The Everest Years

by Chris Bonington

  ‘It’s OK, Doug, you might as well come on down.’

  He slid down the rope, keeping his legs behind him, but once on the snow he had to traverse a metre or two to reach the ledge I had started to dig. He tried to stand. There was a distinct sound of bone scraping on bone. He let out a cry of pain and keeled over onto his knees where he paused slumped, then crawled over, his legs stuck out behind him clear of the snow, to join me on the ledge. Kneeling, he helped enlarge the ledge for the night. We might get out of this after all, I began to think.

  We had nothing with us, no food or drink, no down clothing, just what we had climbed in during the day and the gear we had used. We took off our boots, though it was too dark to examine Doug’s legs. Fortunately they did not hurt too much, provided he didn’t put any weight on them and I didn’t inadvertently lean on them. We tucked our stockinged feet into each others crutches, massaged them from time to time through the night, occasionally talked. At one point Doug said, ‘If you’ve got to get into this kind of predicament, I can’t think of a better person to be with.’ Most of the time we were wrapped in our own thoughts. The penetrating cold soon dominated everything. I rationalised it by telling myself that the discomfort was ephemeral, that it was just a few hours, a tiny fraction of my life span, and then the sun would rise and we would be warm once again. I limited my thoughts to the prospects of the haven of the snow cave just a hundred or so metres away, of hot drinks and a warm sleeping-bag and the support of Mo and Clive.

  I became aware of Doug rubbing my feet, a strong hint that he wanted his toes massaging. I did so with care, to avoid hurting him. He was particularly worried about the dangers of frostbite which would inevitably be increased by the injuries he had sustained. The night slowly dragged by until at last the sky began to lighten. We were on the western side of the Ogre and so couldn’t expect the sun until late in the morning. We didn’t wait. Doug managed to get his boots back on; another relief.

  I set up the abseil and plunged down to a ledge nearly fifty metres below. Doug followed more slowly but very steadily. Three more abseils and we were on the snow at the foot of the summit block. With action and with Doug’s absolute steadiness and quiet competence, I was becoming more optimistic about our chances. We now had our next test. The snow cave was about thirty metres higher and a hundred metres from us in a horizontal direction. Would Doug be able to crawl across fairly steep snow?

  I left him at the foot of the abseil and set out to warn the other two whom I met just short of the snow cave. They had seen the fall the previous night and were coming over to see what they could do to help. I carried on into the welcome shelter of the cave, leaving them to collect Doug. They met him about a third of the way up the tracks I had left. Doug is not the kind of person to wait around. He had already started crawling. Clive picked up his sack while Mo started digging out great bucket steps for Doug to crawl in. Mercifully he did not have compound fractures or he would not have been able to crawl without acute pain, and we had no painkillers.

  They got back to the snow cave two hours later. We all now felt confident that Doug would be able to cope with the descent, in spite of its length and complex nature. It was wonderful just to lie in the warmth of one’s sleeping bag cocooned in the confines of the snow cave, brewing endless cups of tea. That day we ate and drank our fill but in the evening we finished our last freeze-dried meal. All we had left was some soup and a few tea bags. This didn’t seem too serious, however, as surely we should get back down to Advance Base in a couple of days.

  Mo had brought a pack of cards with him and we spent the rest of the day playing Min, or Black Bitch as it is called in some circles, a delightful trick-taking game that had had us entertained throughout the expedition. A bank of high cloud stretched across the western horizon but we had seen plenty of threats of a storm in the last few weeks and none of them had materialised. We settled down for the night confident that we would be able to get most of the way down the following morning.

  When I woke I thought it was too early, the light was so dim. I glanced at my watch to see that it was six o’clock. It should have been broad daylight outside. I looked across the cave to see that Mo, who was on the outside nearest the door, was covered in spindrift. The entrance was completely blocked with fresh snow. It looked as if the weather had at last broken. We slowly crept into consciousness. Clive, who was next to the stove, scooped some snow from the wall and started brewing the first drink of the day. We had plenty of gas, which was a blessing. You can go for some days without food, but the effects of dehydration are much more serious. Without liquid we would deteriorate very quickly and to get liquid we needed fuel.

