by Bear Grylls
From the foot of the Lhotse Face we could look directly up the 5,000-foot ice wall. Around us lay hundreds of small fist-size rocks that had fallen down the face, and embedded themselves into the glacier ice. One of these travelling at the pace it would, down sheer blue ice, would kill a man at once. We couldn’t stay here long.
We stood tentatively at the lip of the Bergschrund crevasse, peering in. This huge crack in the ice, where the Lhotse Face starts and the Cwm ends, was thirty feet wide and seemingly bottomless in depth. It seemed surreally quiet. We looked around for a few moments then headed quickly away from the danger-zone of falling stones. We had done well and had laid out a good route for us all in the weeks ahead.
The excitement of climbing so freely, without fixed ropes or ladders to cross the crevasses, had kept fatigue away – but the descent brought it flooding in. We were tired now and moved as swiftly as we could back down towards Camp Two, following our footsteps precisely.
We all slept better that night at Camp Two, as our bodies welcomed the release from the exhausting concoction of exercise and altitude. It was almost impossible to replenish the body with enough fluid at this height. However much we drank we always seemed to remain dehydrated. That night as I peed in my bottle, I clutched it firmly like a baby does a doll. Nothing was going to let it slip through my fingers this time. Once bitten twice shy; and the first bite had been miserable. The urine was still dark brown; a depressing colour. The only consolation was that Mick’s was even darker. We compared colours in the fading light and Mick was forced to admit defeat. It came as no surprise that we both had headaches.
At 8.30 a.m. the next day we were back down at the top of the Icefall. We had covered the distance between Camp Two and One in only two and a half hours, as our bodies enjoyed the richer air as we descended through the valley. By 10.45 a.m. we were back at Base Camp. Whilst we had sampled the beauty of the land of the giants somewhere up there in the clouds above, back at Base Camp nothing seemed to have changed. I liked this. It was about the only constant factor in our existence up here; that Base Camp was welcoming, mostly sunny, and full of food.
Jokey, though, seemed worried. I don’t think it had hit her what we were doing until now. All of us were gaunt. Our skin was burnt a dirty, black colour from the fierce sun, and our faces looked drained. Having no idea of what was up there causing all this made her imagination run wild. All she saw was us disappear in the early mornings into the cloud and reappear days later looking battle-weary and weak. It distressed her.
In our haste to reach the sanctuary of Base Camp and the prospect of one of Thengba’s fresh omelettes, we had hurried down too fast. The weariness of the last few days engulfed me that last hour through the bottom of the Icefall. I didn’t linger long with the others, and was soon asleep in my tent. I woke at noon and wrote in my diary:
Life here, with all the fears we carry, coupled with the remoteness, the cold and discomfort up high, makes me appreciate the good things at Base Camp like never before. The simplest of things become the focus of hope: the thought of speaking to home, or the prospect of mayonnaise.
I’m weak after the last few days and this dehydration seems unconquerable. I’ve got a bit of sunstroke after the descent today. I was careless and couldn’t be bothered to wear my hat, and am paying the price now. My hands are annoyingly blistered from the ropes running through them on the descent, and my shins are bleeding from the boots rubbing the front of my legs. They say pros don’t get injured as they look after themselves so well. I must be showing my real colours – colours of ‘not-so-glorious amateurism’.
The pain in my elbow from my fall in the crevasse lingers on. Whenever I lean on it, the bones grate and I yelp like a puppy. All in all I feel about as tough as a limp flannel. Still, I guess as long as I’m giving my all, that is what matters; it’s just that I feel a bit beaten up at the moment.
I count the days until I can run in the fields at home with the animals, climb trees, sit in front of big fires, lounge in bubble baths, and sleep on soft pillows.
The more time I spend here the more I believe the only way to survive is to stay close to Jesus. At Camp Two I read Mick and Neil some good passages from C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters that I had torn out and stuffed in my pack. It talks about true freedom. They fell asleep!
