Enclosed in a soundless snow-walled capsule, the rest of the world seemed so remote that it barely existed. I gazed up at the whorls in the roof and picked out pictures and images described by the dappled variations in light and shade. I dreamt of food, of lavish fry-up breakfasts, of home and Wendy, of the climb ahead, until they all became scrambled into a kaleidoscope of hallucinatory thought.
But on our fourth evening my altimeter showed that the pressure was rising. The storm, surely, must be drawing to an end. The following morning I cautiously drilled a hole through the external wall, but could only see swirling snow. With a blank disappointment I thought the storm was raging as fiercely as ever but, even so, I enlarged the hole. Snow poured through, but then I saw beyond this that the sky was blue. This was just surface spindrift whipped up by the wind. I pushed and dug, shouting with joy to the others that it was a perfect day. We could go to the top.
But it was bitterly cold. We were in the shade, the wind blowing from the north with all the chill cold of the Siberian wastes. Pete and Al were away first, crossing rock and snow that was as steep and inhospitable as the North Face of the Matterhorn. Pete led one pitch and Al the next. By this time Pete had lost all feeling in his hands and feet. He took off a mitt to investigate and found that the tips of his fingers were black with frostbite.
Joe and I took over the lead and he set off first, reaching a little edge about twenty metres below the ridge. It was now my turn and I moved up towards the sun, whose fingers were already beginning to claw over the crest to reach down towards me, pulling me up through spiky rocks and steep snow. Suddenly I was there in a different world where the sun caressed with its heat. The others joined me. We still had a long way to go but would now be following the crest of the ridge and could walk rather than climb. The other mountains were beginning to fall away. Even Kongur Tiube was now below us.
Joe was out in front; he pulled over a step in the ridge and let out a yell. Once I caught up with him I saw why. Just a swell of snow away was the summit of Kongur. We waited for the others and went to the top together. It had been a wonderful climb and one of the most committing I have ever made. Nothing to the north, west or east on the whole surface of the earth, was as high as us. Our nearest rival, K2, was lost in cloud two hundred miles to the south.
We bivouacked that night in a snow cave only fifteen or so metres below the top. Next morning I had to raise a doubt. Kongur has twin summits and the rounded cone about half a mile to the east, which had definitely seemed lower the previous evening, had grown by some trick of early morning light. Could it be higher? We gazed across at it, tried to talk it down, but the doubt remained, and so we laboriously trailed our way across to it, to find that our own first summit was, in fact, the true top.
Fortune was kind to us on Kongur. We took as many liberties as I have ever taken on any mountain I have attempted. I don’t think I have ever been so isolated as we were on that summit, with its steep final pyramid, the fragile bridge of the linking ridge, the climb over Junction Peak and that long ridge back down. There was no room for error. This was brought home on the descent of the last steep step of the pyramid. Pete was abseiling and dislodged a rock the size of a football with the rope. We saw it spin down and strike his head a glancing blow. He was knocked out, hurtled down the rope out of control and was only saved by his fingers becoming jammed in the karabiner brake. The agonising pain brought him back to consciousness.
Success and tragedy are divided by such a hair’s breadth. We avoided tragedy not by skill but by luck alone and, because we had avoided it, we quickly forgot the narrowness of our escape in the enjoyment of success. The following year we were to be less lucky.
– CHAPTER 11 –
Pushing the Limits
I was down to ten paces, then a rest. It was all I could do to force out the eighth … then the ninth … I just slumped into the snow, panting, exhausted. I couldn’t even make that target. Joe had drawn ahead long ago and I was on my own on this huge, endless ridge that had so sapped our strength in the preceding weeks. The North-East Ridge of Everest soars like a vast flying buttress up from the Raphu La, the col to the north-east of the mountain. I had dreamt of climbing it with a small team, a repeat of what we had done on Kongur, but the reality of scale and altitude were beginning to weigh heavily upon me.
