The Everest Years

by Chris Bonington

  The Baltoro has some of the most exciting mountain scenery in the world. At the far end of the glacier is Gasherbrum IV, a shapely wedge of ice-veined granite; first to our right came Masherbrum – from this side fierce and inhospitable, bristling with icefalls and sheer rock walls. Next day we sighted the Mustagh Tower, improbably sheer and bulging, dominating the Biange Glacier. We arrived at Concordia late in the evening. It was snowing hard, causing almost whiteout conditions. In an impassioned speech Shafiq had persuaded the porters that they were not fit to be considered Muslims but were just dirt, unless they made this one great effort to cover the last two stages in a single day. In the prevailing weather it had proved to be nearly disastrous. The porters were tired and cold, huddled under their tarpaulins. Some were still missing at dusk and came straggling in during the night.

  But it dawned fine, the freshly fallen snow glistening in the early morning sun. K2, massive and snow-plastered, towered over the end of the Baltoro Glacier, framed by the shapely mass of Broad Peak and the fairy tale pointed peaks of the Savoia group. Gasherbrum IV was even closer, rivalling K2 for threat and beauty, while across the glacier to the south-east was Chogolisa with its soaring snow ridges.

  The sun warmed the porters’ limbs and spirits. They were anxious to get started across the wide snowy basin at the confluence of the Savoia Glacier, that led up the western side of the mountain, and the Godwin Austen Glacier, that stretched round its eastern flank. For once the Baltis were hurrying, even ahead of us, in their haste to reach the site of the Base Camp of the Japanese expedition that had been on the mountain the previous year. There would be some good loot lying scattered in the snows. We saw a couple of tents snuggled against a rocky spur. Doug crawled out of one of them.

  ‘What’s it like up the Savoia?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know. We only got here a couple of hours ago. Trouble with the porters.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Two of them didn’t wear their goggles. Got snow blind. Had a hell of a job getting them along. We’ll go up the Savoia today.’

  Our porters had now had enough. There was too much snow; the gear we had given them wasn’t good enough; they were wet and cold; they wanted to go back. I couldn’t blame them and was almost glad to see them go. There were too many to look after. We had brought enough clothing and footwear to equip twenty-five of the best of them to carry on to Base Camp. Nick started paying off the rest – the equivalent of £15,000 in a couple of hours. Each of them had a newly issued reference book, which I had to fill in and sign. It was late afternoon before we had finished. Doug and Joe got back just before dark. Doug wasn’t pleased that I had let the porters go because he was enthusiastic about the route and keen to get started.

  ‘I think as many of us as possible should get up there tomorrow. I want to have a look at the route up on to the ridge.’

  I could feel myself being taken over by Doug’s forceful drive to get on to the mountain, to get climbing, to be out in front. But all my instincts were against it. We needed to get ourselves organised, sort the loads and keep together as a team. It would be all too easy to let Doug and Joe shoot out ahead, get the initiative, and for the rest of the team to trail behind like an elongated tail.

  I decided, therefore, that we should just make a carry and a reconnaissance the following day so I, and the rest of the team, could also see what was involved and, from that knowledge, decide on our future course of action. Doug accepted my decision.

  It was another frustrating slog to get our remaining porters up to Base Camp next day. One old man, who was one of their main spokesmen and whom I had kept on against my better judgement, announced he was going back. We split his load between Pete and myself. Another younger man also wanted to return but I drove him on, threatening to sack him and take all his newly issued gear from him if he let us down.

  The walk dragged on, clinging to the side of Angel Peak, up a sérac-threatened icefall, across avalanche-prone slopes just above the glacier, then at last we too reached the little pile of loads under a tarpaulin in the big emptiness of the Savoia Glacier. The West Ridge, like the corner of a gigantic pyramid, stretched above in a complex mesh of snowfields, rock walls, runnels, and gullies. It looked so much bigger and more difficult than the South-West Face of Everest, but it also looked safe, freer from objective danger.

