Bear Grylls

by Bear Grylls

  The Lhotse team were also leaving this morning for their attempt. The three of them, Andy, Nasu, Ilgvar had looked focused the previous night. They had eaten well and retired to their tents early. Today was important for them as well.

  I felt, though, that I was no longer in the e´lite. I had held my ground but had fallen at the last fence. I dreaded watching Mick and Neil leave in a few hours’ time, without me. For the first time, I was no longer terrified of leaving; instead I was scared of staying.

  At 5.00 a.m. I heard the first rustles from Mick’s tent. This morning there was no ‘Morning, Miguel’ to be heard. We both knew things were different. I remembered Mick’s mother assuring me that she knew everything would be okay, as long as we were together. The words rang in my mind. I retched from the fever, but kept it down. The illness was still rampant. I had no choice, I had to stay.

  Ten minutes later Neil and Mick whispered to each other in hushed tones, as they put on their harnesses in the cold air of dawn. I thought of them looking at the sky above as we always did before leaving. At dawn it seems so fresh and new. I could hear them clapping their hands through their mitts to keep warm. I knew those feelings. I had done it with them so many times. They would want to get moving soon. Now was the coldest time of the night.

  As I levered myself to the flap of my tent, my head spun. I cursed the fever. Mick and Neil were both crouching outside to say goodbye. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Just be careful, guys, eh? Just be careful,’ I said, looking them each in the eye. ‘Wise decisions, okay? If it turns nasty up there just get down. The mountain will always be there.’ The words sounded hollow as I spoke. They knew all this. How I envied them.

  Mick knelt, shook my hand and held it.

  ‘You should be here, you know that? We’ll all be up there together, okay?’ he said quietly.

  Yeah, I know – together, I thought.

  At 5.35 a.m. the four of them left Base Camp. I could hear from my tent their boots crunching slowly and purposefully across the rocks towards the foot of the Icefall. The sound soon faded. All I could hear then was the wind beginning to pick up across the glacier as the dawn beckoned in a new day. I lay back down. My tent had never been so bleak.

  The radio crackled to life. Ed rushed to the comms tent and arrived at the same time as Henry. They grabbed the handset.

  ‘Say again, over,’ Henry ordered sternly.

  ‘Henry, it’s Andy. Neil has passed out.’

  I could hear them from my tent, five yards to the left.

  ‘I’m with him and he’s come round now – but I’m worried,’ Andy added.

  Only two hours into the Icefall, Neil had begun to feel dizzy. Ten minutes later, his body was suddenly overwhelmed with heaviness. He collapsed on the rope and fainted. He had come round but fainted twice more in five minutes. He didn’t know why. They radioed in as they sat amongst the ice. They rested and made Neil drink; ten minutes later they started slowly on their way again.

  By 8.30 a.m. they were all safely in Camp One. They put Neil in the tent and began brewing whilst they discussed what should happen. Andy and Henry talked quickly between themselves on the radio. Neil should come down. Something was wrong. He shouldn’t be fainting.

  Neil took the radio.

  ‘Look, all is fine, I was a bit dehydrated and nervous and was probably pushing myself too hard in the Icefall. That’s all. I feel fine now and okay to go on. What’s more, there is a fine Baxter’s soup on the go. I couldn’t possibly leave it,’ Neil said unconvincingly.

  Secretly he knew he should descend. Going on when something is wrong is lethal. But Neil was not coming back. It was a risk to go on, but it was a risk he decided to take. We hoped his desire for the summit wouldn’t cloud good judgement. I couldn’t decide if he was being brave or stupid, or whether the two met somewhere in the middle – I wasn’t sure. But I knew Neil would make the right decision. We trusted his judgement. He decided to go on and review everything from Camp Two. We knew what that meant. He was going up.

  DIARY, 16 MAY, 1.30 P.M.

  Base Camp has a silence about it that I have never known. I’ve never been the one staying behind before. It seems strangely empty. Tents are sealed and stay sealed. No humming or laughter can be heard from inside them. It’s like a ghost town. Only the hacking coughs of Graham, Michael and I disturb the peace.

