At the same time, I could imagine things from the others’ points of view; they, too, would have understandable qualms over risking their necks for the glory of the summit team and Jim Whittaker. Terry would continue to work hard, especially to support the outside chance Chris and Cherie would have a shot at the top should the first attempt fail—or perhaps even if it were successful, and the weather held. Bill said he would work to support our attempt, but he seemed to be losing interest and did not appear strongly motivated. Skip was homesick for his wife, and Craig the same. Who could blame them? It had been fifty-eight days since we started walking, so long ago, across the deserts of Baltistan, forty-four days since we set camp at the base of K2. Forty-four long days above sixteen thousand feet, spending most of that time hauling heavy loads or installing ropes. There was so much work, so much stress from the altitude and the danger, so much to ask of people who now had so little to gain.
The team was dividing into two groups—three, if you thought of Jim and Dianne as a neutral, mediating party. Somehow, we started referring to the groups as the A Team—the first summit group of Wick, Lou, John, and me—and the B Team—centered around Chris and Cherie, the core of a second summit effort, supported strongly by Terry. Bill, Skip, Craig, Bob, and Diana were not really associated with either group, at least not at that point. I first heard the designations used by Terry, and I asked him their significance.
“B,” he replied, “is for Best.”
“And A?” I asked.
“A,” he said, “is for Assholes.”
We still had so far to go. We could only hope to stay together long enough, and get a long enough break in the weather, to make the summit. It would be so disappointing—more than that, so tragic—to head home after so many weeks and months of effort, without that summit.
“Let’s go,” John said. “We’ve got to get over there early so the others can start pushing. They’ll be on our heels soon.”
All preoccupation with splits in the team, personality problems, petty quarrels—even most of the concern about slab avalanches—was lost in the work of clearing the ropes to Camp IV. I had not felt so good since John and I had led this traverse twenty days earlier. The weather was superb. There were just the two of us and the surrounding mountains, and it was easy to forget the rest of the expedition even existed. We climbed as fast as possible, methodically kicking a new trail in the snow and pulling out the ropes.
Jim Wickwire, resting in his tent at Camp III, wrote religiously in his journal:
Incredibly, at 9:00 a.m. we could pick out two climbers on the snow pyramid just in front of Camp IV, a scant three hours after John and Rick left, and a virtual refutation of Chris’s judgment of yesterday that snow conditions on the Chinese side of the ridge were too risky. So we were back in Camp IV ready to resume the long-awaited push to Camp V.
John and I unshouldered our packs and set to work excavating the tents that Chris and Cherie had collapsed to prevent their ripping in the wind the week before. It was a slow job. Care was needed to avoid tearing the light tent fabric with the snow shovel. In a half hour Lou arrived.
“Are Chris and Cherie behind you?” we asked.
“They hadn’t left camp when I took off,” Lou said with obvious displeasure. “And there was no indication they would be ready soon.”
John and I were disappointed. We had worked as hard as we could to open the way to Camp IV quickly so Chris and Cherie could follow right behind us and start toward Camp V.
“I’m going up to clear the ropes as far as they extend,” Lou said, indicating the slope above Camp IV.
“I’ll go too,” John said, “and help you out.”
The two left as I continued to excavate the tents. By ten-thirty Chris and Cherie still had not arrived; by eleven I realized our plan was going sour. There was too little time left that day for any substantial effort toward Camp V.
Lou and John reached the end of the first fixed rope and, not knowing where the next section was buried, came back down. Finally, at noon, Chris and Cherie hauled into camp. The tents had been repitched, and everyone was inside seeking protection from the sun. Chris and Cherie crawled into a deserted tent without a greeting. Again, there was the awkward, deadly silence I so loathed. Even John, atypically, said nothing.
At one, Chris announced he and Cherie were going up to start pushing the route. Relieved that at least some effort would be made, I allowed myself the thought that, if they worked to sunset, they might move a worthwhile distance toward our goal. Neither John nor Lou, however, seemed to care whether the two went up or not.
