by Bear Grylls
Camp Three didn’t seem much closer and I had been moving now for a further twenty minutes.
Mick was a little behind Neil and I, and, as we both rolled over the ledge of Camp Three, we looked over and down at him. He was stationary. Another weary step, then a rest. He must have looked at us with envy, so close yet so far away. Come on, Mick. He never gave in, and eventually, freezing cold, he staggered to the ledge. A cold smile swept slowly across his half obscured face. The three of us were at Camp Three.
Andy was already in the tent, having left Camp Two a couple of hours before us. He was tired and irritated, but so were we all. The tent was tiny and four of us crammed inside, wet, with all our equipment, and boots, was a feat that a champion ‘Twister’ player might have struggled with. We fought to find space to squat.
Sachets of dried food were scattered across the floor messily, and we crammed our sleeping bags against the tent wall that was wedged against the ice face behind us. This side of the tent seemed a dull colour in comparison to the lighter, outer facing edge. I leant against the ice with my sleeping bag behind me, and tried to get comfortable in the limited space.
The headache that I thought I had left behind at Camp Two was with me again, stronger now. I swallowed four more aspirins.
In such close quarters, when you are tired, thirsty, with a headache, trying to melt ice continually on a tiny worn stove, and crammed into a corner against a cold wall of ice, requires a certain degree of tolerance from everyone. If ever friendships were to be tested it was now.
We knew each other so well, and knew how we each reacted to things, that things got done relatively smoothly and quietly. We must have appeared like ‘old hands’ as I helped Neil jam a roll-mat on the ground, as he passed me my headtorch from my pack, and as we grinned at Mick peeing in his bottle two inches from my ear. Nobody ever told us it would be a holiday; and we never expected it to be easy. It was just good, in a bizarre sort of way, to be here all together.
Once your boots were off you didn’t leave the tent. Several lives had been lost by people putting their inner boots on, going out for a second, then because of being careless and dozy from the altitude, slipping on the blue ice. It was their last conscious act, before finding themselves hurtling at breakneck speed down the 5,000 feet glassy face, with only a yawning crevasse at the bottom to meet them. Being careless up here can all too easily have fatal consequences.
The Singapore team had left Camp Two at the same time as us, but hadn’t made it to Camp Three. We heard on our radio call that evening that they had turned round after four hours. The weather had looked nasty. They would try again tomorrow. A warmth came over me; the three of us and Andy had made it. God knows how, but we were here, on the side of the Lhotse Face at some 24,500 feet above sea-level … and Mum and Dad. The thought made me smile.
The daylight was dying fast and we used our headtorches to keep watch over the stove that hissed away incessantly in the corner. I leant against my pack, wedged between Mick and Neil, and closed my eyes.
The sporadic snorts of Mick clearing his dry throat, and the deep hacking of Neil’s cough, were the only sounds as darkness swept across the mountain. I tried to doze.
‘The tent … it is just ahead, no, it’s gone. What’s happening? There it is again, so close … now it’s moving away. Stop, please.’ I was locked in this never-ending cycle of pain, desperately trying to grab the tent, but never being allowed to. I just kept plodding on, I begged my mind to let me give up, but it refused. There seemed no escape. ‘Stop …’
I opened my eyes and realized I was inside the tent. I tried to shake the nightmare from my head. I never wanted to see another rope or karabiner again.
At midnight I heard Andy mutter angrily to himself, ‘Oh, for fuck sake, come on!’ He wasn’t finding rest either. I took another aspirin. Maybe it would help me sleep, as well as ease the headache. It didn’t work.
I opened my eyes when I heard the sound of someone peeing in a bottle. It was Mick again. I hadn’t even gone once yet.
‘Mick, can’t you ruddy do that lying down,’ I whispered.
‘It’s too big,’ Mick replied.