  We all sat at lunch in silence. They both look weak from the illness. I think I am stronger than them and am slowly getting better, but I’m not sure. We’re certainly no advert for ‘healthy living in the mountains’. We are thin, weak and look a putrid shade of green. We shuffle around slowly to refill our bottles before retiring to our tents to lie down. I hate being like this. I can hear Michael groaning in his tent. It’s frustration as much as anything. I can understand it. I groan as well, but only in my head.

  This morning I whiled away the hours by trying to work out how many meals Mick and I had eaten together in a row. It took my mind off thinking of them climbing higher and higher with every minute that passes. I worked it out to be 264 meals together in a row. It’s no wonder that breakfast felt so strange. He wasn’t there to be rude to me. I miss him. I told the others of my mathematical calculations; it raised a smile.

  I just pray nothing happens to them up there. They are already showing signs of strain and nerves. Neil should not have fainted like that. They seem vulnerable. But I guess we all are. I realize this more and more the longer I stay on this mountain. The pretences of strength have gone.

  I wrote on about our third day of being in Nepal that I feared for Mick’s safety. I haven’t felt it again until today. I pray he is safe.

  It turned out to be a strangely prophetic feeling.

  Later that day I felt stronger. That night I slept soundly all the way through. The antibiotics were working. My throat still felt painfully swollen, and my cough was heavy – but the phlegm was now looking clearer. Any exercise, though, even walking to the mess tent, left me hacking ferociously. My ribs ached. But somehow, deep inside, I knew that I was slowly getting better.

  The next day the forecast came as a shock. We had received a severe warning of a cyclone approaching Everest; the news was that it would be forming into a typhoon. It was scheduled for the 21st or 22nd. It didn’t give them much time up there. If it came on the 21st that would be the day they would hopefully be returning to Base Camp – in four days’ time. If things went wrong and it came earlier, it left them no room to manoeuvre.

  The typhoon was predicted to drop five feet of snow on the mountain. Such an amount would instantly make the place a death trap. Anyone still up there would, in the words of Henry, ‘be unreachable. The snows would cut them off for good.’ Mick and Neil’s schedule looked tight. At Camp Two later that day they sat and tried to work things out. If it came on the 21st they would just be okay. It was another risk, but it was calculated. They would take it. Their planned rest day at Camp Two before heading up would have to be foregone. There wasn’t time. The cyclone was moving ever closer.

  That afternoon I made a difficult decision. I told Henry that I was fully fit and wanted to go.

  ‘What’s the point, Bear? When this cyclone comes, that’s it. I know it’s disappointing, but that’s the nature of the game,’ Henry said firmly.

  ‘No, Henry, that’s not it,’ I replied.

  ‘Drop it, Bear, okay? Just drop it.’ He was tired as well. We had all been here a long time. He felt the frustration as well.

  He came and talked to me later. He hadn’t meant to snap at me. It was difficult for us all. We discussed the options available.

  ‘If you were sensible you’d bite the bullet and realize there is nothing you can do but stay here. I don’t believe you’re fully fit, and if this ruddy storm comes we need to get everyone and as much kit as we can off the hill, as quickly as possible. Going up in the hope of a summit bid is a waste of time, Bear,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Don’t worry about it being a waste of t
ime,’ I replied. ‘If there’s the smallest chance that the typhoon moves away I want to be in place. If it is still on course it will only take me five or six hours to get back from Camp Two if I have to. It will give me plenty of time,’ I exaggerated.

  ‘What’s more,’ I continued eagerly, ‘I’ll be in a position to help the guys on their way down, and if the typhoon comes I’ll be able to carry one of the tents down. I’ll be an extra hand.’ It was the best argument I could offer. I needed to cough, but held it in. I wasn’t going to win this battle, then lose the war by coughing and showing I was possibly not fit to go. My throat felt dry and the cough tickled irritatingly.

