by Bear Grylls
By 7.00 a.m. the wind seemed to be dying gradually. Still though, snow licked across the glacier at a frightening speed. All the Singapore team came and gathered in our mess tent. Mick and I, by now, had also abandoned my tent for the bigger communal mess one. About fifteen of us in total, including the exhausted Icefall doctors, whose hopes of a long-deserved rest had been shattered, gathered round the stone table.
The tent looked like some scene out of a holocaust movie, with pots of ketchup and sacks of rice covered in a layer of snow, resembling the fall-out dust from a nuclear explosion. Snow had blown in through every hole and tear in the structure, and the driving wind had whipped in loud claps against the tarpaulin.
As dawn came we assessed the damage. In the few days beforehand, Mick and I had ensured that our tents were tightly secured; we had done this almost out of boredom, rather than anything else. There had not been much else to do, except secure tents and prepare equipment. We were lucky, it had paid off.
The Singaporean camp had been hit on higher ground; tents had literally been torn apart. Out of a total of twelve tents, only two now stood. The others were scattered in shreds – poles and canvas having been blown across the glacier at the mercy of Mother Nature. Bernardo’s supply tent lay limp and in tatters. The magnificent blue structure of the day before was now a sorry combination of bent poles and ripped canvas.
The Sherpas seemed frightened, and nervously declared that this was the worst storm that any of them could remember at Base Camp for at least fifteen years. We looked on in silence at the carnage that the wind had left.
Like battle-weary troops, the Singapore team were now forced to leave Base Camp. Their tents were ruined; they needed a re-supply, and that would take time. They would wait for this in Lobuche, and train in the meantime in the surrounding valleys.
All of us, in some way, I guess, had arrived with swollen ambitions; we expected to control the way everything would go; we all assumed our equipment or our own strength would be enough; we thought we had a fool-proof system. Disaster is never far away when man assumes to have control over anything – never more so than with nature. As is the way with mountains, our puny systems have this funny habit of breaking down.
These thoughts dominated my mind as Mick and I found ourselves virtually alone again at Base Camp. I was viewing the mountain in a new light now. I felt as if we were trespassing by even being here. It was as if we were being given warnings. Maybe we weren’t meant to ever ‘climb the Great Mountain’, as the Indian General had said.
We were still here though, and were still alive. I almost didn’t dare look up in the direction of the summit. It seemed too far, too ambitious. But as is the nature of the human spirit, the flame somewhere still dimly glowed. I allowed myself a sneaking look up and quietly dreamt.
CHAPTER NINE
BROTHERS IN ARMS
‘Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, my glory was I had such friends.’
Yeats
The solemn chanting of the Buddhist priest echoed round the glacier. The Lama, as he is referred to, scattered sacred flour and rice into the air at sporadic intervals, then watched as it pattered down like rain across the ice.
The Lama was buried in his fervent prayers, oblivious to his surroundings. He sat cross-legged on a tattered old mat laid across the rocks. He was dressed in an old crimson monastery cloak that wrapped round him several times over, and his old leather shoes seemed to have been repaired with twine more times than one would deem possible. His physique was small and wiry, and his face, withered and wind-beaten by a lifetime in the hills. He smiled eagerly at us as a large branch of juniper crackled into flame.
The only indication of which century we were in was his woollen hat. Bright yellow with a huge bobble on the end; it dwarfed his face. The look of pride in his eyes suggested that he loved this hat. It had a certain ‘something’ that other priests we had seen were lacking. Perhaps this eccentricity was the reason why he had been sent up to us by the monastery. He had travelled twenty miles into the snows to administer what appeared to us at Base Camp to be our ‘last rites’.
Neil and Geoffrey had arrived with Henry the day before. Henry had completely failed to recognize Mick because of the thick beard he had sprouted in only three weeks, and because of my grime he only recognized me by my chef’s trousers. Base Camp had come alive and the Lama’s ceremony marked the formal start of the climb. This was the Sherpas’ big day.
