Dead Lucky

by Lincoln Hall

  As soon as I stepped out of my tent, I was surprised by the amount of snow that had fallen, more than double the quantity of the evening before. It was very unusual for spring and much more like a winter fall. On my way to the mess tent, I poked my head in the kitchen and greeted the crew in Nepali, and they beamed back at me. Such greetings were easy, and while I managed to converse in the language, I did it very poorly, with inappropriate verb forms and messy sentence structures. Sherpas and Tibetans have their own distinct languages, so they don’t worry about others speaking bad Nepali.

  Breakfast was a leisurely affair, largely because the weather did not favor any kind of outdoor activity. The cooks produced a huge variety of food and drink for breakfast, and I marveled at the range available on what was a relatively low-budget expedition. Alex had obviously discovered the economic benefits of buying in bulk. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, with many of the climbers happy to sit there indefinitely, talking and joking.

  My priority for the morning was to catch up with my diary. I knew that as soon as the weather lifted, life would get busy, not just with sorting gear and meetings about procedures and logistics but also with the mountain itself. I needed to finish writing about the last two weeks so that I could put the past behind me and give my full attention to being here at Base Camp.

  When I had eaten enough, I returned to my tent and jotted down details, filling in some blank days from early in the trip. Then I set about organizing my tent properly by dividing it into zones. My sleeping zone ran down the middle, with my feet at the door. On my right side, next to where my head would be when I was lying on my back, were my books, notebooks, and cameras—my creative zone. Also on my right was a sports bag for clothes and a big nylon drawstring bag for bulky garments, like my fleece bib-and-brace and jackets. My weatherproof Gore-Tex gear was near the door, so that if it suddenly got cold while I was wandering around camp, I could just reach inside the tent and grab what I needed. To my left were my snacks, of which I had quite a lot. As a vegetarian, I was not sure how well I would fare in the mess tent. I had chocolate, sports bars and gels, plus suckable sweets to soothe my throat, which I knew would be made raw by the constant gasping of freezing oxygen-thin air. Barbara had helped me dry all kinds of fresh fruit. Next to the food were two plastic boxes containing my Pharmanex nutritional supplements, the best quality I could get. The rest of the left side housed my toiletries, a second empty bag ready for dirty clothes, my daypack, and finally, by the door, my footwear. I love the simplicity of having a tent to myself because I can really make myself comfortable.

  When I emerged from my tent, I noticed that the huge dome that Harry had brought specifically for the two film teams was being set up, but nothing much seemed to be happening. At first I thought it was a case of too many cooks—there were three people in Harry’s team, plus Richard, Christopher, Mike, and several Sherpas—but as I approached and became involved, I realized the problem was more fundamental. Whatever we tried to do, the tent fly appeared to be too small. Sherpas are always keen to get a job done, and a few poles were bent as we tried to bully the fly into place. Harry had wandered off but now reappeared with another tent fly. He told us that the tent fly that we had been struggling with was designed for suspension from inside the frame, so that the tent could be pitched as a single-skinned weatherproof tent. What Harry now brought was a larger fly that was meant to go over the top of the frame. The correct fly slipped into place easily. Our timing proved to be perfect. As lunchtime was announced by the clanging of the oxygen cylinder, snow began to fall more heavily.

  The wind picked up strongly during the afternoon and not just at ground level. I was writing my diary when the yellow glow inside my tent—instantly followed by an increase in temperature—told me that the sun was now shining. At the same instant Mike called out to me.

  “Lincoln, the clouds are gone, so we’ll be able to see the mountain.”

  “I’ll be right out,” I replied, but I was caught up with the thoughts I was scribbling. It was half an hour before I stepped outside, cozily protected from the bitter wind by my down jacket.

  The heavy clouds we had been under for days had now been swept from the sky. Our base camp was in a location that offered no view of Mount Everest. In one sense it was good that the mountain was invisible. It was as though we were assembled in a teacher-free classroom, where we did not have to worry about what punishment might be meted out to us. Some of our team had walked a few hundred feet beyond the limits of our extensive camp back toward the road-head to a point where they could see the great peak. I thought it more useful, in terms of fitness and acclimatization, to clamber up the steep moraine wall directly above our camp.

  Climbers from other teams were tackling the slope as well, so I followed what was already a well-trodden trail in the snow. I quickly realized the trail had been established by Sherpas, as there were several cables, one of them thicker than my thumb, lying beside the track in the snow. I presumed these were for radio-phone communications.

  When I reached what proved to be a false crest, there was still no view of Everest. However, I was startled to see a small but deep lake of perfectly clear water. I was even more surprised when I realized that what I had taken to be a thick cable running to Base Camp was, in fact, a hose that supplied it with water. I wondered what other creature comforts this huge Russian expedition might be holding in store.

  Beyond the spot where the hose had been placed in the lake, I followed fresh tracks that led to the true crest of the moraine wall. As I approached, half a dozen figures were silhouetted against the majestic backdrop of Everest. After two days of gloomy skies, the colors and the clarity seemed surreal. I snapped a few photos, then plodded up to where everyone stood. Someone was hunched over a substantial tripod, and I realized immediately who it was.

