Bear Grylls

by Bear Grylls

  Initially the days passed quickly as we prepared ourselves. We watched, one morning, two Nepalese porters loading up barrels of human faeces on their backs to carry down the valley for a fistful of rupees. They smiled away as they made the loads comfortable on their backs. It was good manure for the crops lower down in the valleys – they were over the moon.

  Before leaving they laughed and joked with the Sherpas, hugged, held hands in the Sherpa fashion, and drank tea. Not once did they wash their hands. Still – easy come, easy go. This was good old Sherpa-style. The poo-bearers, as we called them, then disappeared amongst the rocks across the glacier, heading down the valley carrying their precious cargo. I doubted somehow they would have any problem with the Nepalese National Parks Police, rummaging through their bags for smuggled goods.

  We spent that afternoon playing Neil’s ‘Great stone throwing’ competition. As the day progressed, so did the silly games. In the middle of an absurd bout of one-legged volleyball, played with a makeshift bundle of cardboard and masking tape, Allen walked past us and glared. He could not understand us, and certainly could not correlate the risks we were about to take with us larking about now. He dismissed it as unprofessional. For us, though, we were letting off steam from the fear of all that lay ahead. We wanted to laugh and relax – just a bit.

  That evening the radios crackled with news that was serious, deadly serious. Our joviality of the day switched in an instant. Someone was in grave trouble up the mountain.

  ‘I repeat, I am seeing a figure three-quarters of the way up the Lhotse Face stationary, I repeat, stationary.’ The voice of the Singaporean at Camp Two sounded worried.

  ‘It’s beginning to get dark up here and we don’t know who the hell it is. He’s running out of time if he doesn’t start moving.’

  The radio crackled frantically for the next two hours as people tried to find out what had happened. As darkness swept through the valley, those watching from Camp Two lost sight of the figure. It was getting cold and the wind was picking up. Nobody could survive at 24,000 feet in those conditions if they were not moving. At Base Camp as we listened, we prayed silently. There was nothing else we could do. We had all been on the Face and knew its dangers. What the hell, though, was this climber doing up there now?

  The American team, along with Nasu and Ilgvar, were the only people at Camp Three. It had to be one of them.

  Nasu and Ilgvar responded to our radio call – they were safe. The Americans, though, weren’t responding. At 10.00 p.m. they at last replied.

  ‘We are missing Jim Manley up here. Has anyone any news?’ they asked wearily from their precariously perched tent on the Lhotse Face.

  Angry voices followed. Why had they been so slow to reply? Why had they left it so late to notify anyone that one of their party was missing? The Americans had no real answer. The drug of thin air had a hold of them. They were almost too tired to even speak.

  ‘Where the fuck is Manley?’ Graham asked bluntly. He had grabbed the radio in rage and now fired questions at the Americans some 7,000 feet higher up.

  ‘You’ve got to go and find him, and now,’ he continued.

  But the Americans couldn’t. They were too tired and knew that there was nothing they could do in this weather.

  ‘We reckon Jim’s turned back down the Face. To start looking in these conditions would be just too risky,’ they argued. ‘None of us are in any shape to survive out there. We’re too exhausted. Can you see anything from Camp Two?’

  The mist and darkness obscured any chance of seeing the figure – the figure of Jim Manley. The attention turned to Nasu and Ilgvar. They were less tired, having been at Camp Three a night already. They would have to start a search – themselves.

  ‘Nasu and Ilgvar, listen – Jim could still be out there. If he’s turned back then it’s okay, but we don’t know. There is a risk he could have severe oedema or be unconscious on the ropes. We need you to descend and try and find him. Are you in a state to try this?’ Graham asked firmly. A long pause followed.

  ‘Roger that. We’ll try.’

  They emerged twenty minutes later from their tents. Fighting blizzard conditions, they made their way laboriously down the frozen ropes. An hour later Nasu’s voice crackled on the radio. We all huddled round hoping that they would have found Jim alive. Nobody spoke a word.

