by Bear Grylls
DIARY, 5 MARCH:
This morning I had the treat of washing my hands in the freshly fallen snow. It’s wonderful to see their real colour after the grime of the last few days. Everything gets much cleaner the higher up we go because it’s colder, and bacteria and germs are less prevalent; it makes me feel much safer biting my nails!
Spent much of our rest-day today reading a book detailing the disaster on Everest in 1996; the disaster that Neil so narrowly escaped. I find it all too near. It’s kind of hard to ‘armchair’ read a book that goes into graphic detail about how so many lives were lost in a storm high on Everest, when you’re actually on the way out there yourself – and you’re scared enough as it is. Still I guess the key is to learn from what happened. In many ways it boils down to being courageous when the chips are really down, and not just acting courageous when you’re all safe and cosy. Courage should always be softly spoken. I must remember these things now.
A few hours later, we had arrived in the little village of Pangboche, the home of many Sherpas who live and climb in the Everest region. The houses were perched on the steep slopes of the valley, overlooking the gorge below. Many of these were full of climbing memorabilia, heralding past triumphs or disasters, and famous names lined the walls.
In this village, we were to meet Henry our expedition manager, who had been up here getting acclimatized, before having to head back to Kathmandu to arrange the collection of the oxygen cargo. Mick and I headed off to find him. He was staying with the head-Sherpa, or Sirdar, as they’re known – called Kami. Kami’s job was to organize the Sherpas who would help us carry supplies on the mountain.
The house Kami lived in was a beautiful, traditional Sherpa house. We entered through a tiny wooden door that led into a stable where the yaks lived. This was a small low room, with a packed mud floor, covered with straw. Through the darkness, a shaft of light revealed a wooden staircase going up into the main living area of the house. As the stairs creaked under us, we emerged into a large single room, where the whole family would live, cook, and sleep. A mud stove gently burnt in the corner, and the sun shone through the smoke that leaked from its side. Great yak furs lined the floor and beds, whilst yak droppings dried in the corner. These would eventually provide fuel for the stove. Tucked up in the corner of the room, grinning from ear to ear, twiddling his beard and sipping on a lemon tea, sat Henry.
We spent the afternoon with Kami and Henry, rummaging through barrels of equipment and checking all the supplies, so that Henry would know what had gone missing and be able to resupply it in Kathmandu. Everything came out; from tents to ice-probes for finding people under an avalanche, aspirins for thinning the blood and helping acclimatization higher up, to even mayonnaise. Hundreds of ice-screws, kilometres of rope, and a mountain of Mars bars. Once at Base Camp, resupply would be almost impossible, everything had to be checked and double-checked now.
Later on that day with Henry, whilst chatting to the Sherpas who had just come back down the valley, we heard our first piece of tragic news. A porter had been killed in the ice approaching Base Camp. Neither of us knew him, yet that evening there was a soberness amongst the three of us as we sat and heard what had happened.
The porter had been ferrying equipment up to Base Camp – a long trip that many of them do as an extra source of income. This time, though, he had been climbing over the glacier towards Base Camp too late in the afternoon, the time when the ice is least stable. Base Camp is perched at the head of the glacier, at the foot of the mountain, and the route is found by snaking one’s way across the ice, amongst the huge glacial pinnacles that line the trail. As the climbing season approaches, this trail becomes better and better trodden – but in the early days, such as now, it was still pretty much virgin territory.
During the afternoon the ice is always weaker after a morning of sun on it. Apparently this porter had become disorientated, then lost, and they believe that an ice-bridge must have given way beneath him, sucking him away down the ice-smooth glacial streams that run beneath the surface.
Henry was returning the next day to Kathmandu, and warned us seriously against travelling to Base Camp at any other time than early morning – especially before any safe route was established. I prayed for the porter’s soul and his family that night, and heeded Henry’s advice carefully.
