“Hello,” I said to the receptionist. “I know it’s a disaster area, but please, please, please, can you find me a room? I don’t mind where, I don’t care if it’s the conference room…anywhere I can sleep.”
“We’ve got a room for you sir; not a problem.”
I could have hugged her.
She gave me a key card and I headed to my room – not my tent, not my coffin, my room. I pushed the key card into the door and opened it.
It was like going from the ridiculous to the sublime. I stood in the doorway, not quite able to believe my eyes. If somebody had told me this room existed in a city that had just been struck by a natural disaster, I probably would have laughed.
We had heard rumours of a water crisis in Kathmandu. But this room had air conditioning, an en suite bathroom with a lovely hot shower, a huge double bed, plasma TV, coffee-making facilities. It didn’t seem real.
I walked in tentatively, as if the whole thing were some dream. I half expected to wake up, shivering in my coffin at Base Camp, hearing the eerie screams of the physiotherapist.
I felt guilty, too… With all this devastation around me, with thousands of people dead in Kathmandu, being in this swanky hotel felt kind of wrong.
But there I was. So I dropped my rucksack on the floor, stripped off and jumped straight into the shower. I scrubbed every inch of my body, and washed my hair, twice, three times.
I felt vaguely human again, but then I realised I had absolutely nothing to wear except the smelly gear I had just taken off – not even a clean pair of underpants.
Reluctantly, I climbed back into the same old clothes, and went in search of food.
The receptionist told me the buffet downstairs was open. “It’s the only restaurant we have open, as we’re short on staff.”
Short on staff – the exact phrasing of this sentence sounded ominous.
As I walked down the stairs, it felt as if I was floating. It was so effortless after BC. My body, acclimatised for altitude, was now absorbing a huge amount of oxygen with every breath.
When I saw the buffet I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. The opulence of the spread actually struck me as quite outrageous. There were salads, pastas, hot and cold meats, noodles, fresh fruit, fish, roast pork…
I helped myself to a plate of food and sat down at a small table in the corner. My eyes proved bigger than my stomach, which must have shrunk from my time at high altitude. Altitude causes appetite loss; I practically had to force-feed myself at times at BC. I looked around at the people in the restaurant – almost exclusively Westerners – tucking into this food as though nothing had happened eight days ago.
I got chatting to a couple at the table next to mine. They were charity workers, just arrived to help distribute food up the valley to places devastated by the earthquake. Their presence in this expensive, lavish hotel seemed ironic to me – I found myself wondering how much of the charity pot was spent on their board and lodging. I was sure they were good people, trying to do the right thing, but they were just used to – and expected – their Western comforts.
After dinner, I went back to my room, stripped off and slept for what seemed like years.
* * * * *
I awoke the following morning with a throbbing headache. It seemed coming down from altitude was as bad as going up.
Where was I?
I opened bleary eyes and took in my surroundings. Realisation dawned on me delightedly – this was not BC.
I grabbed my phone from where it had been charging (what a luxury – no flaky solar power!). I had emailed Vicky, updating her on my whereabouts in Kathmandu and begging her to find me a flight out. I rang her to see how it was going.
“I’ve got you a flight tomorrow,” she said.
I was almost speechless.
“Tomorrow? Tomorrow as in Tuesday?”
“Yes! Tuesday, tomorrow!”
“You’re an absolute saint! I cannot believe it. I just… Thank you so much!”
“I’ve got you on a Qatar flight. You fly to Doha and then back to the UK – you’ve got an eight-hour stopover,” she said.
“That’s brilliant! Amazing. Thank you so much.”
I couldn’t stop thanking her. I was overjoyed to be going home so quickly.
After the call, I still couldn’t quite believe it; I was now truly desperate to get home. The Hyatt was very comfortable, but I had no reason to be there any more, no motivation and no goal. I just wanted to go home to my daughters.
I also felt out of sorts. My mouth was very dry, I kept sipping water constantly, and I was peeing like mad. My bladder felt full the entire time. My body clearly wasn’t coping particularly well with the readjustment to a lower altitude. I thought you only suffered on the way up, but it appears that coming down too quickly also screws you up, though, fortunately, without any risk of brain embolisms!