  ‘No sign, Base Camp, of Jim, I repeat, no sign,’ Nasu shouted into the radio over the noise of the wind. The radio cut dead.

  As they both continued their descent towards Camp Two in the gale, the reality of what must have happened slowly began to dawn on us all listening. Jim must have fallen some time ago, as the mist hid him from view.

  By the time Nasu and Ilgvar reached Camp Two there was a soberness over the whole mountain. They had done all that had been asked of them. Their exhaustion from the descent left them weak and drained as they sat in their tent. It was well past midnight. Nobody wanted to sleep; yet there seemed nothing to wait up for any longer.

  ‘Base Camp, do you copy?’ a panicked, weak voice mumbled through the radio. Click. Everyone swung round towards the sound.

  ‘Hello, Base Camp,’ the voice echoed again. ‘This is Jim. Do you copy?’

  The radio-net burst into conversation.

  Jim had been too tired on the ropes to move. He had drifted in and out of a deep exhaustion and had just clung to the rope as night came – too tired to move or care.

  Eventually he carried on past one more serac and spotted a tent to his right. It was empty, as it was one of the other teams’ tents, left now at Camp Three ready for the summit bid. He clambered wearily in, left the radio off and lay there fully clothed and closed his eyes. At 12.30 a.m. he came to and turned on the radio to call Base Camp. People were furious; it was a call too late.

  As he had slept Nasu and Ilgvar had risked their lives on the Face to find him. They must have passed within metres of him as he lay in the lone tent. Exhausted and distraught, they had to report the news that they had reached the bottom of the Face and Manley had not been there. We all knew what that had meant.

  The next morning saw frantic apologies from the Americans who had been too tired to help, and countless apologies from Jim. Nasu and Ilgvar returned to Base Camp. The apologies were irritating to hear. Nobody cared about apologies – it was too late. The incident was shrugged off, nobody blamed Jim – it was the nature of climbing, that things can so easily go wrong. Yet it had sparked a fire of emotions. Emotions that had been brewing for a while. The tension of what lay ahead up there blew these feelings wide open, and Base Camp slowly turned into a huddle of nervous, anxious people. We had been out here now for over two months, and the volatility and frustration amongst the climbers was beginning to show.

  Jokey would be leaving Base Camp in two days; her time with us would soon be over. As arranged beforehand, she had to return for her sister’s wedding in mid-May. Scott would also accompany her; the mountain, unfortunately, no longer held anything for him. It would be sad to lose him and his medical expertise. Ed Brandt, a friend of Neil’s, would be taking over from Jokey. He was due any day now. Jokey’s last few days passed slowly. The strain on the climbers at Base Camp made it a less pleasant place to be, but Jokey had lived through it all with us. Part of her didn’t want to leave. She had been with us from the start, and now at the key time she was having to leave. Her face said it all.

  ‘I so hoped to be with you when you went for it. It’s horrible packing up and seeing you still waiting for these jet-stream winds to lift. I know your frustration,’ she told us, as we sat all together in the tent, her last evening. I knew that in under a week she would be at home in Norfolk drinking tea with her family, and Everest would be only a memory. Part of me longed to leave as well, but our ambition seemed to hold us prisoner here – awaiting a final showdown with the mountain. I felt a little stranded.

  ‘You will be okay. I just know it,’ she said. But she didn’t know. She had never seen above Base Camp – that desolate l
and of ice far above the clouds that now hovered over Base Camp. She didn’t know what went on up there. But I longed to believe her. She had been a friend to all of us at Base Camp, and we would miss her.

  When she left, I didn’t even wave her off. I sat in my tent and tried to focus on what lay ahead up there. A new phase was now beginning.

  The fact that Ed Brandt’s face wasn’t as good-looking as Jokey’s was all we thought, as he staggered into Base Camp that first week in May. As communications officer, his job of keeping us informed and in touch on this final stage would be crucial. The comms tent at Base Camp was a bit ropey and torn, but it would be a place where he would spend many restless nights in the coming days and weeks, as he waited for our radio calls. A few of these, and Ed’s face definitely wouldn’t be as pretty as Jokey’s – no one’s would be by the time the mountain had dealt her last set of cards to us. A hand that, as of yet, was still our most feared unknown.

