Suddenly everyone went crazy, hugging, cheering, dancing. Wick was alive. For some reason he had stayed longer on the summit, but he was on his way down. Diana also felt the relief, the joy. It hadn’t happened again; once had been enough for one lifetime. The mountain had given a reprieve, and dealt a second hand. But she still felt as in a vacuum, as though someone had socked her stomach and taken her breath. She still held the image of Dusan. For the first time she could accept the fact; she knew. Thank God Wick, at least, was coming back.
“But it’s late,” someone said. “He can’t make it back to Camp Six before dark.”
“And there’s no moon. He probably can’t downclimb without moonlight.”
The cheering quieted as everyone realized the implications. Above, the last light disappeared, the plume off the summit crest grew with the mountain wind. Already, in Camp I, it was much below zero. Ten thousand feet higher it had to be incomparably worse. They had made the summit, and Wick was alive—there was much relief in that—but everyone knew the real fight was just beginning. Rob Schaller walked slowly back to his tent. As the team’s chief physician, his most important and demanding duty still lay ahead.
SEPTEMBER 6. CAMP VI ABRUZZI. 25,750 FEET. 6:30 P.M.
“I apologize for being so hard to get along with these last couple of days. Must be the altitude.”
“Don’t worry about it,” John said. “I haven’t been so easy to live with myself. This is our third day at eight thousand meters, and our second night without sleep. What do you expect?”
I lay my head back down on my boot—I used it each night as a pillow—and smiled.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m pretty bushed. But I’ll try and be a little more even-tempered.”
Actually, I was completely exhausted, more than at any time on the expedition. After leaving Camp VI Direct that morning we had descended only two hundred feet when we took off our packs, tied a line on them, and started dragging them, thinking it was easier to sled the heavy loads than to shoulder them. We passed Terry on his way down and learned that Lou and Wick had gotten an early start. We reached Camp VI Abruzzi about three o’clock; the last hundred feet with those heavy loads had brought me close to my limit.
As soon as we arrived John complained that his feet were frozen again, so we crawled into Wick and Lou’s tent and for the third day in a row he put his feet on my chest. I decided I might as well do the same, so we lay there for nearly an hour, feet up each other’s parkas, and I blew warm air down my jacket as much to warm my chest as John’s feet. I wanted so much to lie back and fall asleep, but I couldn’t. There was still so much to do. About four I put my boots back on and went out to dig a platform for our tent.
“My toes are still numb,” John said. “I’d better stay in and warm them.”
“Yeah, you’d better stay inside,” I said with deliberate irony. “Relax. I’ll dig the platform.”
The last two days I had been very irritable, downright crabby. Every little thing seemed to rub me wrong. Normally little inconveniences don’t bother me much, but of late I had been short with John, and he noticed it. Each time he wanted me to defrost his feet seemed like a major sacrifice of my time. It was as though the altitude was changing my personality; as though I couldn’t remember all the times he had gone out to shovel snow off the tent while I lay in the sack, or all the mornings he was up first to start breakfast, or all the times he took over and did most of the postholing to break trail.
Now he couldn’t help me with the tent just because his feet were frozen. Cursing under my breath I madly hacked away at the snow with my ice ax, working with what little reserve of energy I had left to level a spot and pitch the tent before dark. After an hour I could see I might not make the sundown deadline. I was getting very cold and starting to shiver.
“I’ll come out in a minute,” John said. “Let me get my boots on.”
“Thanks.”
By dark we had the tent pitched. I crawled in my bag but continued to shiver for some time. As soon as I got a hot brew down me, I warmed up and was able to laugh at myself and apologize to John. We put a hot water bottle down John’s bag to warm his toes, and soon he felt better too. We still had a couple of hours of melting snow and cooking, but we looked forward to a few hours’ sleep before again getting up about one o’clock to prepare for our own summit bid.
We received a garbled radio call from Camp I and managed to decipher that Wick and Lou had reached the summit. The expedition was a success. Now we only hoped they made it back without bivouacking. The wind had been picking up all evening, and the sides of the tent were flapping with increasing pitch.
