Descent, then. Retreat without the prize. The others would take it for me—for us—and that was enough. Or almost enough. There were too many things to worry about for me to waste time contemplating the disappointment which would come later, and the envy I would feel because Tim, Greg and Andy managed what I could not.
Before heading down I decided I would stagger up the last few metres to the rock of the Yellow Band. I could manage only half a dozen steps at a time before I was forced to stop and gasp for breath. Any more than that and I burst into a coughing fit which almost suffocated me. There was no way I could climb faster than this. There was no way I could climb to the summit and return unscathed. Go down while you are still ahead, I told myself. The summit was not everything. Survival was.
I turned around to admire the view, and to lock it into my memory. Eight thousand, three hundred metres of air and earth beneath me. Clouds and mountains cluttered the small kingdom of Nepal. The brown hills of Tibet stretched for eternity to the north. Here and there a distant, snow-capped peak emphasised the enormity of the land. Over the top of Changtse I could make out the hollow which held Advance Base, and further down the valley—twenty kilometres away—was Base Camp. Strange to think of the others there waiting for news. Should I radio? I should, but it seemed too much effort to take the radio from my pack.
My daydreaming was interrupted by the familiar and frightening whirl of ice ricocheting down the gully above me. Cricket-ball-sized pieces of ice flew past me on the way to the bottom of the Face. It was time to be gone.
Once I had traversed across the left side of the Couloir I shouted to Andy that I was going down. There was a pause. I guessed he was summoning the breath to make a reply.
“Okay,” he yelled back.
The others were out of sight. I decided to cross at this height then drop straight down to the tent so that I would get a good view of Andy, Tim and Greg, and be able to peer over the North Ridge into the East Rongbuk. After fifty metres I was forced to change my plan, as the snow was dangerously unstable, waiting for an excuse to avalanche. Quickly I descended until I could cut back across into my ascent tracks. From there it was simply a matter of following my footsteps down, but even that was hard work in the thin air.
Back at the tent I shrugged my pack from my shoulders and sat on it. It was four o’clock. Looking up I could see that Andy had just reached the top of the Yellow Band. Tim and Greg did not seem to be far ahead of him. I radioed Camp I, sure that they would be eager for news. Through the huge telephoto of Mike’s 16 mm camera they had watched my descent and would also be able to follow the others on their way to the summit. I talked to Geof who had recovered completely from his cerebral oedema.
“Only a catastrophe will stop Tim getting to the top,” I said. “And hopefully the others will make it too. But it’s so hard and the descent will be torture. I found it exhausting enough to descend the few hundred metres I climbed.”
The angle of the sun made it difficult for me to see, so I relied on events being relayed to me via radio from Camp I. Later I listened to Tim’s impressions of the climbing through the Yellow Band which he recorded with his miniature tape-recorder. His speech was prefaced by tremendous gasps for breath.
“… It almost seems impossible that we can go further. We’ve just climbed out of the Great Couloir in a very, ah, unusual way … not that it’s been done very often … but I suppose the need to get into the sun, more than anything else, forced us to choose this route—very, very steep for this altitude and very broken.
“At one point I thought I was going to fall, and a fall there would mean, well, you’d go to the bottom of the Face. Then above there was some quite loose slabs. Now we’re hopefully above the difficult ground … we’ve just got those 1500 feet to go.
“You do six steps and you’re totally exhausted … Breath just can’t come out any faster. Your whole being is just absorbed in the task of breathing.
“It’s a beautiful day, a perfect day. Not a breath of wind, a little bit of high cloud. I suppose it’s getting on in the day … must be about three o’clock. Plenty of puffy clouds all over Nepal, 1500 feet to go and it’s three o’clock—can we make it in time? Who knows … watching the sun, since my watch is covered up by clothing, the sun is the only way of telling. Anyway, that’s the ‘real’ time.”
He burst into a fit of coughing and switched off the recorder.
Meanwhile back at Camp IV, I sat absorbed in the view as the radio crackled with the noise of conversation between Geof at Camp I and Simon at Advance Base.
Suddenly above me I spotted a bird, then another one. Within moments, soaring together on the updraft was a flock of a dozen or more.
Excitedly I grabbed the radio to tell whoever was listening.
“It’s amazing! There’s a dozen choughs up here. At twenty-seven thousand feet! Amazing!”
Perhaps below they thought I was hallucinating and no doubt found my excitement unexpected. But for me to see other creatures so jubilantly alive at this incredible altitude was proof of the worth of being in such an inhospitable environment.
I decided to make the tent more comfortable by building up the snow under the floor until it was level. That kept me busy for a couple of hours. Occasionally I would ask for progress reports over the radio. Everyone’s speed had decreased markedly, but they continued to struggle on towards the summit. I began to worry. Even if they turned back now a large part of their descent to me in Camp IV would be in the dark.
