Dead Lucky (21 page)

In this positive state of mind, I was stunned to find myself climbing across a rock-face and suddenly noticing two bodies lying side by side. They were head-to-toe, but with boots on, in the ruins of a tent that had been destroyed by storms. No one had mentioned this couple, who were less than one hundred feet below the summit. Surely that proximity would have generated some comment. For some reason I thought one of them was a woman, possibly because of the intimacy of their bodies lying so close together, but I had no other evidence to support this feeling. Their heads had been scalped by particles of wind-borne ice, and their brightly colored nylon clothing was in rags. The worst thing was the anonymity. They had obviously been here for at least a year—no storms this season could have wreaked such dreadful damage—and yet I had heard nothing. I knew the names of other bodies I had seen on the mountain: Igor Plyushkin, David Sharp, Marko Lihteneker. And I must have passed, unaware in the dark, Vitor Negrete and Jacques-Hugues Letrange. Even Green Boots, the Indian man who had been lying half in a cave by the track for years, had some kind of identity. But I knew nothing about this pair. It seemed so tragic that they had no names, no way for me to wish their souls well, no way to speak of them. I turned my back on them because that was the only way I could show some respect.

I continued up the cliff. The climbing was still good but with a few larger ledges covered with snow that led me to guess that we were close to the final summit ridge. I remembered Sue Fear's warning that the rock climb did not lead directly to the summit, and the photos she had shown me matched what we saw as we reached the ridge. The summit was obvious, perhaps only fifty feet above us, but we were separated from it by the corniced ridge, which ran for perhaps another hundred yards. The cornices overhung the Kangshung Face. It was too dangerous to go anywhere near those fragile, unpredictable lips of ice, so the fixed rope traced a route across the very top of the North Face as it curved over to meet the top of the Kangshung.

Enough people had been up here, during a season that had seen the best weather in years, to have trodden the snow into a definite track to the summit. I walked carefully along the icy path, making sure my crampons bit into the surface. The blue line of fixed rope led all the way to the summit. At first the height gain was slight, with the path weaving in and out of gullies while maintaining a gradual but constant rise. A slip while crossing one of the gullies would have very serious consequences, as there were long distances between anchor points and a huge amount of sag in the rope. If I slipped, I would tumble at least thirty feet down a slope that increased in steepness as it continued. The virtually horizontal rope would sag under my weight, making it impossible for me to use my ascender. Climbing back up the hard ice at that altitude would be very difficult. Such a fall would probably not result in serious injury; the danger was that I might lack the strength to get back onto safer terrain. I dispelled all such thoughts and focused on placing my boots exactly where I wanted them to be.

At last the ridge joined the steeper slope of the summit dome, although it was more of a half-dome, as the Kangshung Face still dropped almost vertically from the summit. I could see prayer flags stretched out along the summit, and the top of an oxygen bottle, which at first I mistook for the head of someone sitting just over the crest on the Nepalese side of the mountain. Another string of prayer flags led down from the crest toward the huge drop of the Kangshung Face; others dangled down the face itself. Some flags were frozen into the slope, and so they no longer had the winds capturing their prayers and dispersing them to the heavens.

I felt incredibly privileged when I realized that the summit of Mount Everest was deserted. Perhaps there were climbers approaching from the south side—I would soon find out. The crest of the summit itself rose like a small breaking wave, creating a final one-foot-high step. I paused for an extra breath, then stepped up onto the highest point on the planet. Twenty-nine thousand and thirty-five feet. I was alone on the roof of the world.

I pulled up the sleeve of my down suit and looked at the time. It was 9:00 A.M. exactly, according to BTG's Rolex. It had come a very long way from Taronga Zoo on the harborside in Sydney. I was halfway to returning the watch to him, but with the difficult and dangerous half of the journey ahead of me.

Lakcha arrived two minutes later, having graciously let me lead the way so that I could arrive first. I could see Dorje was approaching the summit dome, but as yet there was no sign of Dawa Tenzing.

