Seven Summits (22 page)

For Frank Wells, his sojourn at base camp was the first time in his life since a summer break after his last year as an undergraduate at Pomona College that he had had two unstructured weeks in which he could do whatever he pleased. When he finished reading Unsworth's mountaineering history of Everest, he started an 800-page biography of Lyndon Johnson. Somewhat to his surprise he found there was always something to do. When he wasn't reading he could work on calculating how much oxygen and other supplies he would need for his own summit attempt. There was the daily radio call to Katmandu. And best of all was the day once a week when a runner arrived with the mailbag.

On a long expedition receiving mail can be one of the great joys, and often climbers who otherwise never in their lives have such inclinations find themselves writing long letters. Frank had never had time in his business life to write personal letters, but now he found himself putting on paper to his wife and two sons his most intimate thoughts, telling them how much he missed them, how much he loved them.

On April 29, Larry Nielson descended to base camp for a few days rest before his summit attempt. He had announced he was going to try to climb Everest without bottled oxygen. He knew it would be extraordinarily difficult—only six people had ever managed it—and also much riskier, with increased chance of frostbite, pulmonary problems, and even brain damage. Wondering just why he wanted to take the risks, the ABC crew interviewed him the morning he came down.

“All the climbing I’ve done to now has been without oxygen, and it just seems the way to do it. It's like after someone has climbed a section of a mountain free, without using artificial aids, it doesn't seem right to come along later and then hang on pitons or other anchors to get over it; you're better to develop the skill to do it in the same best style in which it's already been done. I’m not saying everybody should try to climb Everest without oxygen, but it's right for me.”

Nielson spoke softly, almost too softly, as though to mask the ambition you knew had to be hidden somewhere behind his light blue eyes. He was of Scottish ancestry, five foot eight, lean and sinewy. His resting pulse was thirty-seven, as low as the best world-class athletes.

“Then you feel you're physically capable?”

“Except for my toe,” Nielson said, removing his boot and then a foam rubber sleeve that covered his second toe. “As you know, I lost the end of the toe last year, on the North Wall climb when I got frostbite trying to make a solo push to the summit. It still bothers me.”

The camera zoomed in to this toe. There was a nasty hole at the end of the stub and the bone was visible.

“Ed Hixson says I’m going to risk further damage to the toe, especially without oxygen. But that's one of the chances you take, I guess. I don't think I would do it if it were any other mountain. But this is Everest.”

The next day Pilafian and I left base camp and climbed through the Icefall to camp 1, where we overnighted, and the following morning completed the long walk up the Western Cwm to camp 2 at 21,600 feet. This camp was located under the 7,500-foot southwest face of Everest. In addition to the tents our team had pitched, there was a white tent the size of a small trailer made of an insulated synthetic batting stretched over a heavy-duty aluminum frame left the season before by the Canadian expedition. The Sherpas had commandeered it as the cook tent, and it was so well insulated they could all crowd in stripped to their shirtsleeves and drink tea. Across from this was a caravan tent pitched by our expedition large enough for us sahibs to use as our mess. Then sprinkled around the periphery were eight smaller yellow and tan paneled dome sleeping tents that looked like futuristic modules set in an extraterrestrial icescape. The whole place brought to mind those illustrations on the front of science fiction novels showing lost cities on distant planets.

The next day Pilafian taped me standing in the middle of camp as I filed my ABC report:

“We're at camp two, advanced base camp, altitude 21,600 feet, higher than the tallest mountain in North America. This is where the action is, where the climbing on the upper mountain begins. Right now the lead climbers and some of the Sherpas are hard at work on the Lhotse Face that rises just behind me. They have placed camp three halfway up this face, at 24,000 feet, and the lead climbers are now busy fixing more ropes toward the South Col, at 26,200 feet. There is a chance they will reach the Col later today. But it's a nasty day up there right now. It was five below zero in camp here last night, and it's safe to say it was much colder in the upper camp. The wind is blowing, too, making the apparent temperature even lower. On top of that, in order to conserve supplies the lead climbers are working without using bottled oxygen. They are optimistic that in a week or two at least a few of them are going to be standing on the roof of the world.”