I knew that I would need counselling on my return, to get rid of that image of Mick always kneeling, grinning and pissing this brown, stinking urine into his see-through bottle. For a long time afterwards if you said ‘Mick’ to me, then that was the image that leapt to mind. Everyone else had perfected the art of peeing whilst lying down; everyone, that is, except for Mick. He, as they say, liked to do it kneeling.
As dawn arrived we began the irksome task of trying to disentangle ourselves from the mass of limbs and equipment in the cramped tent. We tried to get the stove to light but it had frozen solid. I unscrewed the parts, removed the small gas filter to allow the gas easier access, and stuffed the various different bits down my bag. Ten minutes later it had thawed out and lit on the third attempt.
An hour later we had each drunk a warm mug of water and were dressed, fumbling around inside for last-minute things. My gloves were still damp, but at least were warm when I squeezed them on. As I manoeuvred myself from the tent, the fresh crisp air filled my nostrils. Waiting for the others to emerge, I sat and looked around. The heavy snow and driving wind of yesterday had been replaced by beautiful stillness. I was transfixed.
We were now two vertical kilometres above Base Camp, and still one and a half vertical kilometres off the summit. Mountains that before towered far above us, at Base Camp, were now level with us or below. I felt like a predator creeping slowly but surely up on the sleeping giant of Everest. But today we would undo all that slog. We would now have to descend again to Camp Two, then Base Camp. The thought of retracing all those sweat-earned steps depressed me; but it was our only option. The human body cannot acclimatize any higher, and in the process of slowly catching this monkey, we were being forced to retreat.
Sitting there, I glanced across to where Camp Four, the South Col, would be. The traverse above that led to the Yellow Band and then on to the Geneva Spur looked terrifying as it glistened in the early sun. Above these features, somewhere to the north, lay Camp Four. I let my eyes scan the horizon above, wondering if the weather would come right and allow me any higher. I prayed it would.
As I looked back down the valley I realized the severity of the Face we had climbed up in the wind and snow, only fifteen hours earlier. I checked my harness as I sat there.
Those few minutes that I sat, while Mick, Neil and Andy got ready, I experienced a stillness that I thought did not exist. Time seemed to stand still. I didn’t want the moment to end.
It had snowed heavily in the night and the ropes were now buried under several inches of snow that lay delicately on top of the glassy ice. It would make the descent much harder.
Soon we were ready and carefully checked each other’s harnesses. It was worth the few seconds it took, and could save a life. Then slowly we started down. The rope ran through our figure-of-eight abseiling devices, and buzzed as we picked up speed. I found it thrilling bouncing over the ice, leaning out, trusting the few pieces of cord that held us firmly in place. The ropes, under friction, were warm to touch as they raced away above us. I tried not to think about the thousands of feet of sweat and toil that now flew through my hands. I didn’t want to remind myself that I would have to do it again on the way to Camp Four and the summit; the prospect hurt too much.
On the way down we saw the specks of a few other climbers coming up. It was the Singapore team and an American climber. They must have left early. We passed the Singapore team and wished them luck. The American was fifty yards below. I was feeling tired by now. The strain of a night so high up was making me dozy as I came down, and the thrill of the descent was beginning to wear off. I just wanted to get down.
As I unclipped past the American, I groaned hello then clipped on past him. I was getting clumsy. Suddenly I lost traction in my crampons and skidded down the ice. The rope knocked the American sideways. I tripped ont
o my back and the sheet ice whisked me away. Just as I began to accelerate, the rope jerked me to a halt. A second later the American smacked into me. We both lay motionless for a few seconds, facing in to the slope – then clutched frantically for the rope.
‘Are you okay? Man, that was close. Keep your points dug in,’ he said almost casually.
‘Yep, I’m all right, I’m sorry, I lost grip suddenly. Are you okay?’ I replied frantically.
‘Yeah, yeah, but lucky this rope held, eh?’
We worked our way up carefully to the anchor point of the rope, and breathed deeply.
I buried my head in my jacket as my chest heaved. I had been lucky – again.
