by Bear Grylls
It had been a while since we had seen anyone we knew, and I was so excited by the thought of seeing friends. One of the joys of the hills for me is the way that life is so simple. One’s focus is on living and expressing rather than keeping up or keeping on time. One of the downfalls of normal life is that you hardly have time to remember who you have seen in the past few days, let alone savour that time together. Out here, though, we knew these days together with our friends would be precious, before we began to wrestle with the mountain. I wanted to savour every moment that they were here.
We went into the lodge and looked around. There, curled round a fire, smothered in jerseys and rugs and grinning from ear to ear, sat Emma and Alex. It was as if a small part of England had arrived in these valleys to encourage us. It brought back feelings that I had never expected to feel. We sat up late that night and talked.
I fear that as the days went on, and we guided the two girls up towards Base Camp, I became more and more reclusive. I knew that soon they would be returning down the valleys. The higher we went, the harder work the girls both found it. I didn’t want them to go. It spelt the point of no return for me, and I knew that the climb would start soon afterwards.
They had both struggled bravely up these vast hills and valleys in a determination to see Everest and to reach Base Camp. They had seen Everest now in the distance, but were still a few miles short of Base Camp and were beginning to struggle. They both felt dizzy and had bad headaches, and it was becoming obvious that they weren’t enjoying this last bit. They would have to go back down the next day.
We had one last night all together. They both slept in a small wooden cubicle in the corrugated hut at Lobuche. Mick and I didn’t even bother sleeping in the cubicled part. Instead we curled up as we were, still fully clothed, round the fire in the centre of the room. Early the next day, we helped them pack. They both felt awful. I was so impressed with their determination to have got this far, but for safety’s sake they now needed to go down. Alex slipped me a note that said, simply, to be wise on the mountain.
If it’s not right, then be brave and make those hard decisions. Come down.
The words sounded empty, but I tried desperately to acknowledge them. I knew she was right, and prayed that I would have the courage to do this, should the decision arise. And so, at 8.15 a.m. that clear morning, left two of my good friends.
Later that day I read her note. I reread it hundreds of times in the months ahead.
It must be extremely tough knowing what’s ahead, when there are so few people around. But keep your faith strong. It’s times like this that it counts. I know the struggle that it’s been for you to get this far, and I know you dream of the summit, but don’t jeopardize everything else you’ve ever worked for. Nothing is worth losing your fingers or toes for, and remember, you’re only twenty-three!
Go with all my luck, and keep safe; I have this funny feeling that all will be okay.
I hoped she was right. I needed her to be right; but part of me doubted.
That afternoon we returned quietly to Base Camp, walking those last few hours along the glacier that had eluded the girls. The climb would now begin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BREAKING THE ICE
‘We are the pilgrims, Master, we shall go
Always a little further it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow
Beyond that angry or that glimmering sea.’
Special Air Service Regimental verse
From the peak of Everest, the land of Tibet lies sprawled out across the horizon to the north, as far as the eye can see. To the south, the summit looks over the vast range of the Himalaya, all the way down through the foothills to the Nepalese plain in the distance. No other bit of land stands above this point on the entire planet. Below the summit, though, lie days of treacherous descent, through a labyrinth of snow and ice that marks the way out of Everest’s ruthless jaws.
The descent down the South-East Ridge is lined by faces of sheer rock and blue ice. These lead to a couloir of deep powder snow, and eventually on down to a col, some 3,000 feet below the summit. This col, the site of where our Camp Four would be, sits between the two huge peaks of Lhotse to the south, and Everest to the north.
From the South Col, the gradient drops sharply away, down a 5,000 feet ice wall, known as the Lhotse Face. Camp Three would be carved into the ice, a quarter of the way down this. At the foot of this ice wall starts the highest and most startling valley in the world. At one end of this would be our Camp Two, and at the other end, 2,000 feet lower, our Camp One. This extraordinary and vast ice glacier is known simply as the Western Cwm – or the valley of silence.