Just as we finished, the Sherpa cookboy rang the lunch bell—a big spoon against a pot—and we gathered in the mess tent. First course was packaged onion soup, followed by stew made with yak meat. The cookboy was the same who had brought tea to Frank in base camp, and now he served our meal with the same spunk. He had also organized our mess tent, fitting stones into benches and stacking the cardboard shipping boxes as backrests. Some of our food, such as cereals, had been in flimsy boxes damaged in shipping and he had transferred these into aluminum pots. To help us know what was in each pot he had taken a marking pen and labeled the pots, copying the writing off the cereal boxes. One pot was labeled “Save 100” and the other “Special Offer.”

“Care for any Special Offer this morning?”

“No thanks. I’m going for the Save Ten Cents.”

After lunch it was time for the radio call with the lead climbers.

“Hello camp two. Do you read?”

“We got you Jim,” Ershler answered. “How did you two do?”

“You've got your camp four. We reached the South Col.”

There was a big cheer from our tent and when word made it to the Sherpas another cheer from their tent.

“That's great, Jim,” Ershler told States. “Now get your asses down here for a rest so you can get ready for your summit bid.”

“I’m going down to base tomorrow,” Ershler said when the radio call was over, “to make sure the Sherpas are organized with the final loads that need to come up to two. Larry is coming back up here tomorrow so that means all of the first team will be in place to begin their bid on May fifth, which will put them on top the seventh. I guess we'd better radio down to Wells and have him start up so he can begin acclimatizing. And Bass, if he ever comes back. Any word from him?”

“He sent a note up with a trekker and said he'll be back in base camp in a couple more days.”

“I’m not worried about him, anyway. He can catch up to Frank. But let's get Wells started up. He'll need all the acclimatization he can get.

The morning of his departure Frank awoke at 5:00, and base camp was still in cold shadow when he left at 6:00. The previous day two friends had trekked into Camp—Bill Sarnoff, an executive at Warner Communications, and his wife, Pam—and now they were up to send him off. It meant a lot to Frank to have them there: going through the Icefall might be old hat to these lead climbers but to Frank it was a major crux of his entire Seven Summits odyssey, and it was comforting having two friends who could appreciate the contrast of a climb through the Khumbu Icefall with a stroll down Rodeo Drive.

At the altar the Sherpas had the juniper incense burning and Frank stopped to breathe the smoke. Then making sure to leave the altar on his right he started toward the Icefall. Two Sherpas were with him. He had no pack—the Sherpas were carrying his gear—and he thought how the previous Everest climb he would have been chagrined to have someone else carry his load. But now it was okay; now he didn't have to prove anything.

For the first half hour the route was easy walking, then they entered the seracs and the angle steepened. Soon they were weaving among the ice towers, following the yellow polypropylene rope as it wove from one anchor to the next. At the first ladder sections Frank tepidly tested the rungs with his crampons. Even without a pack he felt awkward, but at least he was protected by his waist harness attached to a fixed line and which he used both as balance and safety.

It was a clear morning, and shadow light gave a blue softness to the ice that made it easy to forget you were in a dangerous place. Then, passing under a towering block, Frank was reminded that it was only a question of when the block would tumble, only a question of statistics that it wouldn't let go at that moment.

An hour and a half above base camp Frank was at the entrance to the Interconnect. This was the most chaotic section of the Icefall, and here the ice looked different. Above this section Frank could see the blocks were huge and tinged a light blue. Here, though, the ice was broken in smaller pieces that were fresh white from recent cleavage. For some reason this area was unusually active, and every couple of days a Sherpa crew had to come through it to replace ropes and ladders that had been snapped or crunched by the shifting ice blocks. As Frank climbed into the Interconnect he could see fragments of ladders and ropes from past expeditions sticking out of the ice like bones in a bulldozed graveyard.

To make 100 feet of direct line progress it was necessary to weave and wind 300. Frank felt he was moving well, though, and in a half hour he was through the Interconnect and into a zone of house-sized blocks just below camp 1. He felt good. Sunlight was inching down toward the Icefall, but he knew by the time it reached his path he would be most of the way up. In the still morning the only sound was his boots crunching snow and his forced breathing. Even the Sherpas were quiet, foregoing their usual chants: Maybe they sensed, as he did, that danger was behind, that all would be safe to camp 1.