There was nothing to be done but let the time pass. Geof had asked me to collect some rock samples for him from the Yellow Band. I was on my way to do so when an unexpected gust of wind picked up the tent. The rope-guys held it to the slope but for one horrific moment I imagined it breaking free and being blown across Tibet. Frail shelter though it was, its slight protection and the sleeping bags inside meant the difference between living and dying. In a panic I hurried back as quickly as the steep terrain would allow. I pegged it out more securely and crawled inside.
“Sorry about your rocks, Geof,” I radioed. “But I have to stay inside to stop the tent blowing away.” There was no need to add that none of us would get down if the tent with our sleeping bags disappeared.
Geof agreed that I had my priorities right, and told me that up near the summit the figure in front seemed to have stopped moving.
“Mind you they are only tiny dots, even through Mike’s giant lens, so it’s hard to know what’s going on.”
It turned out that Tim had stopped to wait for Greg, catch his breath and record more of what was happening. Again, as he tried to slow down his gasping for breath so that he could speak, he would lose control and cough violently. Each fit ended with frantic gulps for the oxygen he had been deprived of while he coughed. At last he was able to talk.
“This … is going to be … the hardest day of my life … physically … and mentally … The summit is somewhere up there … How far? I’m not quite sure … but the sun is sinking fast and we’ve got to make it before sunset otherwise … we’ll miss out on the view … and we won’t be able to do any filming for Mr Hill either, will we? Greg is about … oh, … 400 yards behind me, … and Andy’s coming up too, it seems … From time to time we catch a glimpse of him.
“The view up here is absolutely just incredible. It’s hard to believe I’m near the top of Mt Everest … Two to four steps and you’re exhausted … but couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day … the odd gust comes through … which, of course, is cold … but it’s just perfect compared to what it has been.”
His speech was interrupted by another fit of coughing and he turned off his machine. At 7.45 p.m. Tim and Greg reached the West Ridge. A couple of apparently insignificant rock bands had given more involved climbing than planned and that had slowed them down. But now the North Face had been climbed. The final snow slope to the summit took another half an hour. Just on sunset, shortly after eight o’clock, Greg and Tim stood on top of the world. I could not see
them, but a jubilant Geof radioed from Camp I three thousand metres below.
“They’re on the top! I can see two figures on the top!”
We had done it. Three years of planning, three months of climbing. Tears of anguish and joy; fears of death and of a more harmless failure. And so much more besides.
For Tim and Greg it was too soon for elation. That would come after the descent. The immediate feeling was of immense relief. The “up” was over. For a few minutes the top of the world was theirs. And for the first time I felt a twinge of disappointment that the events of this one vital day had made my share in the success so much less. Until now everything had been equal between us—the fear, the cold, the exhaustion, the magnificence of the mountains, the intense satisfaction of living and working together. All of us had known the same joy, the same suffering. But now the summit divided us into two categories: Tim, Greg and Andy who had proved themselves equal to the challenge, and Geof and I who had been beaten back. The summit was ours, the expedition combined had won it, but more particularly it was Tim’s and Greg’s, and very soon it would be Andy’s as well.
The summit of Everest was such a special place that every action seemed steeped in ceremony. Greg held up an Australian republican flag, a Wilderness Society banner, and a Buddhist prayer flag, all tied to a string, while Tim took a photograph in the last of the light. Tim switched on his tape-recorder to capture the culmination of all our struggles. His attempts to speak were frustrated by coughs and the need to concentrate fully on breathing. Eventually he was able to say a few words on each out-breath and so gasp enough air to speak coherently.
“Well, this is the summit of Mt Everest … Qomolangma … Mother Goddess of the Earth. It’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen … and I’d like to thank everyone involved in making this expedition successful. Firstly, my parents for giving me an organic upbringing … Hello Dad, I didn’t think I’d see you here … and everyone else on the expedition who couldn’t make it here this evening—our success is due to them as much as anyone else. And Narayan and Tenzing for looking after us so well down at Camp I and at Advance Base. And, of course, there’s all the sponsors of the expedition … I’d like to thank Sam Chisholm for believing we could do it.
“Everest … probably one of the wildest places on earth, yet I know at this moment there’s four other expeditions attempting to climb the mountain … The world’s getting a small place. In Australia, we are lucky enough to have lots of space, and many beautiful wilderness areas … but I wish Australians would take care of their natural heritage. There are places right at this very moment that are threatened by despoliation and for no real, long-term reason. Places like South-West Tasmania, Cape Tribulation. These are very valuable parts of our natural heritage and will be considered even more valuable by future generations. If there is one thing that makes Australia Australian then it’s the landscape, and I think every Australian should respect their landscape.
“The sun has set on every other peak apart from Everest, and it’s just about to set on us. We’ve got a long way to go down tonight, but hopefully it’s going to be okay … going down a different way … we’ll avoid the steep rock band which we climbed this morning … took so long … we’ll have a short abseil to do near the end. That’s going to be interesting ’cos we don’t have much in the way of anchors to anchor the rope … anyway, we’ll sort that one out when we get to it …
“Doesn’t look like Andy’s going to make it. He wasn’t very far behind … maybe half an hour or so. It’s very hard to believe this is the summit of Everest, but it must be because as I said before there isn’t any sun anywhere else … Once again I’d like to thank everyone else on the expedition who couldn’t make it here this evening, for helping get us here, and our success is every bit theirs.