I took in the panorama around me. Makalu, of course, and the jagged ridge-tops of Lhotse and its subpeaks. Lhotse is the fourth-highest mountain in the world. All the mountains around and beyond it are giants as well, and yet now they seemed too low to be of consequence. Even Nuptse—which had looked so high from the summit of Ama Dablam twenty-five years earlier, and even higher from the Nepalese Base Camp for Everest—no longer seemed significant. I never would have thought that I would dismiss so summarily the peaks of the Khumbu, among which I had enjoyed such special times.

Perhaps my judgment was numbed by two nights without proper sleep, with virtually no food and little to drink. Perhaps I was also influenced by the fact that I was on the summit of Mount Everest, where height no longer mattered. I certainly had no energy to spare to contemplate routes and possibilities on the surrounding mountains, as I had done from mountaintops on several continents. I was being so economical with my energy that I would not let any of it be taken by jubilation—euphoria could take control once you unleashed it. There were no “dream come true” moments for me. Not yet. Not until I was off the mountain.

For years I had told myself that Everest was just another mountain, but now I could see clearly that it was not. This was a very special place, and I was saddened to see abandoned oxygen bottles and yellow patches of snow where people had urinated. Even the strings of prayer flags frozen into the summit looked spent. There were footsteps everywhere, which is what you would expect after several hundred people had visited.

A few crazy months each year, I thought, and the rest of the time Everest—Chomolungma, Sagarmatha—remained untouched. For those months Everest could support the deadly dreams of people like me, then the monsoon snows would cloak the mountain, and jet-stream winds would blast away the flags and oxygen cylinders. Everest would then become as it always has been: pure, symbolic, immutable.

I completed my 360-degree survey, and saw that Dawa Tenzing was now ascending the final slope. The four of us shook hands. Dorje removed his oxygen mask and smiled nervously. Only twenty-two years old and he had just climbed Everest for the second time. It was the third success for both Lakcha and Dawa Tenzing. I sat down on the lip of the summit, and the thought came to me that this was only the third time I had sat down since we had left Camp Three at midnight. The first stop was for a few minutes when Lakcha and I caught up with Harry, the second when we reached the Third Step, and now on the summit.

I knew that the Russian crew back at Advance Base Camp would be watching the clock, waiting to hear from me. I reached inside my down suit for my radio and pulled the oxygen mask away from my mouth.

With my finger on the talk button, I announced, “Lincoln calling ABC . . . We are on the summit.”

Almost immediately Alex answered. “Congratulations! How are you?”

“Good,” I said. “Thank you, Alex, for making this possible.”

“You are welcome. But you are okay?” He obviously thought the question important enough to rephrase it and ask me again.

“Yes. All of us are well, all four of us.”

“How is the weather?” For a few moments I focused upon the extraordinary display of mountains and glaciers beneath me. There were a few clouds, especially to the west, but they were low and insignificant.

“It's a perfect day. Almost no wind at all.”

“Very good. Now you must come down.”

“Yes, Alex. We are leaving now.”

“Good luck, and be fast.”

With the radio in my hand, I thought of Barbara and her statement that she did not want to hear from me when I reached the summit, only when I was safely back down. I turned off the radio and tucked it into the pocket of my down suit.

From where I sat, the nature of the final stage of the climb was more obvious than it had been on the way up, when some sections had been hidden from view. I could see almost in its entirety the one-way track traversing below the crest of the ridge. Within a few weeks the path would be buried beneath banks of snow, leaving no sign of the pilgrimage that had been made along this highest of all ridges.

As my eyes traced the route, climbers began to emerge from the easy-angled but shaded rock-face onto the small level area. I did not want to get trapped on the summit by a dozen climbers coming our way. I immediately suggested to Lakcha, Dorje, and Dawa Tenzing that we head back. Dawa Tenzing requested a photo, and so I took a shot of the three of them and a shot over the peak of Changste to the Rongbuk Glaciers, which seemed to show the curvature of the earth. There was no summit shot of me, but that was okay; I would ask one of the Sherpas to take a photo at the place just below the peak where the Project Himalaya climberswere now gathering. I knew there was enough room for us to regroup there without disrupting the flow of traffic. It was 9:20 A.M. by the Rolex. We had eleven hours of daylight in which to descend to the relative safety of Camp Two. Compared to 29,000 feet, the air at 25,000 feet would feel like relative luxury. We would be able to lie down and relax.

