The relief was only momentary. As soon as he pushed off with his hands he started going too fast. He was on the verge of losing control, of taking an 8,000-foot ride all the way down the Kangshung Face. He frantically dug in with everything he had: his heels, his buttocks, his elbows, his free hand, his ice axe. One second, two, three … he was still sliding and accelerating … four, five … then he slowed and stopped. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, the pulse knocking in his temples. He was gasping for air and felt like he was suffocating.
It took a full five minutes for his nerves and breathing to calm. He was downslope from David's footprints, so now he tentatively started traversing over and back onto the track, still on his buns. He moved with all the deliberation he could muster.
Remember, there are no unimportant steps. Remember, there are no unimportant steps. Remember …
What just before he had guessed would take five minutes to get down was stretched to forty.
For God's sake, he said to himself, don't foul up now.
During this time Breashears was himself exhausted. He felt he had enough reserve to get himself down, but certainly not enough to drag or carry Dick. He sat at the bottom watching Dick, motioning him to hurry.
This is the easy part, Breashears thought. Dick can slide here. But what's going to happen when we have to climb down those rocks? At this rate, he'll never make it.
The possibility hit him like a blow from a closed fist.
What will I tell his family, Breashears thought. And his friends. Everybody at Snowbird. It's not like he's just any climber. He's a close friend. Even more than that. I’m the one who pushed to get him on this permit. I’m the one who pushed him to climb from camp two directly to camp four. The Norwegians were always telling me I was pushing him too far. And that's how everybody will see it. That's how it will be when I get down. Everybody will say, David Breashears killed Dick Bass.
The thought echoed in his mind: David Breashears killed Dick Bass. David Breashears killed Dick Bass. David Breashears …
Wait a minute, Breashears thought. He's my responsibility: I have to get him down. If he quits moving altogether, I’ll dig a snowcave. We'll crawl into that.
He paused, then thought, No, it's been too cold at night to survive that. He'd never make it. But I can't leave him. I could never do that—so that settles it. There's only one choice; I’ll stay with him. It's the only way. If one dies, we both die.
Breashears looked up. It seemed like it was taking forever for Dick to reach him. He checked his watch; it was 1:30. They had now been climbing for eleven and a half hours with only short breaks and essentially no food and little water.
It's all closing in, Breashears thought. Dick's age, his lack of experience, his lack of acclimatization, his lack of oxygen.
Then Breashears remembered the oxygen bottle they had left behind that morning. That might be the answer.
Dick finally made it to where Breashears waited.
“We've got to get to that other oxygen bottle,” Breashears said. “It's three or four hundred yards further. Can you make it?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there's no choice. So you've got to keep moving. Even if it's only ten feet at a time. You've got to. Either you do it, or …”
Breashears was about to say, Or you'll never see your family again. But he checked himself, deciding to hold that one as the trump card. He would play it only when Dick was on his hands and knees….
“So let's get going,” Breashears said.
“Okay, but I just remembered I have some juice left in my water bottle.”
That was good news. Breashears pulled the bottle from Dick's pack. There were a few ounces of fluid flavored with Dick's powdered energy drink. Breashears knew the sugar might give Dick a boost. Dick took a couple of swigs, and stood up.
“That seems to help a lot,” Dick said.
“Remember, the goal is the oxygen bottle. Focus on it.”
Again, Breashears went first in order to lure Dick downward. Dick would make ten feet, twenty, then stop. Breashears looked down the slope. There was the oxygen bottle, about 200 feet away.
But was it their bottle? He remembered the Norwegians had left a few empties in the area, and the possibility occurred to him that Ang Phurba, in his panic about going snow blind, had picked up the partially full bottle for himself.
Breashears quickened his pace toward the bottle. As he got closer, he tried to discern if it was the type of bottle he and Dick had been using, or the kind the Norwegians had brought. He got a little closer, craned his neck, and saw it was the one Dick had used early that morning.
Breashears looked up and saw Dick was still coming, but very slowly. Breashears took his pack off and sat on it. He was exhausted. He simply didn't have the strength to carry the partially full bottle up to Dick.
He's going to have to make it down here on his own, Breashears thought.
Dick leaned on his ice axe and lifted his head enough to see Breashears sitting next to the oxygen bottle. Breashears was about thirty feet away. Dick was now so exhausted, he wondered if he could make it that far.
Whatever I do, I can't sit down, he told himself. If I sit I’ll never get up.
There was no energy left in his body. He hadn't known it was possible to be so tired. He was beyond extreme fatigue. His legs felt wobbly, like they were made of rubber. He felt they would buckle under any moment. He felt like a drunk who had to concentrate with everything he had left, just to keep standing.
He could still think clearly, however, and he knew the oxygen bottle would save him.
Got to get to it. Got to get to the oxygen. So find the strength. Use my secret weapon. Positive thoughts.
He thought of the couplet he had learned so long ago in high school: “Ability and Brain and Brawn/all play a certain part/but there is nothing better than/to have a lighting heart.”
