The Everest Politics Show

by Mark Horrell

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but I’m not so sure. These announcements were all pretty recent. People plan their Everest climb years ahead.’

  It’s a good point. Robert is a wise man, and I respect his opinion on many things.

  At least, I do until lunchtime.

  As we are finishing our dessert we find ourselves having a strange conversation about guns. I say strange, but in America I guess these conversations are normal. Robert and Peter – two highly intelligent people, both of whom own a great many guns – explain to us the details of the Second Amendment and right to bear arms. Their explanation is a little esoteric, and those of us from countries where guns are difficult to get hold of find it quite baffling. We grill them enthusiastically.

  Peter and Robert smile at us benignly, like primary school teachers patiently explaining the ‘ou’ vowel sound to a small child. They remain silent while we amuse ourselves. We come from different cultures, and there’s a gulf in understanding that we’re not going to bridge before the end of the cheesecake (which was delicious). Fortunately, despite their penchant for firearms, Robert and Peter are good-natured people. They take no offence at our jokes, and the conversation moves on.

  Day 14 – Icefall fears

  Wednesday, 16 April 2014 – Everest Base Camp, Nepal

  I decide to make today another lazy one. Last night, Ian and Louis agreed to go up to Kala Pattar today for another acclimatisation hike. It’s quite some distance above Gorak Shep, which means they leave before breakfast. I decline their invitation to accompany them.

  There’s a bit of a breeze at Base Camp and I think it may be windy higher up. I spend the morning doing some laundry, and as the clouds swirl past the peaks around us I’m glad of my decision.

  At breakfast Phil updates us on the 3G and general comms situation.

  ‘My wife Trish spoke to the head honcho at NCell last night. He said he didn’t know we couldn’t get 3G at Base Camp, but that he would look into it.’

  Without 3G I still have no means of blogging. I am starting to accept it will remain the case until I return to Kathmandu after the expedition.

  As I sit outside my tent this morning with a bowl of water, I talk to Edita. She is preparing to go for a walk up to Pumori Base Camp with Margaret.

  ‘You could see if you can get 3G up there,’ I say to her.

  During the trek from Lukla she was more active than any of us in searching for an internet connection.

  ‘You know what, I’ve given up worrying about 3G or NCell,’ she says. ‘And now it feels like I have more freedom.’

  I find myself nodding in agreement. We are here to climb a mountain and enjoy the Himalayas. Worrying about posting messages in order to update people back home is a distraction that mars the experience.

  Only half of the team are in camp at one o’clock, when lunch is due to be served. Phil instructs Da Pasang to bring it anyway. While we are eating he leaves the dining tent to take a phone call. He returns with a big grin on his face.

  ‘That was the head honcho at NCell,’ he says. ‘It looks like we’re going to get 3G after all. He called to apologise that it wasn’t available. He said he’s looking into it.’

  I don’t know precisely what role a ‘head honcho’ has, but it’s hard to believe it’s anyone too senior. NCell is a major national telecoms company, responsible for all the mobile cellular towers in the Khumbu and elsewhere in Nepal. It seems unlikely that the head of the company would phone Phil – who provides only a tiny fraction of their custom – to apologise personally.

  I’m not surprised when we don’t see Ian and Louis for lunch. Ian was keen for me to join them on the walk to Kala Pattar because he said that I ‘set a good pace’. I don’t think he meant walking.

  When we climbed Manaslu together three years ago, Ian made regular visits down to the village of Samagaon for beers in the teahouse. With Gorak Shep and its teahouses conveniently located on the way back from Kala Pattar, I have little doubt what has delayed them. With great confidence I tell everyone that we can expect them back for four o’clock happy hour.

  I’m surprised when I see them appear on the slopes above camp at two o’clock, but when Robert appears behind them I understand why. They had a responsible adult looking after them.

  Later there is some concerning news. For several days our Sherpas have been complaining about the Icefall Doctors – the Sherpa team contracted by the Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee (SPCC) to fix the route through the Khumbu Icefall. Our Sherpas are saying that the Icefall Doctors have not done a very good job, and there are places where the ladders are dangerous.