Pronounced ‘koom’, this huge hidden valley was named by George Mallory during the first Everest reconnaissance climb in 1921, doubtless from affection for his Welsh climbing haunts. The name has remained ever since. This glacier, hidden from view on all sides, slices its way through the centre of the surrounding giant mountains. Then, at the mouth of the valley, the ice begins to fall away.
As the glacier is funnelled through this mouth to the west, the glacier begins to rupture violently. Unable to sustain its own weight, the ice breaks up into a tumbling cascade of frozen water, with blocks of ice the size of houses, slowly shifting down the face. This is constantly moving at a rate of about one metre a day, breaking and collapsing its way down; thus making the mountain dangerously unpredictable. Similar to when a flowing river narrows through a ravine, turning the water into frothing rapids; likewise here, as the ice is squeezed and forced down, it begins to ‘froth’. It is this gushing frozen river that is called the Khumbu Icefall; one of the most dangerous parts of the ascent.
At its feet lies Base Camp, a safe distance away. The noise of thousands of tonnes of ice, constantly shifting and wrenching, breaks the silence of every night there. The Icefall never rests.
The late Lord Hunt, in his account of the first ascent of Everest in 1953, describes this moving mass of ice like this:
A sheer precipice, overhung with thick slices of blue ice more than 100 feet in depth, which peel off in massive slabs at intervals during each day. As you look at it, you might expect to hear the roar of that immense volume of foaming water which, after flowing peacefully to the brink of the cliff above, is now plunging down with terrifying power. But it has been gripped by the intense cold, frozen into immobility, a silent thing, its force restrained. But not quite. For this labyrinth of broken ice is moving, its surface changing, making it the most perilous of problems to surmount.
Sitting at Base Camp, some forty-five years after Hunt wrote that, the Icefall didn’t seem to have changed a bit. Holding my mug of sweet tea that had been made by Nima Lamu, the young Sherpa girl, I shielded my eyes from the early sun. Only 400 metres in front of us, shimmering and detached, lay the Icefall. At that moment, all was quiet.
The responsibility this season for building and maintaining a route through the Icefall was borne by Henry and our team of Sherpas. These Sherpas had now been up here for two weeks, preparing the ladders and ropes that would be used extensively in the ice. Already they had created a route through about three-quarters of the Icefall, roping ladders together in order to cross its yawning crevasses. They had been working fast. This morning was no different, and at 5.00 a.m. they were at the foot of the Icefall, putting on their crampons, and preparing for the risky work ahead. The smell of burning juniper wafted over my tent, as the last bit of branch crackled into flames.
Each morning the Sherpas would burn this as an offering to the ‘goddess of the sky’, to pray for their safety that day. In the future you could tell the days when climbers were in the Icefall, by the amount of juniper that was smouldering around Base Camp.
I wrote that morning, in the cold of dawn:
29 MARCH, 6.15 A.M.:
Base Camp is now a lot more busy. The Singapore expedition arrived yesterday, plus about three-quarters of the entire Nepalese yak population, needed to ca
rry all their equipment. I’ve never seen so much stuff, and we’ve even heard rumour that they have the facilities to carry out advanced dentistry. This makes Mick and I look like true amateurs as we argue over who’s got the tin of plasters. I hope all our equipment arrives soon, so that I don’t have to feel quite so pathetic as I sit here freezing in these ruddy old chef’s trousers that flap like flags in the wind. Even I’m looking forward now to a pair of long johns.
The Sherpas, during our absence down the valley, have constructed a stone building out of the rocks around Base Camp. It is covered with a tarpaulin and has a table of carefully balanced stones in the middle. It’s very impressive, and reflects their quiet but strong character. It has all been built with no fuss in just a week. Back in sunny Dorset we’d still be arguing about who was going to be the ‘foreman’.
Most of our time at Base Camp will be spent in this ‘mess tent’, as the Sherpas call it. It is a key part of Base Camp, and all our little tents surround it.
