by Bear Grylls
Mick was at the end of the tent and thus found himself in charge of the boiling water. Four people with a mass of equipment squashed in a tiny tent made the job impossibly hard. People shuffled to make some room.
Suddenly the container of boiling water exploded. It had somehow formed a seal that had locked tight as the pressure built up. Scalding water now sprayed out of control over Mick. He ripped his clothes off in seconds. He was annoyed more than he was hurt; he felt it was a bad omen. His clothes were soaked. He cursed being up there. Later he said, ‘I wondered at this point if I should be there at all’
They dozed and continued melting ice until 10.00 p.m. They would leave some time in the next two hours. It would take that long at that height to get ready. They nervously began to sort their equipment out.
At 11.10 p.m. they left Camp Four. The full moon had been on 11 May; the ideal summit time. By now, though, over a week later, the moon was fading. They would need all the light their headtorches could provide. But batteries don’t last long in those conditions.
The jet-stream winds were silent, the night was still, and they left earlier than intended. They wanted to be ahead of all the other teams up there. It was a good decision.
Leaving Camp Four, Mick felt unsure about his oxygen supply. His mind wandered vaguely as to a reason why. He reached behind him and checked the flow-rate gauge again. It read 2.5 litres/ min. That was right. He let it fall back down to his side. He tightened his mitts again and carried on. He knew he was going slowly. Something wasn’t right. But there was nothing he could do in the dark and in those temperatures. It was well below — 30°C.
Five hours later, the trail of climbers was snaking its way slowly up the unroped ice, towards the Balcony Ledge at 27,500 feet. At 1,500 feet below the summit, this is the first objective to reach after leaving the Col. They were moving slower than expected. Mick’s headtorch, despite having had a fresh battery in it, had now failed. It had got dimmer and dimmer, until he was eventually left to grope his way up the ice in the darkness. The lights of those ahead were all that showed him the route.
At 6.15 a.m. dawn arrived. Sitting on the Balcony Ledge, they changed oxygen canisters. They removed their goggles, exposing their faces to the elements for a few seconds. Neil snapped the ice that hung from his mask; it was frozen condensation. Then their faces were hidden again, as the breathing apparatus was refitted and the tanks heaved onto their backs. Nobody spoke.
The weather that had looked so promising at midnight seemed now to be turning. Few even noticed. Michael the Danish climber, who had been hoping to climb solo and without oxygen, was no longer there. He had turned around at 5.00 a.m. Oxygen is what keeps the body warm up high. Without it Michael was slowly freezing. He knew he would die if he carried on. He bravely turned back; his attempt was over.
The climb above Camp Four is where it all counts. It is the great leveller and the great divider. So many climbers manage to fight the Icefall, the Cwm, even the severity of the Lhotse Face, yet it is this part, the final part, that makes the difference. It is here that people fall away. It is here that all the real work happens. Michael had tried, and no doubt he would try again in future years. For now, though, he was exhausted. His body could take no more. He was experienced enough to recognize this. Turning back for Camp Four is a frighteningly difficult decision. Michael had the courage to take it.
Other climbers were also forced back. Some were struggling with their oxygen, some knew deep down what was, and what wasn’t, possible. These also turned back. They say that it is at the actual gates of a new world that most turn back. It was true; many were now turning back before it got too late. One can argue that they were the sensible ones.
Another climber slipped after half an hour of the ascent; he tumbled down the hard ice to the Col 100 feet below. He had broken two ribs and struggled back to the tents. He was lucky to have been still so close. Had that happened higher up it might have been very different. He sat the time out anxiously at the Col, waiting for news from those still climbing. It was to be a long night.
Mick and Neil still pushed on. Carla was slow behind them but continuing at all costs. Her courage was showing itself. She hung on. Allen was also quietly climbing. He didn’t say a word but stayed firmly with them. By 7.00 a.m., back at Camp Two, we had still heard nothing.
Various Sherpas were putting in some stretches of rope below the South Summit. It was hard work on the steep ice face, which was now covered in loose powder snow. None of the route so far had been roped. Rope was heavy and had to be carried, and was therefore used very sparingly and only on the most exposed sections.
Everyone knew the dangers up there, but the altitude seemed to numb people’s minds. Nobody cared. Climbers tottered dangerously on the Face beneath the South Summit, their crampons scraping loosely across the ice under the snow. Any small section of rope was clutched at frantically. In those conditions it is almost impossible to make ropes 100% safe. They are all dodgy, but people didn’t care. If they saw a rope, it spelt safety to them. Their minds weren’t capable of interpreting them as anything else.
At 10.05 a.m. Neil reached the South Summit. The true summit was within his grasp and he knew it. He sat and looked in amazement at the view ahead. He could see the final ridge that led to the Hillary Step, and above this the gentle slope that would lead the final 200 metres to the summit. His heart raced. He knew that this was his chance. In 1996 the disasters had robbed him of the chance to go above Camp Four. Two years on he was here again, only this time the summit was within reach. Nothing was going to take it from him. He felt strong, and glanced hungrily along the ridge ahead. He waited anxiously as the lead Sherpas and several American climbers arrived. Mick should be here soon, he thought.
Something told Neil that things were not going right. In the blur of high altitude, the realization of what was happening slowly began to dawn on him. Over the next ten minutes the dream that had eluded Neil once was going to elude him again. Anger welled up inside him as he heard various American climbers arguing. Their voices were slow and laboured, but the message was clear. Somewhere along the way there had been a misunderstanding over who had what rope. Suddenly, here at 28,700 feet, some 335 feet below the summit of Everest, after so much work and risk – the reality dawned. There was no more rope.
Whose fault it was, and why, will always remain a mystery. These things happen in the world above 26,000 feet. It is a scary and surreal place. No one had intended the error, but it had happened. These professional men were suddenly reduced to floundering, exhausted wrecks. There was nothing they could do. It would be impossible to continue along the corniced ridge without any rope. It would be suicide. Continuing was not even an option. The head Sherpa there, the great Babu, confirmed this. Even Hillary had used rope here. Without any, it was too dangerous.
The snow was now pouring off the summit again. The winds were returning. The sound alone told them that; that deep, penetrating roar. They cowered in the snow on the South Summit. They had one choice and they had to act quickly. They had been motionless for too long. They had to retreat. Neil stared through his goggles at the summit only a few hundred feet above. He slowly let his head fall forward. All he felt was an emptiness. He turned and never looked back. He started down a different man.
The radio call came ten minutes later from Neil, from just under the South Summit.
‘We’ve had to turn back. There’s been a screw-up with the rope,’ he muttered slowly. He sounded drained. ‘We’ve just left the South Summit. We’re all okay. I’ll call in from the Col. Neil out.’
Henry at Base Camp could only hear the crackle of the radio. The full message couldn’t reach him. I relayed it to him from my tent at Camp Two. At random times on the mountain, the weather prevents the radio signal travelling very far. It was one of these times. At Camp Two, even I could only just hear. I sat in my tent and wondered what the hell was happening up there.
Things then began to go very wrong and, as is the na
ture on high mountains, when this starts, it can all begin to happen very quickly. This was no exception.
I was woken from my doze at 10.50 a.m. as the radio flared into life with the sound of a voice. It was Mick’s. He sounded weak and distant. He was calling me.
‘Bear at Camp Two, this is Mick, do you copy?’ he mumbled.
‘Roger, Miguel, go ahead,’ I replied. I sat up and held the radio close to me.
It crackled furiously and all I heard was something about oxygen.
‘Mick, say again. What about your oxygen? Over.’
There was a short pause as he fumbled with the controls through his mitts.
‘I’ve run out. I haven’t got any.’ The words echoed round the tent.
His tank must have been leaking since he had first used it, I thought. He would have been suffocating as he climbed. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong with his tank. They had been checked and double-checked. I tried to find an answer. No one, though, would ever know, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was my friend, my best friend was now dying some 6,000 feet above me and there was nothing I could do.
‘Keep talking to me, Mick. Don’t stop. Who is with you? Mick, tell me,’ I said firmly. I had to keep him talking. If he stopped talking and lost consciousness I knew he would never come down. If he couldn’t move up there, then I had to get a picture of who else was there. It might be his only chance.