We spent much of that evening after Henry had left playing with some of the kids in the village. I lent a little girl of five the only pack of cards we had, hoping they wouldn’t get too ruined. They were an important item for the times ahead. Secretly, though, I wasn’t that hopeful, and pretty soon there were cards everywhere. Fifteen minutes later, it was wonderful to sit and watch this girl carefully tidy them all up, put them in their box, and place them back neatly alongside my diary. I smiled. I had learnt more about gentleness watching this than I would in months of charging around London. Funny really . . .
DIARY, 7 MARCH:
We walked for three hours today, up towards the last village before Base Camp – Dingboche, at 14,500 feet. We contoured along and up this huge wide valley that surrounds the beautiful and majestic peak of Ama Dablam.
I sat on a rock and studied the route I had climbed four months earlier. It felt good to see the peak, and to think that I’d stood on its summit. The mountain, though, still seems exactly the same as before – it’s as if the climb has changed only me, and not it. As if only I’d been affected. I wonder whether, looking down, it even remembers me struggling, gasping for oxygen up those last few hundred feet to the top. Looking at it from this angle, part of me wonders how the hell I ever got up.
We passed the spot where Kami’s sister was killed a few years ago in a landslide. It’s strange seeing the torn scar in the hillside where the landslide happened; climbing over huge boulders of rubble that cover an entire village deep beneath them. Tentatively we made our way along the narrow path, with the ravine dropping away steeply to our right.
Two hours later we reached Dingboche. This village is situated at the foot of the huge mountains of Nuptse and Lhotse, with Everest behind them. Both Mick and I are tired today, and I think the altitude is now really beginning to have an effect. We’ll rest here tomorrow, to try and recover a bit. It’s this careful balance of rest, exercise and sleep, in preparing ourselves to be in the best possible state for the rigours ahead.
The tedium of such a strict routine is alleviated by the raw beauty of our surroundings. Vast mountains, the biggest in our world, rise straight up all around us, and when the wind blows through the valleys where we are, it feels as if the giants are stamping their heels.
A wonderful lady with a huge smile and only one eye, runs the lodge here. We piled up all the straw cushions and rested like the ‘Princess and the pea’ – a treat after the wooden boards of before.
I’ve just seen my face in an old cracked mirror, it was quite a shock – I hope it wasn’t me who cracked it. Mick confirms that I look pretty rough, having not had a wash since . . . England. I can’t say, though, that he looks like any Casanova!
At 6.00 a.m. we moved on from Dingboche, heading higher up still, towards Base Camp. We hadn’t gone far, when we came across a great sight that I don’t think I will ever forget.
Tucked into the side of the trail, stoically enduring the morning chill, sat two seventy-year-old English gentlemen enjoying some early morning breakfast. Seated at either end of a table that seemed to loll at a somewhat precarious angle on the rough ground. They both seemed lost in the ecstasy of spam and eggs at 14,500 feet.
We soon found out that these British eccentrics’ ambition had been, for years, to walk through these valleys and to be able to see the ‘Great Everest’, as one of them said, ‘in the flesh’. His eyes lit up with delight. We couldn’t resist staying a while, and soon found ourselves, at their invitation, dining like ‘kings’ in the company of two fine ‘queens’.
Whilst we sipped our tea at the end of the meal, the two of them became deep in conversation, arguing everythi
ng from the role of the Queen to the falling standards of British Rail sandwiches. Only when a punch-up over which was the quickest way from Salisbury to Bodmin seemed imminent, did we think it might be time to leave. Greatly inspired by seeing such extraordinary people in such an extraordinary place, we wished them luck and carried on – feeling much uplifted.
From there we followed a yak-trail, until we came up over the lip of the valley. Ahead was a vast plain that stretched away into the distance, under the looming shadow of Mount Pokalde. We walked all morning through this plain, past the remains of old stables that had been used to house yaks. Soon we began to turn north, towards the foot of the glacier, upon which Base Camp is situated – still a day’s walk away.
