of the diversion I had made was a small price to pay for being able to pitch the tent before the sun set on our slope. Fiddling with the tent poles and guys, jobs which required removing our outer mittens, would be much more unpleasant once the sun had set.
Though the slope was not sheer it was steep enough to fall from. Because there was little room on the ledge for more than Greg, Tim, Andy and the tent, I stood a few metres below contributing nothing but a few sighs of exhaustion as they pitched the tent. In order to look busy I took some photographs. My grunts were enough to lead Greg to suggest that I be the first to crawl inside.
Once in the tent it was possible to forget that a 2000-metre drop fell away immediately outside the door. The tent was home. Our worries now were to make ourselves comfortable and to eat and drink enough. The difficulties which lay between our camp and the summit were worries for tomorrow.
Though the tent was cramped with four people inside, the bliss of being able to relax at last obscured the inconvenience. The melting of snow was an extended process because of the extreme cold and, even with two stoves and four bodies in the tent, the moisture from our breath formed frost on the walls. Every few minutes windblown snow which had accumulated on the slope above slid down in minute avalanches.
“Wouldn’t this be miserable if we didn’t have the tent?” commented Andy.
“Sure would,” said Tim. “Just like when you two guys sat above Lincoln and me on the Annapurna II bivvy and knocked snow down on us every time you moved.”
“Well it was certainly worth the effort of carrying the tent up,” I said. “It’s so bloody cold out there.” After a pause I added, “It’s so bloody cold in here.” I was trying to warm my feet without much success.
For the whole time we were at that altitude we were suffering mental and physical deterioration. Our appetites were small but we forced ourselves to eat. We needed all the nourishment we could get. Hours passed as we melted snow for drinks. When we radioed Howard at Camp I the weather report was not encouraging.
“There hasn’t been much correlation between the forecast and actuality before now,” said Andy.
“It’ll be a perfect day tomorrow,” said Greg, the optimist.
“Oh, will it?” I asked. “I’ll sleep well now that we’re sure of that.”
Unfortunately, sleep did not come easily. The snow under the floor was uneven and uncomfortable. With four people there was no room to lie around the hollows and lumps; we had to tolerate them. The problem was compounded by the lack of oxygen. There was not enough of the life-giving gas to sustain someone who was breathing normally. One’s breathing slowed down during the gradual drift to sleep until a point was reached where a simple reflex made one gasp for breath. Finally, though, tiredness over-rode the panic of suffocating and a restless sleep followed. We woke unrefreshed, but at least our minds had been free of worry and fear for a few hours.
The weather was perfect, not a cloud in the sky and only a slight wind. A radio call to Howard confirmed that no snow was being blown from the summit. The conditions were ideal. Now it was up to us.
We wasted little time getting ready, only the standard two and a half to three hours needed at high altitude to make breakfast, pack up, and put our boots and crampons on. At least today we did not need to carry much, just cameras and minimal survival gear. It was too cold at night to contemplate a forced bivouac, and anyone who could not descend if darkness fell would certainly suffer severe frostbite. The key to success was to carry as little as possible: every extra ounce would count against us. Tim decided to leave his pack behind and take only his cameras, tape-recorder, headlight and water-bottle to the summit—things he could fit in his pockets or stuff down the front of his down suit.
I radioed Camp I to tell them we were on our way. Their excitement bubbled through the radio—“Good luck!”, “Go for it!”, “Take care!”
Their enthusiasm reminded me of the import of what we hoped to do. Our oxygen-starved minds could not spare the space for excitement. Today was the day. Now it was a matter of determination and keeping ourselves under control. The effort of thinking clearly was draining up here, but the ability to concentrate was vital to our survival.
Greg was the first to leave, at about eleven. Tim and Andy left next. Fear and nervousness stimulated my bowels in a way I could not ignore. I undid the relevant zips on my several layers of clothing before stepping out of the tent. When I returned a few minutes later I was chilled to the core, and my hands were too numb to undo the zip on the tent door. I collapsed inside, stunned by the cold.
“Madness,” I said aloud, though the others had left, then decided to wait for the arrival of the sun. At noon the first rays hit the walls of the tent, making an instantly noticeable difference.
Outside, the others were disappointingly close. An hour of climbing and only a few hundred metres away. We would have to speed up if we were to reach the top.
The first part of the climb involved a long traverse to the middle of the Couloir. A couple of hundred metres above, the Couloir ran out into steep rock walls. As I started the traverse, Tim and Greg were just beginning to climb the rock barrier known as the Yellow Band which ran diagonally upwards from near Camp IV. The route they had chosen did not look easy but was perhaps the best option. After two hundred metres it gave way to more straightforward ground. Photographs, our map, and hours of peering through telephoto lenses led us to think that the climbing above would be technically easy. The problem there would be the almost superhuman effort needed to climb without oxygen.
Andy was about a hundred metres from the top of the Couloir. All three were still in the shade. The cold would be eating away at their spirit. How good it felt to be in the sunshine.
Here at 8150 metres the Couloir was much narrower than it had been the day before. I climbed across to the middle and began to follow the crampon prints the others had left on the firm snow. I was a few steps up from the traverse when a barrage of ice bounced down and whistled by on either side of me. Looking up I could see that as Tim and Greg climbed diagonally right across the cliff, they were d
islodging ice and snow from the holds. I was directly in the fall-line, and as I watched another volley came down. Time to move away from here, I thought.
The only safe place to be was on the right-hand edge of the Couloir. There the snow proved to be deep and unstable, and it was slow and tiring work plugging knee-deep steps. The looseness of the snow kept me very much aware of the danger of the slope avalanching from beneath me. Almost an hour later I gained enough height to move safely back to the solid snow in the middle of the Couloir.
“Lincoln!” Andy shouted from a short way up the Yellow Band. “I’ve broken a crampon. Can you ask the others to drop me a rope?”
From where he stood the others would not hear his cry. Since I was in sight of them I relayed his request. No reply. I yelled again.
“Not possible,” came back the answer from Greg. “He’s too far below us.”
Our rope was thirty metres long and Tim, who had the rope, was more than twice that distance above Andy.
“No go, Andy,” I called. “You’ll have to manage on your own.”
Tim emerged on the skyline, the difficulties beneath him now. A wave of triumph swept through me. Tim was still a long way from the summit, but I knew he would reach it. During the years we had climbed together his stamina and determination carried him through the toughest situations. Nothing would turn him back now. The only questions were how long it would take, and which of us would stand up there with him.
I checked my watch. It was two-thirty. In two and a half hours I had made the long traverse and climbed up a little under two hundred metres. There was not enough oxygen in my system to allow me to climb and think at the same time. I covered a few more metres to where I could kick good steps in which to rest and let my mind struggle with the calculations of how long it would take to reach the summit, 500-odd metres above, at my present speed. To my crippled brain the simple sums were as complex as Einstein’s algebra. The answer came eventually and remained the same when I checked it. Six hours. That would put me on the summit an hour after dark. Frostbite would be a certainly on the descent, and the prospect of that was too awful to consider. The only other option was to descend. Now? Or higher up from somewhere which would still allow me to reach the tent before dark? I stared at the obstacle of the Yellow Band. Climbing that would be okay but descending alone, exhausted, would be unjustifiably dangerous. The safe way to come down this cliff was to abseil, and with only one rope between the four of us, we would all have to descend together. If I climbed up now I would have to wait till the others descended, probably in the dark. That alternative spelt frostbite as well.
White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest Page 16