Seven Summits (53 page)
“We will let you know the answer by this afternoon.”
Dick was in his hotel room when he received the call.
“We are sorry we cannot grant you a permit. Regulations do not permit it at this late date. If this had been done months ago, it would have been possible. But now it is out of our control.”
Dick lay on his bed, motionless. There was nothing else to do. This was it. The summit of Everest was not to be. The Seven Summits record was not to be—at least not for him.
“It wouldn't hurt so much if at least I’d been turned back by weather or by my own human frailties,” Dick told Breashears and Neptune.
Dick still couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. Why the seeming brick-wall refusal of the Katmandu officials to grant his request? After all, wasn't he helping a very worthwhile project?
There's got to be more to this than I know about, Dick told himself.
For the next several days Dick made the rounds, visiting every official he could get in to see. But each time he was given the same answer: there was nothing anyone could do.
He had given up when he got a call from someone who said he couldn't give his name but could give Dick some insight into why he couldn't get the permit.
“Basically, the problem is that the Katmandu press, influenced greatly by initial interviews with the Dutch team in August, has run several articles saying that you have bought the police off in order to get a climbing opportunity. Even though this isn't true, the Ministry of Tourism cannot now grant you a permit because they would then be open to the same charges and they fear it might become a Nepalese-style Watergate.”
Dick wasn't sure why this person was telling him this, but maybe he had been sent by some of the officials who were anxious to get him off their backs. Whatever the reason, it was clear there was no point in pressing any further for a permit.
“So I suggest you leave Nepal before you get any more bad publicity,” the Nepalese said.
“But all I was trying to do was help clean up the mountain.”
“I know that.”
“Well at least I’ve got to clear my name.”
“Then why don't you call a press conference.”
“I can do that?”
“Certainly. It would thrill the press—give them more to write about. Just make sure you talk to them directly.”
Then, as though to impress Dick with his command of English, he added, “In other words, don't beat around the bush.”
“Don't worry about that.”
Dick scheduled the press conference for the next day at his hotel, and when the reporters gathered he handed out a prepared statement. He wasn't sure anyone would read it, but at least the facts of the whole affair from his standpoint would be on record.
There were about a dozen reporters and all of them were reserved. Dick had already decided it was time to take the offensive.
He read his statement, which defended the Everest cleaning expedition and his participation in it, then added, “And as far as I can see, the only thing you guys seem to be interested in is creating sensationalism in order to sell newsprint. It was absolutely slanderous the way you characterized me as buying my way onto the expedition as though I were bribing people. I’ve never bought shortcuts on anything in my life. Furthermore, expeditions are always taking on people who help fund the climb. As you all know, that's what we did last year here on Everest on our German-American expedition and none of you said anything then.”
One of the reporters raised his hand. “How much did you give to Yogendra?”
“Every rupee I contributed went exclusively for expedition expenses,” Dick fired back. “And let me say this, too. That as long as I’m helping fund a climb, I’m much more proud to back one that's also doing some good besides just reaching the summit. How many of you have even been to your own mountains to see the litter? Go ahead, raise your hands. How many?”
No one raised his hand. In fact, some sank lower in their chairs.
“Two thirds of your economy is based on foreign aid, and not one penny of it goes to cleaning up the litter that is accumulating on your trekking routes and mountain slopes. Furthermore, much of your foreign exchange comes from tourists, and if you don't start cleaning up your own house, you'll find people will stop coming to visit you.”
None of the reporters said anything, but clearly they were impressed by the passion of Dick's speech.
“I’m telling all of you, you ought to be hugging me instead of vilifying me.”
That caused a smile.
There was a pause, then the reporter who had asked the question about Yogendra raised his hand again. “Mr. Dick, we know that you are a man who likes poetry. Could you recite us a poem before you leave?”
That caused another smile.
