A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth (5 page)

The summit of Everest, although very real, was a momentary existence. My life, family and everything I knew lay far below. It felt as though I was on the edge of another world, a place where lethal mistakes in judgement are made. The thread that attached me to reality seemed very thin indeed, yet within me, the understanding that it was imperative I leave this magical place was very strong.

Cranking my oxygen back on, I heaved up my rucksack once more. Pulling the mask back over my mouth, I began to descend. I felt compelled to glance back, once. I needed to cast my eyes over the deserted summit. I tried to imagine what horrifically ferocious weather the pinnacle of our planet must endure in the depths of its worst storms. In the exact place where I had momentarily stood.

At the end of the undulating ridge was the beginning of the deep snowfield. Here, I came across Anatoli leaning against a rock.

‘How far to summit, Graham?’ he asked in his wonderful Russian accent.

‘About 20 minutes,’ I replied.

Removing my mask, I sat down next to him. We chatted in a relaxed manner about the weather and condition of the route. It was as though we’d bumped into each other in a cafe in Kathmandu rather than on a rock at the top of the North Face of Everest, at nearly 29,000 feet. It was so matter-of-fact and showed the level of confidence and self-reliance we each had in that situation. To me, it was a very special few minutes. It is an episode that I will not forget.

The final piece of humour between us happened moments after I had pulled on my mask and started down the deep snow slope. Facing inward, I punched my hands and feet into the snow alternately from side to side as I descended.

I heard Anatoli shout from above, ‘I like the way you go down, Graham.’

I smiled without looking up and kept going.

I passed Nikolai some time later, at the top of the Second Step. We didn’t speak. He raised his head and held his hand up in acknowledgement. He moved on, slowly and inexorably upwards.

As I retraced the route back down, I looked back towards the summit. I could see the weather was beginning to change. Clouds were forming and the wind was starting to pick up. Hurrying on, I reached the camp we’d left in darkness some ten hours earlier. It was now around midday. Collecting my personal equipment, I continued my descent to our next camp at 25,900 feet. Here, the expedition had a single tent, known affectionately as the ‘Anatoli tent’. The Sherpas had placed it there three weeks earlier for acclimatisation runs. However, Anatoli, fully aware of the north side’s reputation for wind, had decided it needed to be bulletproof. He’d fastened it down with rope, like a cargo net, to the point that it could withstand some fearsome winds.

When I was within sight of this tent, my second oxygen bottle finally ran out. Tiredness filled my whole body as my pace slowed over the last 50 yards. I was drained of energy, not only from the physical effort but also the mental concentration. I now felt a sense of release.

Surveying the route I’d descended, I could see no signs of Anatoli or Nikolai. I unpacked my sleeping bag and settled on top of it. I had no wish to move another inch. Here, I lay motionless for a good two hours, recuperating from the day’s toil, and there I could have quite happily remained until the following morning. However, logic had to take control. Work needed to be done. Being first back, it was up to me to prepare for the possible arrival of Anatoli and Nikolai. Like myself, I knew they might choose not to spend the night at the top camp. Instead, they could head further down to the tent I now occupied. I went outside and collected snow to start boiling water.

It was four hours after I’d reached the tent that Nikolai arrived. He unzipped the tent and threw himself in, landing on top of me in the process. Looking at his face, I could see no expression. His eyes spoke for him, saying, ‘Thank God I’m back.’

I handed him a hot drink. He sat there watching the steam rise from his lukewarm tea, the effort to sip being too much for him to contemplate. After a while, he managed to tell me, in the handful of English words he’d mastered, that Anatoli was going to spend the night at the top camp.