  As soon as the porters got back I could hear them grumbling and Shafiq’s voice rising once more in anger. The walk was too far, they wanted more gear, more money. The Japanese had paid them twice as much last year. Quamajan, who had been with the Japanese, was able to tell us that this was not true.

  In the end I compromised and promised them more pay on condition they carried the next day and didn’t demand any more. At last the arguments were over. The others had sat on the sidelines listening, worried at the threat to the continuance of the expedition. Tut now produced a bottle of whisky, Nick, a splendidly obscene inflatable rubber doll that his workmates had presented him with at his going-away party. We laughed and drank and talked into the night.

  The following morning I decided to accompany the porters again, just to make sure they made it to Base Camp. As so often happened with these volatile people, there were no problems at all. They went further without a rest, were laughing and singing and made the round journey in three and a half hours. The weather seemed to have improved and the next day, 2 June, five of us moved up to establish Base Camp. Doug, Joe and I arrived first and walked on a short distance up the Savoia Glacier to get a better view of the route. It looked huge and difficult, yet just feasible. We discussed how to reach the crest of the subsidiary ridge that led up to the West Ridge and then returned to camp both relaxed and excited.

  Pete, who had set out for Base Camp later than the rest of us, had meanwhile been having a drama of his own. He was about two-thirds of the way across the snowfield around the base of Angel Peak, when he saw the big sérac far above him collapse and a great wave of snow dust tumbling down towards him. He threw away his rucksack, turned and tried to run before he collapsed into the snow, pulled his hat over his face and crouched, huddled, as the wave of snow swept over him, penetrating his clothing and clutching at his face. Suddenly it was over. He was alive. It was as if the avalanche had never happened. The cloud of snow had settled, the freshly avalanched blocks merged with the snow that was already there. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky. There was no sound; nothing seemed to have changed. The only evidence of what had happened was his snow-covered clothes, his face wet and stinging from the melted powder and his heaving aching lungs.

  He retrieved his sack, which was partly buried and hurried, panting, across the avalanche slope to the other side. Once out of danger he sank into the snow, wheezing and coughing to rest for an hour before continuing the walk, until he met Nick and Quamajan who had come down to look for him. That evening Pete wrote in his diary:

  One of those magic moments, sat on the Savoia Glacier listening to Carole King singing ‘Tapestry’. The sun has moved off us, but wind is pluming cold powder snow off the summits behind us. K2 is catching the evening sun. The tents and Base tent are up and soup is on the stove.

  I am happy to be up here. I think we all are. I can’t imagine any other nationality having this sort of atmosphere to enjoy ourselves so much. K2 is a great squat pyramid, a sobering thought that its summit is 11,000 feet above us … Also I’m glad to be alive.

  – CHAPTER 9 –

  Avalanche

  ‘I’ve peed into China!’

  That was Nick with his broad gap-tooth grin, returning to camp the following afternoon after he and Pete had climbed up to the Savoia Saddle at 6,600 metres, confirming on the way that the northern flank of the ridge was much too steep and icy an approach to the West Ridge. However Doug and Joe had more success, finding a good route to the crest through the glacier to the south, and the following day Doug, Pete, Nick and I made our first serious foray onto the mountain hoping to find a good site for Camp I. The way th
rough the small icefall at the confluence of the glacier was straightforward but there were some huge hidden crevasses, vast black bell-like chambers with barely perceptible mouths all too ready to suck down the unwary. Beyond, it opened out into a wide basin with a snow slope broken by little buttresses reaching up towards the crest of the ridge. It was steep enough to need a fixed rope and we got out the first drum, taking it in turns to run out a hundred metres each.

  It was nearly midday and we had reached the first rock buttress. Doug typically wanted to press on to the foot of a big gendarme on the crest of the ridge. Nick was for stopping where we were.

  Doug flared at him, saying, ‘You’re disagreeing with everything I say.’

  Conciliatorily, I thought we should get somewhere in between, where there was a second bluff, and I ran out another reel of rope, took the wrong line and was shouted at by Doug, Pete and Nick. As Nick came up to join me he pointed out that I was unreeling the cable cylinder incorrectly, but he did so jokingly, hesitantly, having already been put down by Doug.