You can’t afford mistakes like that – you know that, Bear, I told myself.
The two of us grinned at each other. Only in such a precarious place can an accident like that bond people. In any other situation it would result in arguments and a punch-up, but up here you are both struggling to do your best in a dangerous game. The mountaineer’s temperament is very laid back, and at times of stress like this it showed. He shrugged it off.
‘Hey, forget it,’ he said.
I carried on slowly down, carefully watching each step I placed. It had been my first mistake on the mountain and it could have been my last. I felt ashamed, as if I had somehow let the others down. They were more forgiving, though, than I was to myself.
‘Getting some downhill practice in up there, were you, Bear?’ Mick joked. I grinned back at him sheepishly.
I hated having close shaves like that – I vowed it would be my last.
Back at Camp Two the tension fell away – we were ecstatic. Our final acclimatization climb was over. Michael and Scott were both there as well and shook our hands. I think they envied the fact that we had the prospect of a good rest awaiting us back at Base Camp. They were still hoping to climb some of the way to Camp Three in the next few days, depending on how Scott’s ankle held up. I think, though, Scott knew he was near his limit. We sipped the warm mugs of lemon tea and talked. Scott and Michael looked at us a little differently now.
We had proved we could cope at our altitude threshold and survive. We all knew that this boded well for a chance of the top. No one said this as there were too many other factors that could stop us, but deep down we knew we had done all that had been asked of us. I couldn’t help feel a tinge of pride. We had done okay.
The next day, we left Camp Two carrying the minimum of gear. Most of what we had ferried up would be needed for a summit bid. It would wait for us there. The route down through the Cwm – for the first time – felt pleasant. Our bodies revelled in the rich air. We crossed the crevasses with confidence, not due to altitude-induced nonchalance but because of pride. We were almost back.
I breathed deeply at the top of the Icefall, as we gazed down into the depths below. The more I saw it, the more I dreaded going back in. I guess that as we were getting closer, the stakes increased; suddenly there is more to lose. I clipped into the rope and dropped into the ice, leaving the Cwm behind me. All went smoothly until half an hour later.
Neil had just reached me, and Mick was waiting two yards further on. Suddenly we heard a piercing crack as a slab of snow tumbled, bouncing across the ice boulders. The snow engulfed the north side of the Icefall, creating this deep rumble. We crouched and watched as the cloud of snow settled only a few hundred feet away.
As we squatted, we could see Base Camp clearly below. Binoculars would be watching us from there. We moved efficiently down the ropes with fresh vigour. We’re too close to screw it up now, we’re too close, I thought.
By 12 noon we were gazing back up at the now-silent Icefall. Jokey’s voice broke that silence. I think she summed it up, as she candidly muttered under her breath, ‘Bloody men, I don’t know.’ A smile spread warmly across her face and she hugged us excitedly. It was good to be back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SUMMIT FEVER
‘Now that I’m here, where am I?’
Janis Joplin
I woke from a deep slumber to the sound of excited voices outside my tent. Sherpas were scurrying around frantically. All of us shuffled from our tents to see what was happening. A Nepalese porter, who was not from the Khumbu valley area, was moving quickly towards our camp. He looked tired. Strapped from his head, an old canvas band supported the weight of a wicker basket laden with various things. He shuffled into camp, grinned, and eased the weight from his back.
Sherpas grouped round him and questioned him eagerly. Soon all went quiet, the Sherpas moved aside and the porter turned to us.
‘British expedition? British?’ He mumbled in pidgin English, ‘Telephone from Lukla, long journey. English man two days behind.’ He produced from his basket a small box, covered in polythene. He smiled as if he knew how much this cargo meant to us.
Since our own satellite telephone had exploded dramatically at the hands of the rickety generator in Namche Bazaar all those weeks ago, our communication back home had been minimal. Using Michael’s telephone had caused endless friction, and would have required a mortgage to have used it at all regularly – thus hampering our desire to ring home. At last the replacement phone from British Telecom had arrived. Jokey shone with pride. She had organized it via e-mail, and could hardly believe her eyes that it was now with us.
