A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (20 page)

Night fell on the still air of the Western Cwm. High above we could hear the roaring of the wind as it was funnelled through the narrowing of the South Col that lies between Everest and Lhotse: a portent of what was to come.

On the morning of 9 May, we rose to a continuing calm within the Western Cwm. Our breakfast here would possibly be the last appetising meal we would have until our planned return here on 12 May. Our task that day was to make our way up to Camp 3 in a reasonable time without burning unnecessary energy reserves. Our leisurely breakfast was matched by the controlled calmness with which we left camp. Paul Deegan, Mark Pfetzer and I set off together.

As we made our way to the head of the Western Cwm, I had my first strong feeling that something was very wrong. Both my instincts and my eyes gave me the same message. Looking high above, I could see a long wind plume from the South Summit that clung tightly to almost two-thirds of the way down the South East Ridge, towards Camp 4 on the South Col. My eyes darted between these unsettled conditions and the specks departing from Camp 3. Rob’s and Scott’s teams were heading up to position themselves for their summit attempt that night. Surely, I thought, Rob and Scott could see what I could? Up was not the direction we should be heading. The weather was just not stable enough. Weren’t they putting their clients at too much risk? There was still plenty of time to leave it a few days and try again later. From where I stood, this looked like utter madness.

I called to Paul, who was nearby, pointing out to him the weather high up. Paul, like me, was concerned at what he saw. We presumed that Rob and Scott thought the weather was going to settle in a matter of hours, especially given the teams they had. Everest is climbed in periods of calm weather. And this was certainly not what we could see.

I listened to my instincts and radioed Henry. From his position lower down, he was unable to see the plume spanning down the ridge: the wind we’d heard howling high above throughout the night before.

‘Henry,’ I said, ‘we are at the top of the Western Cwm and we’re looking up to an enormous plume from the South Summit. The weather doesn’t look good from where we are. Do you really want us to head up?’

There was a slight pause before the reply crackled back over the radio.

‘Keep going,’ was Henry’s reply.

I queried again, ‘Are you sure you want us to head up?’

The answer came back more quickly this time.

‘Just keep going,’ was Henry’s firm reply.

I looked at Paul and then Mark, who had by now joined us to see what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders. This decision put us in no immediate danger, so compliance was not a problem. The firmness of Henry’s reply left us in no doubt that he was following Rob’s and Scott’s lead. Presumably he thought that they had good reason to expect the weather to change into a more settled period, and soon.

Paul, Mark and I slowly separated as we each chose our rate of ascent up the Lhotse Face. As I climbed towards Camp 3, my eyes alternated between the effects of the wind high on Everest and the two guided groups who were by now climbing towards the Yellow Band: a distinctive layer of pale yellow-brown metamorphosed sedimentary limestone deposited many millions of years ago in some ancient sea. I was expecting them at any moment to about-turn and head down. Their progress continued up. Crossing the Yellow Band, they moved slowly towards the long, dark outcrop of the Geneva Spur, the gateway to the South Col. This would be the last time I would see their complete teams.

Nearing camp, I saw three people, in close proximity to one another, coming down the fixed ropes. As they got closer, I could see it was a Taiwanese climber being escorted by two Sherpas. When the moment came for them to pass by me, I clipped in to the rope above the three of them so they could continue their descent. It was at this point that I saw the tortured face of the Taiwanese climber, Chen Yu Nan, a 36-year-old steelworker from Taipei. His eyes pleaded in desperation; he looked frightened and bewildered, almost childlike. He tore his hand away from one of the Sherpas and grasped at my forearm, trying to take hold for reassurance that somehow everything would be all right. I reciprocated by holding out my arm to him, unsure of what he expected I might be able to do. I asked the two Sherpas if they could manage. Their response was positive. Given the closeness of their attendance as the three had come down the fixed rope, the indication was that they had the situation under control. Chen Yu Nan, apart from the distress he was in and his slightly shaky legs, seemed, in his outward appearance, to be uninjured. I tried to reassure him, in a language he did not fully understand, that he was in safe hands and would soon be back in Camp 2. As the Sherpas tried to continue down, Chen Yu Nan held on to my arm tightly. Like a child being dragged away from security, he was trying his utmost not to let go. His eyes pleaded to me as my arm slipped out of his grasp. As they started to move down, his own arm remained outstretched, his stare still focused on me, hoping beyond hope that I might be able to take away his fear. There was nothing I could do over and above that already being done by his attendant Sherpas. Sadly, Chen Yu Nan, probably little more than an hour after we parted company, fell unconscious and died shortly thereafter.