Mick and I started flattening some more tent sites yesterday for the rest of the team when they arrive, and we hope to finish these today. It’s good to take some exercise and throw some rocks around, in an attempt to level out some ground. I’m feeling much stronger now.
Supper last night was blooming ‘dal-bat’ again. The standard Sherpa food – rice and lentil soup. Delicious once; okay twice; but desperate the twentieth time on the trot. We can’t wait for the arrival of the others, plus the better grub.
Mick sat in the mess tent last night in his ‘Base Camp’ shoes – namely his trainers. At night though, it is still bitingly cold, and is made even parkier by wearing trainers on an ice floor. He looked in envy at my snug moon-boots. Halfway through supper he announced that he was in grave danger of losing his toes from frostbite before he’d set foot on the hill. Mick ended up eating supper whilst suspending his feet six inches off the ice; it kept me amused all evening.
By now, though, Mick and I were beginning to get itchy feet. The girls had left two days ago, and the others were due to arrive sometime soon. We wanted to keep up our strength, and asked the two climbing Sherpas over supper if we could follow them up into the Icefall the next time they went. We wanted to get a feel of the place, and to help our acclimatization. It would only be a climb of some six hours but we knew that time spent above the height of Base Camp could only give us an advantage when the others arrived, as our bodies would be more adapted to the higher air. Nima and Pasang agreed to it, and carried on eating. Tomorrow would be a rest day. We would start with them the morning after that; an hour before dawn.
DIARY, 30 MARCH:
This morning was spent with the two of us sitting in the sun on our roll-mats, chatting and preparing our equipment. We measured harness lengths, adjusted slings, taped up ice-axe handles with foam to prevent the frozen metal sticking to your gloves, and then endlessly rechecked everything we had done. I’ve never felt on the one hand so prepared, and on the other so unprepared. However fit and experienced you are, the moment you enter the Icefall you’re plain ‘gambling’. And in my experience, I’ve never come out of a casino yet in credit.
As well as the Singapore team, a couple of other climbers had also now arrived at Base Camp. The first of these was a pleasant but slightly brash climber from Denmark, called Michael. This season was to be his second attempt on Everest. He was determined to climb the mountain solo, and without any supplementary oxygen. So far it had eluded him. On his previous attempt, the months of climbing lower down, carrying huge amounts of kit, had drained his body too much of those vital energy reserves needed to enable him to climb higher up. At the crucial time, he had been too exhausted to carry on.
This year he was trying again. He had Sherpa support at Base Camp, plus a radio communications officer with whom to keep in contact higher up. Their camp, like the Singaporeans’, was also a hive of the latest modern advances. This time though, instead of being medical advances, they were nutritional.
Michael would begin each day by stirring up these colourful and glutinous concoctions of high-energy, high-protein, high-everything drinks. He guaranteed us that these would propel him, as he said, ‘like a rocket with bad wind, up the mountain’. We felt somewhat disadvantaged eating normal food, rather than any exotic blend of pills and shakes. His friendship with us started off badly when he sauntered into our tent to announce what was on his food menu that night. It consisted of lasagne and pizza. The two of us hadn’t heard those words for a while and instantly hardened to him, as we continued nibbling on our rice and dal-bat.
In due course, though, as we shared experiences together, he became a friend and confidant; but it took some time. Such a driven character was often hard to stomach at Base Camp, when you just wanted some space and a bit of quiet time alone.
The other new person that had arrived at Base Camp was a kind-faced Bolivian climber called Bernardo. Standing only five foot something, with a grin that was as broad as he was tall, Bernardo was gentle and full of laughter. Over the next eight weeks he became a close friend. Born and bred in the Bolivian hills outside La Paz, he was a true mountain man, with a wealth of experience. In 1994 Bernardo had been attempting to climb Everest from the north side. After two months of climbing, and only hours from the summit, Bernardo heard of a German climber in trouble. He turned back to assist in the rescue of this climber, and managed to save his life; but it had cost Bernardo the summit. He had made the right decision, but in the blur and haze of high altitude, such decisions can become hard to take. It was a credit to his strength and will-power that he had so bravely turned around.
