A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (26 page)

When the time came to fly home, I felt relieved to be leaving Nepal. I sensed I could leave the death and misery behind. I could escape from the dreadful emptiness these tragic events had brought. The excitement of travelling home to see Catherine, Angela and Amy almost managed to convince me that this was possible.

It was late 1997, as far as I recall, on an ordinary day like any other, that I was sitting in the kitchen of our home in Whitley Bay having breakfast. Across the adjacent entrance hall echoed the distant sound of our letterbox snapping shut. There followed a thud as the mail hit the porch floor.

In an automatic response to this familiar sound, I slid my chair back across the tiled floor. Standing up, I made my way to the front door to collect the mail, which rarely contained anything more interesting than the constant stream of family bills and junk literature. The bundle that day looked no different from that of any other: a few envelopes and a couple of outdoor-type magazines.

The events on Everest in the spring of 1996, although not forgotten, were drifting into the past. They’d been well documented in a good number of articles; there was no reason to think that anything I read now would significantly change my understanding. For me, life had moved on, as it had for other climbers and people present on Everest that year. All had returned to their families and everyday lives. As tragic as the events of 1996 are and were, all mountaineers live and climb in the knowledge of the dangers of their sport. We’d all come to terms with this loss in our own way.

Settling back down at the breakfast table, I picked up one of the magazines and removed the ubiquitous clear plastic packaging. Whether it was a trade or general publication, I can no longer remember. As I flicked casually through the pages, my eye caught an article about a UK trade show and international climbing competition that had been attended by climbers and mountaineers from around the world. Pausing for a moment before letting the next page slide through my fingers, I spotted the words ‘Rob Hall’ and ‘Everest 1996’. As they seemed so out of place in what the article was covering, my curiosity drew me to read the relevant section.

I was totally unprepared for what I read next. My stomach tightened with a sickening feeling. My mind grappled with the implications of the words as they leapt out of the page at me as though they were printed in letters far bolder than the surrounding text. Before me lay the breakfast table, but the image that filled my mind was the moment I’d arrived at the South Col on the evening of 10 May, the wind and blizzard howling towards me out of the darkness, two head torches glimmering in the distance.

My emotions were torn asunder, between the past and present, as I stared at two particular lines of print. Resentment and anger welled up inside me, feelings that brought with them an internal turmoil and deep sense of shame, as they were, in part, directed at two of those who were dead: Rob Hall and Scott Fischer. To have such thoughts about those who’d paid for their wrong decisions with their lives was alien to me. I struggled with my sense of guilt as it clashed with the shock and anger I felt. Never had I been so stunned by a single sentence.

One of Rob Hall’s team, not one of his clients, had been briefly interviewed about the storm and its aftermath at this international show, during which they had said: ‘We went on the 10th of May because we knew the weather was going to go bad the next day.’

The next day, 11 May, was the day our team had been scheduled to make an attempt on the summit of Everest.

This meant they’d known the weather on 11 May was going to be totally unsuitable for a summit attempt, and quite possibly dangerous. More importantly, this was the day that Rob and Scott had asked us to make our bid for the top! My mind flashed back to the conditions we’d encountered at the time. The wind and blizzard had hit hard on the evening of 10 May, and although the driving wind and snow died down at the South Col on the morning of 11 May, it had returned with a vengeance that evening.

Up to this point, I hadn’t said a word. I’d sat in silent disbelief. Catherine, concerned by the look on my face, instantly sensed something was amiss but had no idea what had caused it. One moment we’d been having breakfast, the next a heavy atmosphere descended on the room.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

I found it difficult to put into words the meaning of what I’d read moments before. As best I could, I explained to Catherine, in a broken and rather muddled fashion, how different the events of 10–11 May could have been. This in itself disturbed me deeply. Was it no more than luck that had allowed me to return to my wife and two daughters that year, and others on my team to their families?