After one of the finest night’s sleep that I had had in Nepal I woke to Mick bellowing, ‘Morning, Oso.’
I replied, as per custom, with a resounding, ‘Morning, Miguel.’
Mick had obviously shared in that good night’s sleep. All our bodies were relishing in the rest and thick air. Today I really would call home. Michael was up the hill and his communications officer let us use it again on the quiet. It still cost us $7 a minute.
‘Mum, it’s me.’
‘Bear … it’s … BEAR!’ she shouted, summoning everyone around.
It was wonderful to hear all their news. All the animals were well, and Mungo my nephew was now walking. Lara promised that he had even said ‘Mamma’, although Dad swore that it was the poor baby just being sick. I smiled.
I told them that we were going to try to reach Camp Three soon, and then it would be the waiting game for the jet-stream winds to lift, before we could attempt a summit bid. I told them about my narrow escape in the crevasse in the Icefall.
‘You fell in a what … a crevice?’ Mum warbled.
‘No, in a crevasse,’ I replied.
‘Speak up, I can hardly hear you.’ She tried to quieten everyone around her, then resumed, ‘Now, about that crevice …’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I chuckled.
I promised I would call again when we got back from Camp Three in a week or so’s time, then hung up.
When I came out of the tent everyone was laughing, having listened to our conversation. Allen confirmed his belief that poms were mad, and Neil sat there grinning away.
Geoffrey had gone back up the hill with the others on their acclimatization climb to Camp Two – so we missed again. He seemed to be going well, which was encouraging. Scott, our doctor, was recovering from his sprained ankle and was hoping to climb soon, even if only to glimpse the Western Cwm. I admired this courage.
Having spent so much time alone at Base Camp whilst everyone else was climbing, he was beginning to miss his fiance´e desperately. It showed. In many ways, one of the hardest factors of climbing such mountains is the time away from loved ones. These are feelings, though, that everybody knew, and everyone coped with in their different ways.
Henry had also had a bout of some illness that irritated his Scottish temperament; it wasn’t in his nature to be ill. Three days later he was better and had now gone up with Geoffrey to Camp Two. Base Camp was left relatively quiet. We chatted to Charles again, who mentioned that, according to the statistics, only one in four of us would summit. Sitting alone reflecting on this, I thought of who it would be in our team. They were all so powerful: Graham, Neil, Allen – they were amongst the top climbers of their countries. I felt that it could not logically be me. I knew my only hope was to ignore the statistics; it was just that they seemed quite heavy. Neil, as ever, said not to listen to him.
‘We’re a team, okay. Just keep doing what you’re doing. The difference between those who make it and those who don’t is that the latter stop believing they can – their spirit goes. We’ve both got that spirit, you know that deep down, Bear, all right?’
We only had one more rest day at Base Camp before our last acclimatization climb up to Camp Three at 24,500 feet. Henry had reminded us over and over again that it was this stage that was make or break.
‘If you can reach Camp Three in reasonable time, in under seven hours, and cope more or less with a night at that height, then you’re qualified in my book for a summit bid. If you’re too slow then I can’t risk you any higher. You’ll come back to Base Camp and stay here.’
Henry had laid down the parameters. As leader of the overall expedition and in charge of the logistical suppo
rt, what Henry said went. He had been climbing here for years, and his specialist knowledge of Everest was immense. He nearly always climbed up to Camp Three or Four – but no higher. He was there to ensure safety for the summit teams. His altruism in this brought him his satisfaction.
‘The joy for me is the climbing in these mountains and helping summit teams be successful. Over the years I’ve developed a pretty good feel for those who will and those who won’t make the summit on Everest. When somebody gives their all and achieves it, it changes their life. You can see it in their eyes. In helping them achieve that is my satisfaction,’ he would say.
We all knew the pressure upon us to perform well on this final preparatory leg. We could not afford to make a mistake now. If we were to be on the summit team, we had to show our capacity to work to the pressure, and climb with strength and, above all, kindness. Up high, there is no one more unpopular than the selfish man.