About two-thirty we saw Chris and Cherie coming back down. Back in camp, Chris said, “We started across the flat section above the first ropes and there was a big crack—a really loud pop—in the snow. It sounded like a slab cracking. I think it is still unsafe and I’m not going to climb higher until it looks better.”
“Maybe it was just a crevasse cracking,” Lou said.
“No, it wasn’t a crevasse.”
Chris went back to his tent. Terry and Bill had earlier come in from Camp III. Again, other than the occasional whisper, there was silence.
Lou, John, and I quietly began to formulate a new plan. It was obvious we would have to put in Camp V ourselves; we felt there was a chance we could do it in one day.
“The three of us can share the leading, but we still need Chris to show us where the ropes are buried,” Lou observed.
Chris called from the neighboring tent, “I’ll go with you.”
“Terrific,” Lou said. “You can share in the leading if you want.” Lou’s voice had a conciliatory tone.
“O.K.,” Chris said.
“And if everyone else carries loads behind us tomorrow, we can not only reach Camp Five, but stock it with half the supplies we’ll need up there.”
Terry responded enthusiastically; Bill and Cherie also agreed to carry loads. Rising from the mood of despair was a kindling optimism, and we started to talk about the possibility of a summit assault in four days. All mention of the dangerous snow conditions Chris had suspected was dropped. Later that evening we radioed the plan, with enthusiastic response, to Camp III. Jim had independently devised a similar plan; he was pleased Chris was included. He had his fingers crossed this would end the widening schisms; little did he—or any of us—know it would only make them worse.
4:45 a.m. First dawn. A cloud rising behind the Abruzzi Ridge, billowing on the morning convection. Pastel colors backlight the roiling cumulus; a phantasmagoria of dervish sworls.
“Hold your boot over the stove,” I told John. “It’s worth the fuel to start with warm toes.”
We defrosted our boots over two butane cartridge stoves. Steam rose from a cup of cocoa in a vapor like the cloud rising over the Abruzzi Ridge.
“Hope the weather holds. I would prefer a clear sky this morning.”
“It’s got to hold. We only need four more days to top out. Just four.”
“We’ll get Camp Five today, at least.”
“Even if we reach Camp Five, it won’t do much good if another storm comes. We’re not fixing much rope. The snow would cover our tracks and we’d be back where we started.”
“Maybe we can get some loads up, then. That would accomplish something. Anyway, the weather has to hold.”
I set down my boot and picked up the cocoa to finish it before its warmth was wasted to the cold morning air. I wrapped my fingers around the cup, luxuriating in its warmth; I knew they would soon be numb when, outside, I fastened the metal crampons on my boots.
We left Camp IV a few minutes before six—a good, early start. John, Lou, and I were first on the trail, and Chris followed a few minutes behind. The others would follow, but as usual they were late getting started. By seven-thirty we were at the end of the ropes Chris, Cherie, and Skip had fixed in their previous efforts. Above us, a steep snow slope rose about four hundred feet to the top of a large pinnacle. Having studied the route from below through binocular
s, we knew it would be an easy walk from the top of the pinnacle several hundred yards to the base of a large snow dome about fifteen hundred feet high, which formed the terminus of the northeast ridge. The dome sat directly under the immense summit pyramid. At the top of this dome we would place Camp V.
I took the first lead, stretching out a hundred fifty feet of rope. The slope steepened dramatically near its top, and this lead would be the toughest, especially with the heavy packs we were carrying. Not only did we hope to establish Camp V, but we also carried full loads. We were determined to make progress that day. I finished my lead; it looked like one more section to the top of the pinnacle.
“I’ll take this pitch,” John said.
Chris came up last and for a few minutes stood with Lou and me on a small platform stomped in the slope while John worked toward the top of the pinnacle, struggling in the soft snow on the steep slope with his heavy load. It was an impressive performance.
“I’m going down,” Chris said.
“Huh?”
