A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (24 page)

Throughout the second night, 11–12 May, the storm raged harder than the night before. By morning, both Beck Weathers and Makalu Gau, who’d both been placed in tents on the South Col, were miraculously still alive. The death toll on the south side of Everest stood at five: Doug Hansen, Andy Harris, Yasuko Namba, Scott Fischer and Rob Hall. Three Indian climbers lay dead on the northern slopes.

The feeling at Camp 2 was one of complete and utter shock. Everyone was drained of emotion. A numb feeling of emptiness settled over the whole mountain. No one could quite believe what had happened.

Over the next 24 hours, all the survivors who’d been caught out in the storm were evacuated down to Camp 2. In light of the serious injuries suffered by Beck Weathers and Makalu Gau, a helicopter was organised to collect them from the lower end of the Western Cwm. This rescue, I discovered later, came about due to immense pressure from the family and friends of Beck Weathers back in the United States and the resultant request of the US Ambassador in Nepal, such was the instantaneous speed of communications across the world. The flight would be a dangerous mission due to the altitude at which the helicopter needed to land. Even more difficult would be the subsequent take-off, with the added weight of its injured cargo. At 20,000 feet above sea level, the problem is the thinness of the air and the resultant lack of lift from the rotor blades. This mission was to be flown by a Nepalese Army pilot Lieutenant Colonel Maden K.C., who, we were informed, had volunteered.

For all teams on the mountain, the planned move was now in the direction of Base Camp. After picking at an early breakfast, I left Camp 2 in a sombre mood to make my way down the Western Cwm. It was 13 May. Half an hour into my descent, I saw to my left, and slightly off the established route, a gathering of 15–20 people. I presumed this consisted of members from several expeditions escorting Beck Weathers and Makalu Gau, who were awaiting the rescue helicopter.

Several hundred feet in front of me, but out of sight, I could hear the sound of rotor blades furiously slicing away, seeking what meagre lift they could find in the painfully thin air. As if part of an improbable scene out of an action movie, the helicopter appeared over the top of the Icefall, dark green in colour and bearing the red star of the Nepalese Armed forces on the side. It continued climbing far above 20,000 feet. The pilot, either full of adrenalin or expertly assessing the control of his machine, or both, flew high along the right flank of the Western Cwm, turning around near the Lhotse Face. The speed at which he flew the length of the Western Cwm indicated the pilot’s confidence and ability. He showed no nerves in the manner of his flying; it was confident and precise. Returning eventually to the large gathering of people, he brought his machine into the required position. Keeping the rotors spinning at a controllable speed, he briefly touched down to enable one of the casualties, Makalu Gau, to be loaded. Once the injured party was on board, he took off at a shallow angle using the forward motion to gain extra lift. Without any commotion, the Squirrel helicopter slipped out of the Western Cwm. Silence returned.

A short time later, having safely deposited Makalu Gau lower down, Maden K.C. bravely repeated the operation and collected Beck Weathers. Both of the injured parties were helicoptered back to Kathmandu that morning for immediate hospital treatment before transferring home.

The skill with which he flew the operation would gain him admiration from all those present on Everest that year, his fellow countrymen and from those anxiously waiting abroad. With each patient on board, the helicopter had been dangerously close to its limit. There had been no margin for error.

Makalu Gau, with severely frostbitten feet, hands and face, would go through 15 operations, during which his nose, fingers, toes and parts of his feet were amputated. His nose was reconstructed using plastic surgery and skin grafts. The soles of his feet were reformed using tissue taken from his arms. Makalu’s road to recovery was a long, slow and painful process; he needed to learn to walk again and manage even the simplest of tasks. Incredibly, he would eventually return to climbing.

Beck Weathers, badly frostbitten on his face and hands, also had to undergo many surgical procedures. His right hand, which had been frozen solid right up to the wrist, was amputated, as were good portions of his other hand. Similar to Makalu Gau, his nose and surrounding tissue were rebuilt by plastic surgery.

