Seven Summits (32 page)

Feeling better, he looked out again over the remote fastness of Tibet, down on the glaciers like flows of frozen lava spilling from the peaks and onto the sere, umber earth. Then the corner of his eye caught something closer at hand, about thirty feet away. It was faded orange and red.

“What in the world?”

The others turned.

“My God,” Hixson exclaimed.

“It looks like a body.”

“It's gotta be Mrs. Schmatz.”

They had all heard the story. Mrs. Schmatz had been the wife of the leader of a German expedition in 1979. Up to the time of the tragedy their climb had been a notable success, having in only thirty-two days placed all team members on top, including Mrs. Schmatz. She and three others, one of whom was Ray Genet, the foremost guide on McKinley and a legend in his own time, plus two Sherpas, were the second group to reach the summit. On their descent, about halfway back to high camp, she and Genet decided to bivouac without sleeping bags or tent because she was so tired. It became a bitterly cold night, and when dawn finally broke, Genet was dead. One of the Sherpas returned to them from the South Col, tried to get her moving, but she managed only a few steps when she too collapsed and died. That Sherpa, Sungdare, seriously frostbitten, continued down alone. He lost several toes, but since then has gone on to climb Everest three more times—more than anyone else.

Now they stared at her, frozen in the place where she had died. She was lying face-down, her head turned away from them. Dick could see she was half in the ice; her clothes, a parka and windpants, were sunbleached but intact.

“I sure don't feel like going over and having a close look.”

“Me neither. Let's go.”

They shouldered their packs, and were about to start when Dick spoke up. “What do you say I trade this second position with someone. I’m afraid I might burn out before we get to the top.”

Dick still felt good, but he was concerned, having heard the stories about how easy it is to drain your energy at this altitude. He was now much higher than he had ever been, and he didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. One of the Sherpas took his second position on the lead rope while he tied to the rear of the second rope, with Yogendra and Hixson. Soon they passed the equipment cache that Frank would use to establish a high camp on his ascent; that meant they were at about 27,300 feet. A rope length above the cache the snow started to deepen, and their pace slowed. It was a minor nuisance for Dick and the other two on his rope, but for the Sherpas up front it was a strenuous task: the lead man had to lift each foot as high on the slope as he could, then pack it until the snow supported his weight—usually not until after he had sunk to his thigh—then lift the other leg out of its hole and strain to place it as high as possible. At high altitude such postholing, in order to keep after it hour upon hour, requires an undistracted lust for the summit.

Now each Sherpa could lead only for a little distance before rotating the lead to the one behind. Looking up, Dick could see the Sherpas had reached the crest of the southeast ridge and were sitting together, resting. Dick still felt strong. For the last two hours he had been climbing on only one liter a minute oxygen flow; he was confident he now had gas reserves sufficient to reach the top. As he approached the crest he could feel the wind start to build; they were high enough to begin losing the shelter of the lee. But the wind wasn't bad. There were a few clouds building too, but again they didn't seem bad. Everything looked good; he was confident they would make the top.

Yogendra reached the Sherpas, and sat down next to them; Dick could see they were discussing something. Then Hixson joined the discussion. Dick couldn't make out what they were saying while he continued climbing toward them. When he was within twenty feet Hixson turned toward him and said, “Well Bass, this is as far as we go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Sherpas have had it. They don't want to go any higher.”

“What should we do?”

“Go back down.”

“Back down?”

“If we go on we'll slow down even more and I’m afraid we'll run out of oxygen. And with this group, we're very dependent on it. Plus it's steep here, the snow is unconsolidated, and if one of us slips, I don't think the other could hold him.”

There he goes again, Dick thought. What he means is, if he slips,
I
won't have the ability to hold
him.

“But we're so close,” Dick said.

“I’m worried if we tried to push on we might get stuck on the way down in the dark.”

“Well, hold on a minute. Let me think.” Dick hunkered over his ice axe, then looked up. Above and to the right was the summit. They were almost at the 28,000-foot level, only 1,000 vertical feet and less than a mile distant from the top. Dick knew he had the strength to make it. More than enough strength. In fact, he felt great. Should he go alone, then?