The weather was perfect, with only a few harmless clouds around the lower peaks and some more solid cover to the west. Everything was good. Everything was going according to plan.

COUNTING CHICKENS

O
N MAY 24, Barbara, Dylan, his girlfriend Tanya, and Dorje celebrated Dylan's eighteenth birthday by going out for dinner at Sada Thai, our favorite restaurant, which is tucked away upstairs above the post office in our small Blue Mountains town. Dylan was already involved in politics and had campaigned at several local elections, so he was now delighted to be old enough to vote. But the next day was a school day, so there was no real birthday party, just a good dinner, with a cake and candles back at home.

As a teacher, Barbara also had to be at school the next morning—but in Sydney, which meant a very early start. She was ready to go straight to bed, but first she checked the phone messages. As she had hoped, there was a message from me, my voice excited but breathless from the extreme altitude. I said there was perfect weather at Camp Three, that our plan was to leave for the summit at midnight and that I felt really strong. It was the best possible set of circumstances for an attempt at the summit. Barbara relayed my message to Dylan and Dorje, and although they knew accidents happen on Everest, they could not have appreciated the extent of the dangers I still faced. The difference between this Everest expedition and all my other big climbs was that this time I was climbing with three Sherpas and using supplementary oxygen. This just had to be safer, Barbara thought, and she went to bed telling herself that I would be fine.

THAT NIGHT Barbara was not the only person who had my summit bid on her mind. On the other side of the world, at the Tibetan Base Camp, Mike and the Harrises had each taken a walkie-talkie to their tents in case I made a radio call during my final push to the summit.

The previous day Mike had arrived from Advance Base Camp, with Richard and Christopher following on yaks. Christopher had been advised by Andrey not to walk at all, as a precaution against another collapse. Two days earlier, Richard had hurried back to check on his son and had twisted his ankle. After twenty-four hours of rest he was still unable to walk, so he was on a yak's back as well.

The mood at Base Camp was definitely one of imminent departure. A few days earlier David Lien and the Norwegian mountaineers, Petter, Johnny, and Frode, had set off on the long drive to the border at Zhangmu, eager to put the hardships of the last two months behind them. Safely back from the summit, Noel Hanna and Lorenzo Gariano were eating up big. It was not just post-expedition hunger. They were gathering strength for their epic cycle journey over the Tibetan Plateau, down through Nepal and across the length of India to the coast at the Bay of Bengal. Kirk Wheatley was doubly pleased with his ascent of Everest—he had now climbed each of the Seven Summits, which meant never in his life would he have to go near another mountain. Henrik Olsen was also celebrating the completion of his Seven Summits quest but was by no means through with adventuring. For the moment, however, enough was more than enough. Slate had arrived at Base Camp a day ahead of the other climbers who had summited on May 21 but was content to spend the extra time at Base Camp so that he could head out with the team.

Mike was up early on the morning of May 25, wondering how my climb had gone during the night. There had been no word from me, so he continued with the chore of sorting his film gear. Others were packing up as well. Some climbers had already stowed everything except their sleeping bags and the few odds and ends they would need for their last night at Base Camp. Landcruisers were booked for an early departure the next morning. Only Harry, Thomas, and I were not part of the plans. The film gear was in the communications dome tent, and there was nothing unusual about Maxim Onipchenko being in the nearby radio tent. However, it was only by chance that Mike heard my voice broadcast on the radio. Totally lucid, I was thanking Alex for making it possible for me to reach the summit. Maxim's taciturn nature was legendary among the climbers and Mike wondered whether or not he would have passed on the news.

Mike immediately alerted Richard and Christopher of my success. He attempted to ring Barbara at home. When he could not get through, he rang Simon Balderstone. Simon is chairman of the Australian Himalayan Foundation, of which Mike and I are directors, and Mike was sure that Simon would know how to contact Barbara.