Sitting crouched in the snow, I was already higher than Kongur. The North Col was far below and even the summit of Changtse now seemed dwarfed. I could gaze out over the peaks to the north-east to see the rolling hills of the high plateau of Tibet stretch in a perfect arc and yet we had another thousand metres to gain, to reach the summit of Everest. More than that, we had to cross the serrated teeth of the rocky pinnacles that guarded the final stages of the unclimbed section of the ridge. It was joined at 8,400 metres by the North Buttress, the route from the North Col, attempted by all those pre-war British expeditions and finally climbed by the Chinese in 1960. From there it would be comparatively straightforward, but it was also a long way.
We had started out that early March so full of hope, just four of us, myself, Peter Boardman, Joe Tasker and Dick Renshaw, a newcomer to my expeditions. Four pitted against the North-East Ridge. Charlie Clarke and Adrian Gordon, who had been with us on Everest in 1975 as our advance base manager, were coming in a purely support role, but we didn’t envisage them going beyond Advance Base at the head of the East Rongbuk Glacier.
We had never considered attempting the entire climb alpine-style. The route was too long and the Pinnacles were obviously going to be time consuming. To climb successfully with alpine techniques at extreme altitude, you need to move quickly, particularly above 8,000 metres. You can’t afford to spend more than a night or so above that altitude, because of physical deterioration. We therefore decided to make several forays on to the ridge, to gain a jumping off point at about 8,000 metres from where we could make a continuous push for the summit, carrying bivouac gear.
It had seemed a sound strategy back in Britain but, faced with the colossal scale of the ridge, the effects of altitude and the debilitating wind and cold, we were all beginning to have our doubts. At night, even on the glacier, it was down to –20°C, and during the day the temperature never crept above freezing. Only the day before, Pete had commented that we could have done with another three or four climbers to share the burden of making the route and ferrying loads. Because our team was so small there was no question of having a continuous line of fixed rope – we couldn’t have carried it. We used fixed rope only on the very steep sections and so far had run out only 200 metres over a stretch of a mile in horizontal distance with a height gain of 1,400 metres. It wasn’t desperately hard climbing, but it was sufficiently steep for it to have been difficult to arrest a slip. Consequently it was essential to concentrate the whole time. There could be no let-up, no relaxation. On the whole we climbed without a rope. Unless you are moving one at a time, belaying each other, it is probably safer. But it all added to the stress.
This was our third foray on to the ridge. We had been at work on it for a total of seventeen days, interspersed with two rests, one at Advance Base and one of nine days at Base. Because of the wind we had not even tried to pitch tents, instead had dug three snugly effective snow caves, one at 6,850 metres, the next at 7,256 metres and the top one, in which Dick and Pete were already installed, at 7,850 metres. Digging them had been an exhausting affair as the snow of the North-East Ridge was wind-blasted into an iron-hard surface, there were few drifts and our second snow cave had taken us fourteen hours, spread over three days, to carve out of ice and crumbling rock.
I crawled to my feet; another ten paces without a rest; a steepening of snow, broken by rock; its very difficulty took my mind off my fatigue. I even forgot to count and exceeded my target before pausing once again. But I was nearing the crest of the ridge. Soon I’d be able to crawl into the snow hole that the others had dug and just lie down and rest. I suddenly became aware of someone below me, couldn’t understand it,
because Joe had pulled ahead a long time before. Pete and Dick were already at the snow cave. But as the figure caught up with me, I saw that it was Joe. He had come back to see if I was all right, had missed me on the way down and had therefore lost even more precious height. I was tremendously touched by his gesture. Going back to help someone at that altitude shows a very real concern.