  I noted in my diary:

  As Nick said, in his job back at Ferranti’s they are constantly making suggestions, criticising, to get the right solution in the end. It is unfortunate that Doug and Nick overreact to each other; yet I feel a real affection for Doug. He has a good sized ego which he doesn’t really acknowledge, but he has a tremendous warmth of heart and a great climbing drive which will stand us all in good stead.

  The following day Doug, Pete and Joe moved up to the site of Camp I, which, in the end, was placed at the compromise half-way spot at a height of around 6,000 metres. Tut seemed to be acclimatising slowly, was wheezing a lot and had pains in his chest. Jim Duff was staying behind with him, while Nick, intensely frustrated, was also going to have to wait at Base until he had paid off all but eight of our porters.

  I went up to our first camp on the following day, 6 June. It already had that well-established look, gear and food boxes scattered over the ledges we had dug, yellow stains in the snow and traces of discarded food. The others were still on the hill as I shoved my gear into Doug’s tent – Joe and Pete were sharing the second one. They got back down in the late afternoon, well pleased with themselves, having nearly reached the crest of the ridge. Pete described the day in his diary:

  We got away much too late, in a sort of staggered manner. Doug went first and even then the snowfall of the night was melting in the morning sunshine and the first porters were arriving. The sun wastes me away, enervates, dissolves me. I had to sort out a 600-foot rope that had fallen off its reel and tangled itself. Then I tried hauling it behind me but couldn’t move in the collapsing snow.

  Bloody 9mm fixed ropes aren’t non-stretch and so its impossible to use them to pull yourself over collapsing steps. Doug leading without a sack on – all right for him! One compensation – expanding views of Broad Peak through Negrotto Pass and over Angel Peak’s flanks.

  600-feet ropes – Doug led two; then Joe relinquished his rope, went back down and I ran that out. Easy-angled stuff, but traverses and an unstable feel to it, soggy, on top of hard ice. We then made a route-finding error that cost us two hours, missing a gully. Deceptive from below.

  I hope we can use porters to Camp 2 and site it at the 22,000-foot mark. We’re using so much fixed rope that when we get higher we’ll have to pull a lot of it up to use again. Climbing, staggering, only managing five paces at a time, thoughts completely elsewhere, body a tortured cell in a hostile environment.

  Just stopped writing as an enormous sérac collapsed up the valley, spreading a cloud of dust and a rumble.

  Doug squeezed into the little Denali tent that I was sharing with him – we both seemed too big for it. Pete wryly commented:

  ‘Not much room’ says Chris, at least he hasn’t got his typewriter with him! – 5°C – cold evening light outside – one can adapt to almost anything. Doug reading Healing Ourselves now. Chris refreshed after a day’s ‘rest’ – twelve hours of writing reports, including a long Sunday Times article. Tony Riley doing chatty ITV interviews – a real lads’ trip!

  The following morning Joe and I were to go off in front to push the route out. We climbed the fixed ropes to the previous day’s high point. I felt all the weight of organising and planning fall away from me. Joe also noticed, commenting:

  He seemed to relax from his assertive role once free of his paperwork, calculations and the onerous duty of presenting reports on progress for TV News, radio and newspaper. It was only the second time that I had climbed with him and he was eager to do as much as anyone. He took pleasure in the progress so far and enthused simply and directly about how well everything was going.

  For my part, my image of Joe the barrack-room lawyer who was frequently provokingly right slid away. We were happily attuned choosing the route, delighted to be out in front and climbing. I led up a shallow icy gully and escaped from it on to the crest of a rocky arête that bordered the broad snow basin leading across to the pyramid of K2 itself.

  Back home I had spent hours examining a big blow-up picture of K2 and had always assumed that we would skirt the top of this basin. It looked easy-angled and I thought secure. Joe murmured about Doug thinking that we should follow the gully to the crest of the ridge, but this seemed a long way round. I urged for the basin and Joe agreed without further demur, climbing down into it. The angle was so easy we didn’t even bother to rope up. We just plodded steadily across. I took the lead at first, then feeling the altitude, handed over to Joe who finished the trail-breaking to the foot of a bergschrund which seemed to give some shelter from the slope above. At 6,400 metres this was to be our second camp.

