A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (27 page)

With days to spare before my departure to Nepal, I was flown down to Prontaprint’s headquarters at Watford for a photoshoot. For this occasion, I had been asked to bring my full climbing equipment.

At the arrivals area in Luton Airport stood a driver holding a large card that bore my name in bold printed letters. He was there to take me to their offices and to whisk me back to the airport for my return flight three hours later, such was the urgency of my turnaround. There was much that had to be done before I left for Everest, mostly to do with the BBC equipment and cameras I would be carrying. A Customs carnet would be required for me to bring them back into the country without import duty being applied.

Dr Kevin Potts was an imposing balding gentleman in his late 30s, tall and solidly built. He strutted around the newly laid floor covering, making business decisions as we spoke. In attendance was his number one man, Niall Bryne. Carpet fitters with Stanley knives were trimming the edges of the final sections. They were in the process of settling into their new offices, having recently relocated from Darlington in north-east England. People were frantically rushing around organising what should go where, while answering the phones that continually rang. Fax machines spewed out a constant stream of unattended paper.

In the foyer, a husband and wife team joined the three of us. They had been retained to organise Prontaprint’s publicity. The thin bespectacled gentleman, who wore a long trench coat and a broad-rimmed leather hat, had a single-lens reflex camera hanging from his neck. His wife stood nervously alongside with two small cases of equipment. They were out of their depth.

It was soon apparent that no real forethought had been given to the pictures they might take, other than that I would be dressed in the suitable attire. The nearest terrain they had found to a mountain was a six-foot-high grassy slope. It was outside the entrance to the offices.

To the complete bewilderment of those driving past on this modern upmarket business park, I posed in the bright orange Gore-tex jacket and trousers that Sprayway had supplied me with, my ice axe held aloft. Behind me were parked a turquoise Ford Mondeo and a silver BMW 5 Series. I felt ridiculous, but what the heck, they were paying and I was going back to Everest. I would have stood there in my underpants if they had asked me to.

Amongst the must-have photographs they wanted was one of me shaking hands with the new CEO. The backdrop to this picture was their offices, which had Prontaprint World Headquarters emblazoned across the front. It was while we were arranging ourselves for this particular shot that Dr Kevin Potts gave my hand an extra squeeze and pulled me forward slightly. Leaning towards me, he whispered sternly, ‘You had better make the top.’

He had uttered these words without an expression on his face. I wasn’t quite sure if it was a threat or a joke. I didn’t ask.

It was once again one of Henry Todd’s commercial expeditions that I joined. His support in my aim to reach the summit for a second time was undiminished.

I found two significant differences in 1998 as compared to my previous Everest expeditions, the last having been 1996. The first was that a high-altitude weather forecast service had been pre-arranged with the UK Met Office at Bracknell. Once this facility was set up, these could be obtained on demand and on a daily basis if required. At a cost of $500 per forecast, they gave wind speeds and temperatures at different heights, which as far as I recall were 16,500 ft, 19,600 ft, 23,000 ft, 26,200 ft and 29,500 ft, which correlate approximately to 5,000m, 6,000m, 7,000m, 8,000m and 9,000m. Second, because these forecasts were widely available, teams were now willing to stay much later in May than they might previously have done. The forecasts had brought with them a huge increase in confidence and the ability to choose the right days for a summit attempt. The downside to this was that the numbers making an attempt during a settled period of weather would logically increase rather than being more evenly spread over the climbing season. Nearly all teams were using, or had access to, this forecast.

The weather was particularly poor that spring as we sat out all of April and most of May. A feeling of resignation settled over Base Camp; time was beginning to run out and little let-up was showing in the forecast from Bracknell. As we moved towards the latter half of May, I was struck down by what most waiting climbers dread. One of the many well-meaning trekkers visiting Everest Base Camp had brought with them a particularly virulent chest infection which some of us caught. After having spent two months in preparation, I was distraught.

