Dead Lucky

by Lincoln Hall

  The next morning I felt both better and worse. Solid sleep had recharged my batteries, and my mind seemed clearer. I could comprehend my condition more clearly, but the news was not good. My frostbite did not concern me too much because Andrey had taken it in hand, and I knew that the treatment began with months of waiting. It was dehydration that was driving me crazy. Andrey had given me a good reason why I should take only small sips of liquid at well-spaced intervals, but I could not remember what that reason was.

  Kevin arrived with some dried fruit that Barbara had prepared for me at home, as well as some sports gels and CocoChia bars—all booty from my tent. Although he had brought them for me, I felt strangely possessive about them. He laid them all out on the tent floor beside me, praising them like a salesman, but I did not want to eat anything because my throat was too dry.

  Alex came into the tent and announced that he had arranged a yak for me to ride down the glacier. My plan had always been to walk all the way back to Base Camp, and I did not want to listen to Andrey’s plan.

  I interrupted because I needed to talk to him about the Sherpas attacking me. I asked Kevin to leave the tent.

  “Look, sorry, mate,” I said. “This is something very personal—I just want to talk to Alex.”

  I began to explain but then made a suggestion. “Maybe Sergey should be here,” I said to Alex. “This is something very sensitive to your business, and his English is very good.”

  “My English is good enough,” Alex replied, and he asked Sergey to leave the tent as well. I started to explain my encounter with the two Sherpas below the First Step, but I hadn’t reached even the first signs of the intimidation when someone called for Alex through the door. Alex excused himself, and I lay there waiting. When he returned, he announced that my yak was ready for me. This was an announcement I certainly was not ready for.

  “But I want to walk.”

  “You cannot walk,” said Andrey, who had come into the tent with Alex. “You also have frostbite on your foot, so to walk would make bad.”

  I sighed inwardly but accepted the logic.

  “Now we make ready for you one yak,” said Alex. “We will bring you outside.”

  That brought to a close any possibility of a discussion that day about my confrontations with the Sherpas.

  I HAD NEVER RIDDEN a yak and was not looking forward to the experience. My steed was a medium-sized black beast sporting a good pair of horns and a typical wooden cargo-saddle. This had been modified for human transport by having a thin foam mattress lashed to it. Because my frostbitten fingers were bandaged for protection and it was feared that I would not be able to hold on, I was lashed to the saddle as well. I was not enthusiastic about this approach because I would be in serious trouble if the yak slipped. On the glacier were sections of steep ice, covered in rocks, down which a yak could easily tumble. If this happened while I was tied to the animal, I might as well have stayed on the top of Everest.

  Accompanying me were two Tibetan yakpas and Andrey, as well as three other yaks carrying my two big dry-bag duffels, along with barrels of rubbish and some tents. The saddle was uncomfortable, but the rhythm of the stride of the yak as it walked was more tolerable than the motion of the camels I had ridden in Rajasthan. I felt out of place as I rode down the hill away from Advance Base Camp. I was a walker, not a rider.

  The Tibetan yakpa had no English or Nepali, but he was fluent in sign language. Before we hit dangerous ground, he gave me a lesson in yak-riding. The principles were the same as riding a motorbike. It was all to do with leaning the right way. The difference was that bikers leaned into the corners, while yak-riders leaned parallel to the hills. When heading up a steep hill, I was to lean forward toward the yak’s head, as this would make it less likely for the animal to tumble over backward. When descending a steep slope, I was to lean backward to make it easier for the yak to balance. The concept was to keep the center of gravity in a useful place and to trust the beast between my knees.

  Soon I tuned into the plus side of being a passenger. I did not have to concern myself with where I was going to put my next step or whether I was going to tackle the upcoming hill fast or slow. I did not have to think about anything at all. The animal’s long black hair absorbed the heat, and I could enjoy its warmth on my face as I leaned forward, while on the downhills I could take in the view without having to watch my step.