The path wound its way up through the mass of rocks that form the terminal moraine of the glacier. Buddhist shrines, called chortons, stand scattered along the route. Old prayer flags adorn these, and flutter away incessantly, beckoning you on your way as you pass them. The going had become progressively slower these last few days, and the thinner air was very noticeable now. Mick and I would stop every twenty minutes to rest, drink, and take the chance to savour the views of this barren land.
At mid-afternoon, we found a small hut with some Nepali porters inside, and joined them in drinking some tea. We then set out to try and reach Lobuche, before nightfall came. As we came over the moraine onto the glacier, we found ourselves in blazing late-afternoon sunshine. The main trail petered out into a small snow path, and the sun reflected strongly against our faces. A warm glow came over me; we were nearing the end of this long walk through the valleys to Base Camp. It wasn’t far now. We’d be there tomorrow, God willing. We could just see in the distance, where the mountains met the end of the glacier – the place where it would be.
I wrote as we sat and rested:
We now can’t see Everest at all, as it is hidden by the vast mountain of Nuptse, on our right. Even from Base Camp we won’t be able to see her – not until we’re 5,000 feet higher up, and well into the climb itself, will she reveal herself.
Two hours later we reached Lobuche, a clearing along the glacier with a few huts that accommodated those heading up to Base Camp. It was a foul-smelling place. Because of the nonchalance that the cold and altitude caused, people couldn’t be bothered to keep the area clean, and they spent most of their time in the huts, drinking and complaining about the bleak conditions.
The loo here had degenerated into a seething mass of faeces, and nobody any longer even bothered to use it. Instead people crapped in any clear place they could find. The cold ensured that this place was never far from the hut. That night as I sneaked out to try and go myself, negotiating a route through the stinking minefield, I realized that hygiene was now a distant blur of the past.
That evening, as we sat wrapped up in our down jackets, round the tin stove that burnt the dried yak dung, we talked with the Nepalese who were there. Soon the chang was produced, followed not long after by an old guitar they had. None of them could play, and they were excited to hear that I did; that was until I actually did play, and then their enthusiasm somewhat waned. Well ‘American Pie’ isn’t easy with six strings, let alone four. The next day, though, they agreed to let me borrow the guitar for the time I would be up at Base Camp.
As a lot of one’s time is spent there mentally preparing for what lies ahead, I felt that to have a guitar was a real coup. Although I’m not sure the rest of the team quite saw it like that over the next few months. Heathens.
At 6.30 a.m. I strapped the guitar to my rucksack and we said farewell to the Nepalese. They grinned and bade us good luck in what the Tibetans call the ‘poisonous gas’: the thin air of high altitude. We lowered our faces to the morning chill, and headed off for the last five-hour stretch that would bring us eventually to Base Camp.
We hadn’t got far, though, when the first effects of the food we had eaten began to kick in.
‘Won’t be a second, Mick,’ I announced as I scurried off behind a large rock on the glacier to get rid of the better part of me that morning. But it wasn’t all of me by any means. Frequent stops every ten minutes along the way followed, to the great amusement of Mick.
Getting the ‘runs’ though, is part of life when climbing in the hills of Nepal. The locals never wash much, and their food cannot be kept fresh for long – so their resistance to bacteria is therefore higher. I had been brought up on picking my pork chop up off the floor at home if I had dropped it, but, even for my stomach, some of the food we had at Lobuche was proving a bit much. The best and only way to cope with these ‘part of life’ occurrences was just to allow the body to work its course naturally. When it expels whatever is reacting against you, you feel instantly better. Bunging yourself up with Imodium or other diarrhoea tablets just delays the whole process.
By mid-morning I was much better, but a little dehydrated. We were slowly contouring our way along the side of the glacier, winding through the ice and debris of rocks that had been deposited along the route. These piles of rocks create a vast wasteland, and we followed an old yak-trail to avoid becoming disorientated. We were exhausted though by this clambering up and down huge boulders, and rests became more and more frequent.