In preparation, they had built a stone altar upon which the Lama would raise the Buddhist prayer flag at the end of the ceremony. But at the moment it looked naked, standing alone, towering above the rocks. The wind gently blew across the ice and the sun was already getting hot. The Lama continued his chanting, and we all sat serenely round about, watching the bobble hat move as his head shook in prayer.
The ceremony is called the ‘Puja’, and the Lama spends an entire day chanting and offering food and alcoholic sacrifices to the mountain goddess. It is the most important part of the climb for the Sherpas: without the mountain’s blessing, none of them would venture any further. Such is the strength of their conviction. On the other hand, once the Puja is over, the Sherpas gain this great courage. They are now clear to climb; whatever happens afterwards is their destiny. Much of their courage comes as a result of a successful Puja.
Even Nima and Pasang had undertaken their own, slightly less elaborate Puja ten days earlier, for just the two of them. It was essential. Their work had started earlier than the other Sherpas, and like all work in the Icefall – they needed their share of luck.
It was now 11.00 a.m. and the ceremony at Base Camp was in full flow. The Lama invited us to bring our ice-axes and crampons to him for a blessing. Everyone scrambled to their tents, rummaging equipment together for the Lama. We all placed it at his feet, and as the metal of the axes and crampons clinked together, the Lama tossed more juniper onto the fire, chanting ever louder.
Suddenly the chanting stopped; the noise of the fire was all that remained. The Lama raised his arms aloft, and signalled for the Puja pole to be brought forward. With great solemnity – faces displaying intense concentration, the Sherpas slowly raised the prayer pole into position. From the top of the pole, four lengths of prayer flags, each thirty yards long, were stretched across the glacier and secured under large stones. The protection of Sagarmatha had begun.
The tone then changed abruptly. We were each given sacred flour and rice to throw in ‘prayer’, and food and drink to consume. An old gasoline container, brimming with clear liquid, was produced from under wraps. It was the dreaded chang.
I grimmaced at the first sip. The smell brought back memories of drinking cheap vodka in the bushes at school, where I had ended up unconscious after drinking what felt like straight turps. I had vowed that I would never touch it neat and in such vast measures again. The Sherpas were insistent, though, that I drank more to appease their mountain goddess. Too much more and I would not need any protection, as I would be flat out on my back for the rest of the expedition, unable to climb. Still, keen to keep them happy I took another swig and winced. I swore that this was worse than the cheap vodka. Surely they wouldn’t mind, I thought to myself, if I put a bit of orange juice in it and pretended I was drinking a cool vodka and orange in the garden at home.
A combination of altitude, and not having drunk more than a couple of sips of alcohol since the flight over, ensured that the ceremony rapidly deteriorated into chaos. The Sherpas’ tolerance to alcohol seemed even less than mine, and soon the chanting of the Lama was drowned in the drunken banter of the Sherpas, as they threw sacred flour wildly around like confetti.
The scene was soon like the final throes of a children’s tea party, with all of us covered in food and drink – food and drink that even the Lama was unable to avoid getting covered in. I am sure the monastery would have disapproved but – oh well – the Lama seemed to be loving it. If Sagarmatha’s protection relied on the joviality and chaos of the Puja, then
by all accounts we had nothing to fear on her slopes.
The day slipped by and the tension of the weeks fell away. The Lama still sat cross-legged, grinning and chanting away songs and prayers that I am sure were slowly becoming gobbledegook. He reached over, and swigged at the petrol container of booze. Sitting there, his face covered in sacred flour, he was the picture of religious delight. The only thing that now looked sober was his bobble hat – and even that was tilting at an extraordinary angle.
Evening came, the Lama staggered to his feet and left, and a stillness swept over the camp. I sat on a rock and surveyed the carnage of where the Puja had taken place. It was a mess of rice and biscuits strewn across the ground, and the last bits of juniper were still smouldering in the ashes. The prayer pole towered above Base Camp like a vigilant sentry and the prayer flags fluttered in the gentle breeze. They are designed simply to carry the prayers up to the mountain as the wind caresses over them. As they swayed in the breeze, I hoped they would work.
