by Lincoln Hall
I heard another voice and turned to see Marco Astori, the second Italian, approaching us at twice our speed. The demeanor of both Sherpas changed to one of welcome. Marco had seen that I could walk unsupported but must also have noticed how badly ravaged I had been by the mountain. I said nothing, sticking to my instructions. Marco offered the Sherpas his oxygen cylinder, which was almost empty and which he was no longer using. They said that they had enough oxygen for me but I did not want it. Marco walked on.
I had desperately wanted to call out to him, but the attitude of Roby when he had stormed down the First Step made me fear that Marco, too, might choose not to get involved. Certainly he did not give that impression, but if I spoke out and he rejected my claims, I feared that once he was out of our sight, I would be beaten again.
I was prepared to take what I had to in order to stay alive, but it would have been so easy for the young Sherpa to overplay his hand with the ice axe. I felt sure that he had no comprehension of how deeply exhausted I was. He treated me as if I was lazy and therefore not worthy of respect, whereas I was holding myself together by a thread so fine that it made a spider’s web look like a tugboat’s towline.
As Marco disappeared from view, I regretted my silence. If we encountered anyone else, I decided I would throw those lowly misère cards down on the snow and let fate decide the final hand.
I began to trudge through the snow again, thinking that the Sherpas must now be confident that I was their tool. As we walked, they demanded various things from me as a reward for my rescue. We talked about money, we talked about cameras, and we talked about not saying a word to anybody. I said yes to everything.
There was a new buoyancy in their step as they chatted to one another. It seemed to me that we had entered a new phase, and I wondered whether they were enjoying the calmness before my death or merely the exploitation. I preferred that it not be both.
Of course, I had no money. I only had the empty pack they had brought with them so that I could carry my oxygen equipment. Anything they could get from me would be in the form of promises, promises I would not keep. Death had been trailing me for too many hours now for me to get excited about it, but I did not want to give these men the opportunity to take others to the point of death in order to exploit them.
Ahead of us, I could see the crest of the ridge, where a number of people were gathered. This was the point where the long traverse of the Northeast Ridge finishes and the fixed rope leads down the Exit Cracks and through mixed rock and snow to High Camp. Judging by their size, the Sherpas—they could only be Sherpas—appeared to be still 200 yards away. Fifty yards ahead, the North Face bulged slightly, obscuring all but the final section of the traverse to the rappel point.
If I could make it past the bulge before my two Sherpas attacked me again, I would be close enough to shout for help. The only problem with this plan was that my voice had been reduced to a hoarse whisper. I burned with frustration, but at that moment a figure began approaching us purposefully. I hurried, and as a result, I stumbled and fell to the downhill side of the slope. I was only too aware of the huge drop beneath me. The young Sherpa approached me, and I feared that he might unclip me from the rope and dispatch me with his boot. Instead, he repeated his chorus, “Get up. Go fast.”
Safety was within my grasp. The man striding toward us was too close for them to abuse me anymore. He spoke to me directly. “Why are you so slow? Very fast when we climb to summit, but now too slow.”
It was Lakcha, and I could not have been more pleased. He was strong and forthright, straight down the line. I was still on the snow and I waited until he was right next to me. As I moved to stand up, I made a sudden grab for my ice axe, and the element of surprise allowed me to snatch it from the young Sherpa.
“Naramro manche ho! Janne, janne!”
Bad men! Let’s go!
I attempted to leap to my feet but in the process tripped over the fixed rope and fell backward. My mountaineering boots, with the sharp crampons that had wounded Pemba accidentally, were now in the position to wound with a purpose, plus I had the ice axe. I clambered to my feet and hurried across the slope, with Lakcha at my heels. I was worried that either one of us would be axed in the back, until I remembered that I had the axe.
“Chito! Chito!” Quickly! Quickly!