“I’m going to rappel down and wait under that serac.” Chris pointed to a large ice block about a hundred fifty feet below.
“What for?” I asked. “Why not stay here, instead of going down and having to come back up?”
“It’s safer down there.”
Lou said nothing. We had hoped Chris might share in the leading, but he would not be able to take over if he was down below. There would be the snow dome, though, and plenty of opportunity to lead up the fifteen-hundred-foot gain to the dome’s top.
The slope on which we were climbing was covered with at least a foot of new snow, and while it was not the safest place to be, there was no better choice, other than turning around. I watched Chris rappel to the serac. The space between us seemed to represent our continually increasing psychological separation. I knew Lou was disappointed but not surprised. Even if the slope was dangerous, I wished Chris had stayed. Just so we could be standing together in the same place, I thought.
John reached the top of the pinnacle and secured the rope to an aluminum deadman anchor. Lou climbed up next, and while I followed Lou began plowing through soft snow toward the base of the dome. The three of us alternated leads. The wind picked up, sending spindrift sweeping across the surface snow, stinging the exposed skin of our faces. Ground-hugging clouds scudded up the snow dome—and the cumulus that earlier in the morning had rolled up the far side of the Abruzzi had increased, covering part of the mountain in front of us. The building clouds would soon cover us, too.
We were at twenty-four thousand feet. We each carried a thirty-pound load; with each step we broke through hard crust and sank to our knees. Progress demanded a slow, even pace. It helped to drift into a meditative trance as I lifted one leg, stepped up, broke through the crust, breathed a few times, then lifted the other leg—again, and again, and again. Chris was some distance behind, by himself, keeping the same pace, not catching up with us.
The slope gradually inclined as we approached the snow dome. Crevasses were visible on its slope, and we hoped these would not cause problems in navigation. We picked what looked to be the best route, hoping we would not find soft snow on the slopes of the dome. With heavy loads at high altitude, that could thwart all efforts.
We started up the base of the dome. Luckily, the surface was wind-packed, with a crust thick enough to support our weight, and we only occasionally broke through. Taking turns in the lead, we made steady progress.
We reached the crevassed section but before crossing it uncoiled our climbing rope and tied together. I could see Chris below, slowly climbing up the slope.
“Maybe we should wait for him so he can tie in,” I said.
“We can’t delay,” Lou argued. “We’ve got to get to the top of the dome.” “It’s not our fault he’s slow,” John added. “If we waited for everybody on this climb we wouldn’t get to the top of the thing until Christmas.”
I glanced back at Chris, then at the crevasses. They were not so bad; it would not be too dangerous crossing them after we had scouted a route. Still, I would have felt more comfortable waiting for Chris to tie in with us. And I would have felt less guilty. “He should have stayed with us in the first place,” I said as we continued on, every now and again glancing back.
I thought, Chris should be able to move faster. We are breaking the trail, kicking the steps, and he’s just following them. But the distance between us was closing only very slowly.
It was my lead. I climbed up to John and tied in to the end of the rope while he took my place in the middle. I rested, then started up. The wind had lightened, but there was more cloud—it had the feel of storm. Chris was still behind, and I kept checking back.
I should say something to Lou and John, I thought. I should insist that we wait for Chris to catch up. But John and Lou won’t like the idea of waiting; we have to reach the snow dome, and there isn’t much time.
“Maybe we should wait for Chris,” I said. There was no answer from Lou or John. I went on climbing.
My mind drifted into a trance: Lift your foot and plant your crampon and pull your other foot up, but casually so as not to waste effort, breathe a few times. Keep a steady pace. Got to get to the top of the dome. We should tie in with Chris. We should wait for him. It’s more than just the safety of being on a rope, you know: it symbolizes everything. That’s it, it’s a metaphor for all the problems and everything that has gone wrong and the distance that’s grown between us and the loss of our friendship. We’re not roped up and you know he’s thinking the same thing, how his pal is ahead of him now, gone over to the other side, gone over to the A Team (remember, A is for Assholes), and won’t even bother to wait so he can catch up and tie in to the rope. Yes, it’s everything. The feeling at the beginning of the climb when you wanted to team up with Roskelley because you knew that was the best way to get to the top even though it meant deserting your friend. Lift your foot and place your crampon and pull up and drag your other foot and place your ax and breathe a few times. Keep the steady pace. Got to move as fast and as far as Lou and John, and Chris is still back there catching up but not fast enough and it’s over twenty-four thousand feet here and it’s hard to breathe and think right . . .