By eight we were worried. It was very dark. We had a policeman’s whistle along for just such an emergency, and leaning out the tent door, we blew it while flashing a headlamp beam, hoping to beacon them in. Another hour passed.
“Did you hear something?”
“Blow the whistle again.”
We listened carefully. Above the wind we distinctly heard Lou’s voice. We looked at each other, smiled, and grabbed the light to signal them in.
Lou had overshot our camp in the dark and was a hundred yards below the tents when he spotted our light. He had nearly given up finding camp and was hoping instead for a crevasse suitable for bivouac. When he saw the light all the strain of the last several hours gave way and the tension flowed out, as he realized he was safe. Consequently, he had an extremely difficult time climbing back to the tent. When he finally arrived he was shaking with cold, drained, on the edge of collapse. Few men would have been equal to the physical endurance of Lou that day.
We heard him arrive outside our tent, but before we could get out to help him he jammed his head through the vestibule door. I knew the hour was late, that Lou had been climbing at extreme altitude all day without stop, that he had been through a superhuman ordeal, and that all this would no doubt read in his face, but I was not prepared for the apparition that met me eye to eye.
“Good God,” John said.
“Jesus,” I confirmed.
His face was frozen, looking like a specter raised from a frozen underworld. Large clumps of ice were frozen in his beard—not just snow, or spindrift, but heavy pieces of blue ice. There was a large icicle hanging from his nose. His lips were puffed, red and split from the ordeal. But his eyes still glowed with life; there was no hiding there the joy he felt to be in our tent.
We pulled him in, careful not to upset the stove, and helped him off with his crampons and boots. While John did that I mixed a brew of hot Gatorade. Lou was shaking and had difficulty speaking.
“Just a minute. You can tell us all about it in a second. First get this down you.”
I held the cup to his lips, but was aghast to discover so much ice in his beard I couldn’t get the rim of the cup to his lips. I set down the cup and tried to remove the ice. I pulled and yanked, and finally a big hunk broke loose and with it a clump of hair. Lou said nothing, oblivious to what I was doing, still shaking. With the larger ice hunks gone, he was able to drink the hot liquid. Wearily he leaned against John, and appeared almost to fall asleep.
“We made the summit,” he said, a quiver in his voice.
“Yes, we know,” we said, excitement in our voices.
“I made the summit without oxygen.”
John and I looked at each other, realizing the magnitude of Lou’s words. He said it simply, but with pride.
“Where’s Wick?” we asked. “Is he behind you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I’m not sure where he is.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“On the summit. I think he’s bivouacking.”
John and I looked at each other again, but this time with grave expressions. The wind was worse than ever, and it was already extremely cold.6 For a moment, none of us said anything.
“Maybe he’s still coming down.”
“I don
’t think so. It’s very dark, and I think he had it in his mind to bivouac; it was something he almost anticipated.”
“No headlamp?”
“It was in my pack.”
“If he has his half-bag and parka, it might not be too bad.”
“He doesn’t. The half-bag got soaked this morning when he spilled water. He left it behind. He’s got a pair of down pants he borrowed from Cherie.
Just that and his sixty/forty parka.”
“Are there any crevasses up there to bivvy in?”
“I don’t think so.”
We continued to melt water and feed Lou steaming drinks. He stopped shivering, and with the ice out of his beard he looked not nearly as frightful as when he first poked his head through the tent. He still leaned against John. He was weary and extremely tired, nearly asleep.
“You feel rehydrated?”
“Yeah. A lot better.”
“Let’s get you in your bag.”
“Thanks. I can’t tell you what it felt like to find you guys here, with hot drinks ready.”
We all smiled, and John and I patted Lou’s shoulder as he crawled out to move to his own tent. There was an unspoken feeling—more than just camaraderie (that word doesn’t quite describe it), more perhaps a feeling of fraternity—of men sharing a common stress and hardship, a common danger, and together achieving a common victory. If only we could be with Wick to see him through his ordeal.
On his way out Lou uprooted one of our tent’s guy lines, and John went out to fix it. He quickly came back in, already shaking.
