I worked my way up through the tents belonging to other expeditions, greeting a few familiar faces that we had gotten to know at Advance Base Camp. As it was late afternoon, many of the tents were occupied by exhausted-looking climbers and Sherpas who had come down from load carries up to Camp Five.
The early arrivals had naturally taken the prime spots on the Col, leaving us with the furthest and least protected end of the ridge. Swirling plumes of spindrift were rotoring off the ridge onto our tents as I arrived.
From our site I could see, for the first time, the route ahead up the North Ridge and across the North Face to the summit pyramid. The Ridge was bathed in the last few rays of sunlight, and as I watched, these died away, leaving the ice steely gray and forbidding. The route looked absolutely huge, and our day’s toil up to the Col suddenly felt puny and insignificant. I couldn’t even see Camps Five and Six, as they were too far off to be visible to the naked eye.
There is an irresistible temptation to overplay the importance of the climb to the Col, and the inexperienced members of our expedition (including me) had fallen right into this trap. Make it up the Col, went the common wisdom, and you’ve as good as made it to the summit.
What bullshit.
As my eyes took in the immensity of the North Face, I recognized the fallacy of this assumption. Climbing the Col doesn’t magically qualify the climber for the summit. Far from it. Climbing to the Col is merely a warmup stage, a qualifying round that admits the climber into an arena where far greater challenges begin.
I was humbled and frightened by what I saw, now realizing that the struggle I had experienced on the Col was just a tiny taste of things to come. It was difficult to tear my eyes away from the summit and I watched it in a trance until thick cloud blew in and obscured the view.
When Al joined me, we set up the camera for the final time that day and filmed as the weary climbers came in. The Col was in shadow, and the temperature was already dropping rapidly as the wind rose.
I did a brief interview with Brian, who, while he was extremely tired, still had the energy to give us a few words.
“I hate the Col!” he coughed. “But we made it.” Then he collapsed on the snow, worn out. I admired Brian’s strength of character; all of us were aware that he had had a tough day, yet he had not been at all irritable or depressed, the normal signs of a climber who is out of his depth. He seemed to take the pain in his stride without letting it get to him psychologically. I was beginning to understand why Brian did so well at high altitudes.
The Sherpas had already erected most of the tents, and the only work left for us was to cut ice blocks to anchor them down. This type of Sherpa backup was a massive help, and a key part of the strategy for commercial operators like Himalayan Kingdoms, who seek to save every ounce of their clients’ energy wherever they can. Our arrival at the Col would have been a lot colder, and a lot more exhausting, if we had had to erect the tents ourselves. When I saw Nga Temba I thanked him for doing such a great job. He looked faintly shocked, as if the very idea of praise was an alien one!
Kees and I finished bedding the tent down with the ice blocks and then cut several more to melt for drinking water. Choosing the source for these was a delicate task, because much of the easiest ice to cut was soiled with urine or other waste. By the time all the chores were finished, the last few moments of daylight were slipping away.
Inside the tent, illuminated by our headlamps, the scene was one of complete confusion. There is not much space to spare in a mountain Quasar at the best of times and the sides of ours were bulging inward dramatically from the weight of snow we had just shoveled on.
We were using the high-altitude sleeping bags—the really thick ones—for the first time, and, taken out of their stuff sacks, they now swelled like giant slugs. Add to that the profusion of other clothing, the Therm-A-Rest inflatable mattresses, and the duvet jackets that we would undoubtedly need for warmth, and there was little room for either of us to move.
Kees, with his neat sense of logic, quickly organized his own side of the tent into some semblance of order, banishing his rucksack to the back and magically tidying the cooking area at the front so that the gas stove could be lit. I fumbled around inefficiently, cursing the lack of space, until I too forced my ever-expanding equipment into a more or less manageable heap.
A voice shouted through the dark, raised against the increasing volume of the wind; it was Simon, checking up on us.
“Matt and Kees. You got your brew on yet?”
“Yeah!”