He looked down. The clouds below were building and the wind was picking up.

He thought, It'd be my luck to take the gamble and then have the weather trap me up there so I’d end up like Mrs. Schmatz.

Dick had promised his family he would above all be prudent, and not take any foolish risks. To go alone was definitely contrary to that promise.

If only I had someone strong, Dick thought. A good rope leader with the background experience to get up and down this thing in one piece.

So what to do? He recalled how Frank had always said that if he himself couldn't make it his first attempt, he wanted to have the supplies necessary to try again. Dick considered the possibility: there was still oxygen at the South Col, and these Sherpas had with them right here three full bottles that they could cache at this spot. That would be more oxygen than he would need. Why couldn't he follow Frank's backup strategy, then? Especially since he felt so strong. It would be a little more work to go down and come back up, but at least this initial effort wouldn't be a complete waste: first, they had this oxygen up here, and second—and much more important—this would be valuable experience. The second time he would know what it is like at 28,000 feet; he would know it would be within his physical strength. That mental comfort alone was worth the effort of this first attempt.

Dick thought, So I’ll go down to camp two, get a fresh Sherpa group together, come back up and climb this beauty.

“Okay,” he said to Hixson, “I guess you're right. Let's go down.”

Dick watched the Sherpas cache their extra oxygen in the snow so he could use it for his next attempt. While taking the extra bottles out of the Sherpas’ packs, though, they discovered that one of them, Ang Dali, had failed to open the control knob. No wonder he had been so slow: he had been climbing all morning without supplemental oxygen, trying to breathe through a useless mask and as a consequence rebreathing his own spent air while carrying two bottles weighing seventeen pounds each. This Sherpa, throughout the expedition, had been very strong, always carrying the heaviest loads, but now, as they started the descent, he was completely spent and near useless.

Hixson, ever-more worried that if one of them slipped he might pull the others off the slope, insisted they belay their descent. After an hour of this, though, it became obvious it was not really necessary and was taking far too much time. It took them nearly four hours to get down to camp 4, everyone except Hixson. He obviously was feeling very tired, and he sat down for nearly an hour before crossing the Col to camp. Dick figured Hixson's high anxiety level up above had drained him. When he finally joined them, they called camp 2.

“What's going on? Where are you?” Ershler inquired intently.

“South Col. We turned back at the Southeast Ridge,” Dick said.

“Why?” Ershler shot back, having seen the weather look good from below.

Dick couldn't hide his deep frustration and disappointment. “The team quit me. The Sherpas were worn out from postholing and Ed didn't want to chance it without them. Yogendra was noncommittal.”

“Will you try again in the morning?”

“How can I? I certainly can't go alone, and this bunch has had it. I’m coming down to get some fresh Sherpas and try again in a few days, after Frank's team.”

“How's Hixson? Will he go back up with you?”

“I’m not sure. You talk to him.”

“Hello camp two, this is Ed Hixson.”

“Ed, will you go back up with Dick?”

“No, I’m very tired. I don't intend to try again. Dick is apparently feeling much better and should try again. We'll be down tomorrow.”

The next morning Dick woke early, but there was no reason to get up right away since it would take no more than a few hours to get down to camp 2. So he lay in his bag, thinking about his plan to come back up. Then Hixson called from the neighboring tent.

“Dick, are you dressed?”

“Not yet.”

“When you are, could you come over.”

“Be there in a few minutes.”

Dick leaned over and started the stove. He thought, This next attempt is going to be a pleasure since I won't have a lot of anxiety over the unknown. I still have that Hillary Step ahead of me, but I’m sure I can handle it. Then it's just a stroll along the ridge to the summit, and I’ll have this one in the bag.

He made tea, then sat up in his bag and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug.

“Dick, can you come over here?” Hixson called again.

“I’m sorry, Ed. I got sidetracked. Just a minute, I’ll put my clothes on.”

Yogendra had come over from his tent to join Dick for breakfast, so he was already dressed and left the tent to see what Hixson wanted.