  Ed had brought with him what Mick called our ‘ESLs’: our ‘Emotional Support Letters’. As he dished them out to the four of us, we grabbed them and ran off to our respective tents. For the next two hours Base Camp was unusually quiet as we lay and reread our letters from home. Each one became thumbed a hundred times. I couldn’t help but squirm with excitement as I read them. From my sister, Lara, my parents, my grandfather, and from Shara. A wad of sweet-smelling, ink-stained, carefully sealed reminders of all I missed so dearly.

  To my precious son,

  We do miss you so much, and think and pray for you continually. You are in God’s safe hands – I can’t wait to hear some news from you.

  The pigs, Hyacinth and Violet, are growing fast and now even come for walks with us very obediently. We have built a duck pond for the ducks, Sam and Isabella, in the corner of the farmyard, and they love swimming up and down. Isabella was trodden on by Hyacinth and has broken her leg – at vast expense the vet has made her a little cast for it. Dad suggested it would have been cheaper to shoot her and have her for supper. But she has just laid five eggs and I am hoping that she will go broody.

  All my love, Mum

  My father talked of more practical matters:

  Do just bear in mind that you must only go as far as you can. There is no loss of face if you turn around, for whatever reason. Already you have gone so far and seen sights that most of us can never imagine. We are both so proud of you, our bestest, but remember, only, son.

  God’s speed, Dad

  Common practice on Everest is a period of rest before a summit attempt, down the valley below Base Camp. The thicker, more oxygen-rich air allows the body to sleep better and recover faster than at the debilitating altitude of Base Camp. The body’s metabolism begins to work more effectively and you strengthen quickly. On returning to Base Camp the body is as strong as it will ever be. It will need to be.

  All of our team were now off the mountain. The wait was now for the weather. In the meantime people debated the merits of going down the valleys to rest. On one hand the body recovers well, but on the other hand you risk picking up diseases that the trekkers have brought in. On top of this, you also risk being away when the crucial time comes – the time when the jet stream is beginning to lift. Andy had been robbed of a chance of reaching the summit of Everest almost ten years earlier, when the weather came right and he was too far down the valley to be in position to use it. He never forgot this and warned of the danger. The four of us had to make personal decisions about what to do.

  Neil and Geoffrey announced that they would go down to the village of Dingboche some six hours below Base Camp. Mick and I decided to stay. We dreaded leaving and opening up the possibility of missing our chance. If only we had known the length of time that we would have to wait, we would have gone down as well. We were to be waiting in total for over three weeks. A far cry from the hope that Jokey and all of us had held, of an ascent by 1 May.

  So we stayed. The eighteen square feet of our tents was now home to us. We had all our letters, and little reminders of our families. We felt reluctant to leave them; they comforted us. I had my small sea-shell I had taken from the beach on the Isle of Wight that now hung from the roof of my tent; Shara had written in it my favourite quote that I had used so often in the Army: ‘Be sure of this, that I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’ St Matthew 28.20. I read it every time I went to sleep. I liked my ‘home’ at Base Camp.

  DIARY, 7 MAY:

  Alone again with Mick – waiting. It gives us time to think, but also time to be scared. It’s almost too much time.

  Any self-expression is so stilted up here. At home you can do handstands and run and swim, but here the waiting and worry of injuring yourself before the big push makes life so bland. Self-expression is really now reduced to just trying to be kind and gentle with people around us. There’s not much else that we can do.

  We are all so ready; we have done as much preparation as we can. I never believed this possible, but it’s now true. All our kit is neat and sits ready for the green light. Our harnesses are checked and carefully arranged; we know our way round them blindfolded. Knots can be tied in seconds with mitts on and crampons attached in any conditions. All we can do is wait and hope a break comes, to allow all this work to lead somewhere.

  There comes a time when preparation no longer counts. I know that ultimately it is not how quickly I can tie knots that will make the difference, but rather how strong my heart is – how much I really want this, how much I will be able to endure up there. It is this spirit that counts for everything. I pray that mine will be strong.