In an effort to reassure myself that my reaction was not unnatural, or in some way disproportionate, I telephoned Paul Deegan. He’d become a good friend through the course of the expedition led by Henry Todd on the North Ridge of Everest from Tibet in 1995. He had been with us in 1996.

Paul had set out with the rest of us from Camp 3 on the afternoon of 10 May but had turned back part-way up when he encountered problems adjusting to his oxygen mask. I wanted his reaction.

Slowly, I read the two lines to Paul. There was a poignant pause of two or three seconds then his voice came reverberating down the phone: ‘The b******s!’ Paul had instantly grasped the implications of what he’d just heard. The events on Everest in the spring of 1996 could have been very different; the casualties could easily have been ours.

Prior to this revelation, the only accounts I’d read during the latter half of 1996 were those that had appeared in the British Mountaineering Council’s
High
magazine: a publication that put forward the known facts in an intelligent manner, as opposed to some other magazines whose front covers I had seen sensationalising these tragic events. None of the articles I’d looked at had made mention of other teams having prior knowledge of the weather, although one had given a clue that this might have been the case.

A report had appeared in issue No. 164, in July of that year, written by Lindsay Griffin (Mountain Information Editor), and was titled ‘Everest 96’.

According to that report: ‘. . . computer models were forecasting 100 to 120 km/hour winds to arrive at the weekend, leaving an adequate weather window for a round trip to Everest’s high point on Friday 10th.’

This article had raised some questions in my mind, but the latter part of 1996 and right through 1997 was a particularly busy time for Catherine and myself. We were in the process of starting two new businesses, one of which was a retail outlet called The Third Eye. We spent the winter of ’96–’97 converting the disused and rather derelict lower ground floor of a commercial building we owned in the nearby town of North Shields into a brand-new shop. Here, we intended to sell clothes, jewellery, incense, carvings and other handicrafts that we were sourcing and importing from Nepal. The other was a wholesale business, run from the same property, supplying a wide range of multicoloured novelty hats that we were having manufactured in Kathmandu. Our customer base for these was mostly ski shops, rugby and football clubs, in the latter case including one or two in the football Premiership. This business we called The Crazy Hat Company.

I was so preoccupied with getting these two businesses up and running that the events of 1996 had begun to fade into an episode from the past. My daily schedule was full to the point of bursting. Future plans filled what little time I had left for contemplation. Although being shocked enough to phone Paul immediately when I’d read those two lines of print, my life was running at such a pace that I’d little choice but to let go. Or at least I thought I had. In hindsight, I realise this was never going to be the case. Subconsciously, the events of 1996, along with the statements I’d read, would continue to trouble me.

Everest, however, was still in my thoughts, almost on a daily basis. The goal I’d set myself – to be the first British climber to reach the summit from both Nepal and Tibet – was still there for the taking. I was aware of competition but wasn’t sure if any of my rivals might be trying in 1997: a torment that was made worse by the fact I needed to earn a living and couldn’t return that year.

This mental pressure I’d put myself under grew substantially due to the fact I had to go to Nepal twice that year on business. The first occasion was in June, shortly after the spring climbing season had ended. I felt uncomfortable, as though I should have been travelling on from Kathmandu rather than spending the whole time in the capital. Climbing shops displaying their equipment and photographs of Everest were everywhere I looked. The frustration I felt, the need to be back in the mountains, was very real. My second business trip in September merely served to reinforce my determination to go back to Everest the following year.

In late autumn 1997, I contacted Alastair Leithead. Since we’d last worked together, he’d moved from being a reporter with the
Newcastle Evening Chronicle
to being one with regional BBC television, North East & Cumbria. My objective was to see if he could entice the BBC into televising the attempt I intended to make that coming spring.

Alastair, seeing the potential this offered, skilfully managed to organise a meeting. Others to be present were Olwyn Hocking, who at the time was head of this region for the BBC, Alastair himself, several of their production team and me.