“The world is absolutely staggeringly beautiful from up here. In fact, it’s beyond superlatives. It seems so stupid that there are people out there engaged in contemplating things like nuclear war and I feel ashamed, as an Australian, that Australia has a part in the nuclear fuel cycle. A country such as Australia endowed with so many natural resources should devote more of its time to researching things like solar power, and certainly shouldn’t endeavour to get a petty amount of money from selling a product like uranium. One thing’s for sure … if there ever is a nuclear war … then Everest will certainly remain the wilderness that is.”
He paused for breath, then added, perhaps as an afterthought, “I’m sorry you couldn’t make it up here Lincoln … but I know you’re here in spirit.”
Geof’s announcement of the success sent a wave of triumph through the whole expedition which was reflected in the excited chatter on the radio between Camp I and Advance Base.
I interrupted to ask about Andy, and Geof replied.
“He’s right on the West Ridge. That puts him about fifty vertical metres below the summit. From here it looks so bloody close. He seems to have stopped … it looks as though he may have turned back … but the light is really bad; it’s hard to tell …”
That is what happened. Andy had stopped to repair his broken crampon and had dropped further behind Tim and Greg. The ground immediately beneath his high point would be dangerous to descend at night, and as darkness fell he turned back. He was temptingly close to the summit but his priority was to survive.
Tim and Greg began their descent after twenty minutes on the top. They soon reached Andy who had slipped, stopped his fall, and sat recovering his strength. With only one headtorch between them they needed to stay close together. It was a dangerous time. Darkness and exhaustion exaggerated the already considerable difficulties. Instead of descending the route they had climbed, they came down the obvious continuation of the Couloir above the rock band, which would have been the best way up had the bottom thirty metres not been prohibitively steep. The steepness was not a problem on the way down because they could abseil. The only difficulty was in finding an anchor which was strong enough to hold someone’s weight as he abseiled down the rope. In the end they buried one of the aluminium stiffening bars from Greg’s pack in the slope and tied the rope to that.
Meanwhile, back at Camp IV, I waited. Both billies were full of water and simmering on the stoves. There was nothing more for me to do but relax and try not to worry. The weather report from Howard was as dismal as usual, so as usual I ignored it. At half past eleven I looked outside and saw, still above the abseil point, a lonely pinprick of light—their headlamp.
With great relief I radioed Howard. It was little news, but it ended our directionless speculation. It would be a few hours yet before they arrived back. I turned off the stoves and lay back to doze.
Some time later Tim called out. My immediate thought was that they needed help, but he was just establishing contact. I lay in my sleeping bag watching the candle burn down. The stub was all I could offer when, three hours later, Greg called out for light. He needed to work out where on the slope the tent was pitched. The candle was so far gone that it burnt itself out as I held it up to the slightly open door. It would have to do. I lit the stoves in preparation for their arrival.
Greg was first. I unzipped the door and he collapsed into the tent and lay sprawled across my legs.
“The others are okay?” I asked nervously as he lay there panting.
“… Yeah …”
I hugged him and wept.
For a few minutes he could say nothing.
“It was hard … so hard.”
“But you did it, you clever bastards!”
“Yeah … But what happened to you?”
I shrugged, “Too much of a body whip for a sane man like me.”
Tim arrived next, so I hugged him as well. There was no need for words, emotion was enough.
And at last Andy staggered down absolutely exhausted. He could not find the breath to speak.
Tim spoke for him. “Andy’s got frostbite …”
The mountain had taken its price.
I took off And
y’s gloves and looked at his fingers. The tips of all but his right-hand thumb felt wooden. The tissue was frozen, and thus destroyed. Some regeneration would occur, but at this stage it was impossible to judge the severity of the damage. Certainly we had no idea of the grim eventuality; a few months later parts of all his fingers would be surgically removed.
The issue at the moment was to decide the best treatment. It was not possible for us to lower him down or even hold him in balance with a rope, simply because the only rope we had carried up to this height had been unavoidably left behind on the abseil down the Yellow Band. Consequently Andy would have to climb down. During the return from the summit he had continually used his ice-axe so his hands were frozen into appropriately shaped “claws”. His hands would have to remain frozen until he had made the 2000-metre descent to the glacier. If his fingers thawed now they would be unusable, and his attempts to climb down would increase the damage and probably result in further frostbite. It was so cold in the tent that keeping Andy’s hands frozen was a simple matter of leaving them ungloved at the mouth of his sleeping bag. I radioed Camp I with the suggestion that Geof climb up to Camp II to meet us. It was unlikely we would be able to descend further than that on our first day.
White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest Page 17