  ‘Yeah, okay, if that’s what you really want, there’s no harm.’ Henry chuckled, he liked a bit of fight. ‘Go with Geoffrey, take two radios, and help me liaise with these guys on their bid. You’re too impulsive, you know, and that can be dangerous. Joking apart, just don’t expect too much. I’d be surprised if the typhoon doesn’t come, you’ve seen the satellite photos. It’s heading straight here.’

  I slapped him on the shoulders, and hurried to see Geoffrey. He would be pleased. His patience had won through the first battle. I looked forward to climbing with him. For the first time in a long time I was looking forward to being in the ice.

  I couldn’t bring myself to call my parents that afternoon. I was breaking too many promises. But I longed to speak to someone. I rang one of my dearest friends, Judy Sutherland, a lady who lives in London with her two daughters. I imagined them in their cosy house with their phone ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ Judy replied softly.

  ‘Judes, it’s Bear . . . yes, I’m at Base Camp. Judes . . . can we pray? Would you mind?’ I had rung her regularly over the years, often in times of difficulty; each time we had prayed. But this time it felt different; more serious. My spirit soared as we spoke together from the two extremes of our world. I felt, strangely, right next door.

  By morning we would be gone. One last time up the Icefall. Up above into those clouds I had spent so many hours staring at from Base Camp; up into the unknown. As Mallory had said before he left for his last vain attempt over seventy years ago, ‘from Everest we expect no mercy.’

  I tried not to think of my parents or Shara. I didn’t call them. It would be too hard. I had promised Shara that we would go sailing when I got back, somewhere hot, really hot. I had to make it back for that. I felt driven again.

  I still coughed like a nineteenth-century chimney sweep and was still swallowing antibiotics like they were smarties at my fourth birthday party, but I felt alive. I could see a glimmer of hope shining very faintly. It was all I had to hold on to. That storm had to change directions. East or west I didn’t care. It just had to move.

  7.25 P.M., 17 MAY (My last diary entry)

  We are leaving in under ten hours now. The weeks of resting and waiting at Base Camp, at last, are over. But we are going up with nothing guaranteed. I still only feel about 60% fit, but it is now or never, I know this. The weather seems certain not to change; the typhoon is still on course, but yet despite all this I feel excited. I feel hopeful.

  I just hope for the Good Lord’s strength in everything ahead. I pray for His protection on the mountain, and I long for His health to fill my body. Thank you . . . oh, and a good night’s sleep would be superb.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STONE’S THROW

  ‘Be not afraid of moving slowly, only of standing still.’

  Chinese proverb

  The two of us approached the lip at the top of the Icefall. I clipped my karabiner into the last rope that lay between us and Camp One. It was 7.20 a.m. We had made steady time. We were in no rush, we had all day to reach Camp Two in the distance. I coughed hard and phlegm filled my mouth. It was dark against the ice as I spat it out. Still infected, I thought.

  I kicked my crampon into the ice wall and squeezed my body upwards. The points of my crampons held me firmly in place. The rope tightened above me; I rested for several seconds. As I neared the lip, I suddenly felt the strength go from my legs. I had never felt this before. My mind raced, I felt panic sweep over me. I struggled even to stay steady, pressed in against the wall. My legs could hardly hold me; they felt like jelly. I just leant in against the ice. ‘I have to breathe, take it slow, relax.’

  I slowly felt the panic subside, and the strength return. I shuffled up the last four feet of the ice wall and collapsed on the plateau at the top. I flicked the rope to tell Geoffrey behind me that the rope was now free. He clipped on and it sprang taut.

  I never worked out why that had happened. Why I had suddenly felt so weak. My legs had just given up. It didn’t bother me, apart from one thing. ‘What about if it happened again on the final ice wall of the whole climb?’

  This ice wall, some forty feet high, is simply called the Hillary Step – after Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to have ever climbed it. At an altitude of some 28,700 feet, a terrifying ridge leads along from the South Summit. The Hillary Step is all that then blocks the way up to the true summit. If this ‘Step’ is climbed successfully then only a gentle 200-metre crest remains. This leads to the top of the world. I thought of that loss of strength. I could get so close, but then not have the energy to get up. The thought scared me. I tried to forget it.