Two days from now we would return to the Icefall, this time as a complete team – the aim being to reach Camp One. The departure of the Lama and the stillness of dusk beckoned in the next stage of this adventure. The festivities were over and from now on things would become much more serious. Everything we had worked so hard for over the last year, everything the Puja had been about – all the prayers for protection – now lay menacingly in front of us. My head was beginning to hurt from the chang, and as I sat on a rock with Mick, Neil and Geoffrey zipped inside their tents either side of me, I found myself looking out at the Icefall. The ice shimmered in the glow of dusk and my mind wandered in a semi-drunken haze.
DIARY, 2 APRIL:
The peaceful ease of the last few days, when Mick and I were alone, has now gone. All was very quiet then as we sat and talked and waited for the others to arrive. Now that they are here, the energy that a group of ambitious, highly driven climbers creates is very evident. There is a purpose to everything, the camp is a hustle of bodies busily organizing equipment and discussing plans.
It’s good to see Neil out here; we’ve spent so much time together in England, planning and discussing, that it is a relief to see him in the flesh and to be getting ready together. He’s as confident as ever, a bundle of energy and humour – and part of me feels a little slow around him. Mick and I have been alone with the Sherpas so long that to be thrown into the deep end of banter and conversation feels a bit strange. Part of me misses the solitude that we have enjoyed. But we are here, God willing, to climb this mountain, however impossible it now seems. That is our aim. I hope I’ll live up to the promises I’ve made. The promises to be strong and dependable when it counts.
The tension and excitement is already here, hidden under the surface of people; you can just sense it. It’s like the rollercoaster has left the dock. Tonight there’s a funny feeling in my stomach.
The other teams were also beginning to arrive at Everest Base Camp. The Singapore team had returned, newly equipped, along with three American teams and an Iranian team who were hoping to put the first Iranian on top of the world. Base Camp was now more like a small village, with huddles of tents scattered randomly across the glacier.
The other climbers, under the logistical umbrella of Henry Todd, had also arrived. Inclusive of our four-man team, the total number in Henry’s group was twelve. We would all climb together for the majority of the route, then at Camp Three we would separate in different directions. The eight Everest climbers would traverse north to the South Col, while the other four would make their attempt for the summit of Lhotse – the fourth highest mountain in the world.
Outside our immediate team of Neil, Mick and Geoffrey, I had never met most of these other climbers. Apart from Henry, the only other person I knew was a very experienced climber from Colorado called Andy Lapkas. We had climbed Ama Dablam together six months earlier, where I had gained a huge respect for this man. Tall, lean, and quietly spoken, but with a cheeky smile and sense of humour, Andy was a thoroughbred climber. He had climbed Everest in the early 1990s. After two months’ preparation he had reached the summit in a staggering final climb – without the use of supplementary oxygen.
The two of us had laughed together on Ama Dablam about the appalling state of our cars back home, and how they both had broken down before leaving. Silence would then fall, as we both wondered how on earth our girlfriends put up with driving around in our clapped-out old bangers – then we would laugh again. I was pleased to have Andy climbing with us now, even though higher up he would head for Lhotse.
Also climbing Lhotse were Nasu, a Turk who had previously climbed Everest from the north side, and Ilgvar, a Latvian who had climbed it from the south. Sitting in the mess tent I felt dwarfed by the strength and achievements of these great men; we were in honoured company amongst such experience. I tried not to be daunted, but secretly felt a little small.
Scott was a doctor from Canada, who had been hoping to be part of the Lhotse team. Tall and friendly, he had managed to twist his ankle severely whilst being chased by a yak on the way up to Base Camp. Although he saw the funny side of this and went along with the inevitable jokes, it was a great disappointment to him. He had spent a lot of time and energy training for this climb, not to mention the financial cost, and it now looked over before it had begun. Such is the nature of climbing. Luck holds a big hand in any ascent and for Scott, luck had dealt him a bad card. He would try to rest his ankle and climb later on in the expedition, though realistically he held out little hope. For now, he was to stay at Base Camp as our doctor. We would need him.