About the same time came the first successful summit attempts from the Nepalese side. I had to sit in Base Camp and watch these happen. The consolation was that these were made by a group of gregarious Americans with whom our team had formed great friendships. We were delighted for them. It was unusually late in the season when these first ascents took place: 20 May, far later than is normal. Fortunately, the improved weather held on.

I managed to shake off most of the infection just in the nick of time for me to make a last-ditch attempt at the summit with several of our team before the permit ended. A few were successful, but weakened by the illness I had to turn around at under 26,000 feet, not even making it as far as the South Col. I was left bitterly disappointed. All the effort and sacrifices others had made to enable me to return to Everest that year seemed wasted.

However, the BBC was delighted with the quality and quantity of material I’d managed to send back during the course of the expedition. From this they had managed to broadcast numerous television reports. Prontaprint had placed life-size pictures of me in all their shop windows; their logos had been plastered over the clothing I wore during the filming. Everyone had a return from their investment.

I wrote to Dr Kevin Potts to thank Prontaprint for their support. The reply I received back informed me that he was no longer with the company. His departure had come before I got back from Nepal. He had been chief executive of the company for less than six months, approximately 180 days.

‘You had better make the top.’ Surely not?

Despite all that had been achieved, I couldn’t help but feel I’d let everyone down. I returned to the UK despondent, with the feeling I’d blown a golden opportunity. When asked during a live radio interview what I was planning next, I openly said that I would not return to Everest.

On reflection, I now understand that the intensity of emotions during and after a major expedition are so all-consuming that no decision on future plans should be made for several months. Rather one should concentrate on coping with the adjustment back to what we consider normal life. Success on an expedition has you wanting to plan the next adventure without delay. Conversely, what we perceive as failure can throw you into the depths of despondency and make you feel as if you never want to go back.

Shortly after my return, Catherine and I moved from our large family home in Whitley Bay. The replacement was a pleasant enough two-bedroomed apartment in Tynemouth, overlooking the north-east coast at the mouth of the River Tyne. Our oldest daughter, Angela, had already left home, and Amy, the younger of the two, was looking to head off to university. It was a time of change for me. Everest, I’d consigned to the past. My family was spreading its wings, and Catherine and I were working out what we could keep and what had to go as we squeezed the contents of our large home into this top-floor apartment. This period was not the happiest of times for me.

It was 17 March 1999 when Carol Malia announced on the BBC’s regional six o’clock news that: ‘The man who said he would not return to Everest departed from Newcastle Bus Station this morning.’

This was followed by a short news piece that showed me saying goodbye to Catherine, then loading several large holdalls of equipment onto the bus that would take me to Heathrow Airport for my onward flight to Nepal.

The BBC revelled in the unusual nature of their opening line and the method with which I started this 5,000-mile journey. I had opted for this simplest form of transport at the onset for three very good reasons. First, National Express had offered me a free ticket. Second, I could take as much luggage as I wanted. There was not the crippling excess baggage penalty that applied on domestic flights. And last but certainly not least, they would drop me right outside the entrance of Terminal 3. Practicality had won the day.

It had been little more than three months after my dejected return from Everest in early June 1998 that I’d started to plan my next attempt. Once the disappointment had faded, the determination and focus returned.

I’d contacted Alastair again, to enquire if the BBC might be interested in covering me for a second time. His lukewarm response of ‘I don’t think so, as we’ve already covered that story once, but I’ll ask’ was hardly the encouragement I’d been hoping for.

However, Alastair did ask as promised. Fortunately for me, Olwyn, who ultimately made the decisions, was far more enthusiastic. I received a resounding ‘yes’. She’d been delighted with the material I’d managed to send back the previous year and saw the merits in following the story through, to hopefully a successful conclusion. The sum on offer, although slightly higher than the previous year, was once again very modest, dictated not by Olwyn but by the ever-tightening budget that businesses continually suffer. The terms apart from that remained the same.

Sponsorship was extremely difficult to find, even with the BBC covering the story and despite me managing to secure coverage on the UK Government’s Internet-based National Grid for Learning: an educational facility accessed by schools, colleges and libraries throughout the country.