He was right to make sure. Drinking was a paramount need after our hard day’s work, and yet preparing that drink was the last thing we wanted to do. Lying back on the soft sleeping bag, I knew I would be asleep in seconds if I closed my eyes. Every tired fiber, every stretched muscle, was calling out for sleep, yet to succumb would be a direct route to acute mountain sickness and could even lead to a possible coma. Many of the saddest and fastest fatalities from altitude sickness have occurred when climbers have fallen asleep without replenishing their vital body fluids.
The hissing noise of the gas had its own soporific effect and the ice seemed to take forever to melt. We chatted aimlessly about the highlights of the day while we watched the pot slowly begin to steam.
The evening was spent brewing, drinking, and eating as much as we could, a tedious process given the long wait time for each pan of ice to melt. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and soup all went down—a measured intake that gave us about two liters of fluid each. We were doing the right things but I could not shake off a rising feeling of nausea that had been with me since midafternoon. Lying completely still and concentrating my mind on other things, I tried every trick to rid myself of the sickness. But, by nine o’clock in the evening, I couldn’t fight it anymore. In a sudden violent spasm that barely gave me time to unzip the front tent flaps, I vomited the entire evening’s fluid up in a retching attack that left me gulping for breath. For several minutes I lay half in, half out of the tent, while the attack subsided.
“Shit!” I collapsed back into the tent, my head pulsating with a throbbing pain.
The sickness was bearable, but the real implications were really depressing. Having lost all the fluid we had so painstakingly melted and drunk, I was now faced with a simple decision: go to sleep and take a chance that I had ingested enough of the fluid to get me safely through the night, or go outside to cut more ice and start melting all over again.
The temptation to forget it all and go to sleep was almost overwhelming. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I spent fifteen minutes putting on my boots and jacket and went out into the freezing night to cut the ice, cursing my bad luck and feeling more angry than I can remember ever having been. Back in the tent I assembled the gas cooker once more, coaxed it back to life, and watched as the first pan of ice slowly—impossibly slowly—began to melt. Kees, not surprisingly, crashed out to sleep.
To save weight I had not packed a book. Now I regretted that decision as I stared into the darkness of the tent and fought the urge to sleep.
Two interminable hours later I hit the target of two liters of fluid, packed away the cooking gear, and tidied up the front of the tent as best I could. I was not even aware of lying down on the sleeping bag in the fraction of a second it took me to fall asleep.
Next morning we had a leisurely start. Simon’s original plan had been to continue for a short way up the North Ridge to increase our acclimatization, but that idea had been abandoned somewhere along the way. Now we prepared to descend the Col and commence the trek all the way back to Base Camp.
The descent was fast and relatively straightforward, a question of clipping on to the fixed ropes for security on the easy sections, and abseiling the steeper stages.
Halfway down, I made a clumsy mistake. Standing on a snow step, I unthreaded my figure-eight descendeur (the alloy metal device used to control an abseil) from the rope to transfer it to the next section. Working with frozen fingers, I fumbled the figure
eight and dropped it. At the same instant, the snow step I was standing on gave way a little, jerking my body down awkwardly. I clutched at the rope with my free hand to stop the fall, cursing my stupidity.
By a stroke of luck, the figure eight lodged against my boot and I was able to retrieve it. If it had dropped down the ice slope it would have fallen right among the climbers below me, which would have been embarrassing at the least, and potentially dangerous if it had hit anyone on the head. I glanced up at Simon, who was climbing down just above me, to see if he had noticed my blunder. But he was busy sorting out a tangle in his own harness and had not seen it.
I was grateful for that. Screwing up in front of the expedition leader was something I could do without. How could he trust me to abseil down the first and second steps, the difficult rock stages above 8,000 meters (26,246 feet) that are the highest rock-climbing pitches in the world, when I had fumbled a vital piece of equipment here in the relatively easy terrain of the Col? I regained my composure, and secured the descendeur back onto the rope.