His strength seemed to match his high spirits, and he kept an even, steady pace. He stopped once to look around. He thought, What an extraordinary place, to be so dangerous and at the same time so beautiful. To his right was an ice arch shaped like one of those sandstone structures in the American Southwest. Everywhere the blocks gleamed light blue. It was a fairyland place, not quite real, the land at the bottom of Alice's hole. One two-story block had a four-section ladder leaning against it. On top he balanced along a block that was like scaling the backbone of a sleeping dinosaur. Another ladder spanned a narrow chasm that appeared bottomless: looking down revealed nothing but black. Then the sun broke above the neighboring ridge and he lowered his goggles. In a half hour he could see just ahead the two tents at camp 1, and behind them his first view of the Western Cwm, the highest valley of its size on earth.

Frank was through the Icefall. He dumped his load in front of a tent and felt like giving out a shout.

Too bad Bass isn't here, he thought. This deserves a Tarzan call.

Looking in one of the tents he found a radio and managed to get Ershler down at base.

“Phil, I made it. I’m in camp one. Three hours flat! And I feel great. This may be my greatest day of climbing yet.”

Frank thought, That should take care of those who wondered whether I could get through the Icefall.

Frank peeked inside the tents to see if there was a place to spread his bag. Both tents were a mess: dirty pots, stained floors, soiled tea bags, spilled rice; the Sherpas were not good housekeepers. Frank pushed aside some soiled clothing to make room for his sleeping bag and pad, then lay down to read. He only finished one paragraph, though, when he set the book on his chest and considered the aluminum pot next to his head; it was half-full of some kind of brown gruel. Next to it was a spoon with the dried remains of the same concoction, and under the spoon a damp wool sock Frank guessed was an easy month past last washing.

He smiled, picked up his book and thought, This is probably as far as you can get from Beverly Hills.

But that wasn't a complaint. All in all, he wouldn't have traded that day for anything, anywhere.

While Frank was relaxing in camp 1 the first summit team made final preparations to depart the next morning to begin their ascent. They would first climb to camp 3, the next day to camp 4—the South Col—then in the predawn of May 7 begin the final climb to the summit. Our ABC high altitude cameraman David Breashears was planning to accompany the team to the South Col camp and perhaps even a short distance farther.

While Breashears, at age twenty-seven, was the youngest sahib on the expedition, he was also the most accomplished technical climber. He made his reputation while still a teenager when he showed up one day at the Boulder, Colorado, climbing cliffs while some locals were attempting unsuccessfully to scale what was considered the single most difficult route in the Rockies. The Kloberdanz Roof was a ten-foot wide overhanging ceiling that had then only been climbed once, and only when the climber had made a desperate but lucky lunge at a key hold. Some thought the route would never be repeated.

“It looks like there is a hold on the edge of the lip you could use,” Breashears said to one of the locals.

“Then why don't you give it a try, kid.”

Breashears climbed up the vertical wall to the roof, then hanging upside down like a fly on a ceiling made a series of smooth moves, reaching the key hold without lunging.

“Who is that kid?” one of the locals asked.

“Never seen him.”

So Breashears was given his nickname, the Kloberdanz Kid.

Breashears was also a very accomplished ice climber, and a highly skilled cameraman. He had been on Everest the year before filming a team attempting the then unscaled East Face. The expedition failed to reach the top, but Breashears later won an Emmy for his efforts.

While Breashears made last-minute adjustments to his camera, Pilafian and I were at camp 2 busy getting final interviews with the summit team. Roach said he felt confident he was about to make good his resolution after his 1976 failure and “finally get this Everest thing out of my blood.” Nielson too was ready to give it all he had even though without oxygen he knew his chances were reduced. What he didn't tell us, though (and what we wouldn't find out until later), was that for two days he had suffered nausea and dysentery. Still, he decided not to say anything for fear of missing his chance, and incredibly he still intended to try it without oxygen.