With my slide projector in hand, I was ushered into a large, well-lit room containing a central rectangular table around which some 15 chairs were placed. At one end, a screen waited in readiness for the images I was to present from the 1996 expedition. The purpose of this exercise, I found out afterwards, was to see if I could actually take reasonable photographs. If not, it would have been an uphill struggle from their perspective and probably a non-starter. Fortunately, I’d foreseen this might happen and had borrowed a couple of slides from Paul Deegan, who I knew had some stunning shots from that year. It was obvious which slide clinched the deal, and it wasn’t one of mine. The image was a fantastic photograph of Paul’s looking up the polished ice of the Lhotse Face with climbers high up disappearing in and out of a swirling mist. As my audience gasped at this dramatic sight, my mind silently thanked Paul for his assistance. In many ways, I’d undergone a job interview. Sensibly, I had gone prepared.

The questions that followed delved into the practicalities: the equipment I would be required to ship to Nepal, Customs clearance, how I could get the rushes (film clips) back to the north-east as the expedition progressed. With solutions found to these potential difficulties, my interviewing audience seemed satisfied that the undertaking was both achievable and worthwhile.

A further private meeting took place between Olwyn and myself, at which an offer was made. For a sum of money towards my expenses, they wanted me to film my own progress and send back reports via DHL on a regular basis. The amount put forward was very modest for what they expected in return. However, with the BBC on board my chances of gaining commercial sponsorship increased significantly. So agreements and contract were entered into, whereby the film I shot would remain my copyright. The BBC retained the right of first use, an option that would expire after 12 months.

The slight flaw in this ambitious plan was that I had no experience whatsoever of filming. I didn’t even possess a home video camera. However, such a minor detail was not insurmountable to this national institution. Wheels were immediately set in motion for me to undertake two days of training. This would take place in the middle of January, on the wild and windswept crags of Northumberland with leading outdoor cameraman Keith Partridge.

The equipment we used for this exercise was one of those large, rather old-fashioned-looking cameras under which a metal stand normally strained. Dressed in thermal underwear and Gore-tex jackets to counter the conditions we faced during my edification, we shot several set pieces, hampered by the legs of the tripod as they sank into the rain-sodden ground. Keith also had me climbing up ropes through a cold biting wind while holding this enormous contraption and filming at the same time. I’d not anticipated the BBC would have been able to replicate so well some of the conditions I might expect to encounter on Everest.

Fortunately, the two cameras they intended to supply for this endeavour were somewhat smaller, lighter and more manageable. As the intended cameraman and subject matter, I was going to be a one-man band once I reached Nepal.

Commercial sponsorship did not follow as I’d hoped. Here, I learnt a valuable lesson. In raising funds to join this expedition, I had to appear calm, as though everything was under control, even when it was not. I was within three weeks of my departure for Nepal and still a long way short of the amount I needed simply to cover my costs. The BBC was blissfully unaware, as were the other smaller sponsors I’d managed to obtain. Then I learnt my second lesson. Luck can play a significant part.

I was in my local branch of a franchise business called Prontaprint picking up some business cards I’d ordered. Explaining my predicament to the proprietor, John Fleet, whom I knew, I asked jokingly if Prontaprint might be interested in sponsoring me. Much to my amazement, John said he’d ask. I left my contact details and thought no more about it. This was, to say the least, a long shot from which I expected to hear nothing more.

Two days later, I received an email from Dr Kevin Potts, Prontaprint’s new CEO, saying they would like to be involved and offering me a sum of money. I was staggered and somewhat relieved this had come in the form of an email, as I was lost for words. Although still well short of the figure I needed, I sent a message back gratefully accepting their offer. I was bewildered when, the very next day, I received a further email from this gentleman, increasing the sum. This was followed by astonishment a few hours later when I received a follow-up offering to cover the remainder of my costs, provided they could rank as my major sponsor. In little more than four days, I’d gone from grasping at straws to having my place on the expedition secured. The key was that the company had a newly appointed CEO who wanted to make his mark, to be seen as dynamic and forward thinking. He had joined the company the month before. My request had been put before the right person at exactly the right moment. It was pure luck and a chance comment that had brought this about.