After four years of trying to raise the sponsorship to climb again, Bernardo was once again at the foot of the great mountain. He was hoping to be the first South American Indian to reach the top of our world’s highest peak. Bernardo spoke very limited English, and once he discovered that I spoke Spanish, the floodgates opened. I was drowned in a barrage of conversation. I think Bernardo had missed the banter, having walked in silence through the valleys for over two weeks. I just sat and listened, enjoying his clear South American accent, as we discussed the climb ahead.
Bernardo, having just reached Base Camp, needed to rest for a few days – but wished us both luck for our preliminary climb in the Icefall. He said he would be watching us through his binoculars, and finished his mug of tea by saying, ‘Vaya con Díos’ or ‘God’s speed.’
DIARY, 30 MARCH, DUSK:
We had fried spam tonight for supper. A treat the Sherpas had been reserving for this last meal, before starting the climb. Despite the fact that we suspect spam has now been banned in England, as it’s so unhealthy, it was a great luxury to us both here. It tasted as delicious as anything I can remember.
All my kit is immaculately laid out ready for dawn, when we’ll start into the Icefall. I feel a real ‘spod’ with everything so neat and tidy. If Shara could see this, she’d be amazed.
I just seem to lie here, endlessly mulling over all the possibilities of what I’m about to do. The build-up and fear is so exhausting mentally, and those death statistics are so unhelpful. Ruddy statisticians; nothing better to do than worry those who are actually doing things.
Earlier this evening as I was getting into my tent, I heard this huge, shattering crack reverberate round the valley. A vast wall of snow from the side of a mountain behind us, known as the Lho-La Pass, collapsed. A thick cloud of snow, fifty feet high, came pouring down the sheer slopes. As it picked up speed, the roar grew with it, as the snow rolled down towards Base Camp. I was scared it might reach us in the middle of the glacier, but instead, as it plummeted to the floor at the valley’s edge, it billowed up like an explosion, hundreds of feet high. From here it took five minutes to settle slowly, and eventually left an eery silence hanging over the place. It was the most awe-inspiring sight I’ve ever seen, and a sober reminder of tomorrow.
I seem so full of fears about everything. The cold, the risk of death in the falling ice, the pain of the climb itself.
There seems so much ahead. Nobody minds pain occasionally, but the prospect of being at my physical wit’s end for the next two months terrifies me, as I stand here at the starting gate. What happens if Mick dies tomorrow, on day one? Or if I do? I pray for the Good Lord’s protection over us. Taking gambles like this just isn’t healthy. I feel knotted up inside. All I seem to have to hold on to are my stuttering faith and my memories of those I love at home.
Sleep didn’t come at all that night, as I lay thinking about what was now only a few hours away. The cracks and rumbles of the Icefall seemed especially loud to me; or maybe it was just my ears being over-sensitive to their groans. I tossed and turned, looking every half would be an hour at my watch to count the time remaining until my alarm would sound. I just wished for deep sleep, so that I strong the next morning. But it never came.
Leaving the warmth and security of a sleeping bag for the cold chill of night is one of the worst parts of climbing. The cold that the night provides, ensures greater stability in the Icefall. It is during these night hours that much of one’s climbing has to be done. By day, not only is the ice weaker, but the temperatures soar dramatically. Trapped in the ice, with the heat of the sun blazing down, has been known to literally sap the strength from a man. Skin becomes burnt in a matter of minutes if not protected, and temperatures that have an hour beforehand been in the minus 20s°C, can now rise to over 80°F.
Early starts, like this morning, would become matter of fact by the end; but in that pre-dawn chill, leaving my warm sleeping bag was, mentally, the greatest struggle. It was times like this, when I was still sleepy, that I felt the most vulnerable and alone.