We were all getting ready and focusing on Camp Three. We discussed the most effective way of climbing the blue ice, debating different crampon techniques. We all knew that at that height, with that sort of gradient, there would not be room for error. But we were hungry to do it. I didn’t want to wait any longer.
That evening, talking with Scott, he told of the years of preparation he had done for this climb. Being out here, seeing the mountain but with a weak ankle, his ambition now was just to see the Western Cwm. That was all he wanted. I felt humbled. What was I doing aiming for the summit? Scott was training for this climb while I was still at school, yet he is only hoping to reach the Western Cwm. Maybe I was reaching too high. This troubled me that evening as I sat alone in my tent.
But I knew that I had to stretch myself further, and reach beyond my grasp. I felt this burning urge to go higher and I longed to witness the summit. The beauty of the places on the way there was unquestioned – what I had seen so far had stunned me in its sheer scale and beauty, but I felt there was more. My eyes and heart were for the summit, and my dream was to reach it with the Person who had created it. I wanted this to be my journey.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAKE OR BREAK
‘Unless you try to do something beyond what you have already mastered, you will never grow.’
Ronald Osborn
It was 5.00 a.m. and eerily still at Camp Two. Mick had been tossing and turning all night, cursing his inability to sleep.
Today was make or break for us. We had reached Camp Two by mid-afternoon the day before, after a seven-hour climb from Base Camp. It had been the first time that we had done the route all in one go without a night at Camp One en route, and it had taken its toll. We had hoped our acclimatization would have lessened the pain, but the strain of climbing all the way from Base Camp showed. Our pace had been reduced, again, to twenty small steps at a time.
One of the irritations of such slow moving and so many breaks was that it gave you too much time to reflect on the discomfort. I had hardly even looked at the Lhotse Face in the distance; it was too big a leap. It had taken all my reserves just to get along the Western Cwm.
Fourteen hours later I was squatting in the chilly air of dawn, checking my pack was secure and adjusting my crampons for the last time, before setting off in the hope of reaching Camp Three, some 3,300 feet higher. I felt mildly sick.
Camp Three is on the threshold of where the human body can survive. Any higher and the body begins to feed off itself and slowly shuts down; you are then on borrowed time. How the human body reacts to this strain varies amongst people; but as I had been repeatedly told, ‘altitude adaptation grows with age’, and age was something that was working against me. I prayed that my body would cope. It had to. This was the real tester. If I failed to cope up at Camp Three, I would return to Base Camp and never go back up again. My body would be one of the many that cannot cope with the lack of oxygen. Looking at the vast Face before me, I tried to imagine being up there. I couldn’t.
‘Okay, let’s get going, we need to be well onto the Face by the time the sun comes up. That only leaves two hours to reach the foot of it,’ Neil announced.
We had hardly spoken that morning. We were all nervous, and lost in our own thoughts. Much rested on the next seven or so hours.
Thirty yards after setting out from Camp Two we were still on the scree and ice moraine, trying to reach the firmer glacier ice that would lead up from there. Neil was in front, and suddenly slipped on the ice. We stopped as he got to his feet and started again. A yard later he slipped again, and fell awkwardly on the sharp stone and ice surface. He swore at the top of his voice, and slammed his ice-axe into the glacier bed. He was pissed off.
We all felt the pressure on us now, and floundering thirty yards from Camp was bugging for Neil. It was an unnecessary irritation. I understood. We all just sat there for a bit. We didn’t need to speak. We just needed time as a team alone, out of Camp Two. We sat there for five minutes just being together. Neil had just expressed what we all felt. We were feeding off each other now, and gaining strength from it.
We started up again and followed our route to the Bergschrund slowly and deliberately, trying to save our energy for what was above. All was silent apart from the crunch of ice beneath our feet as the teeth of our crampons gripped in the ice. The same methodic, high-pitched crunch that rang in my ears with every step. It felt hot already and it was only 6.30 a.m.
