A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (16 page)

One by one, the expedition leaders made their introduction, until it came to my turn. I briefly explained that I was standing in at the meeting for Henry Todd and that the nature of his expedition was commercial.

Looking slightly confused, Rob interrupted. ‘I know you?’ he said, his statement quite clearly quizzical.

He knew we’d met before but couldn’t remember where or when. I jolted his memory. I’d trekked up to Everest Base Camp on the Nepalese side the previous year, for acclimatisation before travelling into Tibet to make my attempt with Henry from the north. At the time, Base Camp had been devoid of climbers, apart from Rob and a few others who were making preparations for their clients’ arrival. He’d very kindly offered me refreshments, and I’d spent an hour or two talking with him, finding him excellent company. His parting words that year had been: ‘Pass my regards on to Henry.’

Although I didn’t mention it at this impromptu meeting in the Imax tent, I also recalled asking Rob in 1995 if he’d considered running expeditions elsewhere, such as Aconcagua in South America. His reply had been ‘I wouldn’t get out of bed for $2,500’, which was the approximate cost of joining a commercial expedition on Aconcagua at that time. I’d laughed at his reply. He clearly knew his worth and had set his sights accordingly.

With a smile, Rob acknowledged our previous meeting and his own visual recall. ‘I thought so,’ he said.

Once the introductions were complete, an explanation was given by those from the Imax team as to the reason for the meeting. Crampons, purposefully left at the bottom of the Icefall, had been stolen. The culprit was most probably another climber or Sherpa, and, although unlikely, a trekker coming into Base Camp could not be ruled out. It was stated in no uncertain terms that this was not acceptable; that anyone caught stealing equipment would be immediately reported to the authorities. Theft such as this could place climbers or Sherpas in danger, especially if it happened higher on the mountain. This had to stop here and now. The warning was absolutely clear.

Rob followed, using this opportunity to assume a position of authority. He touched on the issue of expeditions not clearing up properly when they’d finished. Waste should be taken away from Base Camp and disposed of in the correct manner. He was looking towards sustaining his expeditions in the coming years without having to observe an ever-growing rubbish tip around Base Camp.

The humiliation to the climbing world of the media highlighting the expanse of the South Col littered with oxygen cylinders, broken tents, tin cans, gas cylinders and other refuse was not lost on Rob. The public’s attention had been further focused by reports of frozen corpses lying amongst this thoughtlessly discarded debris. Full-colour photographs had been spread across the entire centre pages of national newspapers. This was an embarrassment for all mountaineers, from which no climbing generation on Everest could escape.

Rob had already joined a scheme to make headway into this high-altitude rubbish dump, paying the Sherpas a bonus for every empty oxygen cylinder they brought down from the South Col. The reward was in the region of $20 to $30 for each one. Sherpas descending carrying rucksacks bulging with up to five old cylinders at a time would turn out to be a common sight. These extra bonuses could significantly increase their pay.

In 1994, the Sagamartha Environmental Expedition, led by Scott Fischer, had begun this clean-up operation by offering the Sherpas a similar bonus. Others had continued to embrace this successful scheme during the intervening period.

With regard to the current year, Rob was making full use of the respect and status he’d earned from his operations on Everest. He announced his intentions towards offenders trying to depart Base Camp at the conclusion of their expedition without clearing up. He was not trying to make friends, just to influence people. His message was clear in its intent. If any expedition left their Base Camp area in a mess, he would photograph that area and supply the Nepalese authorities with both the photographs and full details of those concerned. This was quite clearly not an idle threat and neither was it an unreasonable one. Rob found debris left in such a manner distasteful, and he had a considerable vested interest in improving the current situation.

Warnings had been given on both thefts and clearing up. Lines had been firmly drawn. The meeting ended in an air of apparent control and committed endeavour. As far as I am aware, this turned out to be the only theft that spring season. At a later date, I would be informed that the missing crampons had in fact belonged to David Breashears, Ed Viesturs and Robert Schauer from the Imax team.