  Iñaki left yesterday for the summit of Lhotse, for what the Spanish call a ‘posicuela’ – an early bid. He will be at Camp Two now, preparing to leave for his summit attempt. I wish him all my luck. He knows it is a risk as the mountain isn’t really ready for him, but he misses home. If anyone can do it, though, he can. Tomorrow evening we will know if he has made it or not.

  Tomorrow evening came and the radio buzzed into life. ‘Iñaki to Base Camp. I’m turning round. It is just too windy and I’ve hit deep snow, no way can I go on. I’m turning home,’ came his muffled and tired voice from somewhere just above Camp Three. He had bravely tried to climb Lhotse alone, but the way was barred. He would be exhausted. It had been a long day for him, having started his bid at 11.00 p.m. the night before.

  Three days later he tried again. Once more the mountain stopped him. The fierce winds and strong sun had now left him blinded. It was the same as had happened on Everest all those years earlier. Confused and disorientated from his effort, he staggered drunkenly down the Lhotse Face. He had to reach Camp Two and rest. He could hardly see out from his goggles. His eyes were puffy and swollen. His visibility was reduced to a vague squint; he knew he had to get down fast.

  Back at Camp Two he knew it was all over for him. He would leave Base Camp after two heroic solo attempts, to return to the warmth of Spain and the comfort of his new bride. We all admired his efforts.

  Patience on the mountain, especially on Everest, is the key to climbing successfully. It is one of the reasons that Everest climbers tend to be older. They have more of it. Ultimately it is the mountain who says whether you can climb or not. We are but pawns in this game – the decisions all lie with the mountain. The Sherpas say that the mountain goddess reviles pride and arrogance on her slopes. They are both killers up there. We knew that we had no option but to wait quietly for our chance, and pray it would come.

  I remembered how in Pooh Bear, Eeyore worried, Owl contemplated, while Pooh just was. We also needed to learn this. We had to be content with just being. But sitting there was hard – so hard.

  Climbing Everest involves so much more than I ever dreamt. People on our return would only be interested in whether we reached the top. To the media and those who don’t know, that is their only question; but there is so much more. As I waited, I thought back to all those endless days training at home, day after day; I remembered those weeks of climbing out here before the o
thers had arrived, pounding up and down the huge hills that surrounded the valleys lower down. I remembered the pain and jubilation of coming through the Icefall that first time unscathed, and of reaching the heights of Camp Three. Yet no one would even mention these afterwards. Their only question would be: ‘Did you reach the top?’ It was as if the weeks of fear, discomfort and endurance counted for nothing; when in reality, they count for as much as the summit.

  Neil and Geoffrey soon returned after three days’ rest. For us nothing had changed; we still sat in our tents, me in my chef’s trousers and tweed cap, Mick in his long-johns, and both of us lost in our own world of resting, eating and thinking. I envied the break Neil and Geoffrey had had. They were rested and healthy and had missed nothing. We should have gone as well, I thought.

  I phoned home regularly now. It was the only relief for us here. I had nothing much to say except that I missed them and that I longed to be home. Neil and Mick teased me mercilessly about my conversations.

  ‘Bear, look, you don’t have to ask every time you speak to your family, how each of the animals are in turn, okay? I’m sure they would tell you if they weren’t okay. I mean, you must use up hundreds of pounds on asking how ruddy Olly the donkey is, and how Sam and Isabella the ducks are. It’s ridiculous,’ Neil joked.

  But I liked to hear. It was my link back.

  I also spoke to SSAFA, one of my sponsors, who mentioned that I had received an invitation to Buckingham Palace for the Young Achievers Award. I felt honoured, but also a fraud. I hadn’t blooming climbed it yet. Couldn’t anyone understand that a gulf the size of the Atlantic still stood between me and the top? No one seemed to realize this.

  I rang some great friends who live near my family in Dorset. The father, a wonderful eccentric Colonel, loved by everyone, answered the phone.