A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (21 page)

As I staggered my way along the top of the Geneva Spur, the wind increased dramatically. Bent double, grasping my stomach and coughing violently into my oxygen mask, I struggled to breathe. All I could see was my feet and the blizzard that had started driving snow past my penitent face.

Shortly after 6.30 p.m., I had reached the edge of the South Col. I was the last to arrive. Looking back, there was no sign of Paul or Ray, who I presumed with their problems had retreated to Camp 3. Darkness had fallen, and the brutal wind was driving snow forcefully into my face. Out of the shadows appeared Pemba, one of our most experienced Sherpas. Concerned at the ferocity of the storm, he was making sure we all got safely into the tents.

‘This way, Graham. The tents are here!’ he yelled through the howling wind. He looked behind me, searching into the darkness. ‘Paul and Ray?’ he shouted, with an anxious look on his face.

‘I think they go down,’ I shouted back in simple language so Pemba would both hear and understand over the roaring wind. Eighty feet further on, we were at our tents.

As I was about to remove my crampons and rucksack in readiness to dive into the safety of our tent, I looked up. Considering the conditions, I don’t know why I did this. In the distance, on the far left-hand side of the South Col, moving towards the tents but still probably 200 yards away, I picked out the glint of two head torches. I was horrified by what I saw. ‘My God, they’re getting back late!’ flashed through my mind. How on earth could I have known these were in fact probably the first of Rob’s and Scott’s teams arriving back? Aware that both these teams had a considerable and experienced group of Sherpas along with professional guides, I slid into our tent and out of the driving wind.

Our immediate concern that night lay with Paul and Ray. Had they returned to the safety of Camp 3 or were they caught out in the storm? We had two radios up high: one with us, the other with Paul. Unfortunately, the radio we had at the South Col was having a problem with its batteries because of the freezing temperatures, even though it had been stuffed deep inside a rucksack. Ever resourceful, we wired a head-torch battery into the system and were soon back ‘on air’. We established contact with Paul, who we were relieved to hear was by this time back at Camp 3. He’d been struggling with his oxygen mask and had wisely considered his position. We’d set off late, and he’d been falling behind. The weather was of concern. He had plenty of time to make another summit attempt with the rest of our team at a later date. So he took the sensible decision and turned back. It was a shame that Ray Dorr, a climber about whom I’d had doubts early in the expedition, hadn’t made the same logical assessment.

Henry came on the radio some time after 7 p.m. A three-way conversation took place between us at the South Col, Paul at Camp 3 and Henry at Camp 2 concerning the whereabouts of Ray Dorr. Paul was watching for any sign of Ray’s head torch descending. There was nothing.

I ventured out into the maelstrom, to the larger of our two tents, to tell Pemba that Ray was missing somewhere between Camp 3 and the South Col. The Sherpas along with Mark Pfetzer were in one tent, Neil, Brigitte, Michael and myself in the other.

On hearing this news, Pemba and another of our Sherpas volunteered to go and look for Ray. It was an offer, given the pains in my stomach, I gladly accepted. Bravely, they headed out into the darkness, into the full fury of the storm, the snow driving harder than ever.

Returning about 20 minutes later, Pemba stuck his head through the entrance of our tent where I was crouched. He looked straight into my eyes with an apologetic and worried look on his face. He shouted over the wind, ‘Graham, we cannot see Ray. We cannot see in the storm.’

The words rang around the tent. All of us realised the implications of what had been said.

We considered Ray’s position. He was on a fixed rope that ran all the way from Camp 3 to the South Col, except for one short 50-ft section on flat ground that ran along the top of the Geneva Spur. He was wearing a down suit and breathing oxygen, plus he was carrying a down sleeping bag and other equipment in his rucksack. If he was below the Geneva Spur, then he was sheltered from the worst of the wind. He had a head torch and was below 26,000 feet. The Sherpas were unable to see in the storm as they headed down to look for him. If we tried, we would be equally unsighted. All we could do was hope that Ray had enough sense to fix himself to the ropes and take shelter in an appropriate place with the equipment he had or that he was already making his way back down. We radioed Henry to give him an update on Ray. He understood the position.