Kami, sitting beside me throughout these proceedings, had not said a word. Without doubt he’d absorbed all that had been said, assimilating the extra responsibilities this might place on him as Sirdar of our expedition. In truth, little if anything needed to change, as he oversaw the expedition in a thoughtful and responsible manner. However, I felt such a forthright meeting had left Kami and the other Sirdars slightly uneasy due to its formal nature. I was glad I’d attended with Kami in Henry’s absence. It would have been unfair and intimidating for him to be the sole representative of our expedition.

A short time after the meeting, I bumped into Rob. With a smile beaming through his thick beard, he opened the conversation: ‘So, you didn’t summit from Tibet last year?’

My reply took him by surprise: ‘17 May.’

Rob, rather puzzled by my response, asked, ‘What are you doing back this year?’

I explained that no British climber had summited Everest from both north and south sides, from both Nepal and Tibet. That’s why I was back.

Rob smiled, pondered for a moment or two, then looked at me with a glint in his eye and said, ‘No Kiwi has ever done that.’

Maybe I’d planted a seed.

10 April 1996

Within our expedition, climbing partnerships were beginning to form. Thomas and Tina were unquestionably a team of their own. Paul and Neil were friends at home and had arranged to climb together. Michael Jörgensen, like me, was attempting Everest from the south after his successful ascent from the north the previous year. The two of us, along with Brigitte, were given a long leash. Henry allowed us to choose our individual climbing schedules during the acclimatisation period, provided we agreed this in advance. However, it was apparent at certain stages in the climb that Henry wanted me to keep an eye on Mark Pfetzer, mainly because of his age. I wasn’t sure how Ray would fit in, but no doubt at various stages during the expedition he would tag along with other members of our group.

Most of the movement in the Icefall appeared to take place in the early hours, usually between 2 and 4 a.m., as the ice contracted. Each night, lying in the dark solitude of my tent, I would hear sharp cracking sounds often followed by deep rumblings as the ice scraped over the bedrock far below, or the thunder of an occasional avalanche as it cascaded down onto the Icefall from the West Ridge of Everest or Nuptse, which flanked it on either side. None of these sounds filled me with much confidence.

The norm for our group was to depart from Base Camp at around 5.30 a.m. to climb through this frozen labyrinth to Camp 1, which lay just beyond, at the beginning of the Western Cwm. This would be a journey that would take somewhere between one hour thirty minutes and four hours, depending on an individual climber’s ability and stamina once he or she was acclimatised.

Like many, my preference was to make my way through as quickly as possible, following the example of the Sherpas. The theory being: the longer you took, the greater the chance that something could happen. This was best described to me by Henry as a game of Russian roulette.

My first climb through the Icefall to Camp 1 was to be made alone. I remember lying in my tent the night before, trying not to think about the possible dangers ahead. The problem was, each time I calmed my apprehension, there came, like some sadistic reminder, another unnerving and resonating crack as the ice moved once more. I was grateful to be rescued from my fitful sleep by the alarm on my watch.

Half an hour later, I was standing alone at the bottom of the Icefall, in the cold pre-dawn light. Embedded in the snow next to me was a single marker wand that indicated the beginning of the route. My breathing was rapid. Each time I exhaled, the moisture in my warm breath billowed in the frigid air. Perspiration from the effort to walk the short distance from my tent had already caused a damp sensation in the deepest layer of my clothing.

The noise of the ice moving had ceased, replaced by an eerie lack of sound. It was as though this maze, through which I would gain 2,500 feet in altitude, was welcoming in another potential and unsuspecting victim. The quietness seeming to say,
Enter if you dare
.

After clipping onto the fixed rope, I began to climb. The noise of my crampons broke through the silence as they bit rhythmically into the brittle ice. Nerves were soon overcome by the pounding of my heart, the gasping for each breath, as my body tried to extract the meagre oxygen from the depleted air. Each inhalation, which contained half the oxygen of sea level, struggled to supply my muscles with the required amount.

I took no breaks but continued on at a steady pace. Each time I turned a corner or reached the top of another house-sized sérac, I was welcomed by one breathtaking sight after another. The unparalleled splendour occupied my mind. Curtains of crystal-clear icicles hung along the edges of tilting séracs that appeared in infinite shades of blue.