“Let’s stop and have lunch,” Lou suggested.
I had been leading for what seemed like forever. The watch showed it had been only fifteen minutes. The three of us took off our packs to use them as seats on the snow. We had each brought a few lunch items: crackers, cheese spread, a can of tuna, two candy bars, and a few pepperoni sticks.
Chris slogged on toward us. At least he could now tie in to our rope, but I wondered if he felt the same estrangement. He would know we stopped, not to wait for him, but only to have lunch. Later, weeks after the expedition, I would talk to him about the incident:
I remember that day well, climbing alone behind the rest of you, feeling completely separate and cut off. I even felt separated from the others below, and I wondered why you didn’t stop so I could rope up with you. But I knew why, really, in the back of my mind.
The clouds swept by us, obscuring the view of the glaciers below, giving us only peeps through momentary windows of the mountains across the valley: Broad Peak and the Gasherbrums. There were all the signs of more bad weather.
“All our efforts are going to be wasted,” John said. “The main reason for coming up here is to kick a trail so we can haul the rest of the loads tomorrow and the next day. If the trail gets covered with snow, all this work will be for just about nothing.”
“We’ve got a few loads with us,” Lou said. “If we get this stuff to Camp Five it will count for something.”
“Not much,” John said. “We can cache it here.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m not sure it warrants the effort to carry it higher.” I was feeling enervated, drained; it had been very hard work to get this high, and we still had a thousand feet to go. The snow was softer in places, too. At that altitude, it took every effort I could must
er to kick steps with the heavy pack and keep a good pace. Camp V would be over twenty-five thousand feet. The thin air was a soporific that sponged from my psyche all its willpower.
“We’ve got to get to Five,” Lou reiterated. “Especially if there is another storm coming. It’s more than delivering a few loads. If we don’t get to Camp Five now, and we’re delayed again, a lot of people will lose the motivation to keep going. It will be a great psychological boost to tell ourselves that we’ve got to Camp Five.”
John and I knew he was right, but it was such an intangible reward to justify the work ahead of us. It was painful to accept the reality that our efforts kicking the trail would only have to be repeated after another storm.
“I’ll lead the rest of the way,” Lou said tenaciously. We knew he would, too, if we let him.
“Oh, hell,” John sighed. “We’re going all the way, and we’ll switch leads.”
All of us smiled. I watched Lou finish lunch and thought of the time, weeks before, when we first reached the Camp II site, when Lou and I sat together eating lunch. He looked just the same now: the torn red parka he had used for years on all his climbs (he had been given a beautiful Gore-Tex jumpsuit, as we all had, but he had left it behind in Skardu, saying, “My red parka still has lots of use left”), the beard matted with sunscreen, the tufts of hair sprung out between his ski-goggle straps. The only thing different was that now I knew him a little better. Not a great deal better—I still thought him the most enigmatic person on the expedition—but a little better. While I was still puzzled by what inner drives could be responsible for his almost unbelievable motivation, I at least had had several weeks to observe the empirical results of those drives—such as forging on, when the rest of us were so close to turning back, to Camp V. It was as if his mind thought an idea through to its logical conclusion, then if that conclusion demanded of his body some phenomenal physical effort, the body simply obeyed orders. It was as if he lacked what, to the rest of us, was the main limiter of our efforts: feedback from the body to the mind. Lou’s body just carried out the mind’s orders, and from observing him there was no indication any signals got through the other direction.
The Last Step Page 23