Himalaya

by Ruskin Bond

  Before attempting the pitch, I produced my camera once again. I had no confidence that I would be able to climb this crack and with a surge of competitive pride which unfortunately afflicts even mountaineers, I determined to have proof that at least we had reached a good deal higher than the South Summit. I took a few photographs and then made another rapid check of the oxygen—2,550-pound pressure. (2,550 from 3,300 leaves 750. 750 over 3,300 is about two-ninths. Two-ninths off 800 liters leaves about 600 liters. 600 divided by 180 is nearly 3½.) Three and a half hours to go. I examined Tenzing’s belay to make sure it was a good one and then slowly crawled inside the crack.

  In front of me was the rock wall, vertical but with a few promising holds. Behind me was the ice wall of the cornice, glittering and hard but cracked here and there. I took a hold on the rock in front and then jammed one of my crampons hard into the ice behind. Leaning back with my oxygen set on the ice, I slowly levered myself upward. Searching feverishly with my spare boot, I found a tiny ledge on the rock and took some of the weight off my other leg. Leaning back on the cornice, I fought to regain my breath. Constantly at the back of my mind was the fear that the cornice might break off and my nerves were taut with suspense. But slowly I forced my way up—wriggling and jambing and using every little hold. In one place I managed to force my ice ax into a crack in the ice and this gave me the necessary purchase to get over a holdless stretch. And then I found a solid foothold in a hollow in the ice and next moment I was reaching over the top of the rock and pulling myself to safety. The rope came tight—its forty feet had been barely enough.

  I lay on the little rock ledge panting furiously. Gradually it dawned on me that I was up the step and I felt a glow of pride and determination that completely subdued my temporary feelings of weakness. For the first time on the whole expedition I really knew I was going to get to the top. “It will have to be pretty tough to stop us now” was my thought. But I couldn’t entirely ignore the feeling of astonishment and wonder that I’d been able to get up with such difficulty at 29,000 feet even with oxygen.

  When I was breathing more evenly I stood up and, leaning over the edge, waved to Tenzing to come up. He moved into the crack and I gathered in the rope and took some of his weight. Then he, in turn, commenced to struggle and jam and force his way up until I was able to pull him to safety—gasping for breath. We rested for a moment. Above us the ridge continued on as before—enormous overhanging cornices on the right and steep snow slopes on the left running down to the rock bluffs. But the angle of the snow slopes was easing off. I went on chipping a line of steps, but thought it safe enough for us to move together in order to save time. The ridge rose up in a great series of snakelike undulations which bore away to the right, each one concealing the next. I had no idea where the top was. I’d cut a line of steps around the side of one undulation and another would come into view. We were getting desperately tired now and Tenzing was going very slowly. I’d been cutting steps for almost two hours and my back and arms were starting to tire. I tried cramponing along the slope without cutting steps, but my feet slipped uncomfortably down the slope. I went on cutting. We seemed to have been going for a very long time and my confidence was fast evaporating. Bump followed bump with maddening regularity. A patch of shingle barred our way and I climbed dully up it and started cutting steps around another bump. And then I realized that this was the last bump, for ahead of me the ridge dropped steeply away in a great corniced curve and out in the distance I could see the pastel shades and fleecy clouds of the highlands of Tibet.

  To my right a slender snow ridge climbed up to a snowy dome about forty feet above our heads. But all the way along the ridge the thought had haunted me that the summit might be the crest of a cornice. It was too late to take risks now. I asked Tenzing to belay me strongly and I started cutting a cautious line of steps up the ridge. Peering from side to side and thrusting with my ice ax, I tried to discover a possible cornice, but everything seemed solid and firm. I waved Tenzing up to me. A few more whacks of the ice ax, a few very weary steps and we were on the summit of Everest.