After he had apparently risen from the dead, it would transpire that 10 May and the long road to recovery would have a very positive influence on Beck’s life. His marriage had been under considerable strain, in no small part due to his personal climbing ambitions. He was a pathologist by profession, and the events of 1996 gave him a unique opportunity to focus on what was important in his life. These he would realise were his marriage, family and the joy of being alive. Beck, after considerable physiotherapy, returned to his medical career and would become a much sought-after speaker before professional, corporate and academic audiences.

After climbing down through the Icefall, I arrived at Base Camp an hour later. My descent was slow as I woefully reflected on the events of the previous few days. The atmosphere in Base Camp was one of sad contemplation as gradually more facts came to light about what had happened on 10 May through to the morning of 11 May. Mistakes had been made.

The day after my arrival back at Base Camp, a memorial service was held for those who had died. This was attended by almost everyone. Various people spoke remorsefully, some spoke because they felt they had to, but only one stuck in my mind. An older gentleman stood up to speak towards the end of the proceedings. Pete Schoening at the age of sixty-eight was a Himalayan veteran who’d sprung to fame some forty-three years earlier when his quick reactions single-handedly saved the lives of five of his fellow climbers on K2. He made a comparison between the situation of those who’d been caught in the storm of 10 May and an emergency in warfare. In both instances, it was to be expected there would be a lack of communication and difficulties in understanding what had happened before an effective rescue plan could be put into place. He said we all should be proud of the help that was given and to accept that errors will happen when understanding and responding to a disaster. Wise words. I suppose in essence he was saying don’t be too harsh on yourselves, you did as well as anyone else could have, given the circumstances.

16 May 1996

The topic of discussion in our Base Camp now centred on whether we should continue with the climb or pack up and leave. The feelings were mixed, but undoubtedly the drive to reach the summit was greatly diminished following the tragic loss of so many lives. The decision for each climber was a personal one. My eventual conclusion was that I’d have felt selfish in the light of other people’s grief to continue the climb for my own ambition. This was not the year for me to reach the summit of Everest from Nepal. The mountain would be there another year. One by one, each of our climbers would come to the same conclusion: to head home.

Our Sherpas were visibly relieved; the expedition looked as though it was coming to an end. The ‘karma’ was not good. Everest was angry: a sign the gods were displeased. They too had families to return to. The hard and dangerous work they undertook was difficult enough at the best of times. Preying heavily on their minds were the disastrous events of 10 May.

Unlike those unfortunate climbers who’d lost their lives, I was going home to my wife and two daughters. My thoughts were of the pain and anguish being endured by the families and loved ones of those who’d died. I felt a deep-rooted sense of guilt. Why had no one asked us for help? We had been 50 feet from their tents on the South Col. We could have put out a rescue. Were they hoping the problems would somehow sort themselves out or was this a tragic lack of communication? There are some in our team who felt, after the event, that it would have been embarrassing for these high-dollar teams to ask for help from a low-budget expedition such as ours at an early stage of their problems. If so, they underestimated how quickly and lethally circumstances could change at high altitude. I sincerely hope this was not the case. Once our evening radio call was finished, the radio was turned off, so that avenue of help was closed.

There remained the possibility of getting those of their teams who were on the South Col to raise the alarm with us. We were a team freshly onto the South Col with full oxygen supplies. We were ten in number: five experienced high-altitude Sherpas and five climbers. At no point during the night of 10 May through until early morning on 11 May did anyone ask us for help or tell us there was a problem with the other teams.

Had the storm come in a while later, our team members might have been hit by this fury, not them. Why had fate and misfortune struck their teams and not us? Was it just the luck of the draw? I realised how close we’d come. The difference between life and death can be a split second. In this case, from our team’s perspective, it had been the day on which we’d arranged to make our summit bid. Originally we’d been going to make our bid on 10 May: the same day as Rob’s and Scott’s teams. Then Rob had asked if we’d hang back one day and go on 11 May instead. This agreement with Rob, as it turned out, might have saved us from the ravages of the storm that hit Everest late in the afternoon on 10 May 1996. Why had they kept climbing upwards when lower down we could see the weather hadn’t been settled enough for at least two days prior to their summit attempt?

