My arguments did not fully convince Neal. For him, the most acceptable course was to ascend the peak at a normal rate with no attention to records. He acquiesced only because our situation did not allow us the luxury of any other style of climbing. My plan got a cold reception from the rest of the team. They thought I was kidding or crazy and that my idea of negotiating the technical slope below Camp II in the dark was unrealistic.
As Neal and I were preparing to go up, everyone else finished packing so they could leave Base Camp on the fourteenth. After six weeks of penetrating cold and bitter winds, the comforts of civilization exerted a magnetic appeal. At 6:30 P.M. on May 13, Neal and I said our good-byes and headed up the mountain. Members of our send-off party predicted we would not reach the level of Makalu La.
During six weeks of climbing Neal’s body had become accustomed to performing in a certain way. For the first ten hours of our ascent he had trouble reorganizing his rhythm to a style that did not allow rest breaks. Above 6,500 meters, if I had taken the lead, his slow pace would have created too much distance between us, so I fell in behind and continuously urged him on. Leading a sustained climb was not new to me. If I had gone too far ahead, I knew Neal’s pace would have dropped even more. Given all the energy he had spent on his previous effort, it would have been easy for him to feel sorry for himself on this cold night. I did not want Neal to give up. We were lucky there was no wind to make the bitter cold worse. For eleven hours the thin light from our headlamps pierced the darkness, illuminating steep slopes of ice. At five-thirty A.M., we arrived at Makalu La. The close proximity of the tent at Camp III, the idea of rest and the warmth of a stove, restored Neal’s drive. Above 7,400 meters, the route was simpler; I went out ahead, leaving Neal to climb at his own pace. I promised to prepare hot drinks that would provide vital heat and energy for our bodies.
Dawn was fantastic. The performance began in the gray dawn light; I could just make out the giant silhouettes of Lhotse and Everest in the west. Makalu’s slope and the beauties of Tibet spread out below. While all else rested in shadow, the distant sun painted the celestial summits of Kanchenjunga an intense orange hue. Not even in Roerich’s paintings, which sing of Himalayan beauty, have I seen that color. My delight was cut short by the specter of my former colleague. I wondered if his spirit floated somewhere nearby above the peak. That world of timeless beauty is only home to gods and souls of the dead. Neal and I entered the prohibited zone that is dangerous to all living things.
Reckoning our progress was encouraging. Instead of the ten hours I had projected, it had taken eleven hours to climb to Makalu La, but the ascent to Camp III took only one and one-half hours. That was one hour better than I had projected. At a normal pace, the summit was six hours away. My feelings of strength and confidence ended abruptly when I found our tent at Camp III broken, turned over, and torn by the wind. Obviously little attention had been wasted securing it properly, which neglect now complicated our situation. Soberly assessing our predicament, I knew the shelter was vital to our safe descent. Having spent so much energy and motivation getting to the summit, we would be in a critical state of fatigue coming down. It would be all too easy for us to join our unfortunate friend resting on the slope below. A vital part of reaching the top of a mountain is looking back at it alive from Base Camp. Your effort earns you the opportunity to understand your life more clearly and rejoice in it. Looking at the broken tent, I admitted that the opportunity to set a world’s record was only important to me. For Neal, just reaching the summit would constitute a victory. When he arrived about an hour later, I was digging out a new platform that would protect the broken tent from the force of the wind. Two more hours of vital strength and attention went into repairing and securing our shelter. Though we tried to resume our climb, fatigue and the cold dictated some caution, and I decided we had to turn back and spend the night at Camp III.
The next day we made it to the summit. That was it, no record. On top, Neal was as happy as a kid. It is important to me that he returned home to his beloved Amy unharmed, without frostbite and full of his success. The significance of his accomplishment will not be lost in Colorado, where every other person considers himself or herself a mountain climber.
