A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (18 page)

I’d been fortunate enough to visit Anatoli’s home city and the Tien Shan four years earlier. I’d spent nearly a whole month there. As luck would have it, I’d passed some of that time both climbing and socialising with another highly respected Russian climber and good friend of Anatoli’s, Valeri Khrishchaty. Valeri was a mild-mannered and modest man who’d reminded me very much of my father. From his medium height, build and self-deprecating character, most would have pinned him as a nine-to-five office worker rather than a climber at the cutting edge of high-altitude mountaineering – one who had abandoned a summit attempt, above the Pinnacles, on the then unclimbed North East Ridge of Everest to rescue an ailing climber from another expedition attempting the mountain by a different route. This was an act of heroism that had denied Valeri and his team the first ascent of this highly coveted prize – one that was taken by a very well-equipped Japanese team with a million-dollar expedition budget on 11 May 1995: a milestone in the history of Everest that I’d witnessed from the north side’s Advanced Base Camp.

Two years prior to this Japanese conquest, Valeri had tragically been swept to his death by an avalanche while making an ascent of the second-highest peak in the Tien Shan range, Khan Tengri: the same mountain on which I’d first met him.

Anatoli related the story to me of how he’d been chosen for Russia’s national climbing team. In 1989, they set out to make the first traverse of Kangchenjunga’s four summits, the length of which stands at well over 26,000 feet above sea level. Valeri Khrishchaty had been part of that successful team.

Anatoli had been asked to attend mountaineering training camps from which the national team would be selected. Endurance tests were set whereby the climbers were dispatched from a given height at the same time, to see who would get to the top of a particular mountain first. They began in Pamirs. On the 24,600-ft Peak Communism of Tajikistan, the first one to summit was Anatoli. The competition then moved to the Caucasus Mountains, where they tackled the 18,500-ft Mount Elbrus. Anatoli was first again. The prestige of being named on the national team was so important that complaints soon flew around; he was accused of gaining advantage by using lightweight felt boots. In the interest of fairness, and to avoid future criticism, the selectors set the Elbrus challenge once more. Happy their objection had been accepted as valid, his opponents managed to find a heavy pair of old and rather rigid climbing boots for him to wear. Anatoli, much to his complainants’ consternation, was first to the top yet again, firmly securing his place on the national team.

The very personal conversation between Anatoli and myself illustrated the passion he undoubtedly felt for the former USSR and for his adopted home of Kazakhstan following the break-up of the Soviet Union. He was working on Everest, but such agreeable discussions with someone who’d visited his homeland came as a welcome distraction to him. And so we wiled away the time in the warm midday sun before he eventually decided to head back down to Base Camp.

As Anatoli disappeared into the distance, I set about fixing myself a tent. I was the lone occupant in the entire expanse of Camp 2. Everyone else was a few miles away and 3,300 feet lower down. I enjoyed that day immensely. Sitting on a large flat rock on which I’d placed a foam mat, I dreamt away the remaining hours of daylight, immersing myself in the isolation of my Himalayan surroundings. I watched as the sun sank low in the western sky, silhouetting the snow-capped dome of Pumori’s summit, which appeared to radiate the rays of light it had interrupted. Far below in the shadows, Base Camp’s daylight hours had already come to an end. In the Western Cwm, over 3,000 feet higher, I sat in solitary contentment, bathed in the last rays of a fading sun. The evening clouds rising up the Western Cwm brought with them the sharp cold air of a bitter night. The sudden drop in temperature soon had me scuttling into the depths of my recently erected accommodation.

My sleep was shallow and restless. I sat up at regular intervals to drink from the bottle I’d placed deep in my sleeping bag to keep its contents both liquid and warm. Dehydration is both rapid and severe at these high altitudes. Passing through a night without drinking up to a litre of water brings with it a pounding headache by dawn. Any slight consequential inconvenience of this necessary intake of fluid is far outweighed by the dividends of comfort and acclimatisation.

Shortly after dawn, I emerged from my sleeping bag into the uninviting chill of the morning air. It was 6.30 a.m. After rapidly dressing, I packed my rucksack and made a quick departure down the Western Cwm. No time for breakfast here. There was a far more comfortable and appetising meal waiting for me at Base Camp two hours away. The crunching of my crampons on the hard frozen surface and the clanking of the jumar and karabiners against my climbing harness sounded the eagerness with which I departed.

