A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (12 page)

As we laughed and joked in the side-street cafes of Kathmandu, our helicopter flight to the small airstrip at Lukla, which marked the beginning of the expedition, seemed a lifetime ahead. In reality, it was only a day or so away.

Late March 1996

The down draught from the colossal 70-ft diameter rotor blades of the Russian-built Mi 17 helicopter blasted dust and small stones in every direction as it came in to land at Lukla. The gathered throng turned their backs to this rushing cloud of debris. They stood as close to the landing helicopter as the officials would allow them and then tried to shuffle closer still. These were local porters: men and women of all ages who gathered for the work brought by expeditions, which provided incomes that had become so important to the poorer inhabitants of this region of Nepal. The labour from such landings was usually handed out to those at the front of the queue. Being at the back could mean missing out on several days’ employment in an area where work can be both scarce and poorly paid.

As soon as the engines stopped, but with the blades of the blue and white Asian Airlines helicopter still turning, the two curved doors that formed the very rear of the aircraft fuselage were flung open, allowing the tons of clearly marked cargo to be unloaded. Porters clambered over bags and barrels that they then either threw or passed down neatly formed lines. Large red gas cylinders, 25-litre plastic containers of cooking oil, trays of eggs stacked 10 deep in purpose-made steel meshed containers, and large 90-lb bags of vegetables that would not be available from the crops grown at these higher elevations: all were lifted clear. Expedition Sherpas carefully watched to make sure nothing was damaged or placed into an incorrect pile.

Soon this apparent chaos moved towards what was evidently an organised and well-rehearsed routine. Nearby, herds of longhaired yaks displaying impressive horns had been waiting in readiness. These sturdy animals, which stand no more than 5 ft high, are very much the Himalayan beast of burden because of their agility, strength and endurance under harsh conditions. Their insulation is so good that after a heavy snowfall they can often be seen with unmelted snow piled several inches thick on their backs and heads.

With little fuss, the huge mounds of supplies and equipment that spread out behind the fuselage were divided into individual and roughly equal loads for each beast. Centrally positioned across the back of each animal was a thick woollen blanket on top of which a small wooden-framed saddle was placed. Ropes and broad straps were employed to firmly secure each load, restraining the side-to-side movement the precious cargo would experience as the yak made its way along the uneven path.

Less than an hour after landing, the Mi 17 stood empty, its massive rotor blades drooping wearily groundwards under their own weight. The load that appeared to have been randomly stacked in its cargo hold was now moving slowly away on a long train of yaks. They faded into the distance as they made their way through the town of Lukla and up the steep valley path that winds its way towards Namche Bazaar.

Following behind was a stream of porters, each carrying an individual load that had been organised with the expedition Sherpas. All were being paid according to the weight they carried. The bigger the load, the more they earned. This system they operate unfortunately encourages porters to carry loads that are far too heavy. The weight of the burden is supported by a broad and tightly woven strap placed across the front of the head. Short ropes are attached to this and pass behind to their upper backs where the load is placed. As they bend forward, some of the weight falls directly onto their back. The neck muscles and spine take the rest of the strain.

The strength and stamina they displayed was humbling. They are a proud people and this was wonderful to see, but we knew they were carrying far too much. Should we have interfered with a system that existed long before expeditions came here? I don’t know the answer.

The long trail of yaks and porters disappearing into the distance carried the equipment and supplies we would not see for another ten days, until we reached Everest Base Camp. Placed on the lateral moraine of the Khumbu Glacier at 17,000 feet above sea level, it is some 7,000 feet higher than Lukla. In the intervening time, we had to gain altitude slowly, allowing our bodies to adjust to the considerable change in elevation and thinning air. This process is essential. If rushed, it can give rise not only to dehydration and severe headaches but also to the life-threatening complications of high-altitude pulmonary and cerebral oedemas. In the case of pulmonary oedema, the lungs fill up as fluid leaches into them. Severe shortness of breath while resting, gurgling sounds from the lungs and blood in the sputum are some of the recognised symptoms. If the sufferer is not quickly removed to a lower altitude they can drown in their own bodily fluids. With cerebral oedema, the layers surrounding the brain swell up as fluid builds up in this area, causing confusion and severe mental impairment. This can rapidly lead to the person’s death if lower elevations are not reached without delay. Both sets of symptoms can fade as quickly as they appear, provided prompt action is taken. Neither must ever be ignored.

No matter if we were here to climb Everest or just go trekking in the foothills, everyone has to adhere to the acclimatisation process. The recognised method is a slow and steady pace combined with drinking plenty of water, up to five litres a day.

With that approach in mind, we collected our rucksacks from beside the helicopter and walked the hundred yards across the landing area to the aptly named Paradise Lodge: a large stone building situated just down from the fifteen-foot-by-fifteen-foot, two-storey ‘airport control tower’.