At no time during our scheduled evening radio call was there mention of our summit attempt, either by Henry or by any of us on the South Col. I’m sure none of us thought an attempt was on the cards. Nothing was said; we just knew. More importantly, there was no mention that Rob’s and Scott’s teams were in difficulty, though their own teams lower down had known a potential tragedy was unfolding shortly after 4 p.m. – nearly three hours before our evening radio call.

At the end of the evening radio calls, the only problem of which we were aware was Ray Dorr. In our tents on the South Col, we prepared to weather the storm. We were all hoping that Ray had made it back to one of the tents at Camp 3. It didn’t matter which expedition’s tent he found refuge in given these circumstances, any would do.

We transferred our oxygen masks and regulators from our lightweight Poisk climbing cylinders onto the heavier steel ones that contained our oxygen to use while sleeping. These would be set at a rate of one litre per minute. However, here we struck a problem. The regulators all connected without a hitch except one that would not screw far enough in to release the valve that allowed the flow of gas, even though it had worked on the lighter one. Apart from my stomach, I felt fine and offered to sleep without oxygen. I knew I could have used one of our Poisk bottles, but these in my mind were set aside for climbing. Soon everyone, including the Sherpas, was in their sleeping bags with their oxygen masks slowly hissing away. All, that is, except me. I lay curled up in my sleeping bag, grasping my stomach, listening to the wind hammering into the tent for hour after hour. The snow drummed against the side of the nylon tent in driving gusts, the poles bent and strained as the wind tried its best to tear the tent from the ground.

It turned out to be fortunate for me that I was not wearing a mask and was next to the entrance of our tent, as all of a sudden my stomach started convulsing. With just enough time to sit up, and certainly not sufficient to open the tent, I leant over and vomited onto the tent floor. Wiping my hand across my dribbling mouth, I flopped back into my sleeping bag with the thought ‘better out than in’. I decided to leave any attempt at cleaning up until dawn. Rid of my unwanted load, a feeling of relative normality returned as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke at first light, probably around 5 a.m. The deafening sound of the wind battering against the tent had subsided. I looked to my side to view the contents of my stomach, expecting to find an unpleasant mess. Instead, I found they’d neatly filled a dip in the tent floor about ten inches in diameter and had rather conveniently frozen solid into what looked like a particularly disgusting pizza. Easing this up from the plastic groundsheet, I was relieved when it came away in one piece. Unzipping the tent, I threw this frozen vomit, as though it were some sort of Frisbee, out onto the South Col. This was one of the very few advantages of being at 26,000 feet.

Despite having a slight headache, I felt significantly better than I had the previous evening. The wind, although still blowing, had dropped considerably. The blizzard had finished. The morning was best described as clear and cold, around minus 20, but very breezy.

Morning of 11 May 1996

I can’t remember the exact time of the early-morning radio call, but when Neil turned our set on Henry was already waiting for our transmission.

Then came the bombshell: ‘Rob’s and Scott’s teams – 21 people are missing!’ Henry’s words stunned everyone in the tent.

Neil pressed the button on his radio to reply. ‘Henry, can you confirm: you say 21 people are missing?’

The figure was almost unbelievable.

‘Correct, 21 missing,’ came Henry’s reply.

Neil, Brigitte, Michael and myself stared blankly at one another as our brains processed the information and its possible consequences. A moment passed, then Brigitte grabbed an oxygen cylinder and mask.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Rob needs help,’ was her instant reply.

‘Which way are you going to go? Where are you going to look?’

My words hit home. Brigitte sank back, knowing this made sense.

I followed this with some logic: ‘Let’s find out what’s happened and where they are first.’

During the subsequent radio conversation between Neil and Henry, which Brigitte, Michael and myself were party to, it was decided we first needed to assess the situation on the South Col. Rob’s and Scott’s expedition staff lower on the mountain were by now working closely with Henry and other teams, so all could help in these potentially tragic circumstances.