My return to Base Camp held the reward of hot apple pancakes followed by a chapati with a fried egg on top, which had been skilfully destroyed by our ever-smiling and diminutive cook, Pasang. It also brought a number of questions from my fellow climbers. Although at least six of us had previously attempted Everest from the Tibetan side, none except for myself, on my most recent trip up the mountain, had ventured up the Western Cwm. I described in no great detail the obstacles encountered, the nature of the route and the position of Camp 2. Then the specific question concerning crevasses was raised. I explained there were a few spanned by the familiar ladders, with other sections of potentially dangerous ground fixed with rope, elaborating on how the final crossing over an ice field to Camp 2 was unfixed and appeared safe. As a throwaway line, I joked about how the pitch of the sound made by my crampons changed as they dug into the ice, becoming higher as I crossed over crevasses hidden beneath my feet.

It was during afternoon tea, around 4 p.m., that Henry burst angrily into the mess tent. Looking at me, he demanded, ‘What the bloody hell have you been saying to Thomas and Tina?’

I sat upright. Almost totally lost for words, I managed, ‘Pardon?’

Henry, who was seething, responded, ‘I don’t know what you’ve said, but they are insisting on going up the Western Cwm roped to each other. They say if they “go”, they want to “go” together.’

There was an instantaneous roar of laughter from everyone in the tent, one that cleared the air somewhat. From this reaction, Henry suspected there had been an overreaction to something I’d said. Thomas and Tina were not present.

I explained the description I’d given of the changes in sound my crampons made as they dug into the ice. It was an undeniable fact and something everyone would hear, although admittedly not all might notice, as they crossed the Western Cwm.

Henry, with a look of exasperation, rolled his eyes upwards, saying, ‘Please don’t say anything to them. I’ve got to deal with this nonsense.’

I looked at Henry. ‘No problem,’ I replied.

Within a matter of days, Camp 2 was established with a cook/mess tent, affording me the opportunity to make my second overnight stay there in relatively more comfort. On this occasion, an event took place during my return to Base Camp that would lead to my only, albeit brief, contact with Scott Fischer – apart, that is, from the formal leaders’ meeting that had already taken place.

Abseiling over the lip of the Khumbu Icefall, I entered the labyrinth once more. Ten minutes into my descent, I came across two climbers moving slowly: a man aged around 30 was assisting an American climber named Charlotte Fox, from Scott’s team. Although she appeared uninjured, she seemed distressed. I stopped to offer my assistance only to be informed by the climber aiding her that he’d got the situation under control. He did, however, ask me to head down and find Scott, to let him know of the situation, so that some of Scott’s team could come up and take over. Charlotte looked frightened, not of the climbing but of the condition she was convinced she had.

‘Tell Scott that Charlotte’s in the Icefall. Tell him I’ve got pulmonary oedema,’ she pleaded as I climbed down, leaving the pair to their slow descent.

Her breathing had seemed rapid, her speech laboured. This struck me as possibly a slight panic attack exacerbating the problem she already had, but that was not for to me to decide.

Reaching Base Camp some 25 minutes later, I located Scott in his ‘Starbucks’ tent. Sitting with a colleague in deep conversation, they were enjoying a cup of strong coffee. This was the first time that I’d met Scott Fischer properly. A man in his 30s, his blond hair tied back in a ponytail, he oozed both charm and self-confidence. I briefly explained the circumstances and Charlotte’s approximate location.

Making a quick assessment of the situation, Scott took a sip from his half-finished coffee. ‘How did she look to you?’ he asked.

I told him it did not appear too serious, although Charlotte was distressed and looked frightened.

Sitting back in his chair with his decision made, he announced, ‘OK, we’ll have another coffee then I suppose we’d better go and get her.’ With a smile of appreciation, he looked across at me and said, ‘Thanks for your help, mate.’

A quick nod and I left.