This time it was Lakcha urging me on. I was not sure if he believed that the danger I conveyed was real, but he certainly knew that I was in such bad shape that I needed to lose height quickly. There were rocks among the snow, so I had to watch where I was putting my feet as I ran. It was the slowest running I had ever done in my life but by far the most exhausting. I looked up to find that we had reached the rounded snowy crest at the top of the Exit Cracks. There were four or five Sherpas waiting, exuding a completely different ambience. They were obviously pleased, not so much because of where they were but because my arrival meant that all of us could now descend to safety. However, the burst of energy that had allowed me to escape had been completely spent, to the point where I could do nothing but sit at the top of the fixed ropes. All the Sherpas were encouraging me to start down the ropes, but it was only when my two “companions” appeared that I was motivated to move.
THERE WAS NOW SAFETY in numbers. Lakcha led the way at a fast pace, and because it was downhill, I thought I would be able to keep up. All too soon I began to flag. The Sherpas who had been spread out above me were now directly behind me. Lakcha reduced his speed. It did not occur to me that all these Sherpas were here because that morning I had needed rescuing. Most of them were already on the mountain to retrieve all the 7Summits-Club equipment from the upper two camps, and the only reason they had climbed up from High Camp to the crest of the ridge above the Exit Cracks was because Alex wanted them to be at that place for my rescue. And they were in good spirits, even after the long climb, because they had seen that this was no longer a rescue but an assisted descent, which required virtually no effort from them.
From the Exit Cracks, the fixed rope led more or less straight down the slope, which meant that my progress was governed by gravity. And while gravity helped, the fact that the mountainside was not very steep meant I could keep most of my weight on my feet, which was much easier on my frostbitten hands. The steepest terrain was in the first thousand feet from the Exit Cracks.
After we came down through the cliffs, there were still boulders and rocky obstacles. I found it very hard to balance, partly because soft snow had built up around the boulders, obscuring some of them completely so that I was never quite sure whether any given footstep would be firm or soft and deep. The hardest part for me was clipping my carabiner past the anchors because I had to bend down, which meant I then had to raise the weight of my upper body again. That had never been an effort for me in the past, and this showed me how weak I had become.
While still on the rocky section, I tripped over the fixed rope twice. The second time was more dramatic, as I tumbled over a three-foot drop, slipped down another slab, and slammed into Lakcha. Luckily, I hit him with my shoulder and not with my crampons. However, I had managed to land on my back, and the soft snow made it impossible for me to right myself. Even though I was upside down, I enjoyed the rest. Two Sherpas pulled me upright and I was on my way again, but not before the Sherpa behind me clipped a short rope to the back of my harness so that he could prevent me from falling forward if I slipped. All of us were wearing down suits with the hoods pulled over our heads. I was the only one not wearing goggles or sunglasses, so I found it very hard to recognize anyone. But Lakcha’s gold tooth was unmistakable. Among the people above me were my tormentors, but nothing was said by them.
The descent of a big mountain always seems endless, but with Everest it was like descending three mountains at once. The first mountain brought us down to High Camp. At 27,000 feet, the camp was less than 600 feet below the Northeast Ridge, but the short rappels and the snow-covered rock conspired to draw out the process, and once again hallucinations came into play.
I was no longer in fear of my life, but I was still aware of the dangers. The steep terrain had demanded concentration, and I was now beginning to feel how much energy that mental focus had taken from me. High Camp was the beginning of the long snow slopes, which demanded focus on balance and awareness of the terrain underfoot. In places there was only a thin layer of snow covering the rocks, a combination which required extra care. Such ground looked deceptively straightforward, and with the added danger of long distances between anchor points on the fixed rope, a slip could have had very serious consequences.
It was a beautiful afternoon and I was aware of it. I was severely dehydrated and running on empty, and yet I could look beyond my desperate state to the magnificence around me. There was a trap in this because the beauty made the place feel benign—which was a long way from the truth.
The second of the three mountains was from High Camp to Camp Two at 25,000 feet. Again, long snow slopes allowed relatively fast decreases in altitude, but there was a mix of steeper, rocky ground which slowed me down, partly because my oxygen mask made it difficult for me to see where I was placing my feet. This had been an issue every time I pulled the mask over my face, but now that I was impossibly tired, the obstructed view had become more of a nuisance.
The five or six Sherpas who had come down from the Exit Cracks with me had stopped at both High Camp and Camp Two to strip them of gear and tents. Their loads were heavy, and their occasional playful comments became less common. A more serious mood existed, as we were all aware that we had to get down to the North Col before dark. There remained a very long way to go.
The last of the three mountains was from Camp Two to the North Col—a long and tiresome descent of 2,300 vertical feet down the snow-covered North Ridge.
The change in energy among us added a somber tone to the descent. My mind again became vulnerable to hallucinations but nothing as otherworldly as the mountainside village, the bearded man, or my journey with the cloak. The boat and the airplane were products of my mind’s attempts to find familiarity and security in an incomprehensibly dangerous situation—in other words, a fantasy world.
But now my hallucinations bordered on paranoia. The beating and abuse I had suffered below the First Step triggered in me a perception that the Sherpas had split into two rival groups. The Sherpas who had beaten me had gathered allies, and they were aligned against Lakcha and his team, who were with me. A competition was to be held at the North Col, with fatal consequences for the losers. I was the catalyst, but as a Westerner, I was immune and the dispute was now between Sherpa and Sherpa. As we descended, I found examples of booby traps at anchor points, as well as delaying tactics and sabotage. At last I had to stop and beg for mercy, that the competition must be abandoned and the animosity must be dissolved. Perhaps some resentment had built up toward me because I had slowed down the entire group, and I had tuned in to that emotion. But now that I had spoken to them all, with great passion and distress, about the pointlessness of the plotting and the needless violence, the atmosphere changed completely. It must have been obvious to all the Sherpas that my rantings were pure craziness, the kind that led to climbers jumping off mountaintops. The mood of animosity that I had sensed, which may not have existed for anyone but me, evaporated.
I now felt free to air my other grievance, one that had roots in fact. I spoke of privileged Westerners and how embarrassed and ashamed I was when I saw foreign climbers treating Sherpas as servants. If these mountains belonged to anyone, I said, they belonged to the Sherpas and the Tibetans who lived here, to the people who respected the mountains and their spirits through their prayer flags and pujas. Then I sat in the snow and cried.
I would never have made the speech about disrespect had both my mind and my emotions not been at the cracking point, now that I was close to the end of my ordeal. I had bottled up my reactions to the examples I had seen during my two months here, burning inside at the implied superiority demonstrated by a few Western clients—only a few, but enough to taint the water and make Sherpas close their hearts. There was guilt there, as well, because of my own privileged position.
THE SUN WAS BEGINNING to set, turning the entire mountain a pale pink. I watched the shadow overtake us, watched it chase the tinted snow up the slope, the intensity of the color growing as it rose. The edge of the shadow pushed the pink snow upward, compressing it, finally squeezing a whole mountainside of color onto the glowing red of the summit. Small wonder that we wanted to climb to those sacred places.
Darkness came quickly now, exaggerated by my every action being slow. We had reached the final, easy-angled section of the snow slope leading down to the North Col. I could manage only fifty yards at a time. I was torn between resting while I stood to save myself from the effort of standing up again and sitting in the snow because it took the load off my legs. The radio was crackling, and it was in the hands of the silent partner to my abuse. But that seemed past us now. Alex was calling, demanding that we hurry. He did not want me out after dark.
I asked for the radio and pressed the talk button. “Alex, it’s Lincoln. I’m okay but very tired. The Sherpas are making me move as fast as I can. So don’t blame them.”
“The important thing is that you are alive,” he replied.
This seemed too obvious to state, but Russians often have their own way of looking at things. At that moment, of course, I did not appreciate the subtext.
We kept plodding down the hill. Darkness was upon us for the last hundred yards. I had been dreading the final section into camp. The lowest dip of the North Col harbored no tents, as it was consistently a very windy spot. Tonight we were spared that indignity, but another awaited me. From that low point I began an exhausting climb of fifteen vertical feet up a gentle slope. Because it was uphill, I had to rest after every few steps, but all my rests were standing ones. Much as I wanted to collapse in the snow, I felt I owed it to the Sherpas to remain upright, now that we were so close to the camp. At last I reached the crest and the first of the tents, but I still had to trudge the last hundred feet to the 7Summits-Club camp.