Sprayway, the UK outdoor clothing company that had supplied me with equipment the previous year, contributed towards my costs. They had been Alison Hargreaves’ major sponsor up until her untimely death on K2 in 1995.

A few others came in as smaller sponsors, but I was left well short of the amount I needed. I knew before I departed for Nepal in the spring of 1999 that I would return home in debt. I also understood that if I didn’t reach the summit this time, another British climber would and the opportunity would be lost.

As the plane banked left between lofty Himalayan peaks to make its final approach, the wide and relatively flat expanse of the Kathmandu valley came into view. Far below lay a patchwork quilt of lush green early crops. Across this landscape, simple traditional Nepalese farm buildings punctuated the ground. Gradually, this rural vista began to change as, one by one, brickworks started to appear, their tall skyward-pointing chimneys belching trails of thick smoke that disappeared into the haze that hung high above the valley floor. The farmland squeezed ever tighter as the flat-roofed buildings, typical of nearly the whole of Kathmandu, began to swamp the landscape.

A sensation of familiarity came over me. The stress of all the planning, the work to get me to this point, evaporated so quickly it was almost as though it had never existed. Moments before the wheels touched the runway, the warm air of late afternoon buffeted the aircraft’s fuselage: the final reminder I was back.

That evening, I’d arranged to meet up with Henry for a meal. Joining us were climbers from another team who’d be attempting Everest that spring, two of whom, Jon Tinker and Mike Smith, were also in the running to be first Briton to scale Everest from both the north and south sides. Although these two were friends of mine from previous years, little was discussed about our individual aims – our unspoken competition. Each of us knew we stood an equal chance of being first to the top. I recall being slightly amused that evening, as all three of us appeared to be assessing the opposition’s physical condition for the task ahead. Henry, who was well aware of our aspirations, seemed to be taking some pride in me as his contender.

Jon Tinker, whom I’m sure also found this a bizarre situation, turned to me and said, ‘Doug Scott tells me you’re never off the television nowadays,’ referring to my filming for the BBC the previous year.

Not quite sure how to respond to this statement, I only managed to say, ‘Well . . .’ before Jon interrupted.

‘Come on, Graham, there’s no need to be modest,’ he said, with a teasing smile.

It felt rather like a gladiatorial display before battle commenced. The mind games had begun.

When I arrived at Base Camp in early April, I was so focused that I had more in common with a tightly coiled spring than a climber. Chomping at the bit, I couldn’t make progress fast enough to satisfy myself, unaware of how Jon and Mike would play the unfolding game. I felt sorry for Henry, who had to put up with my constant pressure, my continual requests for him to let me climb high as soon as possible. Fortunately from my point of view, and probably for Henry’s sanity, both Camps 1 and 2 had been placed relatively early that season.

Most of my spare time was taken up with filming for the BBC and writing the reports to accompany the digital tapes that would be carried to Lukla by a trusted porter. From there, a one-hour flight followed by a twenty-minute taxi drive brought their arrival at DHL’s Kathmandu office. Three days later, they would be lying on Alastair’s desk at the BBC Broadcasting Centre in Newcastle upon Tyne, the footage they contained often appearing on television the same evening. Reports could be emailed from Base Camp but not high-definition film on the hideously slow Internet speed available on our satellite phone.

My first of only three ventures up through the Icefall that year took me to Camp 1, where I slept before moving up to Camp 2 the next day. After two nights here, I took a walk up to 24,000 feet, where Camp 3 would be placed and where I was to sleep only a week later to complete my rapid acclimatisation.

Not having thought this through carefully, I was, by the end of this period, out of synchronisation with the rest of my team. Fortunately for me, Iñaki ochoa, a world-class Spanish climber from the Basque region, had only a few days earlier successfully summited Lhotse by himself without oxygen. He now had his sights set on Everest. Iñaki, with his long curling blond hair and fashionable shades, had a rock-star appearance that belied the quiet gentleman beneath. He was a highly talented and self-effacing man who went out of his way to praise the achievements of those around him, no matter how small, rather than his own. His generosity, gregarious nature and effusive humour endeared him to nearly everyone.