  * * *

  It was 11:30 a.m. My first sensation was one of relief—relief that the long grind was over; that the summit had been reached before our oxygen supplies had dropped to a critical level; and relief that in the end the mountain had been kind to us in having a pleasantly rounded cone for its summit instead of a fearsome and unapproachable cornice. But mixed with the relief was a vague sense of astonishment that I should have been the lucky one to attain the ambition of so many brave and determined climbers. It seemed difficult at first to grasp that we’d got there. I was too tired and too conscious of the long way down to safety really to feel any great elation. But as the fact of our success thrust itself more clearly into my mind, I felt a quiet glow of satisfaction spread through my body—a satisfaction less vociferous but more powerful than I had ever felt on a mountaintop before. I turned and looked at Tenzing. Even beneath his oxygen mask and the icicles hanging from his hair, I could see his infectious grin of sheer delight. I held out my hand and in silence we shook in good Anglo-Saxon fashion. But this was not enough for Tenzing and impulsively he threw his arm around my shoulders and we thumped each other on the back in mutual congratulations.

  But we had no time to waste! First I must take some photographs and then we’d hurry down. I turned off my oxygen and took the set off my back. I remembered all the warnings I’d had of the possible fatal consequences of this, but for some reason felt quite confident that nothing serious would result. I took my camera out of the pocket of my windproof and clumsily opened it with my thickly gloved hands. I clipped on the lens hood and ultraviolet filter and then shuffled down the ridge a little so that I could get the summit into my viewfinder. Tenzing had been waiting patiently, but now, at my request, he unfurled the flags wrapped around his ice ax and standing on the summit held them above his head. Clad in all his bulky equipment and with the flags flapping furiously in the wind, he made a dramatic picture and the thought drifted through my mind that this photograph should be a good one if it came out at all. I didn’t worry about getting Tenzing to take a photograph of me—as far as I knew, he had never taken a photograph before and the summit of Everest was hardly the place to show him how.

  I climbed up to the top again and started taking a photographic record in every direction. The weather was still extraordinarily fine. High above us were long streaks of cirrus wind cloud and down below fluffy cumulus hid the valley floors from view. But wherever we looked, icy peaks and somber gorges lay beneath us like a relief map. Perhaps the view was most spectacular to the east, for here the giants Makalu and Kanchenjunga dominated the horizon and gave some idea of the vast scale of the Himalayas. Makalu in particular, with its soaring rock ridges, was a remarkable sight; it was only a few miles away from us. From our exalted viewpoint I could see all the northern slopes of the mountain and was immediately struck by the possibility of a feasible route to its summit. With a growing feeling of excitement, I took another photograph to study at leisure on returning to civilization. The view to the north was a complete contrast—hundreds of miles of the arid high Tibetan plateau, softened now by a veil of fleecy clouds into a scene of delicate beauty. To the west the Himalayas stretched hundreds of miles in a tangled mass of peaks, glaciers, and valleys.

  But one scene was of particular interest. Almost under our feet, it seemed, was the famous North Col and the East Rongbuk Glacier, where so many epic feats of courage and endurance were performed by the earlier British Everest Expeditions. Part of the ridge up which they had established their high camps was visible, but the last thousand feet, which had proved such a formidable barrier, was concealed from our view as its rock slopes dropped away with frightening abruptness from the summit snow pyramid. It was a sobering thought to remember how often these men had reached 28,000 feet without the benefits of our modern equipment and reasonably efficient oxygen sets. Inevitably my thoughts turned t
o Mallory and Irvine, who had lost their Jives on the mountain thirty years before. With little hope I looked around for some sign that they had reached the summit, but could see nothing.