  Pete and Doug had been in support that day and reached our high point with loads of rope and hardware just as we set off down. Back at Camp I, Nick and Quamajan had arrived and had a brew ready for us. Sitting in the afternoon sun, gazing over the vista of peaks to the south and west, we began discussing plans for the next day. I wanted a rest day, Pete wanted a go in front.

  Doug said, ‘Well, shall you and I go up tomorrow?’

  I could feel my control of the expedition slipping away from me so quickly chipped in, ‘Let’s draw lots for it.’ Nick also wanted to be included. I must confess I was quite relieved I didn’t pick a short match. Joe and Pete were the lucky ones and Doug was obviously disappointed, coming out with a heavy, ‘It’s a big responsibility. You could waste days if you made a mistake.’

  Doug’s attitude underlined once more the fundamental difference in our approach to expeditioning. Doug prefers a spontaneous approach to climbing in which you climb, or eat, or come to decisions as the moment dictates in a structure-free situation. But through the sheer force of his personality, he ends up decision-maker and leader of that group. I am happier with quite a structured plan, a plan everyone has discussed, and see my role as leader to make decisions within that plan.

  As for Doug, he had agonised during the Everest trip in 1975 but then, as the climb unfolded and he found himself out in front, had become more resigned to the structured nature of the expedition. I hoped that the same thing would occur this time, but it was more difficult to contain, because we were so much smaller a group and therefore very much more on top of each other.

  Before we turned in Doug asked if I’d mind him changing tents.

  ‘I was awake for at least three hours last night, what with your breathing and snoring and thrashing about.’

  Long-suffering Nick said he was used to putting up with my snores, so Doug moved in with Quamajan. It was a petty matter but it showed how little things irritate out of all proportion at altitude, where an easily identifiable complaint can hide other stresses.

  Joe and Pete moved up to Camp 2 the following day. Nick, Quamajan and I went with them carrying loads of food and tentage. The round trip only took three and a half hours and on getting back we found that Doug had tidied up the campsite and had a brew ready. After a successful day, enriched by a bright sun and cloudless sky, the tensions of t
he previous evening slipped away.

  During the night a thick layer of cloud crept in from the west and we woke to a still, heavy gloom in the frosted dimness of the tent. Everything was silent until I pushed at the sagging walls to hear the swish of sliding snow on the outside and a flurry of ice crystals fell on our sleeping bags. Peering outside, the air was full of snow. The ledges, and the gear piled on them, had vanished and the tops of the tents jutted out like shipwrecked boats. We debated whether to try a carry but eventually resigned ourselves to sitting out the storm. Pete and Joe were doing the same in relatively less comfort at Camp 2.

  We were trapped in our tents for two days, but the third dawned clear and windy. We dug ourselves out, searched for gear under the uniform slope of fresh snow and at last were ready to set out for a carry to Camp 2. I could barely keep up with Nick and Doug who were sharing the trail- breaking.

  Pete and Joe were also moving up:

  Joe takes over and runs out 450 feet of 8mm rope, then another 150-foot pitch diagonally. The distances on this mountain are enormous, but it is important to maintain a springboard sense of urgency. Then I lead a couple of hundred feet, but still not able to see up the gully, the state of which is critical to the next big route-finding decision. Fantastic views – new peaks appear with every rope-length.

  It dawned fine again the next morning. Up at Camp 2 Pete and Joe climbed the fixed ropes they had put out the previous day and began on new ground. Back at Camp 11 had decided to take the day off. That night a head cold had overwhelmed me, blocking my nostrils and making my head feel like a giant over-ripe melon. I had snuffled and snored all night, keeping Nick awake and not sleeping much myself either. I felt lousy but it was good to lie in the tent until the sun crept round to our flank of the ridge and we could feel its heat on the tent walls.