“Well, I don't know of a poem that fits this occasion, but I do know a suitable quote from Shakespeare. Do you know who he is?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Then here it is: ‘Who steals my purse, steals trash. ‘Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he who filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him not, and makes me poor indeed.’” Dick paused so his audience could absorb the meaning, then he said, “And that's what you buggers have been doing to me!”
Immediately the reporters stood clapping, and several walked up and gave Dick a shoulder pat and a handshake.
“Don't worry Mr. Dick,” one of them said. “We will get the story right this time.”
Well, at least I got that off my chest, Dick thought.
Gathering his papers and jamming them into the tattered and stained leather satchel he always carried with him, Dick then thanked everyone for coming, and headed for the door. Just as he left the room he saw a police officer with a grave look on his face running toward him.
“Mr. Bass, Mr. Bass …”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I have some bad news.”
“What's wrong … ?”
“From the mountain … Yogendra and one of the Sherpas, Ang Dorje,” the policeman blurted between pants. “Evidently they have tried to bring down … Mrs. Schmatz’ body … but this time they are without luck. They have fallen to their deaths.”
It was just like when Dick had held those miffed feelings toward Ed Hixson, and then Hixson had suffered a stroke the next day. And now this with Yogendra.
Once again it's God's way, Dick thought, of telling me never to harbor ill will toward my fellow man. Things had turned out bad enough, but now this—Yogendra and Ang Dorje. How could something so well intended turn out so tragically?
Now Dick only wanted to leave Katmandu as soon as possible. He wanted to go home, to put some distance and time between himself and Chomolungma, the cleaning expedition, the suspicions and jealousies of the people he had been dealing with.
Seven Summits has been so fantastic up to now. Why does it have to end like this? he thought.
He needed time to sort things out, to put them in perspective. What he really needed, more than anything, was to talk to his buddy Frank.
He looked at his watch. It was 1:00 in the afternoon.
I’d better wait a few hours, Dick thought. I wouldn't want to pull a Wells and wake him up in the middle of the night.
“I guess my schedule for climbing Everest just wasn't God's schedule,” Dick told Frank later that evening over the long distance satellite connection.
“At least you're still alive,” Frank replied. “Poor Yogendra.”
“You're right, Frank. I really don't have any problems by comparison.”
The two chatted about what Dick might do next. Frank asked if Dick had any plans while he was in Katmandu to investigate who had the Everest permit for next year.
“I don't know, Frank. I just don't want to think about it now. I’ll probably feel differently once I get home and rest for a few weeks. But right now I just need to put Everest out of my mind for a while. I don't even want to think about Seven Summits, especially since I imagine Pat Morrow has it in the bag.”
“Sure looks that way,” Frank answered. “He's got the DC-3 chartered, and they're scheduled to leave in less than a month. I don't see any way he can miss.”
On November 14, 1984—only two weeks after Dick returned to the States from Everest—Giles Kershaw landed the DC-3 Tri-Turbo in Santiago to pick up the Canadian Pat Morrow's Antarctic team. Besides Morrow there were several non-climbing passengers who were helping underwrite the plane's charter. The logistics of the flight were about the same as Frank and Dick's trip, except for one difference. This time they had arranged with the Argentine government to supply the refueling depot. Unlike the Chileans, the Argentines were not charging for the fuel, but they were asking that the expedition take as passenger an army general in charge of their Antarctic operations.
Kershaw was asked to pick up the general at Argentina's Hope Bay base on the extreme northern end of the Antarctic Peninsula, but he was reluctant because the landing strip there was on a snow-covered ridge exposed to winds that frequently sweep the area.
“Can't he get over to Marambio?” Kershaw asked. (Marambio was another base with a much better landing field.)
“This is not possible,” the Argentines replied.
“Then tell him to be standing at the landing zone with his kit bag ready. I don't want to stay there more than the time it takes to land and take off.”
When they landed the general was waiting, but instead of parka and boots he was outfitted in his dress uniform complete with ribbons, stripes, and medals. Kershaw left the engines idling while one of the team members disembarked to find out why the general wasn't ready.