That's it! A fighting heart. A fighting heart, he repeated. There's nothing better than a fighting heart.
To strive, to seek … and not to yield. He repeated the lines two times, three times. Then he repeated his wife's message: Remember how much you have to come home to. I love you.
A fighting heart … Not to yield … I love you …
He made another step, breathed several times deeply, stepped, breathed more, stepped. He leaned down on his ice axe, panting deeply, fighting to remain standing.
Got to get to the oxygen bottle. Got to get to the oxygen bottle.
He lifted his head. There was Breashears, staring at him. There was the oxygen bottle. It was twenty feet away.
A fighting heart … Not to yield … I love you …
He lifted his boot, moved it forward, breathed, then lifted the other, breathed. He stood staring at Breashears, feeling his lungs heave in and out.
Now he began reciting Kipling's “If.”
“If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew …”
He made a step …
“To serve your turn long after they are gone …”
And another step …
“And so hold on when there is nothing in you …”
And another …
“Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”
And another.
Have to rest, he told himself. Have to rest. But don't sit down. You'll never stand up if you do. You've got to hang on. You can't quit. Can't quit. Can't quit …
So this is how Mrs. Schmatz died, he thought. Just like this. She couldn't go any further, and she just sat down. Now I understand.
He formed a mental picture of her lying half-submerged in the frozen snow.
You can't sit down. Can't sit down and end up like Mrs. Schmatz. This must be what it's like to drown, to be so tired there is no anxiety, just relief at letting go, to slip into sleep. No! Don't sleep! Stay awake!
He snapped his head up and looked toward Breashears.
There's David, next to the oxygen bottle. And there, in f
ront of him, who's that? Marty, of course. Now that I need her most. Ol’ Thunder Thighs, standing, smiling over her shoulder at me, not doubting me anymore, but believing in me, signaling me thumbs-up, to get my butt in gear and get over to that oxygen bottle.
Okay, you little split-tail, I’ll show you again I can do it. I’m coming.
Make a step, breathe several times, make a step.
We climbed this mountain together, Marty, and now we're gonna get down it together. You and me, the whole Seven Summits, just like we said we would.
So make a step, breath, breath, breath, make a step.
I’m making it, Marty.
Step, breath, breath, breath, step.
Marty! I’m here! We made it!
“You're incredible,” Breashears said. “Absolutely incredible. Sit down here in front of me, and I’ll strap these O’s on you.”
This oxygen's my salvation, Dick thought.
He sat with his back between Breashears’ legs. Breashears fastened the regulator on the tank, opened the valve to the high rate of four liters a minute, and handed the mask to Dick, who leaned back on Breashears and took two deep breaths while Breashears put his arms over Dick's shoulders and gave him a tight hug. A few more breaths and Dick sat up straight.
“I feel like Popeye popping a can of spinach.”
Then, in tune to the Popeye jingle, Dick yelled out, “Daa-Daaddle-de-daat-de daa!”
Dick couldn't believe what the oxygen was doing for him. More than any food or drink he ever had, it was giving him instant strength.
“It's starting to snow and could get heavy,” Breashears said. “So let's get out of here.”
Dick stood. He couldn't believe how much better he felt. He was far from his normal strength, but he knew he was strong enough to get down. He was going to make it after all, and the realization brought him close to tears.
“David, I just want you to know, I love you.”
“I feel the same about you,” Breashears said, grinning. “But before we get too sappy, let's get off this mountain.”
Breashears turned and started down the gully. Dick followed. They made big, steady strides. Soon they were onto the rocks they had climbed in the predawn over twelve hours earlier.
The visibility was very restricted.
“We're heading too far to the right,” Dick said. “We'll miss the Col and probably fall down the Southwest Face.”
Then, like divine intervention, a few minutes later the sleeting mist opened.
“You're right,” Breashears said. “Camp four is to the left.”
A little later the weather blew through and the sky cleared. It was now late afternoon and the slanting rays of the sun cast long shadows across the rocks. There was no wind, and it was quiet and beautiful. God's benediction, Dick thought.
Occasionally Breashears would look back and Dick, always close behind, would signal that everything was fine. They reached the final snow slope descending to the South Col. Looking down, they could see the tents and also a lone figure walking across the Col toward them. They recognized Ang Rita, and it looked like he was carrying something. When they got closer they could see it was a thermos and cups.
“Hot tea, sahib,” Ang Rita said, smiling widely.
They reached camp at 5:45, just before dark, with Dick a little behind, too tired even to disengage his oxygen cylinder, which had gone empty a half hour before. They had been climbing for nearly sixteen hours at altitudes above 26,200 feet. Ang Rita rummaged through the oxygen cylinders that littered the campsite until he found one with some residual gas. Dick and Breashears hooked on to it, but it ran out in an hour. They both had racking coughs, there was nothing left to eat, and they were too tired to care. It was a miserable restless night, but in the morning they both felt stronger and were able to break camp.
“Remember,” Breashears said as they started down the Lhotse Face, “don't let your guard down. Not until we reach base camp.”