Also on the Everest team was Carla, a Mexican lady trying to be the first Mexican female to the summit. She had given her all for the chance to climb here, having taken three years to raise the funds. Quiet and friendly, she hid a fierce determination to make it to the top at almost any expense.
Allen Silva was an Australian climber who was part of the Everest team. Blond and wiry, he had climbed all his life in the Himalaya. Allen didn’t say much, and seemed cold towards us. Perhaps seeing me in chef’s trousers and tweed cap, with a wispy beard that only grew under my chin, he maybe thought that I was out of place and unserious. I may not have looked as sensible as possible, but my heart burned with desire to climb high on this mountain. The more he doubted, the greater my determination was to prove him wrong in my strength and reliability.
Allen’s coldness upset me. We needed trust up here between us, trust in who we were, and in what we had done; but he wasn’t giving it. If he wanted to see us work before he gave his, then we would show him we were trustworthy. Henry sensed Allen’s coldness and reassured me.
‘I know your background and we’ve climbed together before – take no notice of Allen and just do what you did on Ama Dablam, okay?’
The faith Henry and Neil had in me was what counted, and in this they never wavered. I was the young one. But they trusted me and I wasn’t going to let them down. They gave me something to live up to.
Another climber on the team was an Englishman called Graham, who had climbed Everest a few years beforehand, on his second attempt from the north. He was hoping to be the first Englishman to climb Everest from both sides. Easy-going and competent, he was an asset to any team. A true Newcastle man, he professed to doing his training ‘in the pub with a glass of ale and a cigarette’. His strong eyes and prior achievement, though, told a deeper story. Here was a man who could climb with the strength of ten men. We had heard it from others, and could see it behind his Geordie grin.
Michael was from Canada, and a friend of Scott. One of the most celebrated rock climbers in Canada, Michael had spent his life in the mountains of his native land. Sponsored to the hilt by North Face equipment, Michael was trying to reach the summit of the ‘Big One’, as he would say. Cheerful and kind, with a vulnerable streak that lay hidden under his ‘outdoor image’, Michael already looked apprehensive. Seven weeks later, I was to spend one of the most nerve-wracking nights of my life, squashed along
side him at Camp Two. All our experience suddenly seemed to count for nothing; we were both just scared. Michael was a good man, and I sensed it within hours of meeting him.
As part of the team we also had a communications officer, who was to be running the radios for us from Base Camp. Her job was to keep us in touch and informed on the mountain. Jokey was already a friend and when I offered her the job in London she leapt at it. Jokey was due to finish her contract as a producer with Carlton TV, and when Neil agreed to it, she joined us.
She was used to working with loads of technical equipment, and on arriving at Base Camp with Neil, she took to her job like a duck to water. People had had their doubts that she could even reach Base Camp, and feared that she had too little mountain experience to run the radios. But like so much in life, and especially in the mountains, determination wins through. Jokey showed all those doubters up as she threw herself courageously into the job; she did it well and for us to have a lovely smiling face to come back down the mountain to was a joy. No one could have done the job of communications officer better.
She would have to leave us at the start of May, and was due to be replaced by Ed Brandt.
Now that everyone had arrived, Base Camp was busy. People went quietly about their things – whether it was rummaging through hold-alls of kit or shaving in a bowl of warm water. We were getting ready. Ahead would lie two months of living and working in very close quarters – and for the time being, we were slowly getting to know each other.
The process of the climb meant that we would have to ascend then descend the mountain continually. This would allow our bodies to acclimatize to a high point, before coming back to Base Camp to recover. It is how you climb a high mountain. You reach the threshold of altitude that your body can cope with, then come back down to rest. Then up a bit higher to acclimatize to a greater height and then down again. The whole time you are fighting the danger of illness, altitude sickness, avalanche and bad weather. Luck has to come into it. We all knew that to be successful here so many factors would have to come right, and that inevitably included luck. Every day I prayed for it – for the Good Lord’s luck.