The futility, the hollow feeling that our endeavour was not worth the price that had been paid, brought back painful memories of three years earlier. On that occasion, I was on a post-monsoon expedition on the north side of Everest. We’d been joined by a Shuttle astronaut, Dr Karl Heinz, who at the time was carrying out research for NASA. I was sharing a tent at Advanced Base Camp with Karl. He’d filmed me as I set off to spend a night higher on the mountain. When I returned less than 24 hours later, he was dead. He’d died from altitude sickness or, more precisely, pulmonary oedema. I could still remember being told the devastating news by Jon Muir, Brigitte’s husband, as I walked into camp. I’d sat down, without taking my rucksack off, and stared blankly towards the summit of Everest for what seemed like an eternity. Tears had filled my eyes as I tried my utmost to remain in control, the sadness and emotion overwhelming me. What a waste of a wonderful life. A man who’d been into space lay dead from altitude sickness; it did not make sense. Neither did the events of 10 May 1996.

The joy I’d felt while hatching my plan in the far reaches of Argentina to climb Everest that year, all the effort made to bring it into reality, disappeared into a grey shadowy depression. As I picked up various pieces of equipment to pack them away for my departure, I saw them in a dispassionate light. A few days before, each piece had been a vital link in ensuring my survival and well-being. Now they appeared as objects with no significance to my life at all.

Within a day or so of the memorial service, I departed from Base Camp alone. Not to go back up through the Icefall as others would do in the weeks to come but in the opposite direction: down.

My departure came shortly after lunch and, as it turned out, on the same day that most of Scott’s clients had also left to begin their journey home. I arrived at the village of Pheriche in the early evening as the last glimmers of daylight were fading from the sky. Drawn by the lodge with the most lights on, I ended up staying at the same establishment as the clients from Scott’s team. Initially, I didn’t take notice of the other guests, most of whom were either eating their evening meal or gathered around the hot stove in the centre of the large square dining room. It wasn’t until the morning, when I saw some of them had small individual bandages on the ends of their fingers, that I realised who my fellow lodgers were. The dressings were being removed so they could bathe their fingers in warm water containing an antiseptic. Although I could see no significant injuries, they were, from their conversation, suffering from mild frostbite or frostnip. Considering the storm these climbers had endured, their physical injuries were slight. However, I had no doubt the mental scars would remain with them for many years to come.

Quietly eating my breakfast, I observed, several feet away, an attractive-looking lady with short- to medium-length brown curly hair. She was sitting alone in the corner of the lodge nearest the windows. I smiled without speaking, a smile that was returned as she emerged from her trance-like state: a feeling we have all experienced at one time or another when our thoughts are miles away. I didn’t know, at that moment in time, the lady’s name or who she was. I would see the same person very differently a few days later.

Soon there was a buzz about the lodge: talk of Kathmandu, hot showers, clean clothes and other luxuries of everyday life. Although the mountain airstrip at Lukla was two to three days’ walk away, I heard the words ‘by this afternoon’. It transpired that the lady who’d been sitting near to me had chartered a helicopter, at a cost of around $2,500, to fly from Kathmandu to Pheriche to collect her. I gathered there was room for up to five passengers, therefore four other members of her group had been offered a quick hop, about an hour’s flight, back to the modern world.

Around 9.30 a.m. came the familiar sound of rotor blades approaching. After a quick flurry of activity, I saw the waiting passengers disappear eagerly out of the door. Within minutes, the helicopter had been and gone. The peaceful sounds of everyday life once again descended, as did a look of envy on the faces of other members of their team, who faced a long walk before they could catch their own flight back to Kathmandu.

Over the coming days, on the trail down to Lukla, I was to share both meals and accommodation with some of Scott’s team. The events of 10 May naturally dominated the conversation. Their need to talk, to make sense of what had happened, was both necessary and understandable. My role at this time was to listen, not to criticise; the grief and anguish were too recent. The mistakes and blunders that had been made by the two teams had been basic and deadly. No one needed to tell them; they knew it.