  Fourteen miles was a long way to go on the back of a yak, and five or six hours in the saddle was a long time. It was a strange mix of sufferance and comfort, and I pondered how that theme exists throughout life. Philosophy from the Back of a Yak, Lesson One. There were a few times when I was seriously frightened as we headed down long steep slopes. But fear was like a well-worn pair of jeans to me now.

  Despite the wooden saddle chafing my backside, the second half of the journey went quickly. As I drifted into a reverie, my mind freewheeled with an open sense of well-being. As we descended to the lower East Rongbuk valley, I admired the steep craggy peaks with their dramatic rock pinnacles and deep canyons. The rugged and challenging landscape elicited different emotions from me than those of the giant icy mountains I was putting behind me. There were no jet-stream winds, no avalanches, no life-snatching blizzards, and no frostbite to threaten me here. The rocky peaks had their own storms, certainly bleak and inhospitable but not deadly. The rugged, snowless landscape was reassuring, almost welcoming.

  Of course, all mountain landscapes are immutable and emotionless. There is a purity that exists in the absence of life there, and perhaps it is to make that beauty a part of ourselves that we climb mountains. Looking from afar is not enough. As climbers, we need to sacrifice our comfort, our safety, and arguably our sanity, as a tithe to the mountain. But no matter what homage we pay, we are the losers, spurned in love. A summit reached can be a one-night stand, big on experience but empty of meaning—except to our egos. We need the mountains, but the mountains do not need us. After the summit, I had taken a drubbing—fingers, toes, my voice, and my ego, all sacrificed. There was no longer the obstacle of ambition, and any possibility of the conceit of conquest was vanquished. Although Everest was behind me, at last there was simply me and the beauty of the mountain.

  Twenty-two

  TOUCHDOWN

  THE FRIENDSHIP BRIDGE IS the perfect border-crossing between Tibet and Nepal. Upstream lies the huge gorge that splits the Himalayan range. Downstream lies a lesser gorge, one filled by a seething torrent that smashes against the vertical walls and huge boulders rounded to perfect smoothness by a million years of pounding water. The river begins as snowmelt from the countless Himalayan glaciers that drain from Tibet.

  No fences are necessary where the Bhote Kosi River emerges from the upper gorge. The roar of the river is a constant reminder that the bridge is the only route between the two countries.

  Late on the evening of May 29, after a long drive from Base Camp, Andrey and I arrived at Zhangmu, the noise of the river beneath us.

  THAT MORNING I HAD awoken in the hospital tent at Base Camp. The extra oxygen in the air 4,000 feet below Advance Base Camp had knocked me out like a sleeping draught. Andrey had put morphine in my drip as a backup. The last thing he wanted was for me to revert to one of my fantasy worlds and to walk off to Poland in the night, looking for Barbara. As I lay there, in the morning silence of the deserted Base Camp, an unexpected figure stepped through the door flap.

  “Hello, Russell,” I said.

  “So you know who I am?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s fantastic. After what you’ve been through, I wondered if you’d ever be the same again.”

  There was no guarantee that I would be. I had yet to assess the damage.

  “Look, I’ve just checked in to see how you are. I’m leaving for Tingri with the Sherpas straightaway. I’ve got a storage place there and the guys have got to sort all the gear, and then we’ll head to Zhangmu. Let’s make sure we catch up there.”

  “Sounds great.
Thanks for dropping by.” That phrase again, but at least this time I knew exactly who I was talking to and why.

  We had a quick breakfast, and it was not long before Andrey and I were standing next to the battered Landcruiser that was to take us to Zhangmu. There was nothing for me to pack because my belongings were already en route to my next of kin. All I had to do was say my good-byes to Harry, Milan, and Kevin, to Alex, Luda and Maxim, to the two Sergeys, and to the kitchen crew. Everyone except the kitchen staff, both Tibetan and Nepalese, I expected to meet again in Kathmandu. I had set aside some useful items to give as presents to these hard-working men, who received none of the kudos of the climbing Sherpas. Unfortunately, everything of mine, except for the clothes I had worn on the mountain, had already arrived in Kathmandu. Sincere thanks had to be enough.

  The Sherpas were pulling down tents and packing gear, but Pemba took time out and wandered over. I had not seen him since he had left me at 28,000 feet. No doubt he wondered what I now thought, given that the last time he had seen me he had left me as dead. I gave him a huge hug, only then realizing how short he was. He had always appeared much larger than that. There was nothing to say except thank you, as he now knew that everything he had done with me and for me had been for the good.

  I looked around for the other Sherpas, but the Tibetan driver was already in the Landcruiser, revving the engine. Andrey sat in the front, while I stretched out in the back.

  We rattled across the vast flat to the beginning of the road, and we picked up speed as we drove through the shantytown of tents that I had never bothered to explore. I looked back, but the rear window was covered in dust, and what little visibility remained was obscured by the dust churned up by our wheels. I knew that a short way down the valley there were curves in the road where I would be able to see the great mountain. I wound down the window in preparation, and although we were now far away, when the mountain came into view, it looked larger. The close-up views from Advance Base Camp showed only one flank, and from Base Camp, Changtse hid sixty percent of Everest. While on the mountain, I had found the scale incomprehensible. Although the vehicle was already full of dust, the driver insisted I wind up my window.

  I had nothing much to say, as I seemed to have learned how to disregard time, which meant there was no need to fill in the silences. On the summit of Everest, I had been aware of the elusive nature of time but only because I had a finite amount in which to complete my quest. Now, on the dusty back seat of the Landcruiser, the passing of time was irrelevant. Its only measure was the discomfort announced by my stripped-down body. At extreme altitudes, there is not enough fuel to keep the body operating. By my third trip to the North Col and back, all my fat reserves had been metabolized. My muscles had wasted away as well. Other natural processes had gone haywire through the lack of necessary enzymes, hormones, and other metabolic processes. It was not surprising that my body ached, and yet the most intrusive injury was the raw patches on my buttocks from the wooden yak saddle. As the hours passed, my discomfort became less of an issue. I was warm, I was traveling, and there was an ever-changing scene at the window. The monotony that had been a feature of our journey to Base Camp now no longer existed. It was almost a shock to arrive at Nyalam because I had been in a state of observing and not ticking off milestones.

  We wound down into the Bhote Kosi gorge and began the long sequence of switchbacks that led down toward Zhangmu. The most spectacular aspect of this part of the journey was not the huge gorge with its imposing cliffs—rugged terrain had surrounded us for two months and was no longer anything special. What was different now was the greenery. The flanks of the gorge were cloaked in jungle. We had left behind a world where life was represented by weather-beaten mountaineers, Tibetans, and Sherpas, and supply trains of yaks. There were also birds, deer, and rodents, although these were rarely seen. But now the overwhelming impression was that plants had taken over the world, and it was a hugely welcoming transformation.

  It was a strange feeling to be driving into Zhangmu. Only the one road zigzagged down through the town, but it was sealed and all the buildings were made of bricks or concrete. The road was two lanes wide, but there was usually traffic only in one direction at a time because one side of the street was taken up by parked trucks. Of course, there were suicide drivers who drove uphill against the trucks heading down into Nepal with loads of Chinese manufactured goods. Power lines were everywhere, and there were dozens of stores selling the bargains to be found at any border town. Massages were available, with the option of happy endings.

  Andrey knew which hotel to go to, just across the road from where we had stayed two months ago. We bumped into Russell and agreed to meet for dinner. In our room I lay down on the bed in my filthy dust-covered clothes, only to be woken an hour later by Andrey, who said, “Now is time for dinner.”

  I had been so deeply asleep that at first I had no idea where I was, but Andrey was such an unforgettable character that I soon snapped back into our current project, which was to have dinner with Russell. Project was the best word to describe the way I was dealing with each segment of life at that moment.