  It was only after having a cup of tea, each using the last of our few cubes of sugar, that we dug out the entrance. A cloud of spindrift immediately blew in. Within the cave it was sepulchrally quiet; outside was an inferno of screaming wind and driving snow. But we had to move; Clive and I ventured out to see how bad it was and I belayed him while he ploughed up to his thighs using a swimming action to make any progress at all. He turned back after running out twenty metres of rope in a struggle that took over an hour. The furrow he ploughed on his return journey was covered almost instantly. Cold and wet, we crawled back into the snow cave. Our situation was now very much more serious but, whatever anyone thought privately, there was no sense of despondency within the party. Mo’s humour was as sharp as ever and Doug only complained if someone sat on one of his damaged legs. We snuggled down in our sleeping bags and waited out the day.

  Next morning the storm still raged. It had the feeling that a spell of extreme weather, either good or bad, brings, that it will last forever. This was our second day without food; we couldn’t wait any longer. However bad the storm and the snow, we had to fight our way out. To assert our determination, we all packed our rucksacks, dividing Doug’s gear between the three of us, and set out into the storm. Clive and Mo took turns forcing the route up towards the West Summit, leaving a rope behind them. Doug needed all his strength to crawl up through the deep snow, hauling himself bodily on the jumar. I stamped and shivered in the rear collecting the ropes. It took four hours for me to reach the top. I crouched on the West Summit while Doug painstakingly part-crawled, part-abseiled down the snow-plastered rocky ridge. It was so different from the two previous occasions when there had been a cloudless sky and brilliant sun. Visibility was down to a metre. There were glimpses of rock walls dropping darkly into the white of driving snow. Mo was out in front, setting up abseils, picking a route through this maze of snow and cloud and rock. All I had to do was follow the line of rope, the thread through the Minator’s labyrinth. I could hear the great bull roar.

  There was no question of abseiling down the ridge line. The rope would have caught in the rocks when I tried to pull it down. I therefore climbed down, coiling it as I went. The others were waiting below, having run out all the rope. They were like snowmen, faces rimed with ice, clothing plastered. Mo plunged on down with the ropes I had given him, while I squatted ready for another long cold wait. We were now descending the steep snow rake below the West Summit rocks. This in turn led to the ice slope that had been precarious even in perfect conditions. I couldn’t help wondering how Doug would manage to crawl across it and the consequences of a fall.

  But so much snow had fallen, even though it was still precarious, the snow just held Doug’s weight as he edged across. Once again I brought up the rear, uncomfortably aware that no one was belaying me. I couldn’t afford to fall. By the time I reached the site of our previous bivouac it was very nearly dark. Mo had already vanished into the snow cave he and I had excavated on the way up.

  It had been only just big enough for the two of us. Now it was part filled with snow and was much too small for four. Only one person could work in it at a time. Another could shovel the excavated snow out, but the other two just stood and shivered in the dark and cold. Consequently we piled into the cave before it was big enough. Doug urged us to do some work on it, b
ut we were all too tired. We just wanted to slide into our sleeping bags and have something to drink, though it could only be milkless, sugarless tea with one tea bag between the four of us.

  Just taking off our outer, snow-plastered clothes was a struggle. It was impossible to keep the snow off the sleeping bags. I was on the outside and tried to block the entrance with rucksacks and climbing gear but the spindrift sought out every chink. It blew into our little cave, covering everything in a cold white film that, as we tossed and turned to avoid it, melted on our sleeping-bags, turning the down into a useless congealed mess, then penetrating our clothes until by morning everything was wet and soggy. We weren’t cold in the night. There was a warmth in our very proximity but that morning, 17 July, four days after the accident and two days since we’d had any solid food, the cold penetrated as soon as we crawled out of the shelter of the cave into the storm that still screamed around the Ogre.