‘Allen’s here. He’s got no oxygen either. We’re sitting here . . . It’s not good, Bear.’
I knew that. I felt hopeless. We had to find Neil. Their survival depended on someone being above them.
‘Mick, come in, Mick?’ No reply came. ‘Mick, do you read?’
A minute later his voice came back on the radio.
‘Getting ready to assume the “dying in Asia” position, Bear,’ he slowly said. We had joked for years about the ‘dying in Asia’ position, whenever we felt things were becoming dire. It had only ever been a joke. In our wildest dreams, though, we had never imagined a conversation like this. ‘Mick, for God’s sake. Mick?’ I weakly replied.
‘Bear, I reckon Allen has ten minutes to live. I don’t know what to do.’ Mick cut off. I tried to get him back on the radio but no reply came. Nothing came from him for twenty minutes. They were the longest minutes of my life.
I sat alone in my tent. Geoffrey didn’t have a radio. I felt lost and feeble. Mick, come on, move, please, I pleaded with him in my mind. I prayed he could hear.
Mick describes what happened up there:
As I approached the South Summit, I sensed that something was wrong. People were turning back. I couldn’t understand what was happening. As a climber passed me coming down, he told me the news. We would have to turn back. The words, I remember, shook me. My mind swirled. ‘Turn around now?’ I reeled in disbelief. The climber carried on down, and I was left with no choice but to face the reality. For some reason it was over. I turned slowly around.
I decided to check my oxygen levels before descending. It was a precaution only. I reached for my gauge. I stared at it. I tapped it. It must be wrong. It read – ‘empty’.
This was ridiculous. I should still have ten hours left. I stood against the ice, stunned. I checked again. At 28,500 feet, though, you do not argue with your gauge. You can’t afford to. I had to head down fast. Within minutes, though, I was without oxygen. I sucked frantically on the mask. Nothing came out.
The effect of having no oxygen is not dramatic, you do not collapse to the floor as if suffocating. Instead, slowly, your thinking, movement and coordination become more difficult. I just sat and clung to the few ropes in place below the South Summit.
Slowly and uncertainly I started down them. A yard at a time, sitting on my arse. I didn’t have the energy to stand. It was a slow process and people started overtaking me on their descent. You would expect this to lead to complete panic, given the situation. But no panic came. This is one of the most dangerous things about being at altitude, the lack of oxygen causes a sort of drunken acceptance that is almost impossible to snap out of. People asked if I was okay. Strangely I found myself saying that I was fine.
On reaching the end of the roped section, I found Allen slumped in the foetal position in the snow. He also had no oxygen. He seemed in an even worse state than me. It was then that I radioed for help and spoke to Bear at Camp Two.
Only a few climbers were still above us. Neil, one of our Sherpas called Pasang, another Sherpa named Babu and two Swedish climbers, Tomas and Tina. Tomas and his wife Tina were on their third attempt to reach the summit of Everest. In all, they had spent almost nine months over three years in the pursuit of their dream. Once more it had eluded them. They were among the last to be turning back. It was them and their Sherpa Babu who found the slumped figures of Allen and myself.
When they came across us, huddled in the cold snow, they knew they had to act fast. Time was running out. By pure chance Babu was carrying a spare canister of oxygen. Something that is very rarely ever done. Extra weight is not something that one wants up there. But we were lucky; the great Babu was carrying some extra – for an emergency. Here it was.
We had lent them some oxygen before at Camp Three, so they owed us a favour. I now needed it with my life. Babu offered it, before I could ask. They saw what was happening and needed no prompting. They saved my life.
Neil and Pasang then located an emergency cache of oxygen nearby. They gave one to Allen and forced us both to our feet. They made us move. I staggered on like a drunk. I was too tired to care.