They were now the only members of the expedition still on the mountain; all the others were in base camp waiting for them. They overnighted in camp 2, then next morning descended the Western Cwm, and, for the last time, the Icefall.
“Counting eighty-three, eighty-four, and this year, I’ve been through this mother ten times,” Dick said.
“This is number forty for me,” Breashears said.
It was noon when they walked out of the Icefall and knew without a doubt they were down safely. They stopped, shook hands, and hugged each other.
“I’ve got a bottle of Dom Perignon in my bag at base camp,” Breashears said, “that I’ve been saving for this.”
They climbed the last rise of a moraine that bordered base camp, and at the crest they were surprised to find the entire Norwegian team waiting for them. There were hugs and cheers all around.
“Did you get word out to Katmandu that we made it?” Dick wanted to know.
“As soon as you radioed us from the South Col,” the Norwegians answered.
I bet Frank was beside himself when he got the news, Dick thought. I wish I could have called him direct. But I will as soon as I get to Katmandu.
“Could you send another message home that we're safely back in base camp,” Dick asked, “and heading out tomorrow.”
They walked into base camp and Breashears went to his tent for the champagne.
“It took four expeditions,” Breashears said as he worked the cork off, “but you finally got it, Dick. Here's a toast to tenacity.”
“Actually, I figure that first try on Lou Whittaker's team was only practice because I never had any expectation of getting a chance at the summit then,” Dick said. “So it was really only three attempts. You see, I’ve got this thing. The third time works the charm.”
“Whatever it is, I just want you to know I’ve never seen anybody with so much determination.”
“Your compliment means a lot to me, David, but I’m not sure you would be so impressed if you knew the whole story. You see, there's something I’ve been keeping from you, and now that we're down I want to level with you.”
“About what?”
“Well, about how I got this bruise on my leg …”
Frank was in New York on a business trip when he got the news from Katmandu. It was 4:00 in the morning, but he immediately got on the phone to call everybody.
For a few rings I didn't get out of bed, but when the phone persisted I had that hollow feeling you get when you realize someone has something important to tell you at 1:00 A.M.
“Hello.”
“I just got news from Katmandu.”
Frank always had the habit of returning your “hello” not with another “Hi, this is Frank,” but instead by simply launching into the conversation, forcing you to quickly get your mind tuned to who it was and what he was saying. Because I had been expecting this call for the last couple of days, though, even in the middle of the night I instantly got my mental gears going.
There are only two possibilities, I thought. The news from Katmandu has to be that either Dick has made it, or something horrible has happened.
Frank's voice was two octaves above normal. My vague foreboding crystallized to a sharp fear.
“It's, it's Dick … Dick's …” Frank stammered, his voice now breaking. I felt the fear sweep over me, gripping my stomach.
“Dick's, he's, he's …” Frank's voice was now a high squeak.
“He's made it! He's climbed Everest! We've got the Seven Summits! And you, you lucky bastard, you've got the ending to your book!”
And now I could tell Frank was crying. Crying for joy.
17
THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM
A few days after Dick returned from Everest he got a phone call from Frank.
“Dick, you'd better sit down for this one. I just got a call from Giles, who has just received some appalling news from Antarctica. Apparently some scientists have recently resurveyed the Ellsworth Mountains, and they are right now recalculating the altitudes of several o
f the peaks.”
Dick felt the blood drain from his face.
“Pancho, you're not going to tell me what I think you're going to tell me, are you?”
“They've just finished recalculating the measurements for Vinson. As you know, the old altitude was 16,860 feet.”
“And the new?”
“Sixteen thousand sixty-seven feet.”
“And the altitude of Tyree?”
“Well, it was 16,290 feet.”
Dick leaned back in his chair.
“Oh, my aching back,” he said. “Do you mean we climbed the wrong mountain?”
“Maybe not. See, they still haven't finished their calculations for Tyree. Sixteen thousand two hundred ninety is the old altitude, and the scientists think there's a reasonable chance that since their new altitude for Vinson was lower than the older measurement, the same might be true for Tyree. If so, let's hope it's proportional.”
“When are they going to know?”
“They say it will take another month or two to complete the calculations.”
“I can't believe the good Lord would let us climb the wrong peak.”
Dick recalled all too clearly the day he climbed Vinson and sighted down the range to Tyree, noting that it even looked higher than Vinson.
What am I going to do if Tyree is the highest? Dick thought after he had hung up with Frank.
A week later he had the answer. Dan Emmett, Yvon Chouinard, and a few other climbers were making a deal to charter the DC-3 Tri-Turbo for another trip to the Ellsworth Mountains, with the goal of climbing whatever peaks looked like the most fun.
“So if Tyree does turn out higher,” Emmett told Dick, “we're saving one seat on the plane for you. But you'll definitely have to get up Tyree on the first go.”
“Why?”
“Because Pat Morrow has made arrangements to charter the plane immediately after we do. He's heard the rumor that Tyree might be the highest, and he's set to climb it if that turns out to be the case.”
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