  A knife-edged ridge led down to the top of the Pillar. Mo went on ahead to fix the first abseil, while Clive and I put Doug between us, as we slowly made our way down. We could do nothing to help Doug, other than carry his gear, dig big bucket steps for him where possible, and be ready to hold him on the rope should he slip. He went carefully, steadily, never complaining, never showing the pain and stress that he must have felt. At last we reached the top of the Pillar. Mo had fixed the doubled ropes of the abseil and had already vanished. At least we were going straight down – the steeper the better.

  Doug went first. We peered down, his shape blurred into the driving snow and then vanished. There was a shout from below but we couldn’t make out any words. The rope was slack and so Clive went down. Another long pause. Then I clipped in and slid down the doubled rope, blinded by the driving snow that seemed to be blown from every direction. My frozen clothing was like a suit of armour, restricting movement. But it was good to be on the rope. All I had to do was slide; I could relax my concentration for just a few minutes. I was nearly down and could see Clive’s shape, opposite and just below me. That surely must be the top of the fixed rope. We were very nearly out of trouble.

  And then I was falling, plummeting head downwards. Had the anchor come away? A stab of absolute horror surged through me; this was it. Then came a jarring, smashing pain in my chest. I was hanging suspended on the rope. I just hung there, shocked and frightened for a minute. Then my mind took over once again with an instinctive analysis of what had happened.

  I was attached to a single rope by my abseil brake. The ends of the rope must have been uneven and I had come off one end, pulling the rope I was still on down, until I was brought to a halt after a fall of some seven metres or so by the loop on the longer end of the rope that had been placed over a spike of rock. I swung across and clipped in to the start of the fixed rope. My ribs ached but I had no idea that I had done anything more than hit something on the way down and would probably be badly bruised as a result. There was no time for worry. We had to get back to the tents that day. I could see Doug over to the left, secured to the fixed rope, working his way painstakingly over an awkward rock traverse. It wasn’t too bad in cramponed boots but he had to crawl.

  It was only that evening that I learnt that Doug had had an even narrower escape than I. When he abseiled neither of the ropes at the bottom had been anchored. He went straight off the ends and was plummeting down the gully. Fortunately the fixed rope we had left in place went across the gully about five metres below. As he shot passed it, he managed to grab it and arrest his fall. Otherwise he could have gone another 1,300 metres to the glacier far below.

  There was no time to linger over near misses. Slowly we worked our way back along the fixed ropes, abseiling and traversing, until at last we were just above the snow spur leading down to the tents. Mo had already got down and we could see him begin to dig them out. The fixed rope ended just above a bergschrund. It had been easy enough to climb up uninjured, in perfect conditions. Getting down in a storm with an injured man was very different. I had brought with me a short length of rope for this contingency. We tied Doug to the end of it and began to lower him. It wasn’t quite long enough. The storm suddenly rose to a crescendo. Spindrift avalanched down the spur engulfing and blinding us; it was as if the Ogre didn’t want to let us go. Could we die now, so very close to relative safety? And then the storm relented. Doug managed to establish himself on easier angled snow so that he could untie the rope. Clive and I followed and soon we were digging out our buried tents. At least we had some kind of shelter now, though our sleeping bags and clothing were soaked and we had only a few tea bags supplemented by a few cubes of curried Oxo and a packet of sugar. There was no solid food.

  It was when I undressed that I realised my injuries were more serious than a few bruises. I could feel an uneven indentation on the right-hand side of my rib cage. I had probably broken some ribs. My left hand was also part paralysed and the wrist was swollen. Had I broken it? I crawled into my wet sleeping bag. Mo, who was sharing the tent with me, brought me a mug of tea. Hot and sweet, it tasted like nectar. I just curled up in the bag, trying to hold on to the little glimmer of warmth it had kindled, and wondered what the next day would bring.

  I slept intermittently, listened to the wind screaming around the tent, and prayed for the weather to clear. But the storm was as fierce as ever in the morning. I dragged myself out to relieve myself and realised how weak I had become; I felt terrible and returned to my sleeping bag. It was beginning to dry out but was stealing my body heat to do so. I curled up and let the rest of the day slip away in a semi-coma. My chest didn’t hurt as long as I didn’t move or cough but every cough was like a fierce stab and my throat, raw from our ordeal, built up into a sore tickle until I broke out into a paroxysm of uncontrollable coughing. I crouched, hugging my ribs, trying to alleviate the pain.