  Meanwhile Tenzing had also been busy. On the summit he’d scratched out a little hole in the snow and in this he placed some small offerings of food—some biscuits, a piece of chocolate, and a few sweets—a small gift to the gods of Chomolungma which all devout Buddhists (as Tenzing is) believe to inhabit the summit of this mountain. Besides the food, I placed the little cross that John Hunt had given me on the South Col. Strange companions, no doubt, but symbolical at least of the spiritual strength and peace that all peoples have gained from the mountains. We made seats for ourselves in the snow and sitting there in reasonable comfort we ate with relish a bar of mint cake. My camera was still hanging open on my chest so I decided to put it safely away. But my fingers seemed to have grown doubly clumsy. With slow and fumbling movements, I closed the camera and did up the leather case. I suddenly realized that I was being affected by the lack of oxygen—it was nearly ten minutes now since I’d taken my set off. I quickly checked the gauges on our bottles—1,450-pound pressure; roughly 350 liters of oxygen; nearly two hours’ endurance at three liters a minute. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I hastily put my set on and turned on the oxygen. I felt better immediately. Tenzing had removed the flags from his ice ax and, as there was nothing to tie them to, he thrust them down into the snow. They obviously wouldn’t stay there for long. We slowly got to our feet again. We were tired all right and all my tension and worry about reaching the summit had gone, leaving a slight feeling of anticlimax. But the smallness of our supply of oxygen filled me with a sense of urgency. We must get back to the South Summit as quickly as possible.

  I took up my ice ax, glanced at Tenzing to see if he was ready, and then looked at my watch—it was 11:45 and we’d only been on top fifteen minutes. I had one job left to do. Walking easily down the steps I’d made in the ridge I descended forty feet from the summit to the first visible rocks, and taking a handful of small stones, thrust them into my pocket—it seemed a bit silly at the time, but I knew they’d be rather nice to have when we got down. Then, wasting no time, I set off along the ridge. Fortunately my steps were all intact and we cramponed along them quickly and safely. We knew we had to hurry and, tired as we were, we drove ourselves hard. In what seemed an astonishingly short time, we were climbing down toward the top of the difficult rock step. I could see from here the frail fashion in which the cornice was attached to the rocks, but with the confidence of familiarity I plunged down into the chimney and wriggled my way between the rock and the ice to the bottom. Tenzing quickly followed and we climbed on again. The ridge was now much steeper and more exposed, so we moved one at a time, each man belaying the other as he moved. We were going very quickly indeed, but at the same time taking every care. We cautiously shuffled our way across the rock ledge and then moved on to the steps crossing the last steep slopes. Once again I could see far below us in the Western Cwm the dirty smudge of Camp 4 and I thought how pleased they’d all be at our news. With a feeling of relief I cramponed on to the little saddle at the foot of the South Summit and then slowly climbed up the generous stairway I’d whacked out in its icy side nearly four hours before. I sat down beside our discarded oxygen bottles and Tenzing joined me there. It had only taken us one hour from the top.

  Once again I checked our oxygen bottles—there was only about an hour’s endurance left, but this should get us down to our reserve supply on the ridge. Tenzing offered me his water bottle and I had a long swig out of it. It was a delicious brew of water, sugar, lemon crystals, and raspberry jam. I looked back up the ridge and saw that our steps were clearly outlined in the snow, so I got out my camera once again and photographed them. Despite the cold conditions, my camera seemed to be working very well, which was most encouraging, as I realized how important these summit photographs were. Our rest was very short—only a few minutes—and then we were on our feet again and starting down.

  The thought of this descent had never been far from my mind throughout the day and I viewed it with fearful anticipation. It had seemed so difficult and dangerous on the ascent that I was very much afraid that when we came down it tired and much less alert, one of us might slip and precipitate a disastrous avalanche. I was determined to pack the treacherous snow into safe and stable steps as if our lives depended, as they probably did, on not one of them breaking. Tenzing looked as strong and staunch as ever and I felt I could confidently rely on him as a stout anchor. I started cramponing carefully down the first steep slopes of frozen snow. The wind was now a good deal stronger and occasional strong gusts made us feel uncomfortably off balance. I soon reached the first line of steps down the steep ridge at the top of the great slope. Steadying myself against the slope with my ice ax, I climbed carefully down from step to step. And then I muttered a hearty curse! I’d come to the steps Tenzing had cut on the way up and which had been all right on the ascent but were too widely spaced for a safe or comfortable trip down. Rather reluctantly I decided to take care and set to work to re-cut them again. Cutting steps down a steep slope when you are laden with cumbersome gear is always a tedious business, especially in a gusty wind, and I wasn’t sorry to move back onto my own steps again and drop rapidly down to where the ridge petered out in the great slope.

  Now the unpleasant moment had arrived and we had 300 feet of steep and dangerous snow to deal with. First of all, we had to get onto the slope and this entailed a traverse over some steep rocks. Tenzing belayed me carefully and I started across them. Using every meager handhold I could find I inched my way along, very conscious of the tremendous drops beneath and realizing for the first time just how tired I was. To reach the snow slope from the rocks was a tricky move, but with a long step I lowered myself reluctantly into its snowy grip. As I stood there looking downward, all my earlier fears returned. The slope dropped away with startling abruptness and our deep upward tracks looked hazardous in the extreme. Ten thousand feet below us was the avalanche-strewn Kangshung Glacier, coldly and impersonally waiting to receive a toppling cornice or a careless climber. I hastily shrugged these morbid thoughts out of my mind and started packing the loose snow into a little ledge so that I could safely belay Tenzing across the rock pitch. My stance was far from perfect, but I put the rope over my shoulders and waved to Tenzing to cross. He moved slowly onto the traverse and laboriously began to work his way over. With a sudden shock I realized how tired he was—how tired we both were! It seemed a long time before he stepped across to join me.

  With a tense feeling in the pit of my stomach I started down the slope, packing the loose snow with my boot into a step that would take my weight. Each time I changed my weight into a new step, I had a moment of fear to see if it would hold. We were going very slowly, but we couldn’t afford to hurry. I glanced behind. Grimly silent, Tenzing was climbing down the steps with great care. He was obviously tired, but was still strong and safe. I went on packing steps and lowering myself into them. Time lost its meaning and the great slope turned into an eternal and endless nightmare. It was with an astonished feeling of relief that I suddenly realized we were nearly at the bottom. I started traversing carefully over to the right, plunging now with renewed vigor through the deep snow and then, with an enormous feeling of thankfulness, I stepped onto the ridge again and sank the shaft of my ice ax deeply into the firm snow. I took in the rope as Tenzing moved up beside me. We looked at each other and we didn’t need to speak—our faces clearly showed our unrestrained relief.

  Almost casually I started down the ridge—it seemed so easy now after what we’d just come down—but a sudden fierce gust of wind brought me sharply to my senses and I started concentrating again. I knew our oxygen must be nearly exhausted and that we had to reach the dump left by Evans and Bourdillon before it ran out. I pushed on as hard as I could. The wind had wiped out a lot of our tracks in the snow, but it didn’t take
long to remake them. And then we reached the oxygen dump and another nagging worry lifted from my mind. I checked the sets on our backs. We still had a few liters of oxygen left and couldn’t afford to waste it. We continued on down carrying the life-saving reserve bottles in our hands. The ridge broadened and I realized we’d reached the snow shoulder above Camp 9. I plunged down the steep slope off the ridge, sidled around a rock bluff, and then saw our tent only a hundred feet away. I moved eagerly toward it, but suddenly felt very tired and weak. My load felt like a ton and my boots were as heavy as lead. I realized that my oxygen bottle had run out. I climbed slowly on to our tent platform, took off my oxygen set, and slumped down in the snow. Tenzing wearily sat down beside me. It was good to be back.

  Our tent was flapping furiously in the wind and already many of the guy lines had come undone. Tenzing crawled inside it and started getting the cooker going for a hot drink. I removed the empty bottles from our oxygen sets and connected up our last meager reserves. I reduced the rate of flow to two liters a minute and tested both the sets out. Frequent gusts of wind were whipping across the ridge, pelting me with stinging particles of snow, but I was too tired to worry very much. Far below on the South Col I could see the tents flapping and thought I saw some figures moving. It was nice to know there was someone there to help us, but it looked a long way down. Tenzing handed out a large mug of warm, sweet lemon-flavored water and I drank it with relish. We rolled up our sleeping bags, our air mattresses, and our personal gear and tied them onto our oxygen sets. We needed them for sleeping in the lower camps. We heaved our loads onto our backs and turned on our oxygen and then, with no feelings of regret, I took one last glance at our forlorn little camp that had served us so well and started off down again.