Aluminium ladders that had been laid flat and lashed together with rope spanned the crevasses. Stepping onto the first of these, the clash of my steel crampons against the metal rungs gave an indication of their makeshift nature. Each awkward step tested the flexibility of my ankles. Sheer sides of ever-darkening blue ice drew my eyes into the forbidding bowels. The tenebrous chasm disappeared into obscurity, its furthest reaches hidden by the blackness of this hellish slot. A fall un-roped into such a place would leave a climber completely out of sight, wedged in the narrowest of confines hundreds of feet below, prey to a slow and very cold death; yet all I could see was beguiling splendour.

In places where it was not possible to circumnavigate the séracs, ladders lashed together in a similar fashion had been fastened upright against faces of pale sapphire ice. Debris fields usually preceded these vertical sections, formed where one or more séracs, weighing hundreds of tons, had toppled over and splintered into countless shards. The soaring daytime temperatures, augmented by reflection off the brilliant surface, had sculpted these varying-sized pieces into innumerable three-dimensional shapes. Translucent icicles hung down from these forms; hollows and apertures had melted within them. These were masterpieces that would have enhanced the finest of galleries. More recent sérac falls appeared glass-like, the pieces sharp and angular.

The route, indicated by a single line of rope, also threaded its way through narrow passages. On either side, soaring ice tilted menacingly overhead; the variations in its shade and clarity gave me the sensation of being in a mystical realm of ice through which I had to pass. However, the Icefall was a place that in the blink of an eye could crush or swallow a passing Sherpa or climber. Many had been lost over the years. No one knew when or whereabouts on the route it would happen again. It was just down to a matter of time and a stroke of bad luck.

I arrived at Camp 1 around 8.30 a.m., minutes before the rays of the sun touched the entrance to the Western Cwm. Here, I would spend the day by myself. Others from our expedition, mostly climbing in pairs, were due up in the next few days. For the moment, they were patiently waiting their turn.

I was by myself ‘in person’ but surprisingly not alone. For part of the time I had a small Himalayan visitor. This unexpected but welcome addition came in the form of a bird slightly larger than a sparrow: a small creature that had quickly realised I could supply a free lunch in this harsh environment. The share of the meal I provided was in proportion to our relative size and was consumed over several visits from my avian companion.

My sleep at Camp 1 was restless, interrupted by a mild headache that was typical of the first night spent at a higher altitude. As the wind gusting down the Western Cwm buffeted the tent, the warmth of my sleeping bag brought security. Outside, I could hear the familiar sounds of moving ice and small avalanches as they fell from the steep faces on either side. The noises seemed perilously close.

The reassuring light of dawn penetrated my frozen tent around 5 a.m. My first halt at Camp 1, at around 20,000 feet, had been served. It was one of two overnight stays I would make here. On all but the next climb through the Icefall, I would progress directly up the Western Cwm to Camp 2, some two miles further on and 1,000 feet higher in elevation.

I emerged from my tent to a clear blue sky without a breath of wind. High above, the snow-clad summits dazzled intensely in the sunshine. However, the thought firmly imprinted on my mind was of the comparative luxury of Base Camp. A hot breakfast followed by a morning relaxing in my tent listening to music beckoned far below.

The climb back down through the Icefall was much quicker and easier than my ascent just 24 hours earlier. It took little more than 40 minutes. The reward was Base Camp, with its daytime temperatures that reached 25˚C and where the strong sunlight burnt harshly as its ultraviolet radiation penetrated the thin air.

The time spent at Base Camp was to make up a significant proportion of the expedition. It was important for rest and recuperation between climbs up the mountain and for the opportunity it gave individuals to focus on the task ahead. Ninety per cent of the climb is in the mind. I had, on previous expeditions, sat at Base Camp and watched people convince themselves they weren’t going to reach the summit or find some pressing reason they’d just thought of that necessitated their leaving for home. I have even heard of people deliberately injuring themselves with an ice axe rather than admit either their fear or fear of failure. I can only conclude that to some the romantic notion of climbing Everest disappears when faced with the stark reality of the undertaking.