  I was coughing up a bubbly froth. Was this pulmonary, or perhaps pulmonary oedema caused by the trauma? As the day dragged on I became convinced that I could die if we didn’t get down soon. In the dark blue gloom of the tent my fears built up. I staggered next door and expressed my worry about pulmonary oedema, urging that I needed to get down before it took a grip, yet feeling ashamed of the fuss I was making.

  Mo pointed out that we would never be able to find our way across the plateau in a whiteout. We had to wait for a clear day. He was right and I crawled back to the tent to wait out the rest of the day and the long night. Waiting was much worse than the struggle of the descent.

  And then came dawn. The wind still hammered the tent but suddenly a finger of light touched its walls. It was the sun. The sky had cleared; we could see the plateau stretched out below us and escape from our trap.

  Mo and Clive were now carrying colossal loads as we slowly abseiled down the steep slopes leading back to the plateau. One of the tents, secured under the straps of Clive’s rucksack, slipped out and went bounding down the slope. Clive cursed but resigned himself to making the long detour to get it. At last we had reached the relative safety of the plateau. Under a clear blue sky we felt almost out of danger. Doug volunteered to take Clive’s pack while Clive went for the tent. He set out on all fours, weighed down by the huge sack. I followed and was appalled to find I couldn’t keep up with him. My strength had oozed away. I took a few steps, sat down and rested, then took a few more.

  We had now been five days without solid food, but we just had the last thousand metres of descent, all safeguarded by fixed rope, and we would be back on the glacier. The others surely would have come to Advance Base to meet and help us, as they would be worried by now. Soon it would be their responsibility. The ordeal was nearly over.

  On the morning of 20 July, Mo and I got away first. I had dumped every piece of gear that wasn’t absolutely essential to lighten my rucksack. I even left my camera behind. Mo fix-roped the upper part of the ridge and I followed trying to cut bigger steps for Doug to crawl down. It was awkward work because I couldn’t use my left hand at all. This made the descent difficult as well, particula
rly as the fixed ropes had deteriorated in the time we had been on the mountain, becoming stretched in places and tangled in others. The descent seemed interminable. I kept gazing down at the glacier trying to see a welcoming committee. There were no tents at Advance Base and no sign of any kind of life.

  The fixed ropes ended on the last of the rock. Below that was a snow slope that in the intervening time had turned to ice. It was just a matter of cramponing down it but each kick of the crampons sent an agonising stab of pain into my chest. I couldn‘t bear it. To hell with it, I’d slide. I threw my rucksack down the slope and then followed, sliding on my backside, the classic sitting glissade. But I could only hold my ice axe with one hand and was unable to use it as an effective brake. I rapidly gained speed and was soon hurtling down towards the bottom, doing what I could to protect my ribs. I arrived with a crunch and just lay in the snow, exhausted and relieved that the worst of the descent was over.

  Mo was waiting. ‘We’d better rope up for the glacier,’ he said. ‘After all that I’d hate to end up in the bottom of a crevasse.’

  I took the proffered rope and Mo set off, ploughing through deep soft snow. He was like a tugboat towing a derelict ship. I could feel the pull of the rope at my waist and wearily put one foot in front of the other in the tracks that Mo had made. At last we reached the rocky moraine at the end of the glacier.

  ‘You should be all right from here,’ Mo said. ‘I’d better get down and see what the others are up to.’

  He quickly disappeared from view, leaving me to wander down the moraine. I staggered a few paces at a time then sank down to revel in the heat of the sun as it slowly penetrated the chill of my body.

  The terrain changed from barren piled rock to the beginnings of vegetation, a pink cluster of primula almost hidden in a crevice, and then, round a corner, the little oasis formed by the meadow and lake of our Base Camp – emerald green grass embraced by the arms of the glacier moraine. But there were no tents, no sign of humanity. I reached the boulder where we had our cooking shelter. There were pots and pans and boxes of food stored under the overhang. There was also a note. It was in Nick‘s hand, dated 20 July, that very day, and started: