A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (15 page)

Brigitte, having caught our conversation, looked at me in a rather surprised manner: ‘You’ve just been all the way to the top and back?’

Henry, while trying to keep a straight face, turned to Brigitte and said, ‘Absolutely, I always like to check such matters thoroughly.’

None of us were able to control our urge to roar with laughter.

In only a matter of days, we would be at Base Camp. The innocence of these happy times would slowly begin to drift into the past.

April 1996

Everest Base Camp resembled an undulating disused rock quarry interspersed with small half-frozen lakes and blocks of ice. Set in a natural amphitheatre enclosed on three sides by the imposing Himalayan peaks of Nuptse, Lingtren, Pumori, the West Ridge of Everest and the Khumbu Icefall, this was to be home for the next two months. Within this mass of ice and glacial moraine, embryonic base camps had begun to appear. Approximately ten expeditions would be attempting Everest from Nepal this spring season.

Over the coming days, as more climbers began to arrive, the number of multi-coloured tents rose accordingly. Soon, each individual expedition’s base camp would be defined by the concentration of these conspicuous nylon domes placed within easy striking distance of their mess tent. Well-trodden paths developed between neighbouring camps as alliances and friendships between expeditions were formed or acquaintances renewed.

While our team members had been lounging at home or in their hotel in Kathmandu, the Sherpas had already been hard at work. For over a month, they had been preparing Base Camp for our arrival. A skilfully constructed stone-walled kitchen built from the rocks that lay around about stood on top of the glacier. To roof this temporary building, poles and tarpaulins had been employed. Measuring about 20 foot by 12, it was complete with seating benches, tables and work surfaces, all built from the same random stone collected from the copious amounts of glacial moraine.

By early April, another group of Sherpas, organised through Scottish climber Mal Duff’s commercial expedition, had undertaken a far more treacherous task. Fixing a sequence of ropes and aluminium ladders, they had forged a route up through the notorious Khumbu Icefall. This mass of ice, several hundred feet thick and a quarter of a mile wide at its upper reaches, becomes the Khumbu Icefall when the glacier flows out over the lip of the Western Cwm. At this point, the ice fractures, forming huge ice blocks the size of large buildings separated by seemingly bottomless crevasses. This colossal volume of ice fans out on a continual downward journey of up to three feet per day. At its lower end, two and a half thousand feet below, it is more than a mile wide. Here, Base Camp is located.

It was all too easy for climbers such as myself to arrive full of personal ambition, rather than appreciating how much difficult and dangerous work the Sherpas had already undertaken on our behalf. Consciences were absolved by the $2,500 each expedition had paid towards the cost of fixing the Icefall: a sum that also guaranteed its continual maintenance throughout the season. The latter task was taken on by two or three designated Sherpas known to the climbers as ‘Icefall doctors’. This was business; those who undertook this perilous task saw only a small part of the money collected. Although comparatively well paid, they had the unenviable responsibility of entering this labyrinth during the searing heat of the day. Their job was to check the fixings. Ladders could be twisted and bent, ice-screws loosen, ropes snap or complete sections, sometimes 250 feet in length, suddenly collapse, necessitating a completely new section to be fixed to re-establish the way through. Everyone knew, beyond any doubt, that they undertook the most hazardous work of anyone on the mountain.

My infinitely safer and much simpler task was to make a level platform on which to pitch my tent. There was an art to choosing the right sort of ground. Those less in the know often pitched their tents in small hollows, in the hope that this might offer some protection from the wind. However, only a matter of inches below all the tents lay the solid ice of the Khumbu Glacier. Experience had taught me that as time moved on and the temperature rose, the surface of the ice would melt, filling these small hollows with water. A better choice was on slightly raised ground, from which meltwater drained away. I also understood that the more time and attention I gave to preparing this platform, the proportionately better sleep I’d have during the several weeks of occupation. Almost three hours was given to this self-indulgent task.