In a minute Yogendra called back, “Dick, come here quick.”

Dick, half in his clothes, bolted out and over to Hixson's tent. He stuck his head in and saw Hixson in his sleeping bag, his face waxen.

“Ed, what's wrong?”

“I think I’ve had a stroke.”

“What! You've got to be kidding.”

“I woke up and couldn't move my right arm. At first I thought I’d slept on it wrong. It was warm to the touch but totally paralyzed. Then I realized the right side of my neck was numb, and down through part of my trunk.”

“Good Lord. What should we do?”

“Don't know if we can get help from below in time. My legs are okay, though. Maybe I can get down myself.”

“Well let's pack and get out of here immediately.”

Dick hurried back to his tent and started throwing his gear together. Now guilt swept him. He thought, Thank heaven I didn't berate Hixson into going higher. This must be God's way of chastising me for having had ill thoughts about Ed.

In minutes Dick was packed, and then he was over to help Hixson, who was now out of his tent, being helped by Ang Dali. He could stand on his feet, but he was off-balance, obviously weak and faint. They strapped his crampons on.

“I just can't believe you've had a stroke, Ed.” Dick said.

“It sometimes happens at high altitude. Caused by the thick blood you get living in thin air for a long time. Now I’m worried if there's a clot I might have another stroke as we start moving.”

It was only a few hundred yards to where the fixed rope started, but to get there they decided to rope Hixson to the Sherpas; they would have more strength and skill in arresting a fall if Hixson were to slip. They started down the slope, which at first traversed gently, then steepened as it approached the Lhotse Face. Just before the steep part of the route, Hixson crumpled.

Oh, my God, Dick thought, he's going to die.

When Dick caught up to him, Hixson was already on the radio to camp 2: “My right side seems to be partially paralyzed. Probably a stroke.”

“Where's Bass? Let me talk to him,” Ershler urgently demanded. Hixson handed Dick the radio.

“Ersh, this is Bass.”

“Is Hixson on oxygen?” Ershler asked.

“Oh no, I didn't even think of that,” Dick exclaimed. He looked up; they were now some distance below camp. “It'll take over a half hour to climb up and get a bottle.”

“Oxygen is at Japanese camp,” one of the Sherpas said pointing downhill a hundred yards to ruins of two tents where a Japanese team had placed a camp last year.

“But we don't have a regulator.”

“I have one in my pack,” the Sherpa said.

“Let's pray it fits.”

They helped Hixson to his feet. He still had partial use of his right leg and managed to hobble. As soon as they reached the campsite, Hixson rested while the Sherpas dug with their ice axes in the snow. They found a bottle and quickly turned the valve: empty. Then another: empty. Dick, waiting with Yogendra on the trail a little above in case they had to return to the South Col for oxygen, watched in disbelief. Three bottles, four, five—all empty.

Dick thought, Hixson will die because I didn't even think to get him on oxygen while we had some at camp four.

Then one of the Sherpas found another bottle, and pulled it out. Dick held his breath as they cracked the valve. Empty.

Dick slumped. He thought, I should climb back to camp right now as fast as I can. It will take time, though, without oxygen. Lord, it will take time.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and steeled himself to the task of going back up. Then he heard a noise, a loud hiss. He turned. One of the Sherpas, holding a tank, was quickly closing its valve. With a big smile the Sherpa carried the full tank to Hixson, secured the regulator, which thankfully fit, and held the mask over Hixson's mouth.

Five minutes later Hixson said, “I’m feeling much better. Getting warm, and I can feel my leg coming back.” He stood, then said, “Okay, let's go.”

They started slowly, but as Hixson continued to breathe the oxygen at maximum flow their pace quickened and soon they were descending at full speed. As they neared camp 3 Dick could see five people in front of the tents. Soon he could distinguish Frank and Steve Marts with several of the Sherpas; he remembered Frank was on the way up for his summit attempt. At the camp they had hot soup ready for Hixson, who soon left to continue the descent to camp 2. Dick stayed awhile to tell Frank about his summit attempt and Hixson's calamity that morning.

“And when are you coming back up?” Frank asked.