Before me, no Russian had climbed this peak. I cannot say I summited Makalu to be popular—in my country mountaineering is not a popular sport anymore—or because I wanted to feel good before an upcoming marriage. Though that is a serious matter, I have no plans for marriage sooner or later. I understand Neal well; we share many friends and acquaintances in the mountaineering world. From the depths of my heart I rejoice in his success. Sitting in Kathmandu trying to raise money, it has only been possible for me to envy his social situation. I climbed Makalu for myself, and deep down there is some discontent with my results. We were close to the record, our time would not have been bad, between eighteen and nineteen hours, but there is not enough luck in the world to risk pushing someone else to his limit.
After the expedition I encountered some familiar faces in the streets of Kathmandu, friends who are veteran mountaineers from other countries; not so many can afford the sport anymore. One big commercial expedition celebrated success on Everest and Lhotse, with high-paying clients covering all expenses, including salaries for working guides. Only Carlos Carsolio’s ambitious efforts are advancing our sport. He made some noteworthy marks in the record books this season by climbing Cho Oyu in nineteen hours and Lhotse in less than twenty-four hours. Success makes it easier for him; his achievements are a source of national pride in Mexico. Sponsors willingly finance his projects; now he can afford to undertake mountaineering problems on his own terms. Life looks more complete for Carlos. He has money and travels with his lovely wife and their new baby.
What else can you do but envy his success in a good way, just as I envy Neal for living in a country where many respected citizens climb or engage in athletic pursuits for no other reason than their own health? It is a pity that athletic endeavor has lost its inspirational appeal for citizens of Kazakhstan. The way things have turned out, I have to wonder if regular people ever understood the price we paid to be the best.
Tonight, Makalu is behind me. What the future holds is unknown. These are my thoughts and impressions. Kathmandu, June 13, 1994.
6
THE MARKETPLACE
During the spring of 1994, a rise in the cost of mountaineering permits in Nepal reduced the number of individuals who could afford to undertake small, private expeditions in the Himalayas. So several new companies were specializing in group expedition services, and at the end of my successful climbing season, I met a new kind of businessman in the streets of Kathmandu. Despite the $50,000 price tag on the permit, the owner of the New Zealand company Adventure Consultants, Rob Hall, had found a way to make an expedition to Everest pay for itself. He was even able to pay salaries to his guides. Only a few days after our return from Makalu, Neal and I were invited to a party that Hall was hosting to celebrate his success. A small group of professional climbers gathered in a restaurant in the city’s quaint tourist district. That night there was much genial backslapping and beer drinking, and here I first met Scott Fischer.
Spotting Neal, Scott greeted us with generous congratulations on our Makalu success. The Seattle climber was a sort of hero for Neal, who had come to know him well during the summer of 1992, when they were both attempting to climb K2. Over the years I had heard about a personable American who set himself up for the same sort of physical challenges that interested me. Among Russians, Scott had earned a reputation for valor and persistence on Balyberdin’s K2 expedition. His countrymen remarked about the human qualities that made him an inspirational human being as well as the skills that made him an exceptional sport climber, instructor, and guide. In May of 1994, I thought he had as much cause for celebration as we did. While Neal and I were climbing Makalu, Scott had become the first American to summit Lhotse without the use of bottled oxygen; that spring he had also succeeded in climbing E
verest.1 Neal confided that, like me, he was not a fan of climbing with supplemental oxygen. Personally, I feel unnatural relying on bottled oxygen above eight thousand meters; I worry that, using it, I am disconnected from the actual circumstances of my experience. It is a difficult concept for me to put into words, and that is another story. Climbing two 8,000-meter peaks in succession without oxygen demonstrated an uncommon endurance. Experience inclined me to rank Scott with Ed Viesturs at the top of the scale of Americans in my generation of mountaineers. As humans we are all basically the same, but an individual’s nationality leaves a certain mark on his character. From a Russian perspective, Scott was the American archetype. His external appearance alone made him stand out in a crowd: a perfect sportsman’s physique and a disarming, benevolent smile gave him a magnetic appeal.
Most of the evening I was engrossed in conversation with well-known Polish climber Richard Pawlowski and his business partner, Scotsman Henry Todd. Richard is a strong climber, and on several ascents he was the partner of one of the world’s greatest alpinists, Jerzy Kukuczka. Neal and Scott sat at a table not far away from us. At one moment, I glanced up and Scott’s eyes met mine. Intuitively, I sensed that Neal was telling him about our Makalu experience. There was recognition in his gaze. At the end of the evening, we parted with warm expressions of mutual respect.