Part of me felt maybe only now was I beginning to realize the ‘enormity of the task ahead’, to quote Mallory; the enormity of this challenge that maybe should have remained just a dream. I was struggling at even this height. How on earth was I going to be able to go up into the extreme altitudes that we knew lay ahead, kilometres vertically above where we were now, when I was currently worrying about the 100 feet or so of height change that day?
My goals at this time were so small, and I couldn’t really focus on much more. But maybe that would be the key. I remembered hearing that to eat an elephant one has to start with a small bite. But at present I was having difficulty digesting even that.
As we continued along the route, we came to a cluster of stone memorials. These had been built in honour of some of the men who had died on Everest. Each one being about eight feet high, with a photograph wedged in the middle. These served as a chilling reminder of the authority of the mountain. Rob Hall’s memorial stood quietly there, with a few prayer flags billowing on top of it. The tragedies keep happening, yet people still come back. I wondered if that showed bravery or recklessness; and couldn’t decide. The numbers though tell the story simply – 162 lives lost on her slopes.
The final three hours towards Base Camp took us right into the glacier itself. From this point on, being so early in the climbing season, there was no established route, and we weaved our way along, heading in the direction of Base Camp. At certain points in the glacier, we would glimpse the Sherpas’ tents in the distance. As we then descended back into the mass of rocks and ice, the tents would once more become hidden from view.
Dramatic drops that led down to frozen lakes below endlessly blocked the route. We would then be forced to try another route, winding through the maze of glacial rocks. Going up and down huge scree slopes and scrambling over these vast boulders the size of trucks soon left us both anxious and tired. We knew this was how that porter had got lost only a week earlier.
There was an entrancing quality to the surface of the glacier. Much of it was covered in loose snow and rocks, but in parts we could see far down into the depths – beneath us were hundreds of feet of shimmering, glassy ice. On occasions the ground would groan as the glacier shifted below.
At this stage in the season we expected to find Base Camp empty, save for a small group of our Sherpas sent by Kami, who were starting to prepare the ropes and other equipment. It was them that we were hoping to meet. The majority of what we required for the climb, along with more clothing, would arrive by yak in ten days’ time. So at the moment we had nothing more than just basic trekking equipment. I tucked my old chef’s trousers into my socks to keep the draught out, and pulled my tweed cap down tight to avoid losing it to Tibet.
Everyone should permit themselves certain luxu
ries in life. Stan, for example, a very old friend, consistently made a point of stowing his pyjamas in his bergan on field exercises – to the bewilderment of his sergeants. But for me, my pair of tatty old chef’s trousers and ultra-hairy Richard Hannay tweed cap filled my needs nicely. I think certain other climbers in due course showed a slight distress at the British attire around Base Camp, but as I’d once heard said: ‘Beware: strength is often hidden in absurdity’; although in our case I’m not sure that was entirely true, but it was worth a try!
The wind began to get up over the glacier, and it got considerably colder. I wished now that I had some of my proper climbing clothes with me. I just wanted to reach the tents; it had been a long few weeks for the two of us out here, and we were both desperate to get there and start settling in. An hour later, though, we were still floundering around in the glacier, and not appearing to get much closer. We didn’t talk, but rather just numbly dreamt of the sanctuary we hoped Base Camp would offer.
By the time we reached the tents it was blowing hard, and we were both cold and tired; but at last we had arrived. We went round to the flap of one of the tents, undid the zip, and peered in. The dirty faces of four Sherpas broke into welcoming grins. They were sitting round a tiny stove, clutching steaming mugs of hot tea.
‘Why so late? We worried much. Come drink.’
We looked at each other and smiled.
We were now at 17,450 feet.
CHAPTER SIX
LAST CALL
‘Well here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into.’
Oliver Hardy to Stan Laurel