  “Fantastic view, Mike.”

  “Hi, Lincoln,” Mike said as he turned and beamed up at me. “It’s looking better all the time.”

  “Where are Richard and Christopher?” I asked.

  “They came up as soon as the skies cleared,” he said, “but they didn’t put on much in the way of extra clothes, so they went down as soon as they’d taken some photos. I got some footage of them as well.”

  “There’ll be plenty of other times to look at the mountain.”

  Mike nodded but said nothing.

  I stood staring at the mountainscape. I had spent countless hours staring at Everest during our expedition in 1984—it is a sight that has no see-by date.

  “Bloody cold,” I muttered. “Makes you wonder why we even think about going up there, where it’s going to be twice as cold.”

  I looked away from Everest and down at the many expedition camps that took what shelter they could from the low moraine humps that formed the perimeter of the glacial flat. From where I stood, the effect was of a snow-covered sports ground surrounded by different teams with color-coded encampments. The flat expanse of snow was now dotted with people looking up toward me and beyond to the mountain, some of them walking away, having had their fill of Everest. Others walked in pairs, their random tracks telling me they were going nowhere in particular but just enjoying a late-afternoon stroll.

  My back was not only to the mountain but also to the wind. I felt warm and secure in my down jacket and thick fleece bib-and-brace. I was at peace among the mountains again, not looking out through fogged-up windows but standing shin-deep in snow with my hands thrust deep in my pockets. There was no sense of the hugeness of the task that faced us all—its discomforts, dangers, and uncertainties—though the fact that we were here implied all these things. Instead, as I slowly adopted the sharpening of focus and the concern with what really matters, I felt myself letting go of my questioning. The time had come for me to begin to listen to the environment and to renew my understanding of the parameters.

  THE NEXT MORNING there was not a cloud in the sky. Everything was covered in snow, and although the air was cold, it melted quickly. Refle
ctions from the intense white snow dazzled us and multiplied the melting power of the sun. Now that we were no longer crammed into our mess tents, we were no longer obliged to congregate only as the A- and B-TEAMS. Life became more social as we stood around chatting or sat in front of our tents, fiddling with gear.

  Richard and Christopher spent a lot of time in the film tent. They were busy setting up the solar panels they had brought to power their computer, satellite phone, and weather station. They also used the tent as storage space. Mike was often with them, both to organize the camera equipment and to film Christopher as he attacked the Sherpas with his inflatable kangaroo and crocodile, or as he adjusted the weather station which he had set up just outside the big dome. I spent time there as well, just chatting or helping with the wording of the Web dispatches, which Richard would then upload to Christopher’s website. We had a very stable satellite phone, not only for uploads but for phone calls as well.

  It was great to be able to talk to Barbara, Dylan, and Dorje, but it was also difficult. I wanted to hear how they were and what they were doing. I was happy to hear their voices, whatever they had to say. On the other hand, I knew that success on a big mountain depends on commitment and perseverance, and that there are times of great discomfort, danger, and emotional turmoil. Tough times could lead me to question what I was doing here—and it was only a small step from there to the desire for warmth and comfort and the need to be safely back at home with the family I loved. It was much harder to talk myself through such times of doubt when my loved ones were only a phone call away.

  On my first eight major expeditions, spread across fifteen years, we had sketchy radio communications at best; at worst, we had mail-runners—or nothing. By 1999 things had changed. In March that year I was a cameraman on the Australian-American expedition to Makalu, where we filmed a documentary about Michael Groom, Australia’s most accomplished high-altitude mountaineer at the time. After Michael and Dave Bridges had summited and were back at Base Camp, they were able to use the expedition’s satellite phone to ring home with the news. The arrival of such portable technology had dragged me away from the intense isolation that had once been a major characteristic of expeditions. The new generation of climbers is blind to such complete remoteness, as almost every team now has a satellite phone and, often, a live website.

  In October 1999 while I sat at my desk in Blackheath writing a newspaper column, I was stunned to receive an e-mail from a friend at Shishapangma Base Camp explaining that a few hours earlier Alex Lowe and my good friend Dave Bridges from our Makalu climb had disappeared beneath a huge avalanche, and that Conrad Anker, who had been with them, was definitely alive. The next day the deaths of Alex and Dave were confirmed on the American Ski Expedition website. It was bewildering to be sharing from the other side of the world the unfolding of the tragedy at the same time as those who were living it at Base Camp. The hope and horror of the avalanche hit me right there at my desk. This time around, on Everest, the members and organizers of our expedition had five different websites among them. I had been dragged into the seemingly innocent world of mountaineering websites.

  WHEN VIEWED FROM the Tibetan Base Camp, the initial section of the climbing route is obscured, with only the upper reaches of the North Ridge visible above the foreground mass of Changtse’s peak. The unmistakable asymmetrical triangle of Mount Everest towers behind, with its West Ridge cutting down to the right at an angle of forty-five degrees. The Northeast Ridge drops to the left at a much gentler angle. Access to this ridge is via the North Ridge, a broad snow spur that rises from the North Col. Climbers reach the crest of the Northeast Ridge at 27,900 feet, with only a little more than a thousand feet of height to gain before they can stand on the world’s highest point. The catch is that the horizontal distance to the summit is more than a mile. There are no quick dashes to the top on this route, and this is what makes summit day so dangerous.