  Dinner was good. Russell was sitting with fifteen Sherpas in a restaurant where he was obviously well known to the proprietors. He brought a lot of customers to the business, and they loved him for it. They loved Andrey and me as well. It was strange to be sitting in a proper restaurant again, surrounded by people I didn’t know. The three of us sat together, with Andrey saying very little. We had arrived late, and soon the Sherpas had finished eating and headed off to do whatever they did at the end of another hard but successful expedition.

  Our food came quickly, and as we ate, Russell talked about how my plight had been perceived. I was stunned to learn that I had been battling against the Sherpas who were with me when I was stricken with cerebral edema.

  “You’ve got to know this, mate,” he said. “This is what they’re saying. The Sherpas know that people go crazy up there; that’s just how it is.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “It was heartbreaking to listen to it on the radio,” he said. Then he went on to say that I had been calling them black bastards. This was unbelievable and I could only suspect that the Sherpas who had bullied me had spread that rumor. I would have to find the Sherpas when they arrived in Kathmandu and hear the facts from all of them.

  Andrey abruptly excused himself and disappeared into the street. Russell took the opportunity to talk about David Sharp. Russell himself had not become aware of David Sharp’s existence until 9:30 A.M. on May 15, because none of his Himex climbing team had realized in the very early hours of the morning that Sharp was alive—or, rather, that he was in the process of dying. It was when the Himex team descended from the summit in daylight that some of the climbers realized David was alive. Attempts were made to rouse him, but he was obviously very close to death. Members of the Turkish expedition also had to give up their attempts to resuscitate him. Most climbers who came down past David assumed from his appearance that he was dead.

  All the Himex climbers had departed from Base Camp over a week ahead of Russell, and during that time the press had descended upon them. Mark Inglis, who as a double-amputee was among the least able to perform a rescue, was pilloried by the media because he initially believed he had seen David alive in the depth of the night. However, the climbers directly in front of and behind Mark have confirmed that they did not see David until their descent in daylight. Mark was a victim of high-altitude confusion. For him the climb of Everest was not only a personal goal but also a way to raise both funds and awareness for Cambodian amputees. He achieved his goal of the summit but suffered severe frostbite as the price.

  Russell found himself under fire as the leader of one of the two expeditions on the mountain at the time when David Sharp was dying. In fact, it was Russell who had made it his business to establish the identity of the climber, a search that led him to the camp of Dave Watson, who realized the description matched that of
his friend David Sharp. Ang Tshering Sherpa of Asian Trekking, who had organized the logistics for several small teams and some independent climbers under the one permit, was able to provide David Sharp’s details. Russell rang Sharp’s parents and promised that, en route to Chamonix, he would stop in London to give them David’s belongings, as well as film footage of his last day.

  I realized that this course of action was typical of Russell’s thoroughness. Everything that Russell said on the matter made sense to me. Although I was deeply exhausted, the extra oxygen at 8,000 feet allowed me to process information better. We talked late into the night, stopping only because the hot water was to be turned off in the hotel at midnight. I desperately needed a shower, not only to wash away the grime but also as a kind of ritual cleansing that would signify the end of my ordeal.

  THE EVENTS OF the morning began with a rush. It was still very early when we arrived at the same restaurant for breakfast, but most of Russell’s Sherpas were finishing up and heading out the door. Russell was hunched over a pile of papers, no doubt manifests for taking mountaineering gear back into Nepal.

  The service was again fast, which was something new to me in Chinese territory, and Andrey and I ate quickly as well. Russell arranged for a young Tibetan man who spoke good English to lead us to the front of the line at the immigration post 200 yards down the street. Because of my frostbite and because Andrey was my doctor, we were the first people to be allowed through when the office opened. My pack was only half full, and Andrey’s was not much more. His belongings and all the medical equipment would follow in a day or two, on a truck from Base Camp. A black Chinese jeep awaited us, and we drove down the street a few hundred yards, to where the road had been destroyed by a landslide. There appeared to be no real danger, but we had to walk across this section, which included another few hundred yards of undamaged road that zigzagged down the hill toward the Bhote Kosi River and the bridge.