He offered to take my sack but I felt I could manage. It was just a matter of taking my time. We plodded together those last few metres to the top of the snow dome, where suddenly the view opened out; the great snow sweep of the Kangshung Face, Makalu towering over the Kangshung Glacier, the huge sérac-infested wall of Lhotse, the South Col of Everest looking so different from the view I had seen so often from the Western Cwm, and Everest itself, the highest point of this crenellated ridge, looking so very distant and unattainable. And at last I could see the Pinnacles, the jagged rock teeth, piled one on top of the other, that barred our way to the easier upper reaches. But the sight was alluring.
What a strange mixture of suffering, apprehension, elation and friendship this climb had brought us. Crawling through the narrow entrance of the snow hole it was good to see Pete and Dick once again. Until this climb Dick had been just a name Joe had often spoken of, for they had done some of their best climbing together – in the Alps, on the North Wall of the Eiger in winter and on a desperate ascent of an unclimbed ridge of Dunagiri, just opposite Changabang, in the autumn of 1975. I had come to like and respect Dick in the past weeks. Always ready to help others, quiet, yet immensely determined, Dick simply had a quiet love of the mountains, combined with a need to push himself to the limit that had nothing to do with competing with others.
The warmth of friendship, strengthened perhaps by adversity, was one of the factors that made the struggle worthwhile. Of all the expeditions I have been on, this was the most closely united, one in which I don’t think there was a serious spark of anger throughout its course. We did have differences of opinion on tactics, discussions that became heated, but there was a holding back born from a mutual respect and liking.
There were some great moments on the climb; the exhilarating moments when you were out in front. I had led a steep snow gully on the way up to our third snow cave. For an hour or more, I had forgotten the altitude and cold, the deadening fatigue in the elation and concentration of hard climbing. I had run out a full fifty metres of rope and regained the crest of the ridge with a sense of pride in what I achieved. And there were moments, too, of sheer wonder at the austere beauty of our surroundings.
The following morning, 4 May, Pete, Joe and I set out for the Pinnacles. Dick was dropping back down the ridge a hundred metres or so to pick up some rope we had left there. Stimulated by a sense of exploration, I found that the strength-sapping tiredness I had experienced the previous day had vanished, but even so, I was unable to keep up with Pete who strode ahead, seemingly effortlessly, picking his way across the airy crest that joined the snow dome to the foot of the First Pinnacle. From there the ridge soared in an upthrust that led to a mini peak, which, as we came closer, masked the continuation of the ridge. It was as if that First Pinnacle was the summit we were trying to attain.
Pete, who had reached the bottom of the Pinnacle three-quarters of an hour or so in front of Joe and me, had already uncoiled the rope and was about to start climbing. There was no discussion about who should take the lead. He was going so strongly, with such confidence. I was all too glad to belay myself and sit crouched on a rock, whilst he cramponed up the steepening slope leading to the base of a rocky buttress split by an icy groove. He could not find any cracks in which to place a piton anchor for a belay, and so carried on, bridging precariously on smooth, slaty shelves on either side of the groove. The rope ran out slowly through my fingers, came to an end and I knotted another rope on to it. If he fell there was nothing that could save him and he’d probably pull me off as well.
At last he reached the top, managed to hammer in a good piton anchor and I followed him up the rope. He had set out on the next pitch, trailing a rope behind him, before I had reached the top. I followed on. The afternoon slipped by, with cloud swirling around the crest of the Pinnacles, engulfing us in a close grey-white world. But he was determined to reach the crest and was running out yet another length of rope, as I, the portable belay, stamped and shivered and wished he’d come down.
Next day it was the turn of Dick and Joe to lead. Pete and I were to carry loads of rope and tentage behind them. My own strength had oozed away once again. Pete just walked away from me. Dick and Joe were already at our high point of the previous day. By the time I had reached the foot of the rope we had fixed, Pete had caught them up. Hardly thinking, I dumped the tent and ropes on the boulder at its foot and fled back down the ridge to our snow cave. I watched their progress through the rest of the afternoon. And it was so slow. That day they only pushed the route out for two more rope-lengths, but at what a cost.