As we approached the start of the Face we sat for ten minutes and rested. I handed round some glucose tablets. I used to suck these continually; it was something to do as you leant on your axe with your eyes closed breathing heavily, trying to summon up the energy to move forward. It acted as a distraction from the discomfort.
The wind was blowing gently across the ice; it was a small relief from the heat as we started up the ice. As we kicked the points of our crampons in, we would lean on them, test their grip, then push another small step higher. A couple of these, then we would need to rest. The leap we were making in altitude of 3,300 feet was huge – considering the altitude we were at. Even on our trek into Base Camp we had only been climbing around 900 feet a day, and that was some 10,000 feet lower down.
We knew the risks in pushing through this boundary, but because of the severity of the gradient we were forced to take it. Logistically it would be almost impossible to site two camps on the Lhotse Face – it was too risky avalanche-wise, and would result in the human body spending too much time too high. Everything considered, it was reckoned that to reach Camp Three and then get down quickly, was still the best way of acclimatizing to the body’s threshold. As soon as we had completed our trip to Camp Three we would then return back to Base Camp for one last time; from then on it’s all weather driven.
For five hours we continued slowly up the blue ice, each step deliberately placed. Mistakes on here could not be rectified. We would slide our jumars along the rope, then check the teeth had gripped, before leaning back to rest, letting the harness take the strain. The jumar is attached to your harness via a short rope known as a sling; you had to trust all these links to hold you – you had no choice.
At the end of each rope, we would clip in with a second sling and karabiner to the next rope – make sure it was secure, then unclip the jumar and move that as well. It was routine but you couldn’t afford to be careless. The Lhotse Face has claimed so many of the deaths on Everest that mistakes went unforgiven. The concentration drained us as much as the climb itself.
When resting, our crampons would grip the ice and we would lean back on our harness. Looking beneath us, the ice shimmered away into the distance. I could see the small chips of ice that my crampons had dislodged, tumbling down the sheer face below. The sling holding me was as tight as a bow string under the weight of my body and heavy rucksack. We had tried to keep the weight of these to a minimum but still it was uncomfortably heavy as it bit into our shoulders.
I shuffled my feet to relieve the pressure of the heavy boots on them. Bent at an angle, the hard plastic dug into your shins, and the
blisters I had from before were still sore. Jokey had helped bandage them, but the plasters were rubbing off now. I tried to shuffle them again.
Neil described it later as ‘like being tortured’, which made me feel a little better, to think that someone else loathed it with the same deep vengeance. There was nothing remotely pleasant or romantic up here now – it just hurt.
The wind picked up the higher we went. We stopped to tighten our windsuits around us. I clapped my hands together and snow shook from my fleece gloves. I didn’t even have the energy to look down any more. I couldn’t be bothered.
As we climbed higher we lost ourselves in our own worlds. Each of us was fighting our own battle here. The danger of slipping hung in our minds continually.
After six long hours, we could just make out the seracs above us. I saw Bernardo abseiling down towards us. He had reached Camp Three the day before. He looked confident.
‘Not far now, Bear, over two more lips then see Camp Three,’ he said as he reached me. The Sherpas had reached it yesterday as well, and had spent the afternoon putting the tent in. They were fitter than us up here, their bodies coped better. Up higher everything would level out: Western climbers and Sherpas would climb at the same frighteningly slow pace. The altitude would ensure this; but still up to Camp Three the Sherpas were faster. They had done their job well; Camp Three was in and they were now returning with Bernardo. They smiled broadly at us as they passed us on the ropes. They understood our pain.
As we emerged over the final lip I could see the tent wedged under the serac, 100 feet above us. It looked precariously perched, but to us it symbolized everything cosy, as we edged our way towards it. The tent flapping in the now stronger wind looked the most alluring yet elusive sight I can remember. The cold had set in and it was now snowing hard. The wind swept the snow across the dark ice and up into our bodies. My hands felt icily numb and I tried to shake warmth into them. The fleece gloves acted to stop the metal jumar and karabiners sticking to our hands.