Inside my newly erected tent I placed two full-length foam mats, a large top-quality pillow and a down sleeping bag, followed by the rest of my personal possessions. This temporary home was small and a little cramped yet undeniably comfortable. It contained everything I had brought with me except for my climbing equipment, which was stored in a large three-foot-tall weatherproof plastic barrel that stood next to the entrance of my tent. These sturdy blue barrels are more commonly used by industry for the storage and transport of chemicals and powders. Once sealed with the lid and its metal collar, they are airtight: a factor that, combined with their almost indestructible nature, had made these containers not only the preferred option for expeditions but also a prized and highly sought-after family possession among the Sherpa people.

Sitting outside my new accommodation, I watched the Sherpas as they moved large boulders, weighing many hundreds of kilos, using their combined strength, a sturdy pole and a small rock as a fulcrum point. They sang and laughed as they toiled, typical of their amazingly positive attitude to arduous tasks: an approach that had become an integral part of coping with the hardships in their everyday lives. They in turn admired strength, honesty and morality in those around them. Attributes not always shown by climbers coming to Everest.

Column after column of yaks arrived each day, bringing both equipment and supplies to this temporary settlement perched on top of the Khumbu Glacier – yaks that once unburdened turned around and disappeared down the same way they’d come only an hour or two earlier. Even these humble beasts of burden had more sense than to hang around any longer than was absolutely necessary in this harsh and inhospitable environment.

By the end of the first week in April, all our climbers, including Michael Jörgensen, had arrived. Life was beginning to settle into a peaceful routine. That was until we received a stark reminder of what dangers lay ahead.

There was news of an accident involving one of Rob Hall’s Sherpas. While travelling up the Western Cwm towards Camp 2 with some fellow Sherpas, Tenzing either neglected to clip into the fixed rope or had not been roped up to those he was with. Breaking through the fragile surface, he had plunged into a hidden crevasse. His fall to almost certain death had been halted by him luckily landing on a ledge of ice some way down. In the process, he’d shattered his knee. After being rescued from the depths of this icy tomb, he was tied flat onto a short section of aluminium ladder and evacuated back to Camp 1, situated at the lower end of the Western Cwm. The next day, he was to be stretchered down from here by a large number of Sherpas.

Watching from Base Camp, we could make out the 30 or so Sherpas high in the labyrinth of the Khumbu Icefall. They resembled a caterpillar of tiny dots. They slid, dragged and lowered the makeshift stretcher over the edges of huge towering blocks of ice, disappearing out of view for long periods at a time only to then emerge again around or over the next seemingly impossible obstacle. The rescue party arrived in Base Camp shortly before nightfall. It had taken them all day.

At 8 a.m. the following day, we were woken by the sound of an approaching helicopter. The injured Tenzing was being airlifted out for urgent medical treatment in Kathmandu. The whole incident came as a sombre warning to those who chose not to clip into a fixed rope because it appeared ‘safe’. Such decisions came with dire consequences. Safety, although always at the back of our minds, had been brought to the fore and with it my thoughts about the worry endured by those waiting back at home. The conclusion I came to was that we had to trust our judgement, as did they, otherwise neither could function effectively.

The episode brought poignancy to our team’s imminent Puja, for which preparations were complete. This Buddhist ceremony was to seek the blessing and safety of everyone involved, from cook boy through to the Sirdar and expedition leader: an inclusive event in the true sense of the word.

In readiness, the Sherpas had painstakingly built a square altar from random stone. It was about six feet high and three across, with a central hollow. During the course of the ceremony, the Puja pole would be lifted upright into this central space. About 25 feet in height, the pole had fastened to it, near the top, five ropes, each about 100 feet long with prayer flags tied down their entire length. Made out of thin cotton about twelve inches by eight inches, each flag, in a single colour of red, green, blue, yellow or white, had printed on it either an auspicious image or the script of a significant Buddhist prayer. These were also attached down the length of the Puja pole and on straight slender willow branches placed next to it. The ropes were secured at the other end to large boulders. These, along with stones jammed around its base, held the Puja pole upright. The end result resembled a maypole. Wafting proudly at the very tip of this sea of colour was the Nepalese flag.