I wandered outside, down the Hyatt’s long drive and across the cracked road to the supermarket, to pick up some fresh clothes, and some small gifts for Steph and Lizzie. Housed in a large, modern concrete building with four floors, it was not obviously damaged by the earthquake, although, as I entered, I noticed a giant crack running through the middle of the broad central staircase.
In England, the shop would have been classified as unsafe, and closed – but here, they just got on with it. Security had been upped, with a security guard on each floor – I imagine there was huge concern about looters.
I grabbed some new underpants, socks and a t-shirt, and then found a silk scarf and a handbag each for Steph and Lizzie.
I spent the evening in the hotel bar with Hilary, who was already back. It was nice to see a friendly face, and it wasn’t as bad as I had feared to be discussing all our recent adventures once more.
* * * * *
The following day, I was terribly nervous that, somehow, I wouldn’t be on the flight list. I was convinced something would go wrong and I’d be stranded in Nepal – it all felt too quick and too good to be true.
I walked into the airport with my stomach in knots. I was sure there would be some sort of problem; some reason I couldn’t get home to see my girls.
Even after I was checked in, with my ticket in my hand and a huge flood of relief surging through me, even once I was sitting in the plane, ready for take off, still I felt a strange fear that I wouldn’t be able to leave – that some higher power might prevent the plane from flying, or have me thrown off it.
But, finally, we were airborne… I was away.
I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes, drifting off to sleep for I don’t know how long.
“Would you like anything to drink, sir?”
I opened my eyes and looked up at the sweetly smiling face of an air hostess, neatly dressed but with her hat slightly askew.
“What have you got?”
Epilogue: to the summit
It was November 2015 and I could feel the sweat on my palms; I was nauseous with concentration. All around me was still, but my head was spinning, and everything was topsy-turvy inside. I had to decide: next year or the one after. You see, the Nepalese government had agreed we could use our permits again for the following two years – so, in 2016 or 2017.
Earlier in the year 22 people had died, I had narrowly escaped death, and here I was thinking about going again. I could go in 2016, or in 2017, or, of course, not go at all. But what if I became ill again and couldn’t go in 2017? It would be better to go now. But then I might die earlier, so maybe I should have another precious year with Steph and Lizzie… Round and round my thoughts went chasing each other.
I also wondered if being at EBC again, going through the whole process again, would bring back all the emotions from the 2015 experience. How would I feel? Would I arrive at EBC and immediately want to leave because of all the bad memories? There are deeper emotional reaches of the brain
, which, when touched, can react so strongly that it becomes very difficult to keep a hold on reason. Given what I had witnessed in 2015, there was every chance that being back at Base Camp would trigger things in me I might not be able to control. So I just didn’t know if I should go.
Oh man, I just needed to make a damned decision. I emailed my good mate Damien:“Ho, Damien. Any good ideas?”
“Wow mate, I am very jealous, I cannot go this year – no cash – but try the Nepalese Asian Trekking expedition guys. They are very good, and Dawa Stephens, their head man, is half-Belgian, half-Sherpa.”
I rang this company and spoke to Dawa. He seemed a very straightforward guy. They had a place on the expedition and he was happy to take me, so I signed up. Crikey, this was it; I was off again.
I headed out at the start of April 2016, checking in at the Yak and Yeti in Kathmandu – a great hotel, within walking distance of Thamel, the tourist area where all the climbing shops are.
Two days later we flew to Lukla, then trekked up the Khumbu Valley. The team was a good mixed bunch: Polish, Australian, Danish, Belgian, Indian, French, Welsh, myself – and Dr Nima, our expedition leader, a Sherpa and a qualified doctor – a great combination.
I made good friends with Christof, one of the Belgians. He was back for the third attempt. Another guy was back for his fourth attempt. This gave me some comfort in my moments of doubt. If they were coming back yet again, then surely I could manage it.
We arrived at EBC. It was bloody freezing, and I really, truly wasn’t looking forward to my first night in the “coffin” tent. “The tents are down there – help yourself; pick any one,” said a Sherpa. I wandered down and picked the one at the end close to the WC – I never want to be too far away when the need arises and it’s 3am and -15˚C; that’s one of the most miserable experiences in the world.