The weather continued to deteriorate. By late evening, the wind was blowing full force, horrendous. The flapping of the tent was so loud that it was painful to the ears. My recurring thought was, ‘Thank goodness Anatoli spent so much time fastening down the tent.’ However, the fact the tent was well secured didn’t mean that it couldn’t rip apart. As we lay there during the hours of darkness, the furiously gusting wind kept bending in the sides of the tent, distorting the structure into unnatural shapes. Despite our success in reaching the summit, things could still go terribly wrong. We were not off the mountain yet. We were under the control of Everest, Chomolungma, the Tibetan Mother Goddess of the World. I couldn’t help but think of the consequences if the tent ripped apart or, worse, the fastenings came loose. Although well placed, it was only about twenty feet from the edge of a steep 5,000-ft drop to the glacier far below. If the tent failed, we would have been ill prepared and had little chance of controlling what might follow. Clambering out of my sleeping bag, I got dressed into my full climbing equipment. Once ready, I encouraged a dazed Nikolai to do the same. I don’t think he was really aware of what was happening or of the potential danger we were in. Now both fully dressed, I urged Nikolai to sit alongside me. We placed our backs to the side of the tent that was being forced inwards by the fiercely gusting wind. We sat there for hours, protecting our shelter, ready to abandon it should it start to rip or, worse still, begin to move. Shortly after dawn, around 6 a.m., the wind suddenly abated. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed my already packed rucksack. I signalled to Nikolai that I was heading down without delay. Within moments, I was gone.

One hour later, I was on the North Col, bathed in the warmth of the morning sun: a stark contrast to the night before. Here, two other members of our expedition, Crag Jones and Michael Jörgensen, were preparing to move up for their attempt. Michael, aged 28, was from Denmark, a humorous yet quietly driven and very capable climber. Crag, aged 33, was a proud Welshman who wore his heart on his sleeve, a wonderful character with a wealth of climbing experience.

Within ten minutes of meeting Crag for the first time, back in late March of that year, I discovered he’d been at Bangor University in North Wales with my younger brother Adrian. The two of them had been good friends. Small world!

At the time I arrived back on the North Col, Crag was busy assisting Leo Dickinson with his filming. Leo, one of the world’s leading adventure filmmakers, was present on Everest that year to shoot a documentary. The subject matter was British-born American Tom Whittaker. Some 16 years earlier, Tom had been involved in a serious car accident in the US. This had resulted in his right foot being amputated and left him with two badly damaged knees. Fitted with a prosthetic specially designed for climbing, he was attempting to make the first disabled ascent of Everest. For this he had joined a commercial expedition led by seasoned operator Russell Brice.

Crag, swept up by his impending stardom in Leo’s footage, almost forgot why we were there. In a slightly embarrassed Welsh accent he complimented me on reaching the summit. ‘Sorry, I nearly forgot, well done, mate. Congratulations.’

I explained to Crag that Anatoli had spent the night in the top camp and that Nikolai, although tired, should be on his way down from the camp above.

After abseiling over the edge of the North Col, I was back in Advanced Base Camp for breakfast. Wearing his bright-red down jacket, Henry was waiting for my arrival. His eyes let slip his feelings.

‘Hey, man, well done,’ were Henry’s opening words. I received a crushing hug. ‘Come and get some tea, Graham,’ he said, leading the way to our green canvas cook tent. ‘I want to hear about your climb.’

He was justifiably proud of how his climbers were performing. More were heading up. His hard work, all his careful planning, was paying off.

Our Sherpas had also come out to welcome me back. This was a dangerous game we played; they worried for our safety. With their generous smiles, they shared in my joy and relief at returning from a successful climb. Only one of them, Neema, had been to the summit before, but this had been from the other side of the mountain. The others hoped one day that they might get their turn. Such an accolade increased their chances of future employment. Each year, expeditions went out of their way to secure the services of those who had been to the top. They were paid more. The Sherpas were well aware of this fact – and of the greater risks they would need to take to earn the extra money.

Anatoli got back to Advanced Base Camp later that morning. It would be another 24 hours before an extremely tired Nikolai would arrive.

The next morning, with equipment packed, I said my farewells to the Sherpas and my fellow teammates. I departed from Advanced Base Camp on the 12-mile trek over the ice and moraine of the East Rongbuk Glacier. It would be the last time I would need to make this tortuous journey. Four thousand feet lower down, the relative comfort of Base Camp beckoned.

A sense of relief and renewed strength accompanied me on this journey. I felt a huge weight had been lifted, as though I didn’t have a care in the world. Ambling rather than striding out, I took time to absorb the splendour of the frozen world that surrounded me. I now appreciated it as a natural wonder rather than as an obstacle to overcome.