Having been without oxygen now for over an hour my body had a serious oxygen deficit. I swayed in and out of consciousness as my body tried to absorb this fresh tank. I was fighting for my survival. I was only able to manage two or three steps before my legs would buckle beneath me with exhaustion. I could never have imagined being in this situation. The exhaustion ensured that I was not aware of what was going on. All I remember was desperately trying to stand and move. Yet my legs were like jelly, and no amount of will-power seemed to override this. I was amazed at my own weakness.
At the Balcony a fresh oxygen cache awaited us. I sat and gasped into the mask. I turned the regulator up to four litres a minute. It was an extravagance I could now afford, Camp Four was in sight through the wispy clouds far below. Only 1,400 feet of descent stood between us and the relative sanctuary of our tents. It wasn’t far now.
Tomas, Tina and Babu, by lending oxygen to Mick, undoubtedly saved his life up there; and without Neil and Pasang’s help, Allen’s story might have been very different. They had all showed the sort of courage that the mountains demand. Without their help, history might have claimed another two victims to Everest’s toll.
From the Balcony they staggered down together slowly. It would soon be over; Camp Four appeared again briefly in the mist. The tents looked like specks below.
Slow and tired, his mind wandering in and out of a haze of consciousness, Mick maintains that he remembers little about this part. He descended deliriously, his feet shuffling like those of an old man, down the icy slopes. Mistakes were too expensive up here, but he no longer cared. He stumbled on. He had to get back to Camp Four.
They were so close, yet were still in such dangerous terrain. Descending sheet blue ice without any ropes is hazardous at sea-level, up there it was lethal. To the east of the Col lies the treacherous Kanshung Face; to the west, the Lhotse Face. Each at least 5,000 feet in height. A careless slip would kill. Mick staggered down, the drug of thin air overwhelming him.
Neil could do nothing as it all happened so suddenly; he could only watch on in horror. It was all so quick.
Mick describes the next few minutes:
Neil had insisted that I descend with Pasang, both of us roped together. Pasang was the fittest up here and most able to help. He leashed a rope between us; I hardly even noticed. Some time later, maybe twenty minutes into the descent, I just suddenly felt the ground surge beneath me.
There was a sudden r
ush of acceleration as the loose top snow, warmed by the sun of day, slid away under me. There was nothing I could do. I hurtled down the sheer Face on my back, skidding along the ice below. Then I made the fatal error of trying to dig my crampons in to slow the fall. The force with which we travelled catapulted us through the air in a violent somersault, as the points of my crampons caught in the ice. The two of us, still roped together, accelerated even faster, the horizon nothing but a vague swirl around me. I felt that this would be my end. I knew what was below on either side.
I thumped back onto the ice, still on my front hurtling downwards. I lost all sense of anything at that point. I shut my eyes. I felt the undulations of the ice rippling across my chest. Then suddenly in a moment of relief I felt myself slowing in some deeper snow. But only a second later I was accelerating away again. I resigned myself to the fact that I would die somewhere down the Kanshung or Lhotse Face. I didn’t know which; it didn’t matter.
For a second, and the final time, I felt my body slow down. I bounced and twisted over a few rocks then slid to a halt on a ledge. I just lay there motionless trying to take in what had happened. I would not open my eyes. I lay there shaking for what seemed an eternity.
Suddenly I heard voices around me. They were muffled and strange. They were . . . Iranian. I couldn’t believe my ears. I tried to scream to them but nothing came out. They surrounded me, clipped me in and held me. I started to cry and cry.
They escorted Mick, shaking and in tears, back to the camp only 200 metres away. Others found Pasang also shaken. Somehow they had become disconnected in the fall. No one could understand how. No one cared. They were safe. That was all that mattered. Neither, miraculously, were seriously injured. Luck or fate, who knows? An hour later they both sat cramped and shaken in the tent. Mick passed his mug to Pasang, his hands still shaking. He managed a small smile.
When they reached us at Camp Two, forty-eight hours later, they were shattered and shaken. They looked like different men. Mick moved in a daze, slowly across the glacier. He didn’t even seem to have the energy to look up, to look at us. He was lost in his world of fatigue; deep fatigue. They collapsed by the tents. Neil smiled; he had done all that had been required of him, and they were safe. Mick just sat and held his head in his hands. It said it all. It had been a long three days.