It had travelled out with her replacement communication officer, Ed Brandt, who had sent it ahead by runner from Lukla after flying into the foothills. He knew it would reach us sooner that way. The porter had carried it at high speed up to Base Camp in only four days. The pace showed. He sat sipping milk tea, wrapped in blankets, and mumbling with the Sherpas in between swigs. Ed would be still somewhere in the valleys beneath us, but he had done well. Our communications home were now up and running.
Most of the team were now back at Base Camp and we only awaited the return of Nasu and Ilgvar after their ascent to Camp Three. They were the only two from our party still not back.
Geoffrey had also reached Camp Three successfully, along with the rest of the Everest group, Carla, Graham, Allen and Michael. Scott, though, was now returning to Base Camp for the last time. He had decided his injury would prevent him going any higher. He had witnessed the extremes of the mountain and her beauty, but would not risk going further. From Camp Three onwards you enter another world. A world where only the fittest and lucky survive. He had decided not to continue. He had done extraordinarily well already.
Henry had been to Camp Two and was acclimatized to that altitude. He also made the decision not to go higher. He would supervise the summit teams from either there, or back at Base Camp. Time would decide. Base Camp, for now, was busy feeding exhausted, hungry men and women.
We were now receiving, almost daily, very accurate weather forecasts from Bracknell in the UK. These, for the price of $500 a go, gave us the most advanced precision forecasts available anywhere in the world. The latest climatic information was gathered there. It was coined from satellite and weather centres round the world, as well as from commercial jets flying at altitudes of up to 45,000 feet. All these sources were sending regular weather updates back to the Bracknell base – and for a price we could access it.
Our lives would be dependent upon the accuracy of these forecasts up the mountain. Being caught out unawares up high was fatal. Bracknell could help prevent this and were able to determine wind strengths to within four or five knots accuracy, at every thousand feet of altitude. Such information was invaluable, but as with all forecasts, they were only predictions. Three weeks later Neil and I would find ourselves fighting our way through deep snow towards the summit in winds of up to 50 knots. Wind that was not meant to be there. If we had known this, events might have turned out very differently. But for the moment, the forecasts came pouring in. The entire team would then crowd round eagerly to see what the skies above us were bringing. It still didn’t look good.
When the summit is being clipped by the jet-stream winds that pound her day and night at over 2
00 m.p.h., any summit attempt is impossible. At Base Camp on a still night we could lie in our tents and listen to those winds some ten thousand feet above us. The sound seemed to shake the mountain.
For now we were waiting for those early signs of the monsoon to arrive in the Himalaya: the time when the winds over Everest’s summit begin to rise. The snow then ceases to pour off her like a smoking volcano. At that time, a stillness descends and the mountain beckons those who have waited.
For the time being, the summit was still being blown ferociously. We didn’t have to be able to see; we could hear it. We tried to busy ourselves at Base Camp as we began the waiting game. There was much to do.
We tested the oxygen canisters again and again. We learnt the correct flow rates for the Russian-imported oxygen regulators. Formulas had to be learnt by heart. Up high there would be no time for complex mathematics – the brain would be working too slowly. Simple sums become impossible. I was bad enough at these at sea-level, let alone in the Death Zone.
A flow of 2.5 litres a minute on a 1,500 litre canister would last just over ten hours. Call it ten to be safe. The orange ‘poisk’ canisters were smaller and would last five or six hours. Different regulators attach in different ways to different canisters; we had to be able to operate these with mitts on and in the dark. It could save our lives. We endlessly practised together in the mess tent. Watching me fumble and drop things as I tried to do it blindfolded was a source of great amusement to Mick, Geoffrey and Neil – but then it would be their turn. The mistakes had to be made now, when it was warm and safe. We all knew this.