“It’s cold out there. As cold as it’s been.”
“Let’s make sure we’re ready. Go over everything: mask, regulator, tank packed; water bottles ready for the morning brew, lunch packed, goggles, sunscreen, face mask.”
“Should we take a bivvy sack?”
“No—we’ve got to stay as light as possible.”
“Leave the stove, then?”
“Yeah. Keep it light.”
“And no rope ‘cause we ain’t got one.”
We turned off the stove and snuggled in our bags. In the warmth I felt safe, secure, and aware that at that moment Wick was struggling for his survival. I listened to the wind, gusting perhaps to forty knots, and felt the cold air on my face. That survival, I thought, would be marginal.
“What time is it?”
“A little after midnight.”
“We’d better get ready again about one-thirty.”
“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
“What do you think Wick’s chances are?”
“Pretty grim.”
“So do I. I think in the morning we’re as likely to be on rescue mission, or a body detail, as a summit attempt.”
John did not answer. We both lay quiet, listening to the wind, waiting for the hour to pass until we would make preparations. I did not look forward to climbing into the cold blackness.
SEPTEMBER 6 OR 7. SUMMIT PYRAMID, ABRUZZI FINISH. A LITTLE LESS THAN 28,000 FEET. AROUND MIDNIGHT.
I am slipping, slowly, closer to the dropoff. Inch by inch, my bivouac sack slides down the icy slope. I dig in my boot heels, trying to jam them through the thin nylon sack that I am huddled in. I still slide. The wind is blowing hard, it is so cold. I cannot stop the slipping. It must be the empty oxygen bottle in the sack, and the empty stove. They are both empty. I wonder why they are still in there? Why haven’t I thrown them away?
I only wish the stove was still working. I had it going for a while, but the fuel ran out. I thought to bring an extra cartridge, but something happened. I think the rubber O-ring, the gasket, fell off. Something like that. Anyway, the gas all hissed out of the new cartridge when I screwed it down. I threw the thing in the corner of my bag, in disgust. I went easy on my oxygen. Wanted it to last. Took only a few sucks now and then. But there was not much left after using it all the way to the summit. It ran out awhile ago. About 11:00, I think. I’m not sure when, really.
I still have the cylinder in my sack. I wonder why?
I am still slipping. I chopped a platform up higher. I was going to bivouac there. Then the sack started slipping. It still is.
It is so cold. So windy. I am shivering. I cannot control the shivering. I move my hands and feet, my arms and legs, constantly. I must maintain circulation; I must avoid as much frostbite as possible. I must survive.
O.K. You got this far. You made the summit so you must get down. You can’t come this far and not get down. You will survive.
I am still slipping. Wait. Isn’t there a ten-thousand-foot dropoff here? Ten thousand feet. The thought makes me laugh. That is a long way, ten thousand feet.
It is too dark to see. And so cold. When will it end? When will this be over? Every second creeps by.
You had better do something, Wickwire. You might be close to the edge. The edge, Wickwire. You are at the edge.
I must do something. I do not want to get out of this sack. I have to. I pull down the opening, and crawl out. I seem so stiff. The wind is so strong. I am out, and I start pushing the sack back up the hill. It is a long way. Ten feet, then twenty, then thirty. There, I find the platform I chopped earlier. I put the sack back on it.
Now what is to keep me from sliding again? I have an idea. No, under these conditions, it is an inspiration. In one corner of the bivvy sack I take my ice ax and jam it through the fabric, pinning it to the snow. I do the same to the other corner, using my ice hammer. Then back inside the sack to escape the wind. But not the cold. Good thinking, Wickwire. Not bad under these conditions. Now you won’t slide anymore. You do not have to worry about that ten thousand feet.
Now you can concentrate on staying alive until dawn. It will not be easy. You are shaking with no control. The first stage of hypothermia. Your toes no longer have feeling. Keep wiggling though; keep moving them inside your boots. Maybe it will not be as bad, that way. Keep tensing, keep moving, keep circulation going. Survive, Wickwire. You know you can make it until dawn. You have done this kind of thing before. Cold nights in crevasses bivouacking on Mount Rainier.