Some days later, when I was seeing our Makalu team off to America, I ran into Scott at the Kathmandu airport. We paused for a moment to wish each other a safe journey home. Though we did not speak of definite plans, we expressed a hope that in the future we could find a project on which to climb together. I gave him my address and phone number, and he gave me his business card. It did not yet say “Mountain Madness,” but simply:
Scott Fischer
Rock, Ice, and Mountain Climbing
International Expeditions and Trekking, Skiing, Safaris, Adventuring
I still have the card. That day we did not know what was ahead of us. Our meeting seemed like a chance encounter, not the orchestration of fate. The longer I live, the more certain I am that there are no accidents in life. There are no chance meetings; everything happens according to a plan, regularly and in order.
* * *
From the beginning of my occupation as a mountaineer, I found that the more work I took on during an expedition, the more satisfied I was with the outcome. In the early years I was not dedicated to the mountains because I thought I would become a high-altitude guide. In the 1980s, no one imagined that the highest peaks in the world were destinations for any but a few committed mountaineers or that the experience gained climbing them would ever be elevated to high-paying work.
Until 1991, coaching provided me with a satisfactory source of income. With the collapse of the Soviet Union the possibility of meaningful employment at home evaporated. My limited facility with the English language prevented me from finding work in my profession abroad. At that point; I stopped focusing on anything but my desire to summit the world’s highest mountains. Fifteen years with the Sports Club in Almaty and my success on some of the highest 8,000-meter peaks had given me a rare base of high-altitude experience. Because of that, I was invited to join international expeditions. During those undertakings, it was most important to be able to climb well, not to chat, though I sensed the latter would not have hurt.
By 1994 a stormy competition was developing between companies doing business in the Himalayas. After my part in the Makalu expedition, it wasn’t surprising that other employment offers followed. When I arrived in Almaty in mid-June, a letter from Thor Kieser was waiting. He offered me a job on an expedition scheduled for the fall of 1994. At the beginning of September, I was back in the Himalayas, employed by Condor Adventures as the climbing leader on a Cho Oyu expedition led by Neal Beidleman.
Rising 8,153 meters astride the border of Tibet and Nepal, Cho Oyu is the eighth-highest peak in the world. Our trek to Base Camp followed an old trade route through the Sherpa village of Namche Bazaar up the Thame Valley. We set up camp in the company of several other expeditions on a glacier just below the 6,000-meter-high Nangpa La pass. Our climbing route crossed the pass and approached the summit on the Tibet side of the mountain. Soon after we arrived, the camp was alive with rumors that Chinese soldiers had an outpost on the route as it passed into Tibet and were turning back climbers from expeditions that had begun in Nepal. Also, day after day a flood of ragged refugees made our kitchen tent the first stop after surviving a desperate journey out of Tibet. Camp was constantly inundated with men, women, and children begging for food; it unnerved everyone. Our team became increasingly tense because the expedition’s supplies and gear had to be watched every moment. These circumstances had such a negative effect on the Americans that they decided to abandon the expedition. Neal escorted the team back to Kathmandu and I went trekking.
On September 29 news of a cholera outbreak in India reached the mountain village of Namche Bazaar. That closed the border to traffic from Nepal. With no avenue home, I decided to visit Everest Base Camp. Richard Pawlowski and Henry Todd were climbing Lhotse. Naively, I harbored some hope of tackling the world’s fourth-highest peak under the aegis of their permit. Unfortunately, it was too late to include me on the team roster. The expedition dragged on because the winds up high made the summit unapproachable. Henry, who was short of help, hired me to guide a group of tourists who were scheduled to climb Island Peak with Simon Yates. I made two trips to the top of the 6,000-meter peak in as many days. During that time, I promoted my sports club, and Simon and Henry decided they would take advantage of the excellent climbing opportunities in the Tien Shan the following summer.