  The low angle of the highest sections of the Northeast Ridge belies the difficulty of the climbing, as both sides of the ridge are steep. Only in a few places is it possible to walk along the crest. The rest of the time climbers traverse downward-sloping ledges on the North Face, often with loose rock underfoot. Each ledge finishes at a sheer drop or simply merges into the smooth slabs of the face. Climbers gain height by clambering from one sloping shelf up to the next. Usually this is a matter of straightforward rock-scrambling, but there are a few tricky sections where technical climbing skills are necessary. Those without the skills pull up on the fixed rope, which runs all the way to the summit of the mountain. However, this is a dangerous technique because the cord— which is only one-third of an inch in diameter—is sure to be seriously weakened in places. The damage is done by rockfalls or abrasion, or by a careless mountaineer puncturing a rope that is lying on the snow with the sharp point of an ice axe or crampon. The anchoring devices that attach the rope to the mountainside can loosen with time, which means they can pull out under a climber’s body weight. Some ropes are old and have not been checked in years. Caution is required on all fixed ropes, and experienced climbers keep as much weight on their feet as they can in order to lessen the load on the rope.

  The most intimidating obstacles of the entire climb are encountered on the upper section of the Northeast Ridge. They are three in number, each of them steep cliffs, which have the unpoetic names of the First, Second, and Third Steps. Prosaic names are not surprising, as there is not much scope for poetry at extreme heights. A more likely mental state is the hallucinatory one that comes when the mind rebels against exhaustion and lack of oxygen. At the roof of the world, the absurdities of an illusory state can be easier for the mind to accept than the logic of deadly reality.

  The First and the Third Steps offer few challenges apart from sheer effort, but every climber who tackles the route approaches the Second Step with trepidation. Many climbers turn back here, and of those who continue onward to a summit which lies beyond their limits, the Second Step is often where they retreat to. For those who really have gone too far, this is where they can expect to die.

  Above the Second Step, the ridge seems to broaden. In fact, it remains narrow but feels wider because there are fewer boulders, buttresses, and cornices cluttering the crest. Climbers heading for the summit along the ridge have the unbelievably precipitous Kangshung Face to their left and the steeply sloping North Face to their right. The lack of obstacles along the crest only makes the sheer drop on each side more obvious and the climbers more frightened. By this stage, climbers are either fired up to reach the summit or coming to terms with having bitten off more than they can chew. Two options remain for those who are struggling. Death is one. The other is retreat. The tragedy is that by this stage many climbers no longer have the capacity to make a choice.

  I know these details because my life has been linked to Everest for over twenty years. My work as a trekking guide has taken me to the Nepalese Base Camp many times, and three times to the Tibetan side. I have climbed lesser peaks in the region which has Everest as an ever-present backdrop. Trekkers always ask me about Everest, about my 1984 climb and why we didn’t use oxygen, and about how I felt about not reaching the summit. They ask my opinions on topics such as rubbish on the mountain, the deadly 1996 season, and how dangerous it really is. None has an easy explanation.

  I am particularly knowledgeable about the North Ridge route because of the book I wrote in 2004 about my longtime friend Sue Fear. Sue was the second Australian woman to climb Mount Everest and the first to climb it from Tibet. Sue used to stop by Singapore for a few days or a week on her way to an expedition to the Karakoram or the Himalaya. During those few visits I taped thirty hours of interviews, which covered every aspect of Sue’s Everest climb. I needed from her as clear a picture as I could get of the climbing route so that I could write about it as accurately and convincingly as possible. I kept asking questions until I could visualize each camp and each obstacle. It helped that I had hiked up the East Rongbuk Glacier approach to Ever
est a few months after Sue had reached the summit. Now I was about to discover how close my descriptions in our book had been to the truth.

  Eight

  EAST RONGBUK

  ON THE MORNING that the A-Team were getting ready to head up to Intermediate Camp on an acclimatization hike, I entertained myself by watching Slate pack what he thought was necessary for a few days up the valley. The hike to Advance Base Camp and back would take three days, so with tents, sleeping bags, and the catering already set up at the camps, not much gear was needed.

  Most intriguing among his gear was a black Darth Vader-like mask that Slate had constructed all by himself.

  “So, you’re intending to blast off into space from the summit, are you?”

  “May the force be with me.”

  We got along very well. I never had to explain my bad jokes and I always nodded politely at his. He was very proud of his construction, so I did not criticize it any further.

  “You know how I was really ill back at Nyalam with that cough?” he asked. “This will help me keep it under control.”

  “But how?”

  “The beaklike thing is a heat-exchange breath-warmer.”

  “Like the Norwegians have?” I had been intrigued by the strange cigarette-packet-sized objects the Norwegians had been shoving into their mouths. “The ones they’ve got are white.”