I had gotten away with it, just, but the incident opened the door on a flood of old doubts and that flash of anger at myself. My capacity for making stupid mistakes was likely to increase with altitude as the mind-numbing effects of oxygen depletion set in. I continued the climb down the Col in a subdued mood, concentrating extra hard at the rope changeovers and taking care to defrost my fingers before handling the descendeur.
Two days later we descended the Rongbuk Glacier for the second time back to Base Camp, relishing the warmer temperatures and thicker air, and regaining at least a vestige of appetite. To an outside observer we were a relaxed party, taking the rare moments when the wind dropped to lie in the sun by our tents. But internally the stresses were grinding away at us all. This period of waiting at Base Camp would be the last. The next time we shouldered our rucksacks for the trek up the Rongbuk would be on our way for the summit attempt.
Expedition Base Camp on the Rongbuk Glacier. Everest, seen center frame, dominates the horizon with its famous plume of blowing ice crystals. (illustration credit 6.1)
Brian Blessed decked with a garland at the Summit Hotel in Kathmandu. The expedition was Brian’s third attempt at Everest. (illustration credit 6.2)
Team members trekking up the Rongbuk Glacier with Everest’s North Face behind. The three-day walk up the glacier is the first of the challenges when ascending from the north side. (illustration credit 6.3)
The yak herders set out for Advance Base Camp, with Everest in midframe. Several tons of equipment were portaged up the East Rongbuk in this way. (illustration credit 6.4)
Members of the Sherpa team en route for Base Camp. (illustration credit 6.5)
The North Face of Mount Everest, 8,848 meters (29,028 feet). (illustration credit 6.6)
Matt Dickinson, with Changtse seen behind. (illustration credit 6.7)
The camp on the North Col, showing the North Ridge behind. (illustration credit 6.8)
A Himalayan Kingdoms team member climbing up the North Col. This avalanche-prone wall of ice has been the scene of many tragedies. (illustration credit 6.9)
Alan Hinkes at Camp Five with oxygen bottles. (illustration credit 6.10)
Camp Six on the North Face of Everest at 8,300 meters (27,230 feet), the highest mountain camp in the world. The remains of previous expeditions’ storm-destroyed tents and abandoned oxygen cylinders can be seen. (illustration credit 6.11)
The famous Second Step of Everest’s Northeast Ridge, with Matt Dickinson shown halfway up. The Second Step is one of the most difficult of the challenges on summit day when ascending from the north. (illustration credit 6.12)
Matt Dickinson on the summit of Mount Everest at approximately 10 A.M. on May 19, 1996. (illustration credit 6.13)
Alan Hinkes pictured on the summit of Mount Everest with a photograph of his grandmother and daughter. In the background are Mingma and Gyaltsen. (illustration credit 6.14)
Matt Dickinson on the cluttered summit of Mount Everest striking a “Hillary” pose! (illustration credit 6.15)
First-degree frost-bite on two middle fingers of Matt Dickinson’s hand, sustained during his ascent. The blisters later healed completely. (illustration credit 6.16)
Matt Dickinson (left) and Alan Hinkes (right) at the Summit Hotel in Kathmandu after returning from Tibet. (illustration credit 6.17)
Matt Dickinson (left) and Brian Blessed (right) at Base Camp just prior to first acclimatization trip up the Rongbuk Glacier. (illustration credit 6.18)
Expedition doctor Sundeep Dhillon operates on a dental problem suffered by cameraman Kees ’t Hooft. In the extreme cold, fillings are liable to crack and fall out. (illustration credit 6.19)
The North Face of Everest seen from the Tibetan Plateau. (illustration credit 6.20)
The North Face of Everest seen from the Rongbuk Monastery. The mountain dominates the valley even though it is thirty-two kilometers (twenty miles) distant. (illustration credit 6.21)
Film cameraman Ned Johnston shooting with his sixteen-millimeter camera on the Rongbuk Glacier. (illustration credit 6.22)
Members of the Sherpa team pictured at the puja ceremony held prior to leaving for the mountain. (illustration credit 6.23)