As I pulled up outside the mess tent, now an improvised hospital, I felt incredibly hot. Hands began to remove my oxygen set, my pack, my crampons, and my harness. I wanted to stay outside; I wanted to lie down on the snow to cool down before going into the stuffy tent.
I struggled vigorously against the hands that drew me inward, but there were too many of them and I was carried inside. Two of the card tables had been taped together to create a makeshift bed. A mattress had been placed on top and I was made to lie there. Immediately, I stopped struggling.
Perhaps it is not so hot in here after all, I thought, now that the stove in the vestibule is turned off. Perhaps I was suffering the last, most dangerous stages of hypothermia.
As I lay there, Andrey quickly checked my pulse and blood pressure. I begged for a drink but was allowed only a few sips at a time—a cruel gift in my severely dehydrated state.
The Sherpas helped me slide into a sleeping bag and then laid me down again. An oxygen mask was placed on my face, and I snuggled in to make the most of the opportunity to relax. Before I understood what was happening, straps were laid across the table and I was tied in place.
Andrey had been talking to the Sherpas and no doubt had heard about my crazy stories. There was no way he was going to let me escape into the night, wandering off the lip of a cornice, muttering to myself that it was too hot inside.
BACK AT MY JOB in Australia, I had worked with Norbert Gilewsky, a man born in Germany who was in charge of scanning the photographic transparencies for every issue of Outdoor Australia. Norbert’s father had been in Stalingrad during the Second World War, where—on the last day of hostilities—his shoulder had been blown apart by a mortar. For the rest of his life, Herr Gilewksy had not cursed his misfortune but had thanked his lucky stars. He had frequently declared to Norbert that he had “dem Teufel von der Schüppe springen”—leaped from the devil’s spade, the spade that dug the
graves.
And now I, too, had survived the last day of hostilities. I had leaped from the devil’s spade. Compared with where I had been and what I had been through, and even though I was still at 23,000 feet, the descent from the North Col would be like a walk in the park.
Twenty-one
RUNNING ON EMPTY
THE NEXT MORNING, the low roar of the gas stove in the outer section of the tent masked the background noise. As I woke more fully, I became aware that the outer vestibule was busy with Sherpas coming in for cups of tea and whatever was available to eat. I attempted to turn and look behind me, but I was still strapped to the metal tables. The entire camp was to be packed up today, which meant everyone would be busy, so I just lay there until some Sherpas came in to collect bags of food that needed to be carried down. At my request, they undid the straps and I was able to roll onto my side. After a night on my back unable to move, it was a pleasure to change my body position.
More Sherpas came in to gather more stuff. Not wanting to create further obstructions, I just lay there and let them empty the place. Someone handed me a lukewarm cup of tea, which was like an elixir. Andrey had only allowed me to have small sips from the bottom of an almost empty cup, as apparently this was the best way to deal with the severe dehydration from which I was suffering. The entire time I felt desperately thirsty and my throat was constantly dry.
I sat up and carefully wriggled out of my sleeping bag so that I would not tip the tables, then I found my boots underneath. I could get my feet into my boots, but because my fingers were frostbitten, I was unable to do up the laces. I shuffled outside and watched the Sherpas assembling enormous loads. Everything had to be carried down—tents, sleeping bags, collapsible stools, food, stoves, and the big gas canisters—and I was sure no one wanted to make two trips.
I went into the tent in which I had slept on the way up, to check for any belongings I may have left behind. There were a few items of mine and a pair of fleece trousers that belonged to Mike. My approach was thorough and I was thinking quite clearly, so I felt that I would be able to manage the day. I left the tent and decided I should have something to eat and drink, but all the kitchen gear had been cleaned and packed away. My last proper meal had been breakfast here at the North Col on the morning of May 23. It was now May 27. In the last sixty hours I had eaten nothing but two sports gel sachets. Maybe Andrey had fed me something the previous night, but I really could not remember. The worst thing about the kitchen being packed up was that there was absolutely no water.