* * *
By December of 1994 I had offers from both Henry Todd and Thor Kieser to work on Everest expeditions that they had scheduled for the spring of 1995. Henry offered me a salary much higher than what Thor could afford to pay me. I liked the way Thor conducted his expeditions, and I did not want to offend him. When I explained my financial situation, he encouraged me to accept the job with Himalayan Guides.
The Chinese sold permits for the Tibet side of Everest in 1995 at a fraction of what the government of Nepal was charging. That made the North Ridge route attractive to many expedition organizers, though it is generally considered more arduous than the South Col route. My second trip to the summit of Everest was unusual and difficult. As climbing leader, I was responsible for the comprehensive problems of our ascent. I acted as a coach for all the clients, set up our camps, supervised the Sherpas, and summited with two members of the team. For the most part, the men on that expedition were high-caliber mountaineers capable of solving for themselves the small moment-to-moment problems of climbing. With my help, the first Welshman, Cardock Jones, the first Dane, Michael Jörgensen, and the first Brazilian, Mozart Kato, took home the honor of climbing the highest mountain in the world to appreciative countrymen. From May 9 to May 17, eight expedition members made it to the top without much difficulty. Fate was not entirely generous. Nicholas Chaapaz, who was one of the strongest climbers on the team, arrived at the highest camp only to be denied the summit by an abrupt, prolonged change in wind velocity. After three days at the highest camp, he was forced to descend without the success he deserved.
After we left Base Camp, another episode of good weather opened the window to the summit. All in all fifty-three people climbed Everest from the north side that season. The number was staggering; it broke a psychological barrier in mountaineering. For those who discounted our good luck with the weather, it sent a message that the top of Everest was a reasonable objective for anyone who had ambitions as an alpinist. The average of my experience left me with a different set of conclusions.
Notes on the Heart of the Matter
A group of Russian climbers, some old friends among them, were neighbors of Anatoli’s at Everest Base Camp in 1995. The nights spent in their mess tent stirred up some deep-seated emotions in Anatoli. These excerpts are from the pages of his day journal.
EVEREST B
ASE CAMP, RONGBUK GLACIER, TIBET, MAY 10, 1995
In years past Demiyanich trained with me in Almaty. He has burned with the desire to summit some 8,000-meter peak in the Himalayas for a long time. Fate is not favoring him this season on Everest. Again tonight he refused to eat his supper, complaining that he could not stand the generous dose of Nepalese spices that the cook puts into the dishes. Sadly he recalled every detail of the good borscht that his wife, Tatiana, makes for him at home. For a human to appreciate the mundane, habitual features of life, they must lose them for a while. I know this from my own experience. After spending three months in the mountains deprived of things that under normal circumstances I take for granted, I discover that I have another scale of values. Suddenly something unimportant becomes paramount in my thinking. In Demiyanich’s case, Tatiana’s borscht had assumed mythic properties in his memory; likely it holds the aura of all his domestic comfort. As he spoke about his treasure, I openly envied him. I did not have that soup to remember and he had not climbed 8,000-meter peaks. At that moment in my mind, those two facts became equal. All my mountaintops were leveled to one bowl of Tatiana’s borscht.
* * *
The best years of my life I dedicated to sports and alpinism; the mountains provided me with ways to perfect myself and gave me opportunities that allowed me to expand my understanding of the world. At this moment in history, the high goals I set for myself are of no importance in my country. Suddenly I have no function in the land where I was born and nurtured to be what I am. Sports and the arts have no basis of support in our new free-market economy. Everything has changed; it is hard for me to understand it all, and finding my place in the evolving social order is difficult. Our government has no inclination to revive the traditions that created people like me, and in the private sector there are no jobs that would reward my level of professionalism with a salary I could live on. Along the way my achievements began to attract the attention of foreigners, and abroad there is a demand for my level of professional experience and skill. Now it is easy for me to find work as a mountaineering coach or guide. While my obsession with the mountains supports me financially, my life would be happier if I worked in Kazakhstan, passing on my experience and knowledge to our new generation of climbers. I do not believe fewer individuals have that inclination in my country than they do in other developed countries, but in the former republics of the Soviet Union most interested people cannot afford the luxury of such high-priced active leisure.
Above the Clouds Page 14