  We made our way slowly through the Cwm towards Camp Two. I noticed how much weaker I was. The cough was hampering me. My ribs hurt as I breathed in the thin air. Over and over I told myself, ‘you’re getting stronger, you’re getting stronger.’ I believed it, but still hurt.

  At 3.30 p.m. we reached Camp Two. I felt drained and dizzy. We sat and drank with our rucksacks at our feet – our windsuits open to the waist to let the cool breeze in. The two Sherpas here, Ang and Thengba, plied us with hot lemon. I had missed their big smiles since I had last seen them. It was good to be here.

  I knew that Mick and Neil would be somewhere between Camp Three and Camp Four. They would be breaking into new territories, going higher than at any point so far on the expedition. I wondered if we would be able to see them.

  We had studied the route in detail. It was a treacherous traverse across the Lhotse Face and a long haul up what is known as the Geneva Spur. This spur leads to the hidden wasteland of the South Col, Camp Four. The Sherpas pointed out the climbers to us through the binoculars. They were dots on a vast canvas of white, far above us. Squatting exhausted in Camp Two, looking up through the glasses, I no longer envied them. I was too tired. I dozed in a haze against the canvas of the tent as the sun shone in the afternoon heat. I forgot everything for a brief time.

  It was 11.00 p.m. that evening. I had tried to sleep but my mind raced. Mick and Neil would leave Camp Four any minute. They would be getting dressed. Not an easy task with four people in a tiny tent at 26,000 feet in the dark.

  They didn’t radio to say that they were leaving; I guessed that they were too busy. I wondered what the weather would be like up there. At Camp Two the wind blew steadily along the Cwm.

  Up at Camp Four life was less pleasant; much less pleasant. Almost every climber who was hoping to attempt a summit bid was up at the South Col that evening. The longer than expected wait at Base Camp had made people anxious. When the break had come, they had all hurried up towards Camp Four. They reached it after a three-day climb. The disasters of 1996 had started with too many climbers attempting a summit bid at once. This seemed dangerously similar. Almost twenty-five climbers now waited that evening anxiously at Camp Four.

  The danger would come in having hold-ups on the ropes at the Hillary Step. This had to be avoided. Bodies cannot survive the cold and the waiting at those heights. What’s more, people didn’t carry the oxygen to be able to wait for hours. Once you left Camp Four you were alone and on borrowed time. There would not be time to wait for others on the ropes ahead. Neil and Mick knew this. Neil had witnessed it before at first hand. With this in mind, they left ten minutes before the others.

  Whilst at Camp Three the day before, Mick had found
that our ice-axes we had left there to secure the tent with were now frozen deep beneath the Face, covered by the storm. Mick spent two hours digging frantically around the tent, trying to get them out. He desperately needed his axe higher up. Exhausted, he eventually had to give up looking. It was impossible to break the ice. Nothing would budge in those temperatures. We had lost the axes but because of them the tent had miraculously survived the blizzards. Our axes deep under the ice had held it firm.

  The storm had pounded Camp Three severely. It had taken its toll, especially with the other more exposed tents. The winds had literally ripped some of them from their holdings. The remains could be seen by us from Camp Two through the binoculars. Scattered and torn canvas flapped out from the Face. Those teams had been forced to carry more tents up to replace them. It was heavy and burdensome work and used up precious energy. Energy that everyone would need desperately above that height, as they entered the Death Zone.

  At Camp Four Neil had tried to help Mick find something to substitute as an ice-axe. The most exposed col in the world is no place to hunt for anything. The danger of coming across one of the many bodies lying nearby is high. You never want to look too closely at anything. The place has seen too much. Besides, the wind blows so severely that time out of the tent has to be kept to a minimum. Still, though, they hunted around under old ripped tents for something that could act as an axe for Mick. They found an old snow stake and a piece of wood. It was all there was and the weather was getting worse. It would have to do. In the tent they bound the two pieces together. It was far from ideal.