I crawled into the tent and, surprise, surprise, it was slightly bigger than last year. It was still a two-man coffin tent but slightly wider in the middle AND with a solar-powered light hanging from the tent wires in the middle – wow! Believe me, when facing six weeks sleeping in that coffin, even these slight improvements were a huge boost for my morale.
On the first night, I hung back in the mess tent as long as I could and, at around 11pm, I wandered down the hill to my coffin for the first time. It was eerily still, and I could see moonlight bouncing off the seracs across the glacial river running next to EBC. As it flickered spookily, I wondered about those lost souls from last year. Were they still here, seeking eternal rest? Were they waiting to welcome us into their unique club perhaps?
I crawled into my coffin, slid the Nalgene bottles into my sleeping bag, took off my thick thermal trousers and jacket and slipped into my bag – bloody hell, it was cold. My head, with its beanie hat, was pushing against one end of the tent and my feet the other. I lay there for a long time, staring at the plumes of steam coming out of my mouth with every breath; this was going to be an interesting night…
The next thing I knew somebody was banging the tent. “Jules, come on, it’s breakfast!“ It was Christof. That was the first night at EBC done, and I felt far better.
The Nepalese expeditions don’t use Lobuche, they acclimatise on Everest. Fantastic – we would be on the big mountain straight away. I was really excited when, after 10 days at EBC, we got the call to make our first rotation up Everest herself. I remembered with vivid clarity the Icefall from last year, and how I had almost made it to the football pitch. Would I be able to get past it this time?
We rose at 1am. It was freezing cold, pitch black and every fibre in my body was tingling nervously; this was it. I had to empty my bowels. After bolting down some grub in the mess tent, I was off. I trudged through the icy wastes, the light from my head torch flickering against the glistening snow, towards the SPCC tent and the foot of the Icefall.
I arrived, fastened on my crampons, clipped in the jumar and up, up, up I went. The sun was now rising and I could see the full beauty of the majestic Khumbu Valley below me. The excitement was incomparable, along with my mad panting for oxygen – Jeepers, the air is so thin up there.
On and on I climbed, now in full daylight and out of breath. I turned a corner and stopped. Two of the guys with me had chest infections and could go no further. They decided to go back, but I wanted to carry on – so Tahar, Lakpa (one of the Sherpas) and I carried on. I was desperate to reach the football pitch.
We carried on climbing for another 45 minutes up one side of a crevasse and down the other, up another and down the other side. It felt as if we just weren’t getting any higher. The sun was now beating down on the bottom of the Icefall. I was ready to go on, but with the sun melting the ice, the decision was taken to turn back. We were just short of the elusive football pitch again.
A week later I did another rotation and made it to Camp 1 – that was really hard. The last part of the Icefall is a 12-metre vertical wall of solid ice, and you have to haul yourself up. Then it’s another half kilometre across the valley to Camp 1. I was absolutely shattered on arrival, and wondered how I was ever going to get any higher. We stayed at Camp 1 overnight, then returned to EBC.
With every rotation it got easier, so now the Icefall felt like a gruelling assault course rather than the end of the world, but I knew I could do it in about three and a half hours, so I timed everything, hoping to improve each time. I also counted the number of steps between each breath. It was generally four breaths for every step – not exactly quick going – and I was one of the faster ones.
Then, a week later, it was Camp 2, with two nights’ rest and a climb to Camp 3 for a cup of Her Maj’s finest before descending to Camp 2 for the night, and then back to Base Camp.
Finally, it was time for the real thing. Four of us were chosen by Dr Nima to make the first assault on the summit. There was a clear weather window of three days for us to get from EBC to the summit and back down to Camp 2 before the weather closed in. The air is so thin that helicopters cannot fly above Camp 2, so any mistake above Camp 2, and you stay where you fall in the snow for eternity.
I started my assault on the summit on Wednesday 11 May at 1am. And I reached it on Friday 13 May 2016 at 9.49am, spending a blissful 30 minutes above the clouds on the summit of the world.
For those 30 minutes I was the highest mountain in the world.
Pictures
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Aftershock: One Man's Quest and the Quake on Everest Page 22