But this is not Rainier. This is not fourteen thousand feet. This is K2, and this is twenty-eight thousand feet.
But you will survive. You have made the summit. You have gone this far. It is all downhill from here. It is that simple. Keep moving your toes, your fingers. Shift your arms, your legs. Keep the circulation going. The night will end. The sunlight will return. You will survive.
| 11 |
NO CONQUERORS—ONLY SURVIVORS
SEPTEMBER 7. SUMMIT PYRAMID, ABRUZZI FINISH. ABOUT 26,200 FEET. 4:30 A.M.
Hard snow, wind-tortured to small crescents like the surface of the sea frozen, and a sense of time in slow motion. The sound of crampons biting hard snow, squeaking, and the sound of quick, conscious breathing. Dark. Wind. Cold. Extreme cold. The feel of fingers frozen, hard and lifeless, and a momentary fear from the imagery of missing digits. Other imagery, other fears: a companion lost, or worse, near death, and us helpless to save him.
John was ten feet away, and together we climbed, at a slow, even pace, the steepening snowfield above Camp VI, the base of the summit pyramid. It was black and moonless, but in the rarefied atmosphere starlight was sufficient to see above us the major features of the upper mountain: the enormous ice cliffs like ramparts guarding the summit fortress, and below the cliffs, the constricting couloir through the rock band. A ground blizzard blew spindrift over our boots, and studied care was necessary to place each step on the crescent sastrugi that patterned the hard snow surface. I was conscious, in the dark, of the absolute necessity for precise footwork because we had no rope.
Despite the heavy oxygen, the extreme cold, and the altitude—eight thousand meters—I felt strong. We planned to go on oxygen above the couloir, and without it I was surprised at the fast pace we kept. I felt much stronger than I had at the same altitude on Everest two years before, and it confirmed my hope that my difficulties at that altitude had been a result o
f pulmonary congestion and not a physiological limit of the altitude to which my body could adapt. It was our fourth day at eight thousand meters, and our third night with little or no sleep, but nevertheless I felt I had sufficient strength to reach the summit. I also thought there was only a chance we would reach it; it seemed more likely our duty would be to rescue Wick.
Silent speculation on Wick’s chance of survival had overshadowed our preparations. We had started the stove at 1:30, first warming water, then our boots and mittens. We tried to drink as much hot liquid as we could, but it was not possible to hold the warm mug of cocoa—the heat so comforting to cold fingers—without thinking how desperately Wick was in need of that cocoa. Was he still alive? Was he, somehow, to survive the forty-belowzero temperature and the fierce wind that was buffeting our tent? With no sleeping bag or parka we expected to find him that morning, if alive, at least seriously damaged by the ordeal.
At 3:30 we crawled out of the tent, packed the last items in our rucksacks, and left Camp VI.
“Good luck, you guys,” Lou called from the next tent. “I have a feeling Wick will be O.K.”
Lou had felt more confidence than either John or me. He thought that Wick had been mentally prepared for a bivouac, and that even without bag or parka he would be able to see it through without serious injury. Lou thought that perhaps Wick had found a site to dig a snow cave. The night had been so fierce, however, it was hard to share Lou’s optimism.
We immediately set a fast pace as much to warm our bodies as to make quick progress, so that by 4:30 we were several hundred feet above camp. I climbed just a few steps behind John in a zigzagging route up the slope. I was thankful for each switchback because I moved my ice ax (always held uphill) from one hand to the other, that way thawing my fingers frozen from gripping the metal tool. The fingers were still numb, but I felt with enough care—enough moving them inside the mitten, enough flicking my wrists to force blood to the fingertips, enough alternating of the ax between hands—I could prevent frostbite.
Our first rest came at the site of Japanese Camp VI. We sat on our parkas and picked through the refuse preserved in amber ice, and watched dawn over the Karakoram. We were at the same altitude as the summit of Broad Peak, across the valley of the Godwin-Austen Glacier and the closest mountain to the Abruzzi Ridge.
The Last Step Page 35