“He wants everyone to stay for a party,” came the reply.
“Well tell the general to forget it. There's a storm on the way, and I’m not leaving this plane here.”
The general was insistent, however, and when the passengers who had chartered the plane told Kershaw it was politically important to do what the general wanted, he threw his hands in the air and tied the plane down into what he guessed would be the prevailing wind. As an extra precaution he had the Argentines park two snow cats over his wing anchors to make sure they wouldn't pull out of the snow. With much misgiving, but judging he had done everything he could, he followed the others down the hill to the base.
The storm started about 3:00
A.M.
There was nothing Kershaw could do but cross his fingers. By 9:00 next morning the base's anemometer indicated a wind speed of 70 miles an hour, and by noon 115 miles an hour. Kershaw stared out the window and saw a gust rip a rock from an outcrop and send it smashing into the side of one of the buildings. Any minute he expected to see windborne pieces of the aircraft.
The wind eased that afternoon but Kershaw, certain the plane was in pieces, couldn't bring himself to hike up to have a look, so the mechanic Rick Mason volunteered to go. Mason couldn't believe what he found. The winds had ripped the anchor plates right out of the old DC-3’s wings. She had then apparently spun nose to wind, jumping over one of the snow cats as she turned, then skidded back into the cat and began pushing it downhill toward the cliff. The plane went about 300 feet when the snow cat somehow dug into the ice stopping the plane just short of certain destruction.
When he heard the plane was at least intact, Kershaw hiked over to inspect the damage. The inside of the plane was filled with snow, and there was a three-foot drift in the cockpit. They could clean that out, but there was also a big hole in the wing where it had chafed against the snow cat.
“I can jury rig it with some sheet metal,” Mason said, lighting a Camel. “It'll get us back to South America, where we can make a better repair.”
In South America they fixed the wing and decided to make another attempt. This time, however, they would obtain fuel from the Chileans, just as Frank and Dick had done. Once more they took off across the Drake Passage but now headed for Rothera. Knowing that at least the Chileans were reliable, Morrow was once again optimistic he would soon be wearing the Seven Summits crown.
Partway down Rick Mason noticed a drop in the oil pressure of the left-hand engine. The engine was nearly new, and while he wasn't alarmed he made a mental note to check it when they landed five hours later.
Once again the British and Chileans were out to greet the plane. While everyone stood chatting in the warm sun, Mason unbolted the engine cowling to make his inspection. In a few minutes he motioned Kershaw to come over.
“Bad news,” Kershaw told the others when he came back. “Looks like the engine sucked in a piece of ice, probably from that storm at Hope Bay. Some blades are bent in the turbocharger. I’ll make a radio call to Pratt and Whitney in Montreal to see what they recommend.”
The next day Kershaw got his answer and made his decision. “I know we can take off here at sea level, but it's another story at 9,000 feet at the base of Vinson. I’m afraid there's no choice. There are fifty-one known plane wrecks in the Antarctic, and I don't want to become number fifty-two.”
So they once more returned to South America. Without the funds necessary to pay for the major engine repair, Morrow and his team had no choice but to call off the expedition.
The Seven Summits record remained up for grabs.
THIRD TIME WORKS THE CHARM
E
ven before word of Morrow's defeat got back to the U.S., Dick Bass had made up his mind.
“ ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,’ “ he told Frank over the phone. “Even in the wake of my last fiasco, I’ve got too much emotional investment in this Seven Summits dream to give up now, Pancho, so I’m going to try Everest again whether Morrow makes it up Vinson or not. At least I’ll be the oldest person to make all of them. Breashears is going to get in touch with the leader of a Norwegian team that has the permit for the South Col route this coming spring.”
“Wait a minute. Isn't that the team Bonington's on, the one he told us about in Antarctica?”
“That's right, and he said he'd put in a good word for me. You see, these Norwegians have already talked to Breashears about joining the team because they want him to film. So I’ve got two spokesmen lobbying for me, and I feel there's a fair chance.”