My arrival at Base Camp came several hours later, around mid-afternoon. Here, an American expedition led by Paul Pfau was in the process of taking down its communications tent: a luxury that our team couldn’t afford. Their encampment was adjacent to ours. His climbers had summited a day or two before me. They were preparing to leave for home. Seizing the opportunity, I rushed across to ask if I might make a phone call before it was finally dismantled. I would pay, of course. I hadn’t spoken to my wife, Catherine, in over two months. I was eager to tell her of my success.

‘No problem,’ was the reply.

As the person in charge of the satellite phone tapped in my number, I got a horrible feeling I’d get the dreaded answerphone. It was a weekday and there might be no one at home.

The phone rang four or five times before I heard Catherine’s faint voice: ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, it’s Graham here,’ I replied.

‘Hi, how are you?’ came Catherine’s excited voice.

‘Now listen carefully,’ I said, ‘I’m on a satellite phone and I can’t stay on for long. I reached the summit of Everest on the morning of 17 May. I’m back in Base Camp now. I want you to book a flight on Biman Airlines and meet me at the Gauri Shankar Hotel in Kathmandu in one week’s time, on Saturday, 27 May.’

‘What about work?’ Catherine asked.

She must have sensed how I felt about that because she paused.

‘Who gives a stuff about what work thinks? This is once in a lifetime. This is not up for negotiation,’ were my instant thoughts. Luckily I didn’t have to spell it out.

‘OK, I’ll sort that out,’ was the next thing Catherine said. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’

‘Remember, Biman Airlines. They’ll do you the best deal on a flight and will almost certainly have spare seats at short notice. Look forward to seeing you on Saturday,’ were my parting words.

The gentleman in the communications tent exuded a glorious smile. These were the calls that made his position worthwhile: the pleasure of witnessing people break such unique news to their families.

Calls from satellite telephones in those days were expensive, as was the equipment. The briefest of conversations had cost me $45. It was worth every penny, and a lot more.

Henry’s philosophy with regard to his climbers once they’d either summited or had decided to make no further attempt was that from then on they became little more than a drain on resources. This was not an uncaring attitude, rather a practical one. Henry was not there to hold people’s hands; he found those who expected constant attention irritating. He preferred those with a degree of independence. My equipment would be taken back to Kathmandu for me when the expedition finally broke camp. Meanwhile, it was up to me to sort out my personal transport arrangements.

I rose early the next day to find the American expedition pulling down the remainder of their tents. They were preparing for an imminent departure. Pre-arranged trucks and Land Cruisers had gathered nearby. These were being loaded with several tons of equipment. Spotting an opportunity for a lift across the Tibetan Plateau into Nepal and on to Kathmandu, I approached Paul Pfau. I enquired if there might be any chance of hitching a ride. I was told to pack my things and stand by. He wasn’t sure but was hopeful that there might be space. One by one, these four-wheel-drive vehicles departed. Each of their available seats was filled by an awaiting climber. Then came the call: ‘OK, Graham, we can fit you in.’

All I had time for was a hurried goodbye to our Base Camp Sherpas. Eagerly I dragged my rucksack and holdall across to the nearby truck to be loaded. With a renewed liveliness, I clambered into the rear of their last Land Cruiser to begin my journey home.

Soon Base Camp began to fade into the distance. Clouds of dust were thrown up in our wake as the convoy made its way along the dirt road. Laughter, the talk of modern comforts and our recent climbs occupied the conversation.

I was fascinated to find out that amongst their number was the grandson of George Leigh Mallory of 1924 fame. He’d also been named George Mallory and had reached the summit of Everest three days before me. His family had long since moved from his grandfather’s beloved England and now resided in the southern hemisphere. He’d signed up with this American expedition to enable him to tread in his grandfather’s footsteps.

It was not lost on me, this bizarre situation. There I was being transported across Tibet, the landscape looking more or less the same as it did in 1924, save a few minor additions such as the dirt road. Sitting next to me was a pleasant young gentleman by the name of George Mallory. I was discussing with him the condition of the route we’d both climbed and our respective times from the top camp to the summit. The latter I found particularly amusing. George had been half an hour quicker than me. Particularly apt, I thought, given his lineage and the legendary name he bore.