Advance Base Camp at the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier at an altitude of 6,450 meters (21,161 feet). In the background can be seen the intimidating ice cliffs of the North Col. (illustration credit 6.24)
Members of the Himalayan Kingdoms team climbing on the North Col. (illustration credit 6.25)
The North Face of Mount Everest as the storm clouds rolled in on May 10. (illustration credit 6.27)
The North Ridge of Everest (seen left) leading to the Northeast Ridge (seen on the skyline). The summit is top right. The First and Second steps can be seen as bumps on the Ridge. (illustration credit 6.28)
The B Team at Base Camp. From left to right: Sundeep Dhillon, Simon Lowe (expedition leader), Richard Cowper, Tore Rasmussen, Roger Portch. (illustration credit 6.26)
Left to right: Rob Hall, Ang Tshering, and Sherpa Lama at puja ceremony on the southern side of Everest. (illustration credit 6.29)
Beck Weathers, member of the Adventure Consultants Everest expedition on the southern side of the mountain. Weathers’s miraculous recovery—and rescue from the mountain—is one of the most extraordinary stories ever to emerge from Everest. (illustration credit 6.30)
The helicopter evacuation of Makalu Gau from Base Camp on the southern side of the mountain—one of the highest helicopter rescues ever performed. (illustration credit 6.31)
Rob Hall’s team at Everest Base Camp on the southern side of the mountain, April 1996. (illustration credit 6.32)
Brian Blessed (seen at rear) and team proceeding up the North Ridge. High winds are blowing ice crystals off the ridge. The attempt failed several hours later when it was realized the group was traveling too slowly. (illustration credit 6.33)
The final Summit Ridge with the summit seen midframe. Lhakpa leads the last one hundred meters (328 feet) of the climb. (Photo taken with throwaway “fun camera.”) (illustration credit 6.34)
Mingma, Gyaltsen, and Matt Dickinson on the summit of Mount Everest. (Photo also taken with “fun camera.”) (illustration credit 6.35)
— 6 —
I was shaving in a bucket of ice-cold water in the mess tent at Base Camp when Kees swaggered back from the Indian tent. The Indians had had a problem with their satellite phone and technical whiz Kees had been called in with his magic soldering iron to work it out. By some miracle he had managed to breathe life into the defunct machine and the Indians had offered him a free call by way of thanks.
“I managed to get through to Katie in Canada.”
“Great.”
“And there’s some news.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m going to be a daddy.”
“Jesus. That is great!”
That night we celebrated Kees’s news with some disturbingly evil Tibetan brandy, acc
ompanied by a raft of predictably smutty comments at Kees’s expense. Looking smug, the father-to-be brought out a slender tin of Cuban cheroots and offered them around. Failing to find a single taker, and rethinking the wisdom of lighting up at this lofty altitude, Kees contented himself with the occasional sniff at the unlit cheroots.
“The aroma alone is enough,” he pronounced, grandly.
Next morning, slightly hungover, I was lying in my tent reading when I heard the rumble of a diesel truck rolling up the Rongbuk Glacier. Shortly after, there was a shout from Simon:
“Monty!”
I poked my head out of the tent and saw Simon greeting someone by the mess tent. Sundeep called over.
“Looks like the pussy wagon’s arrived!” he said.
“Pussy wagon” was the dubious name that had somehow evolved for the incoming trekking truck we knew would be visiting us any day. On board was a team of ramblers on a tour of Tibet with the trekking arm of Himalayan Kingdoms’ operations. As the weeks had gone by, the combined imaginations of our (all male) expedition had conjured up a vision, fired up no doubt by our enforced period of sexual abstinence, of the lithesome beauties this group would surely contain. In fact, over recent days we had talked about little else over our evening meals, proving (as if it needed to be proved) that men behave badly regardless of the altitude.
The Other Side of Everest Page 13