All seven climbers from our team had arrived at Camp 3 by late afternoon. The priority was to keep brewing drinks to remain hydrated. Drinking too much fluid was almost impossible at this altitude. The stoves melted ice slowly while the dry air sucked moisture from every breath. The conversation in the tent I was sharing was of the radio call I’d made to Henry concerning the weather high on Everest. There was a nervous apprehension of what might lie ahead.

During our scheduled evening radio call with Henry, we learnt the sad news of Chen Yu Nan’s death. He’d received internal injuries by going out of his tent at Camp 3 to relieve himself without taking the normal precaution of wearing crampons. Consequently he’d slipped and fallen some way into a crevasse from which the Sherpas had rescued him. He had been lucky not to fall the full height of the Lhotse Face by such a reckless action. Initially he was thought to be relatively uninjured but had decided not to continue his climb with the rest of his team, who had then pressed on towards the South Col. By early afternoon, he’d been found lying in his tent by one of the Sherpas from his own team. Concerned by the poor condition he was in, the Sherpa prepared to escort him back down. Fortunately they were joined by a second Sherpa, from the Imax team, who was descending from a load-carry to the South Col. The two Sherpas thought, quite correctly, that it would be best to bring him back down to Camp 2, but it was a journey Chen Yu Nan was fated not to complete.

With nightfall, we cocooned ourselves in our down sleeping bags in the full expectation that when we emerged the following morning either the wind plume would have gone, bringing us a bright still day to make our climb to the South Col, or we’d have to head down and wait for more settled weather. Our instincts told us the latter was the more sensible option.

Unbeknown to us, two days earlier the Imax team had risen at Camp 3 on the morning of 8 May to see the same winds blowing high on Everest. They had decided to retreat and wait for better weather. We were unaware they were now safely ensconced in Camp 2.

As we had watched the two guided expeditions moving up the Lhotse Face on 8 May, the much smaller Imax team had been descending down the same route. This, we had not noticed. Any small group coming down we would have assumed was a group of Sherpas returning from a load-carry to one of the higher camps.

10 May

Our plan was to leave Camp 3 around 8 a.m., which would get us to the South Col early in the afternoon. The scheduled morning radio call around 7 a.m. reached us in the depths of our sleeping bags. The night at Camp 3 had been reasonably calm, and everyone was well. As we stepped out of our tents, we were faced with the surprising yet somehow not unexpected disappointment of seeing that the plume was still there. We decided to delay our departure to see if the conditions improved. When the time came for our next scheduled radio call at midday, we were still at Camp 3.

Neil made the call: ‘Neil to Henry, come in Henry.’

Henry’s voice came back: ‘Hi, Neil, could you give me your current position?’

Neil: ‘We are still at Camp 3.’

Henry’s reply bellowed from Neil’s handset: ‘What the f**k are you still doing there?’

Neil, in our reasonable defence, replied, ‘Henry, we are looking at the weather high up. It doesn’t seem very good at all.’

‘Rob and Scott are heading for the summit, just get f**king going. Now!’ was Henry’s unambiguous instruction.

By the strength of his response, Henry thought we were going to blow a good summit chance if we didn’t get going immediately. Although we were subject to Henry’s control as expedition leader, we each had the final choice. If we continued to witness these unsettled conditions, there would have been little Henry could have said that would have convinced us to make an attempt. The final say would have been ours. At this particular point, we were not in any serious danger. We stared at the rest of the mountain stretching above us. Were Rob and Scott really up there with their teams? As the saying goes, ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.’ But who on earth would consider taking such a large group of clients to the summit of Everest in these unsettled conditions?