Base Camp’s relative silence was broken again around 20 April by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Another rescue had taken place: that of Eamon Fullen from Mal Duff’s team, otherwise known as ‘Ginge’ Fullen. Aged 29, and a serving Royal Navy diver, he’d suffered a heart attack near the top of the Icefall. Enduring severe chest pains, he had been put on oxygen and heroically brought down over this treacherous ground by his Royal Air Force teammate Euan Duncan. After being given emergency treatment by doctors at Base Camp, he was being evacuated back to Kathmandu, where he was to be admitted into intensive care.

However, Ginge Fullen was no stranger to setbacks. He’d taken up climbing six years earlier when a broken neck had finished his rugby-playing career. Against all expectations, Ginge fought his way back from this heart attack to resume his career as a Navy diver. He also went on to become the first person to climb the highest mountain in all 47 European countries, followed by those in all 53 African countries. Currently, he is well under way on the mammoth undertaking of climbing the highest summit in every country in the world, of which there are 194. Everest is still on the list of those he has yet to climb.

The sound of this second helicopter skimming several feet above the Khumbu Glacier with its stricken passenger on board cautioned of the dangers that lay ahead. Such incidents brought an air of unease to Base Camp. Climbing at any serious high altitude had not begun, yet two people had already been evacuated to hospital.

Within a few days of this latest incident came a third. One of Scott Fischer’s Sherpas, Ngawang Topche, was struck down with a serious and life-threatening case of pulmonary oedema. Unfortunately, once they got him back to Base Camp, it was decided, for whatever reason, to aid his recovery by moving him to lower altitudes further down the valley rather than ordering an immediate helicopter evacuation: a decision that may have cost him his life. Ngawang was eventually airlifted out of the village of Pheriche several days later. He did not recover; by early June he lay dead in a Kathmandu hospital.

Anatoli’s visits to our Base Camp diminished around this time, to the point we hardly saw him at all. Scott, who was reputedly paying Anatoli $25,000 for his services, was complaining that as a guide he was not spending enough time attending to the needs of the team’s high-paying clients. In truth, the decline in Anatoli’s visits to our camp was because the main reason for them had departed. Linda and Jake had left and were heading back to Kathmandu as planned. As a result, Anatoli now focused his attention on the task ahead.

Towards the latter part of April came my fourth, and last, acclimatisation run through the Khumbu Icefall.

It was probably because I was the oldest of our climbing team, with teenagers of my own, that Henry asked if I would take Mark Pfetzer up to spend one night at Camp 3: the final piece in the jigsaw of our acclimatisation before summit attempts. At 24,000 feet, Camp 3 was placed on some small ledges, only slightly larger than the tents themselves, hacked out of the ice halfway up the Lhotse Face.

Leaving Camp 2 after an early breakfast, Mark and I made our way over the gently rising ground that typifies the upper section of the Western Cwm. The crevasses and other potentially dangerous sections had already been fixed with ropes, as had the much steeper Lhotse Face, as far as Camp 3.

As the sun rose over the top of Lhotse’s jagged summit ridge, its dazzling rays burst into the Western Cwm. Within minutes, the sunlight was visibly, and on this occasion depressingly, chasing the shadows faster than I could have run at sea level. The last remnants of the previous night in which we stood were rapidly disappearing. The line delineating the limit of the gloominess, which ran north to south across the Western Cwm, came rushing towards us. There was no escape. Soon we were bathed in intense and highly reflected sunlight, whose instantaneous heat began to drain our reserves of strength. Our pace slowed as this extra burden seemed to force our crampons deeper into the névé. The lifting of each foot to take the next step now appeared to take a more concentrated effort. Slowly, we plodded on.

Within two hours of leaving Camp 2, Mark and I were circumnavigating the right-hand end of the Bergschrund (a geological term referring to a large crack or crevasse where the glacier is pulling away from the mountain). This we did by ascending a tricky 30-ft section of near-vertical ice. Once this was overcome, we gained access to the Lhotse Face proper: a massive rippled sheet of scalloped pale-blue ice that rose menacingly above us for several thousand feet at an angle of 40 degrees. Jutting through this daunting obstacle was the occasional outcrop of shattered rock, whose eroded remains provided the sporadic rockfalls that were a known danger of the ground that lay ahead. Camp 3 from this point was out of sight.