A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (34 page)

In late March 2005, Catherine and I touched down at Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport to be met by rising spring temperatures and the mayhem of this sprawling city: a now familiar place that had over the years become like a second home.

We emerged from the terminal expecting to find the usual throng of taxi drivers competing for our business. Instead, we observed all those present lined up in an orderly manner behind a row of metal barriers, each waiting their turn. Slightly taken aback by this dramatic change to the system, I approached the first driver in the queue and said, ‘How much to the Sherpa Guest House in Thamel?’

Looking at the trolley carrying our luggage and then to my empty hand, he replied, ‘Pre-pay, pre-pay,’ as he pointed to the kiosk behind us – the one we’d walked straight past.

Like so many travellers who visit the same destination over a period of time, we’d expected the way things operated to remain the same. They, of course, do not. What travellers remember from their own experience will, over time, gradually change.

Stepping between the entrance pillars of the Sherpa Guest House, we passed from a bustling and rather dusty street into the relative tranquillity of the reception area. Behind the ornately decorated wooden counter stood a lady aged about 35, wearing traditional and very modest attire, her long jet-black hair tied neatly back.

She greeted us with a smile and the words, ‘Room 308?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned to retrieve the room key from the appropriately marked pigeonhole directly behind her.

We’d stayed here on previous occasions. In fact, only the year before we’d occupied that room several times, as then we’d used Nepal as a hub from which our travels radiated. Room 308, quietly situated high up at the rear of the hotel, had become our preferred accommodation for a good night’s sleep.

Our bags had hardly touched the floor of the establishment before the hotel boy, eagerly awaiting his next task, scooped them up. He’d also been there during our last visit, when we’d given him the nickname, between ourselves, of Speedy Gonzales. He bounded up and down the stairs five or six steps at a time, to the point he appeared as little more than a blur in our vision. The most endearing thing about this wonderful character was that when he stopped long enough for us to actually see him he was always smiling.

‘You can fill the forms in later,’ said the receptionist, as she pointed to our bags rapidly disappearing out of sight up the polished staircase.

The next day, we surfaced from the hotel to a gloriously sunny morning and made the arduous journey of almost ten yards to the bakery directly across the road that served breakfast in their leafy rear garden. The ease with which we slipped back into this familiar routine was both comforting and worryingly pleasant: a far cry from the frustrations of my research.

It seemed as though each time we turned a corner another happy face would meet us with recognition, not so much to do with my climbing but from the business we’d carried out with the Nepalese. On each occasion we returned, many of the friends we’d made still invited us to their homes to eat with their families, despite the fact we’d long ceased trading.

However, the Maoist problems in Nepal, although not directed at tourists, still posed a risk. Mostly this was if you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rather than make our own travel arrangements down to Chitwan, we decided to seek the advice of a Nepalese agent, a ‘Mr Fix It’ of extraordinary talents who worked for Henry Todd, among other people. The gentleman’s name was Iswari. His main business was organising and fulfilling the requirements of large expeditions visiting the country. He was a man small in stature but big on personality, confidence and humour, and he had earned his reliable reputation.

We gained access to the building he was in by passing through an inconspicuous doorway set amongst the many souvenir and jewellery shops that lined either side of a narrow unmetalled road. Confronting us was the familiar sight of a dimly lit concrete staircase that wound its way up to the second floor, where Iswari’s business was located. Here, several rooms were set on either side of a long, unlit corridor, their slightly ajar doors giving glimpses of their contents: piles of plastic barrels and boxes full of expedition equipment. At the far end lay Iswari’s office.

As Catherine and I entered, we found him sat behind, and dwarfed by, his larger-than-average wooden desk. Filing cabinets bearing the individual names of expedition companies he worked for filled two-thirds of one wall. A fax machine and mobile phone lay alongside neat piles of paperwork on his desk, where a pen lay at the ready. This was the nerve centre of his operation. In the room with him were seated two of his assistants and a Nepalese gentleman wearing Western-style sunglasses and holding a briefcase.

First, we exchanged greetings and a handshake with Iswari, whom we both knew, before each settling down into one of the seven or eight armchairs positioned around the perimeter.

I began by asking Iswari what the best options were for getting down to Chitwan in light of the current Maoist problems. With his typically infectious Nepalese humour, he told me we could go by bus. He followed this with some memorable words: ‘If you go by bus, we don’t know if you come back. Better you fly.’

As is the custom, we were offered masala tea while one of his assistants went to make arrangements for our tickets. This is a surprisingly mellow beverage made from tea complemented with a mixture of herbs and aromatic spices. It was while I was sipping from my cup that I turned my attention to what was displayed on the walls, amongst which was a large Adventure Consultants poster that I commented on.

Iswari’s response took me completely by surprise. He told Catherine and me that the gentleman holding the briefcase, in the office with us, was in fact Ang Tshering, the Sirdar currently working for Adventure Consultants.

Ang Tshering, on noticing my interest in the company he worked for, joined in the conversation. He informed me that he lived in the Solu Khumbu, in a village called Kumjung situated above Namche Bazaar. Then he proudly presented me with a business card from Adventure Consultants confirming his position. As I carefully steered the topic of conversation, I was then handed a completely unexpected pot of gold. He’d been Rob Hall’s Sirdar in 1996.

When least expected, I’d stumbled across a first-hand source from within Rob’s team, a person with authority and knowledge. A man whose integrity was unquestionable, who was greatly respected in his own community and who I hoped would be willing to discuss these events from the past.

Catherine, sitting only a few feet to my left, could sense my excitement and knew well where I was going to manoeuvre this subject. She sat quietly, not wanting to cause any distraction that might deflect the conversation away from the current topic.