  Phil has learned that a Sherpa from Russell Brice’s Himex team fell off a ladder today. Although he wasn’t badly hurt, it’s more than just a bad omen. Phil and Dorje talk about accompanying our Sherpa team on their carry through the Icefall tonight, to assess the safety of the route for themselves.

  Until now only Sherpas have been through it. It will be a different matter when clients have to follow. They are much slower and often considerably less experienced. Ice towers can collapse at any time, crevasses can open up, and avalanches can tumble from the mountains on either side. It’s not a place to linger, or bugger around trying to get up a precarious ladder as people wait behind you.

  Day 15 – The Icefall

  Thursday, 17 April 2014 – Everest Base Camp, Nepal

  Phil is still here at breakfast this morning. He didn’t join the Sherpas on their latest carry to Camp 2, to assess the route, but he now has an alternative plan for the Icefall. He suggests we all make a short one- to two-hour foray up into the ice tomorrow to keep us from going stir crazy.

  There’s some logic to this. It sounds like the route will not be ready for a few days, and we’ve been here at Base Camp for several days now without much action. Lethargy is settling in. If we can’t go higher yet, then a brief spell in the Icefall will help to keep us interested.

  It’s cold and windy after breakfast. Instead of joining some of the others for another walk down to Gorak Shep, I decide to go up the valley for my first look at the rest of Everest Base Camp. Our tents are at the bottom end. Since we arrived I’ve been no higher, and I’m keen to get a better sense of what Base Camp is like.

  Our camp – and those of our neighbours, Himex and International Mountain Guides (IMG) – turns out to be in an outlying village. I pass through a grey belt of glacier before reaching the rest of camp.

  Base Camp is long and sprawling. It takes me about forty minutes to walk from one end to the other at my slow, ambling pace. I discover that it’s far from being the shanty town of tents often portrayed. Everywhere I look tents nestle in folds of moraine or perch on ridges, but there is plenty of space for everyone. The area could easily accommodate twice as many tents without difficulty.

  Eventually I reach the camp of a big Indian team at the far end, and find myself staring right up the Icefall between the West Shoulder and Nuptse. I see figures coming down between walls of seracs. It doesn’t look quite so intimidating from here.

  For many years I have dreamed about this place. The Khumbu Icefall is one of Everest’s most famous (and infamous) features. I’ve been to the summit from the north side, but this is the first time I’ve looked up the crumpled heap of broken ice that stretches into the far distance.

  The immensity of this ice sheet, hundreds of metres thick, is difficult to comprehend. Within its folds are crevasses so vast they would swallow an ocean liner many times over. Some of these chasms are hidden by tiny cracks that entirely disappear under newly fallen snow. Rising above them are towers of leaning ice that would dwarf many skyscrapers, ready to topple with a slight movement of the glacier or warming of the sun, and there is no hope of survival if you are passing underneath. A party of climbers roped together would be crushed as easily as ants beneath a hobnailed boot.

  A majestic-looking Khumbu Icefall from Everest Base Camp

  I’m well aware of its fearsome reputation, and the peop
le who have lost their lives within its towering corridors. The first was Jake Breitenbach, a young American climber who was forging a route through the Icefall in 1963. A large section of ice collapsed with a roar. He was roped to two other climbers, who survived the accident with the help of teammates who came to their aid. The rescuers could see no trace of Breitenbach. The rope led down into many tons of giant ice blocks. He must have been killed instantly.

  In the last fifty years there have been thirty more deaths here, either from collapsing ice, avalanches or falls into crevasses. The overwhelming majority of victims have been Sherpas, who spend so much more time exposed to danger as they carry heavy loads up and down the mountain.

  I’m aware of all these things, but I also know there are few places like it anywhere. It can only be seen to be believed. I’m relishing the opportunity to explore further, and looking forward to our little foray tomorrow.

  Day 16 – Tragedy

  Friday, 18 April 2014 – Everest Base Camp, Nepal

  I blink awake at 5.15. It’s light, with only a whisper of wind on the tent, and surprisingly mild. I was expecting to get dressed with freezing fingers, but this isn’t too bad. There is little to indicate that today will be unusual.

  We have breakfast at six o’clock. All twelve clients on our team are up to make our first short foray into the Khumbu Icefall. Phil, Dorje and Ang Gelu are with us, but our other Sherpas are all having a lie-in. They have earned a good rest after carrying more of our equipment up to Camp 2 yesterday.

  Before a climb, I don’t find it easy to eat this early in the morning. I force down a few mouthfuls of toast and push my egg and beans to one side. We leave one by one from 6.30 as we each complete our preparations for departure. I leave on my own and walk through Base Camp to the edge of the glacier, repeating yesterday’s footsteps.

  I walk for about fifteen minutes, absorbed in my thoughts. Getting up and ready is always the hardest part. Once I am moving, any nerves are gone, and I relax into my stride, focusing on my steps.

  ‘Hey, Mark, have you seen that? Look up there!’ I hear Jay cry out behind me.

  Avalanches are common in high mountain environments. They fall throughout the day in inaccessible locations, presenting little danger. If their rumble, similar to the noise of thunder, lasts longer than usual, I sometimes look up to watch, but mostly I ignore them. I rarely reach for my camera to film, like some people do. Usually the moment has passed by the time I am ready, and it’s not worth the effort.

  On this occasion I didn’t even notice another one falling at first, and had it not been for Jay I might even have missed it.

  But no; I soon realise I could not have missed this one.

  I look up into the Khumbu Icefall. An enormous veil of white dust, one of the biggest avalanches I have ever seen, has engulfed the entire breadth from the West Shoulder to Nuptse. It surges like a tsunami on the skyline, at the point where the Icefall disappears into the Western Cwm. It’s so big that we both have plenty of time to reach for our cameras. Jay takes some video footage, and I manage to snap a still shot. Time seems to stand still. It’s a while before the cloud disperses into cracks in the glacier and all is silent again.

  The moment when a gigantic avalanche engulfs the entire breadth of the Khumbu Icefall

  A few thoughts pass through my mind. First there is incredulity. ‘Are we really about to go up into that thing?’ I think to myself.

  But a moment later a sense of relief washes over me. ‘Thank heavens our Sherpas aren’t up there now.’

  This feeling intensifies when I think how late we set off this morning. Yesterday we discussed the possibility of leaving at three o’clock to give us a chance to climb while the ice was hard. None of us relished getting up so early when we were only thinking of doing a short walk, and after some thought we rejected the plan. I feel a sharp sensation in the pit of my stomach. Had we done so, then there is every chance we would have been right up there at the critical moment. That cloud would have swallowed us.

  Over the years I’ve heard many eyewitness accounts from people who have been in the Icefall when an avalanche fell. They all described a moment of panic when they heard it crashing down, but didn’t know where it was coming from. They had just enough time to duck behind the most sheltered ice tower they could find, where they spent a few nervous moments wondering what fate had in store for them. They felt a woof of air, then a light – or sometimes heavy – dusting of snow. Finally there was relief. They survived to tell the story, after all.

  Avalanches in the Icefall don’t have to be fatal; it’s possible to survive them. But this one was so enormous it hardly seems possible…

  I don’t know for how long these thoughts pass through my mind. Rarely in my life have I had to face tragedy. My first instinct is to assume things will be OK, however unlikely that may seem. But I soon realise that there are sure to be Sherpas from other teams up there.

  Jay has been into the Icefall before, when he attempted Everest a few years ago. For the next few minutes we swap stories of risk and danger, refusing to accept what we’ve just seen.

  Up ahead of us, Ian, Robert, Kevin and Louis were walking together when they heard a loud crack. They looked up in time to see a huge section of ice collapse from the West Shoulder. It crashed onto the northern edge of the valley floor, triggering the tidal wave of snow that we watched sweep all the way across to the other side.

  We catch up with them at the bottom of the glacier.

  ‘Did you see that avalanche?’ I ask.

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ Robert says. ‘Man, that’s bad news. There’s people up there.’

  It’s not until Dorje arrives that I realise the scale of the horror that’s about to unfold – that is unfolding as we stand there, looking up into the ice.

  ‘How many Sherpa?’ I ask him, pointing up the Icefall.

  ‘Maybe forty, fifty,’ he replies. His expression is serious, yet otherwise inscrutable.

  He is a veteran of these mountains, and he must have understood the consequences much quicker than I did. Was he shocked by what he saw, or is he too familiar with mountaineering accidents by now? I don’t think about these things, because the figure he has uttered – an underestimate, as it turns out – causes my jaw to drop.

  Forty or fifty Sherpas?

  We can only hope most were above or below when the avalanche swept across. Perhaps they had time to take shelter behind seracs, but I realise this is a forlorn hope. Such a huge quantity of snow came down that it’s hard to believe anyone caught underneath isn’t buried there still.

  Dorje and Ang Gelu head up the Icefall almost immediately. It’s a natural reaction. Both are likely to have close friends somewhere up there.

  Phil radios back to camp to try and rouse more of our Sherpas to come and help. They are having a well-earned rest after their load carry into the Icefall yesterday. But four of them – Pasang Ongchu, Kami, Kusang and Samden – put on their climbing gear and arrive only minutes later.

  Phil goes into the Icefall with them, but the rest of us can only watch – our foray is over, and now we are helpless bystanders. We are not acclimatised. It would take us many hours to get to the avalanche site, and we would only get in the way of any rescue, wheezing up a narrow trail when others need to move quickly along it. It would be like crawling under the feet of firefighters as they rush into a burning building.

  For the next two hours we stand on a little ridge at the foot of the Icefall, watching events unfold above us. Through the zoom lenses of our cameras we can see dozens of tiny dots emerging from the ice. Many figures cluster in a single location on the skyline, close to where the avalanche sped across. We can see smaller clumps of people lower down, descending to camp. All are moving and, as Dorje said, there could easily be forty or fifty of them. It seems a miracle so many have survived.

  A cameraman appears on the ice ridge, part of a team from the Discovery Channel. They are here to film the extreme athlete Joby Ogwyn, who intends to
climb to the summit of Everest and jump off in a wing suit.

  The cameraman asks Edita to explain to camera what she saw this morning. She doesn’t want to, and points him towards me. I have mixed feelings, because I know what a media circus is likely to result from this event, especially if there are fatalities. I agree to do it, but I’m quite shell-shocked, and not very coherent. I hope those few seconds end up on the cutting-room floor.1

  The cameraman brings bad news. He tells us that four Sherpas from their team, Alpine Ascents, are not responding to radio calls. Radios are crackling behind us in Base Camp. We learn that another Sherpa is critically injured.

  One by one we end our vigil and wander back to camp. I leave at nine o’clock, more than two hours after the avalanche.

  The place is busy now. Many people are gathering round the helipads, though the sky is still silent. I wonder why it’s taking them so long. A single helicopter buzzed into the Icefall only a few minutes after the avalanche. I guessed they were assessing the situation, but there have been no choppers since.

  Back at our camp I pack away my climbing gear, get changed, then join the rest of our team. They are all together, clients and Sherpas, watching events unfold from outside the kitchen tent.

  The first helicopters arrive at ten o’clock. To begin with they make some reconnaissance runs, but after a while they land in the Icefall and pick up casualties. Most of the casualties are brought down to the Himalayan Rescue Association medical facility here in Base Camp. One is flown straight out to Lukla.

  Then we watch in shock as a helicopter emerges from the Icefall with a longline swinging beneath it. A figure hangs by its torso at the end of the rope, its face to the sky and four limbs dangling below.