On their return that evening I learnt that Dick, who had climbed the penultimate pitch up the corniced ridge in frightening bottomless unstable snow, had experienced a strange sensation of numbness spreading down one side of his body. By morning the sensation had worn off, but we were all worried by its implications, though we didn’t know the cause. We talked it out. Pete, as always, wanted to press on but, quite apart from Dick’s mysterious ailment, I was worried about the time we were spending at very nearly 8,000 metres – Dick and Pete had been at this altitude for four nights. We were making so little progress for so much effort, it seemed much better to get back down for a rest, and then go for the summit alpine-style, without any more of this exhausting to and fro. We finally decided to drop back.
I had been having increasing doubts about my ability to go much further, and yet, as if to commit, perhaps con, myself, I left not only my sleeping bag but also my camera equipment in the snow cave when we started down. It was a slow, nerve-stretching descent, for the weather had broken and half a metre of fresh snow covered a hard base. It took all day to get back down to Advance Base. Charlie commented that we looked like four very old infirm men as we plodded back across the glacier. He didn’t give Dick an examination that night, telling him it would be better to do it at Base the following day, but as we walked down he told me of his fears that Dick had suffered a stroke and would almost certainly have to head for a lower altitude and probably go all the way home.
I, also, was coming to a decision. The doubt had been present throughout the expedition, indeed from the earliest stages of planning. I knew, both from my age and performance at altitude, that my chances of getting to the top of Everest without oxygen were slim. Yet I hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the North-East Ridge. I don’t think it was egotistical ambition, since I knew all too well that our chances of success were scant, particularly for a small team who would not be able to use oxygen, even if we wanted to, since we could never have ferried it to where it was needed. I should have been as happy to go for the original North Col route, which would have given a much higher chance of success, but I knew that the others wanted to try the great unknown of the North-East Ridge. I enjoyed climbing with them, for their company and ability as mountaineers. Because of this I was happy to accept the possibility that I couldn’t keep up.
Now I was faced with the reality. I could never keep up with Pete and Joe and so would either have to force their retreat, or descend by myself. I doubted if I any longer had the strength or the will even to reach our high point.
Back at Base we confronted our change in circumstance. Charlie diagnosed that Dick had had a stroke and felt that he would have to escort him all the way back to Chengdu. I told the others of my decision not to return to the ridge but that I wanted to give them all the support I could. I suggested that Adrian and I should climb up to the North Col, so that we could meet Pete and Joe there, giving them a safer line of retreat once they had crossed the Pinnacles and reached the line of the old route.
We returned to Advance Base on
13 May. I felt no regret or disappointment about my decision, for now I had a role that I could fill effectively. Adrian and I were a little expedition of our own with an objective that we could realistically attain.
Pete and Joe were undoubtedly subdued by the scale of the challenge but, all the same, their plan was realistic. There remained less than 300 metres of height gain, but very nearly a mile in horizontal distance, most of it above 8,200 metres, to where the North-East Ridge joined the original route. I thought they had a reasonable chance of making this and then, if they were exhausted, as I suspected they probably would be, they could just drop down to the North Col where we would be awaiting them. We could see that the route back down to the North Col looked comparatively straightforward. If they managed to do this, they would have achieved an amazing amount, even if they didn’t reach the summit, which once again, I felt, would be beyond their reach – it was another 500 metres in height, a mile in distance. You can only spend a very limited time above 8,000 metres without using oxygen, at least for sleeping. Reinhold Messner’s formula for success in his solo ascent of Everest had been to spend only two nights above 8,000 metres on his way to the top. But he had chosen a very much easier route in 1980. It would all depend on how quickly Pete and Joe could cross those Pinnacles.
15 May dawned clear though windy. Pete and Joe fussed around with final preparations, packing their rucksacks and putting in a few last-minute goodies. Then suddenly they were ready. I think we were all trying to underplay the moment.
The Everest Years Page 16