The lodge’s veranda overlooked the 100-yd-square ‘airport’ area where the aircraft were both boarded and alighted. To our left rose a near-vertical cliff face, above which towered a daunting mountain many thousands of feet high. The upper reaches were still clad in winter snow. It was only one of the numerous Himalayan summits we had glimpsed through the small round Perspex windows on the Mi 17 as it came in to land. To our right, the dirt runway, one of the steepest in the world, disappeared down the mountainside at an angle of approximately 15 degrees. It came to an abrupt end at a vertical drop-off. Far below, at the bottom of the steeply sided V-shaped valley, lay the Dudh Kosi river, its raging torrents winding their way past the dark-green conifers that clung tightly to the bases of the imposing mountains.

It was from our comfortably seated vantage point that we enjoyed an early lunch from a surprisingly extensive menu, while pondering over a number of aircraft fuselages that littered the side of the runway after less-than-successful landings. The names of their operators were painted out so as not to deter potential passengers with the negative advertising this wreckage provided. Their current use was as wood stores.

Far away from the chaos and dust of Kathmandu, this was an ideal place to unwind and my first real opportunity to begin to get to know the climbers with whom I’d be spending the next two months. A few I already knew and had climbed with before.

Henry had brought the team together as a commercial expedition. He’d selected applicants based on their previous climbing experience and how he felt they would fit into the team. There were no guides. Each climber paid for his or her place. The team, apart from myself at the age of 41, consisted of:

After lunch, our climbers shouldered their modestly weighted rucksacks and set off from the Paradise Lodge at their chosen pace.

The broad stone-flagged pavement of Lukla’s main thoroughfare was lined with moneychangers and shops selling an array of goods from souvenirs to trekking equipment. They were there to service the many thousands that pass through this gateway to the Everest region each year. Brightly coloured signs advertising lodges, porter and guiding services were fastened to the outer walls of the older and more permanent stone buildings that bordered this route. Two small wooden bridges in the middle of town spanned fast-flowing and unpredictable streams draining from the hillside above.

In less than a quarter of a mile, the town petered out. Marking the edge of the settlement, a white stupa bearing copper prayer wheels straddled the route. Beyond, a well-trodden dirt path had been muddied by the spring melt. Shadowing the course of the Dudh Kosi from high above, it passes through prolific vegetation before gradually winding its way down to the valley floor. Here, tall conifers, clinging to the rocky sides, filled the warm air with the fragrance of their exuded resins.

We crossed and re-crossed the wide river gorge and its many narrow tributaries over cable-slung bridges suspending wooden-planked walkways that had over the years been patched and re-patched. Each repair indicated the spot where the leg of the occasional yak or porter had plunged through. The cables themselves were adorned with coloured prayer flags that flapped timelessly in the mountain breeze.

The longest of these rickety bridges spanned 250 to 300 feet across. Here it was often necessary to pause for ‘traffic’ coming in the opposite direction, usually in the form of yaks and their attendant herders. Taking on the role of heavy commercial transport, they supplied the villages and tourist lodges of the region. Porters generally took on the lighter, or in some cases more awkward, loads, such as sheets of 8-ft by 4-ft plywood or the occasional 6-ft tall fridge-freezer.

These narrow mountain paths and river crossings were the nearest thing to a road system it was possible to have without adversely impacting on the dramatic environment – and it was all the people of the area could afford. Sturdy ankles were a distinct advantage as we made our way along the ever-changing surface.

To the Nepalese villagers, walking was the accepted way of travel. Distances were measured in hours and days rather than miles, which have no real meaning in such terrain. A man riding a horse was a rare sight indeed.

Where it had been possible to cultivate modest areas, villages had become established. Potatoes and barley appeared to be the staple crops. These, along with livestock, provided the mainstay of the area’s economy. That was until tourism in the form of climbing and trekking had come along. These brought with them the opportunity of a life with rather less hardship and the possibility of a more formal education for their children, who otherwise would have been compelled from an early age to help the family scrape a meagre living from this harsh environment. However, these new opportunities came at a price: one being the loss of isolation that had to a certain degree protected their Buddhist values and culture. The other was the significant risks the Sherpas would undertake in these new endeavours.

After a four-hour walk, I arrived at a simple stone-built lodge called ‘Toktok’. With a green corrugated metal roof, it stands alone about half an hour past the riverside village of Phakding. This building, precariously positioned high on the slope that rises precipitously from the river’s edge, was where we’d arranged to spend the night. It was by now late afternoon. The open wood-burning fire used to cook the food I ordered produced copious amounts of acrid smoke that struggled to find its way up the primitive chimney. Even though my eyes stung painfully, the warmth from the fire felt welcoming as the daylight faded. My bed for the night, the sleeping bag and thin foam pad I carried, unrolled onto a wooden-boarded frame that did little to aid my slumber.