An elderly monk had trekked, over a two-day period, all the way up from the monastery at Pangboche to perform the ceremony. Draped in the traditional deep-burgundy Buddhist robe and a not-so-authentic bright-yellow woollen hat, he sat cross-legged at a low table with an open prayer book in front of him. The low drone of his voice echoed around camp as he recited the script of ancient prayers. Every so often, the chants reached a crescendo, at which point he and the Sherpas sitting on either side of him would throw an offering of sampa (a finely ground wholemeal flour) and rice into the air.

The altar was both covered and surrounded by sweets, bottles of whisky, breads, tins of food and vegetables all placed there as offerings. Equipment such as ice axes and crampons were leant against the altar so as to be included in the blessing. A good Puja, with the due respect shown to the gods, would bring a successful and, more importantly, safe expedition for both Sherpas and climbers alike. The reverence shown by the climbers and their proper involvement in the Puja was expected.

No sooner had the Puja pole been hoisted upright than a red-billed Himalayan chough settled on top of it. A member of the crow family that normally feeds on insects and fallen grain, it was drawn to Base Camp by an easy meal. The food displayed around the altar played no small part in attracting this bird that spent the summer months in the high Himalaya. An aerial acrobat whose tumbling displays were a wonder to behold, its distinctive call of
kee-aw, kee-aw, kee-aw
was a regular daytime sound that echoed around Base Camp. A careful eye had to be kept on food, as if unattended it would quickly fall prey to these wily opportunists.

As the ceremony moved towards a climax, everyone faced the altar holding a handful of sampa. The chants reached a series of concluding crescendos. On each occasion, sampa was thrown into the air, covering everyone in this dusty flour. The offerings were complete.

Our Sherpas, lifted by the celebrations, began to drink some of the customary and much-awaited
chang
: a home-brewed rice-based drink that tastes not dissimilar to cider. This and cups containing whisky were proffered to all present. Now came the chance to celebrate, for our Sherpas to unwind. This was not a time for them to look towards all the hard work that lay ahead. The headaches from the excesses of chang would be enough to do that in the cold morning light of the following day.

One by one, the climbers retired for a late lunch. The Sherpas carried on into the afternoon and early evening. Nepalese folk songs rang through Base Camp, full of a sense of joy and happiness. The relaxing fragrance of burning juniper wafted easily in the air.

Circumstances had dictated that Henry needed to fly back to Kathmandu. Our oxygen supplies, and those that Henry was supplying to some of the other teams, had been held up in Customs over some paperwork. Other expedition leaders, most notably Rob Hall and Scott Fischer, had put pressure on him. They were beginning to worry about the oxygen they had been promised. Henry, concerned that bureaucracy could bog down these essential supplies, decided it was best to head back down to sort matters personally.

It was early one morning when Kami came to my tent with a worried look on his face. A meeting had been called at the Imax Base Camp, which all expedition leaders and their Sirdars were requested to attend. With Henry being away, Kami wanted to ask if I would accompany him. He was uneasy about going by himself and was looking to me for support.

As Kami and I entered the green Imax mess tent, the official manner of the proceedings was immediately apparent. At the far side was a long rectangular table at which David Breashears, Ed Viesturs, Rob Hall and Scott Fischer were seated as though in readiness for a formal inquiry. Around the edge of the tent sat various expedition leaders and their Sirdars, waiting for matters to commence. Most were unsure as to why they had been summoned to this unusual gathering. I was similarly perplexed.

The meeting began by the expedition leaders being asked if they could, in turn, introduce themselves and their Sirdar to all those present and to very briefly explain the nature or nationality of their expedition.

Rob went first, introducing himself as the leader of Adventure Consultants. His lanky appearance, dark beard, authoritative tone and self-assurance belied his 35 years. Scott soon followed with his own introduction, stating he was there in a similar role for Mountain Madness. Scott’s manner was more laid-back. His muscular stature, blond hair and clean-shaven, chiselled good looks brought with them a quiet confidence; this he was more than comfortable with.