The Last Step

by Rick Ridgeway

  It was a magnificent day, and when we rested between kicking steps up the snow dome, we were high enough at nearly twenty-five thousand feet to see over most of the mountains to the east: not Broad Peak or the Gasherbrums, but over smaller Karakoram mountains in the distance. We were mesmerized by the brown hills of China stretching hundreds of miles to the north, to the gently curving horizon. Wick, Lou, John, and I were in the lead; Craig, Jim, and Dianne followed a distance behind.

  Only one thing marred our pleasure: To the north and west, floating at extreme altitude far above the summit of K2—at perhaps forty thousand feet—was an enormously wide but thin, saucer-shaped cloud. It did not look like a normal lenticular. It was tinted light brown, with an ethereal, other-worldly look, and while on the one hand it had a benign, angelic quality—like a halo over the summit—that quality seemed somehow guileful, somehow sinister. We could only hope it was not a harbinger of more bad weather, for that would be the end of all hope of reaching the summit.

  We all reached Camp V and held each other in bear hugs. For Dianne, it was an especially satisfying accomplishment. At 25,300 feet, she was higher than any North American woman had ever climbed, and she had also delivered two oxygen bottles—not bad for someone who only a few years earlier had made her first climb.4

  The cache of equipment we had buried under a tent fly nine days before was in good shape, and we set to the task of shoveling tent platforms. We pitched three tents, and with seven people in camp that night, we felt we had mustered the supplies and strength necessary for a serious summit bid.

  Spirits were high as we cooked dinner and melted water for the next day’s efforts. Terry, Cherie, Skip, and Diana had moved to Camp IV, and by radio we learned they planned to climb to V in the morning. Our own plans changed when we reconsidered our logistics. There was not enough equipment to support a dual assault, and Craig made the valid point that if he carried for Wick and Lou to their Camp VI on the Abruzzi, he would have to return by himself, unroped. He was reluctant to do that. John and I remained committed to the direct finish, so in the end, Lou and Wick decided once again to join forces with John and me. I went to sleep that night feeling better than ever. I had felt very strong climbing to Camp V that day. Fear that my lungs would not hold out was beginning to disappear. Maybe the problems I had suffered on Everest had indeed been simple congestion. I was more confident of my ability than ever.

  The thought of having Lou and Wick with us, and the others in support, cleared my remaining doubts. I was sure we could make it now, and everyone in camp felt the same. The strange saucer cloud had disappeared. As we fell asleep the night sky was clear and cold.

  Dreams came easily, pleasant dreams of pleasant places. I was tucked cozily in my sleeping bag, relaxed, and my dreams took me to tropical islands, warm and sunny, to white sand and trade winds. Sometime in the early morning I awoke. I had consumed so much liquid I had to relieve myself. That was good: it meant I was rehydrated, and that would give me an edge on making the push to Camp VI, just a few hours later. Still feeling the warmth of the dream, I zipped open the window and squirmed to get half my body outside. It was very dark. It took me several seconds to realize what was wrong. I looked up. Blackness. No stars. Then I felt them, big and soft, delicately cold, floating, drifting, silently landing on my hair, melting. Another storm.

  | 9 |

  INTO THE DEATH ZONE

  AUGUST 29. “IT’S POSSIBLE WE COULD PUSH through the bad weather and make Camp Six,” Jim Whittaker said. “And you four summit guys could stay there and hope the next day the weather clears. But if it doesn’t you’ll have to come down. There aren’t enough supplies to wait.” He paused, then added, “I’m not sure you would have it in you to push all the way back up again.”

  “We can’t stay here, either,” Lou said. “There’s only enough food for one more day, maybe two if we stretch. Our only option is to go back to Camp Four and wait there.”

  “That probably makes the most sense,” Jim agreed. “At least there you can conserve your strength for another push.”

  “Terry, Cherie, and the others now in Camp Four will have to drop back to Three,” Wick said. “Otherwise there won’t be enough room—or supplies.”

  John added his opinion. “Even if we are short of supplies here at Five, I think we need to hold out as long as we possibly can. I just have a feeling if we go down again now, that will be it.”

  We had awakened that morning to wind and snow. Now, at midmorning, we gathered in the largest tent to decide our best strategy. Through the morning the clouds had periodically opened, revealing a few clear areas over China, but from the opposite direction—from Pakistan—the clouds rose thick and covered the mountain. We decided to wait until noon. Despite John’s reservations (and I agreed with John), it looked as if we would be forced, once again, to descend.

  We returned to our tents and passed another two hours napping, writing in our journals, or staring at the walls. There was little conversation. It seemed so much of the climb had been spent waiting, sitting in tents, patiently lying on sleeping bags, holding out for weather to improve. I wondered how much longer our patience could last. Fifty-five days on the mountain. We would be without doubt climbing into September. I recalled the Polish account of their attempt on the same route in 1976. They had made two assaults on the summit from their Camp VI—one on August 14, another on August 15. When both failed they pulled back to rally for another try. But a major storm hit, and did not end. Finally, on September 4, fighting snow up to their waists, they abandoned the mountain. Winter had come to K2.

  I wondered if winter had come for us as well. It was much colder than it had been in the previous weeks, and this time the interval of good weather had lasted only one day. I remembered that the HAPS had said, several weeks earlier, that we had to reach the summit by the end of August, at the latest, to beat the winter storms. That morning, I noted in my journal:

  We only need two or three more days of reasonable weather to top out, yet I’m not certain even that small request will be granted. I can’t help but fear that this may very well be the high point of the expedition. After so many weeks and weeks of struggle, it seems tragic.

  I lay back on my bag, between John and Lou, and stared at the walls. We could hear snowflakes falling on the tent, and an occasional gust of wind.

  “How about carrying a load to Camp Six?” Lou said.

  “Cabin fever?” I asked.

  “Have you looked out?” John said. “It’s a whiteout—you won’t even find Camp Six.”

  “There’s an occasional hole in the clouds, enough to get to the campsite. It’s well marked under that prominent rock buttress,” Lou persisted.

  “No thanks,” John said.

  I also declined, and Lou left the tent and crossed to Wick’s. There he had better luck: although Wick had been napping, he reluctantly agreed to go. About 10:30 the two left camp and only a short distance from the tents disappeared in the shrouding clouds. John and I zipped shut the tent window and lay back down on our bags.

  “I wonder what drives Lou?” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who pushed as hard as Lou does.”

  “I think he just wants to get to Camp Six—to eight thousand meters. That will likely be the high point of the expedition.”

  “Maybe we should have gone with them.”

  “We could have hauled all the gear up there in one carry. They don’t need to go up there in this weather. It’s wasting time.”

  “Well, maybe. But having any gear up there is a help. I just feel like maybe we’re not doing our share.”

  “The hell with it,” John said, and rolled over on his side, facing the tent wall. “We’ll need all our strength when the time comes. No sense burning out on useless carries.”

  “When the time comes. The time,” I sighed, staring at the ceiling, then adding, “Just three days. That’s all. Three short days . . . ”

  There was silence and we drifted in sleep. It was s
till uncertain when we would descend to Camp IV. With Lou and Wick going to Camp VI, it was possible they would want to rest at V for another night before dropping lower. It was a long, slow descent down the snow dome back to Camp IV; in bad weather it would take several hours.

  Jim called from his tent. “Maybe we should get ready to go so we have time to get down.”

  John and I looked at each other. Neither of us wanted to descend; we shared the conviction that if we left camp, if we went down at this late time, we would never be back up.

  “What if you guys went down,” John yelled back, “and Rick and I stayed and waited for Lou and Wick? We wouldn’t be using much more food, and if the weather broke, the four of us could go it alone in the morning.”

  There was a pause, then Jim said, “O.K. Dianne, Craig, and I will go down.”

  In half an hour we heard them leave camp. They wished us good luck, but I knew—short of a miracle—we would soon be down ourselves. It would be a miracle, I thought, if the weather broke. The longer I lay thinking the more I became convinced the climb was coming to an end. Another American defeat on K2. The sixth in a row. Forty years, and we had not reached the top.

  Lou and Wick returned from Camp VI later. At higher elevations they had climbed above the clouds and it had been a gorgeous afternoon. Other than deep snow the final three hundred feet, they had no trouble locating Camp VI under the prominent rock buttress.

  “No chance of putting the camp higher?” I queried. During our planning, we had always hoped to locate the tent platform as high as possible on the summit pyramid. We regarded the low altitude at which the Poles had placed their Camp VI as a major factor in their defeat; now it appeared we had established our camp at the same site.

  “I don’t think so,” Lou said, removing his old parka and dusting snow from his hair. We had cups of hot cocoa ready, and they both drank eagerly.

  “Not only is there probably no platform higher,” Lou continued, “but it wouldn’t be worth the effort to try to carry supplies any higher through the deep snow.”

  We had to accept that our high camp would be more than two thousand feet below the summit, and we all knew what that meant: There would be little chance, after a long climb to the summit, that we could make it all the way back to camp the same day. We would have to bivouac. We spent the afternoon discussing the summit push: Should we spend time fixing ropes, should we use oxygen? We had managed to deliver five bottles of oxygen to Camp V, which gave us the option of using it. Several days before, we had reversed our previous decision and concluded it could increase our chance of reaching the summit if we did use it. But now, the subject was again under debate.

  “You can use my oxygen if you want it,” John said. “I’m going without it.”

  Lou recoiled. “We agreed we would all use it, or all not use it,” he snapped.

  “I don’t want to lead those steep ice pitches with seventeen pounds pulling me backwards,” John retorted. “I’ve been high without oxygen before, and I know I can make the summit of K2 without it. Besides, I only agreed to use it if both Wick and Rick insisted.”

  Caught in the middle, I told Lou it did not make any difference to me whether John used oxygen or not. Lou felt, however, that if only one of us went to the summit without oxygen, it would “cheapen the ascent” for those who did use it; presumably he thought those using oxygen would end up doing all the trail kicking, but those without would get all the credit.

  “Who cares,” I said to Lou, “if John does get more attention? Besides, there’s a good chance he won’t even make it.”

  All that mattered to me was getting myself to the top of K2—with or without oxygen—and I would not have cared if John climbed the thing nude. Lou, however, did care.

  “If John is going without oxygen,” he said, “then I will drop out of the summit team. I’ll go ahead and support you guys, but that’s all.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” John shot back. “Don’t use any yourself, then.”

  “We agreed either to all use it, or none of us. I think you should feel obliged at least to honor your agreement.”

  The split between John and Lou was serious, and our prolonged stay at altitude, along with the continued bad weather, only exacerbated the schism. All along Lou had thought—with considerable logic—that John’s and my summit plan was unsafe, if not stupid. A few days earlier, John—knowing he was the fastest of us on the technical pitches—had questioned whether Lou should lead any of the extremely difficult ice at the twenty-seven-thousandfoot level of the headwall. Lou had been indignant. The oxygen incident was the last straw.

  “Lou, we’ve got to have you up there,” I said. “You’re still the one of us with the most drive, and God knows, we’ll need all that we can get.”

  Tempers calmed, and Lou grudgingly agreed to rejoin the summit team, but only after John grudgingly agreed to use oxygen. It was snowing heavily as we finished dinner and crawled into our bags. Early the next morning I awoke and zipped open the window. I hoped we might have our miracle: the sky clear, that day to Camp VI, next day to the summit. I worked my torso out the small opening and looked around. Blackness, no stars, big snowflakes. We would have to desert Camp V and once again descend. I thought, You should have gone with Lou and Wick, and at least made eight thousand meters. Now, after all this work, you won’t even get that high.

  I zipped shut the window and crawled into my bag, waiting for the dawn, brooding, a hollow feeling spreading over me.

  Gazing at the table before me, I hesitated, undecided. I dipped in my hand and scooped a mouthful of Waldorf salad festooned with fresh fruit, then ripped a drumstick from a golden-baked turkey. Best of all was a huge garden salad with red, firm tomatoes that, when I chomped into them, squirted juice and seeds. Baskets of fruit—apples, pears, bananas, pineapples. Wine and bread, vegetables marinated in oil and vinegar. Then ice cream, huge mounds of it, pistachio-almond, peach, chocolate chip mint . . .

  I awoke to a scraping, scooping sound. I opened one eye and saw John still sacked out across from me—must be Lou or Wick shoveling snow. The storm was still with us.

  I had never had a more realistic food dream. I could still taste the fruit and salad. For some reason, however, I had no desire for Slim Jim pepperoni sticks, or freeze-dried anything. But what would I give, I thought, for a tomato or an avocado? Or fresh meat—anything but that freeze-dried leather that always reminded me of Charlie Chaplin eating his shoe. Food dreams had been recurring frequently, almost nightly. At the beginning of the trip, my dreams had been the normal sort, but now I no longer dreamed even of women. The only desire left was fresh food. Continued endurance at high altitude was reducing my weight; already I had lost probably fifteen pounds. At extreme altitude the body has trouble digesting proteins and other complex molecules and consequently begins to lose muscle tissue. (Within ten days, I would drop another fifteen pounds and end up looking like a prison camp survivor.)

  My attention shifted back to the scraping sound of the snow shovel, then I noticed John was awake.

  “Is that you, Lou?” John called.

  “Yeah.”

  “Still snowing hard?”

  “We had a foot or two last night. You’d better come out and excavate your tent before it collapses.”

  John sat up and tugged on his jumpsuit, then his boots and mittens. I lay still; I had no motivation to move. John zipped open the door and crawled out. The bright, opaque-white glare hurt my eyes. He quickly closed the door to keep out blowing spindrift, then began shoveling. I propped on an elbow and started the stove to make breakfast.

  I thought over yesterday’s depressing events: Lou, Wick, John, and I had descended from Camp V in a blizzard; Cherie and Terry had greeted us at Camp IV. Because of crowded conditions and short supplies, Jim, Dianne, and Craig, along with Diana and Skip, had descended to Camp III and would wait out the storm there. We had talked to Jim that evening by radio, but it was a frustrating conversation. All Jim coul
d talk about was the problems at Camp III. Most of the stoves had been carried to the higher camps, leaving only one clogged, sputtering relic at III, and Jim was barely able to melt enough snow for all of them to drink. Dianne’s goggles had iced up in the whiteout crossing the traverse; she had removed them to see enough to get across and was now snowblind. Jim had twisted his knee and doubted he would be able to climb back up when the weather cleared, and Skip’s toes were again numb from frostbite.

  Now, the next morning, matters were worse. Jim’s radio batteries were weak and he could only transmit three or four words before his message became gobbledegook. At Camp IV the only radio was in Lou and Wick’s tent, and listening through the tent walls, I was not certain if any of our messages had been successfully transmitted. John came back in; we finished breakfast and decided to crawl over and discuss our options with Lou and Wick. Before leaving, I zipped open the window and looked out. The wind was blowing very hard.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I yelled back to John, “but the wind is so strong it has blown all the new snow off the ridge and I can see the tracks going back to Camp Three. Unbelievable.”

  From the next tent Wick called over. “You can see those tracks because they’re not old ones—they’re new ones.”

  “What?”

  “They’re Lou’s. He just left for Camp Three. By himself.”

  “In this storm? What for?”

  “Wants to talk to Whittaker. He couldn’t get anything across the radio, so he’s going to talk to him face to face.”

  John and I looked at each other, astonished.

  “Man, that guy must have some mighty big ants in his pants,” I said, “and they’re all biting at once.”

  John and I dressed and went over to Wick’s tent to get the details.

  “He was afraid Jim might be losing motivation to see this thing through,” Wick said, “so he wanted to make sure Jim understood our commitment to stay as long as it takes.”