The dialogue opened up further when I told him I’d also been there in 1996, on Henry Todd’s team. This led us naturally to discuss some of the events that led up to the disaster. I asked Ang Tshering about the decision-making process within Rob’s and Scott’s expeditions that had led them to choose the day for their summit bid, about any weather reports they might have been receiving.

His reply was instant: ‘Rob and Scott always watching, watching Imax. Imax have the weather!’

He used his hands to accentuate the significant amount of attention he recalled Rob and Scott were paying to these weather reports, ones that might be used to give them a further advantage in bringing their high-dollar clients success on Everest.

I wanted to push deeper into what had happened back then. However, I was aware that Ang Tshering might not be willing to let the conversation progress that far. The fact that deaths had occurred meant we were moving towards a taboo subject he might not be comfortable discussing with a woman present, or maybe not at all.

As Ang Tshering was sipping his tea, I took the opportunity to turn to Catherine and flicked my eyes to one side, signalling for her to make an excuse and leave. This she did superbly and left me the slim chance to glean what information I could.

Once Catherine had departed, Ang Tshering went on to tell me that Rob had very much favoured 10 May: a date that had brought him success on more than one occasion in previous years and on which Rob wanted to summit again if at all possible.

I knew all along I’d been running a race against time, but at that juncture my luck ran out. Iswari’s assistant returned holding our plane tickets to Chitwan. These he gave to Iswari, who in turn stood up to pass them to me along with the customary handshake to conclude the transaction. This left me with no polite option other than to depart and catch up with Catherine, who’d been patiently waiting on the road outside. I emerged out into the dazzling sunshine with a look of joyous astonishment on my face.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Catherine.

‘Not as much as I’d hoped, but far better than I could have possibly wished for,’ was my exuberant reply.

This small but significant discovery raised my spirits immeasurably. No longer did the spectre of minimal progress hang over our vacation. I was secretly relishing the thought of returning home armed with this latest information.

The sight of Adventure Consultants’ Sirdar in the office of an expedition agent was a sure indication that the climbing season was about to begin. The streets of Thamel displayed similar signs. Groups of climbers carrying over-laden rucksacks and large holdalls bursting at the seams could be seen arriving in taxis from the airport, each in search of accommodation for the next few days before travelling on to their chosen mountain destination.

Henry was also in Nepal during the spring of 2005. Once again he was running a commercial expedition to Everest. Despite his hectic schedule, making all the necessary arrangements for his current team, we met up for lunch in Kathmandu. This gave me an ideal opportunity to ask him about our planned summit attempt in 1996.

As I walked into the leafy paved garden, I could see that Henry had already arrived. He was sitting at a small wooden table perusing the menu and bathed in the dappled sunlight that had made its way through the foliage of the overhanging trees.

‘Catherine sends her apologies, she isn’t feeling well,’ I said as I sat down opposite him. In truth, I’d asked Catherine not to come. I felt I had a better chance of getting Henry to open up if there were just the two of us.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, give her my regards,’ replied Henry as he looked up from the menu, holding a hand up to catch the waiter’s attention so he could place an order; I followed with mine.

‘You said you wanted to discuss something with me?’ continued Henry.

‘Yes, I have a couple of queries about 1996 I was hoping you could help me with,’ I replied.

‘Fire away,’ said Henry.

I needed to allow myself the maximum opportunity for discussion rather than bringing it up after the meal only to hear that Henry needed to depart and press on with all the jobs he had to finish before leaving for the mountains. So I came straight to the point.

I explained to Henry about what I’d read in the UK publications and that I was considering writing a book. His wise words of caution were that I should be very careful about basing a book on two lines of print that I’d read in some magazines.

I also told him of Ang Tshering’s statement that Rob and Scott were watching the Imax expedition for the weather. This left the way open for me to ask Henry specifically about the storm in 1996. His answer, given what I had just told him, was unambiguous.

‘I had no knowledge of weather information being received at Base Camp predicting a storm in ’96,’ was Henry’s response.

In all honesty, this was the answer I was expecting. It would have been most unlike Henry not to share such information with his climbers, especially since we’d had a 16 year old on our planned summit attempt and because he would not have sent us up if he knew a storm was coming.

However, I wasn’t going to leave it there. ‘I think we were set up by Rob and Scott,’ I said, looking at Henry’s face to gauge his reaction to this bold statement.

This was not what he had been expecting. Henry rocked back slightly and his eyes opened wider as the implications of what I had said hit home. He moved forward and opened his mouth in readiness to say something, but did not. There was a look of surprise on his face, one I had not seen before. He did not reply.

I pushed the point further: ‘It looks to me as though Rob and Scott knew a storm was coming on 11 May. All they had wanted when they asked us to go on 11 May was us out of the way so that on 10 May they had a clear shot at the summit.’

Once again, I looked at Henry for his reaction. I could see his mind was whirling around, but it wasn’t in the moment we were in. He was back in 1996. It appeared as though he was trying to recall the sequence of events that had led up to our climbers being on the South Col on 10 May in preparation for our summit bid the following day.

‘No, I’m sure you are wrong,’ responded Henry, with an uneasy look on his face. It was the look of someone who didn’t want to believe what he had just heard.

Rob Hall and Scott Fischer were friends, or at the very least professional acquaintances, of Henry. As expedition leaders, they had spent time in 1996 making a coordinated approach to fixing the route up Everest. Henry had played his part. The decisions they made affected the safety of everyone climbing that year. Rob and Scott should have told us about the serious deterioration in the weather conditions if they knew about them. However, I was making an allegation without necessarily having the grounds to back it up. Henry had relied on his ongoing relations with these two, and with the other leaders on the mountain, as we had little to provide to other teams except for some ropes and Sherpa support to secure these higher up.