One of us needed to go around Rob’s and Scott’s tents to make an assessment. Neil offered to do this and set about the task immediately.

A serious mistake was made at this point, the consequences of which were certainly not the fault of Neil or anyone else. It just happened. The mistake was that we were not given, neither had anyone thought of, either a roll call or the total number of people we needed to count on the South Col to determine whether anyone was missing. In the cold light of day at sea level, rather than having just sat out a storm at 26,000 feet, this would seem glaringly obvious. Unfortunately, it was a vital point that was missed both by the teams lower down and by us on the South Col.

One of the biggest problems in disasters such as the one that happened on Everest in the spring of 1996 is that the urgency of the situation impairs people’s ability to think clearly and interferes with unambiguous communication from the outset.

Neil went round the tents both to see and ask if everybody was OK. He found those within visibly shaken by their experiences of the previous night but safely brewing drinks. On asking how they were, meaning their entire teams not just themselves as individuals, they each replied that they were all right. This was the answer Neil got from all he found, the number being well in excess of 21. As a result of everyone’s condition, and the replies received, he naturally assumed they had all managed to get back to the South Col during the night and safely to their tents.

Arriving back, Neil radioed Henry: ‘Henry, I’ve been around the tents, they all seem OK and are making a brew.’

This understandably caused complete confusion lower down. No real reply or further instructions came back at that time. Neil had done exactly what he had been asked to do. We were asked to stand by.

Our attention now turned to Ray Dorr, whose whereabouts were unknown. A radio call to Paul at Camp 3 gave us the news that Ray had arrived at the tent Paul was occupying shortly after dawn, minus his rucksack, which had mysteriously fallen down the Lhotse Face. Where and at what time had Ray turned around to head down? How had he lost his rucksack? Had he spent the night out in the open or in another team’s tent at Camp 3 before eventually joining Paul? I do not know. Ray never explained to me or any of the climbers or Sherpas I spoke to what had happened to him; it was an explanation I felt he owed us.

Once Ray’s safety was confirmed, I spoke with Henry on the radio. Although the wind had dropped considerably in strength, there was a real concern this might be a lull in the storm. The weather around the South Summit still looked ominous. To the east, the tops of unsettled clouds that resembled the surface of a boiling cauldron hung level with the Kangshung side of the South Col.

Despite our incorrect conclusion at that moment in time that everyone was OK, the weather was not settled enough to consider summit attempts the following day – 12 May. We needed to wait.

During my subsequent conversation with Henry, he told me to get Mark Pfetzer down from the South Col straightaway. Mark, although an experienced climber for his age, was still only 16 years old. Given the storm and the continuing poor weather, this was the right decision for Henry to make. Mark, Jabion (the Sherpa who had been assigned to Mark) and I gathered our equipment and headed down from the South Col towards Camp 3 and on to Camp 2 in the Western Cwm.

It was after we’d descended from the Geneva Spur, traversed the Yellow Band and were crossing the Lhotse Face that we met some Sherpas heading up. We stopped briefly to talk. First they enquired if we were OK. Then came the terrible news that Rob had been stuck at the South Summit all night, throughout the storm, and was still there. They explained that two Sherpas were heading up with fresh oxygen cylinders to try to bring him down. Even at that point we knew it had to be touch and go whether he would get down alive. All three of us heading down were shocked by what we’d been told. Staring up at the wind-torn South Summit high above us, we hoped that the two brave souls climbing up to him would make it there in time.

We were, at this point, totally unaware that other climbers had passed away through the course of the night or still lay dying and injured on Everest’s upper slopes.

Coming up the Lhotse Face were ten to fifteen climbers and Sherpas who we now realised were moving up to aid in the evacuation of those higher on the mountain. For the three of us, who’d been on the South Col through the night, the worst thing we could do now was to climb back up in some vain attempt to help. The best course of action was for us to continue our descent to Camp 2 and get out of the way of those coming up, rather than risk becoming part of the problem they had to deal with.