We each placed an oxygen cylinder in our rucksack and departed from Camp 3. The flow rate was set at two litres per minute to supplement the depleted air around us. This was the first use of oxygen on our expedition: a time that required personal adjustment. The claustrophobic feeling of the mask covering both nose and mouth when already gasping for breath had you convinced that you needed to rip it off to breathe properly. Total concentration, belief and calmness overcame this reaction. Only then could individuals achieve the painfully slow rhythm of climbing at this altitude.

Soon we were a sporadically spaced line heading up and across the Lhotse Face towards the Yellow Band. We were the only climbers heading from Camp 3 to the South Col that day. With the agreements in place, we’d be the only team trying for the summit on 11 May.

Within an hour or so of our departure, I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that Paul and Ray had started to drop behind. I presumed both were struggling to adjust to the sensation of being smothered by the masks. In the knowledge that safety in the form of Camp 3 was not far below them, and that they were both capable of looking after themselves, the rest of us pressed on.

I was also suffering – from what I would describe as a turbulent stomach. Nausea at altitude is not uncommon and usually passes, but the cramps I was feeling in my abdomen were a sign of food poisoning. I couldn’t work out if the hot flushes that kept coming over me were from the exertion or a sign of problems ahead. On this part of the climb, I was fortunate to be accompanied by Brigitte and Michael, who could see I was struggling and both shouted encouragement. We’d all felt this way at one time or another.

‘Turn your oxygen up,’ shouted Michael, pulling his mask to one side. ‘There’s plenty more at the South Col.’

Brigitte and Michael had similar concerns over the weather and questioned what we were doing up there in such conditions. None of us could quite believe that Rob and Scott, along with their respective teams, would have made a summit bid in such unpredictable weather.

By late afternoon, the clouds had risen up behind us in the Western Cwm, with others clinging eerily to Lhotse’s summit ridge a short distance above. The only view we had remaining was the direction in which we were travelling: the sight of Everest’s upper reaches being battered by an increasing wind. Yet where we currently stood the air was still, with an unnatural sense of foreboding. The intensity of the light dropped; it took on a greyness that gave the ice beneath our feet a mercuric glow. The snow had lost its reflective characteristic. It was as though we were moving unwisely through a transient world, a mystical place, where right or wrong decisions had to be made.

To our right, out of the low clouds and now lightly falling snow, appeared a solitary figure descending from another climb. It was the French Alpinist Chantal Mauduit, who earlier that day had made the first female ascent of Lhotse, the world’s fourth-highest mountain. Three of them had set out for the summit of Lhotse that morning, the other two had turned around early on.

They had moved up from Camp 3 to their top camp for this particular climb, which lay off to the right of the route for Everest, on the same day as Rob and Scott’s teams had made their way to the South Col. These three would have seen the unstable conditions but must have taken comfort from the two large guided teams moving up to attempt Everest, the higher of the two mountains.

Moving quickly, Chantal soon reached us. There was joyous relief written right across her face. Patting me on the back, she informed us she had just climbed Lhotse; then she hurried on down. The hour was late, around 5 p.m.; she wanted to be in Camp 3 before dark.

I turned and watched as her diminutive outline, set against an eerie Himalayan backdrop, disappeared into the distance. My thoughts turned to Alison, who by this time had been dead for almost nine months; in two years’ time, so too would be Chantal.

Falling behind Michael and Brigitte, I reached the top of the Geneva Spur around 6 p.m. Here I was met by a strong wind. Whether it had been gusting this low down on the mountain for some time and we had merely been sheltered from it or it had just dropped to this lower level was impossible to say. Looking towards the South Summit, I could see that the plume still covered the South East Ridge. Everest loomed dark and unsettled above. The opinion I had arrived at over 30 hours earlier remained. My instincts, our radio calls – all were correct.