“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “Three hours is about standard. You really don’t want to be pushing yourself yet. The only day you need to push yourself is summit day.”
It’s encouraging and kind, yet those fingers of doubt are still there when I see the guys hardly puffed. Dave and I share a knowing, worried, glance. We’re both feeling the same way.
Dave and I have pretty much determined that we’re moving the same speed, so we’ve made a pact to stick together. Dave’s also forked out a bit extra for his own personal climbing Sherpa, so tagging along with him means I get that added bit of help. I didn’t know I had the option of getting a personal Sherpa, which I think is a good thing. I probably would have, had I known (it’s only an extra $300), but I feel perversely happy that I have to climb this thing on my own (the ubiquitous expedition Sherpas notwithstanding, of course). The reason I didn’t know is that several of us were originally on an expedition run by Jagged Globe, a well-respected mountaineering company. They had a couple of other clients pull out, which made the trip uneconomical. We were handed off to Tim, who runs a slightly cheaper trip (refund!) and now, I’m convinced, a better one with his terrific local knowledge.
Dave and I are also putting the pressure on Jon to let us camp at 2.9. It’s early days, but Dave and I are both worried that it’ll be too big a day for us from Camp 2 and want to maximise our success. If we’re going to do that, we need to have the camp actually there to use.
It’s another night of daal and good company in the nicely heated mess tent before retreating to bed.
November 16 - ABC
So we’re having a beard-off. I’ve cheated by starting about a week before the expedition, but my scraggly “Ragnar Lothbrok” beard (it’s not so much salt and pepper as salt and salt) is not even in the hunt. Pete is a clear winner after almost two weeks in the field, with Dan a surprising close second. It’s not about looking manly, although that’s a clear side benefit. Shaving takes up water, so you’re not going to do it at the high camps anyway, and it’s just a bit of a hassle at Base Camp. And we look manly.
Not shaving aside, hygiene at Base Camp is critical for us. Getting sick – and in Nepal that’s inevitably accompanied by getting diarrhoea – will mean an extra day or two of recovery at the least. And bye-bye summit. So we are religious about washing our hands before we enter the mess tent, using hand sanitiser as a back-up and generally trying to avoid things that could spread bugs, like using your fingers to pick up communal food in the mess tent.
Showering is a bit harder. It’s a big production – asking nicely at the kitchen tent for some hot water, filling the shower bucket and using a hand-pump to pressurise the shower head. Quickly wet down, soap up, rinse off and try to get back into your clothes. There’s only a small window of the day we can do this – usually about 10am to noon or so, and then it gets too cold and the day’s work intrudes anyway.
Today, that work starts about lunchtime. A quick repack of gear in the morning and we’re back to ABC for the night. I’m still slow going up – the night’s rest doesn’t seem to have made much of an impact on my acclimatisation and I start with my usual coughing fit about 500m in. But the experience of going up and back yesterday at least lets me know what I’m in for and I’m noting landmarks and ticking them off to pass the time. I’ve now finished Dan Carlin and I’m onto the audiobook of Julian May’s Many Coloured Land, one of my favourite ever books. I’m not sure why I’m doing this to myself – they only made an audiobook of book one, so there’s another three I won’t get to hear.
Dave and I stroll in – actually we flop in – well after all the rest of the racing snakes, and get to work brewing up. Laxman, our kitchen boy, has manpacked up a massive drum of water – at least 40kg worth – so we have enough for cooking. It’s a superhuman effort and goes to show how fit and acclimatised our staff are. Everyone else has only brought along normal food, but I’ve ransacked Tim’s stash of hors d'oeuvres and Dave and I munch pate on crackers and eat olives as the sun creeps down.
And when that happens it’s suddenly, almost irredeemably cold. Really, really cold. We’re almost 1km higher than Base Camp, so that’s to be expected. But it’s a reminder of how high we’re getting. We’re at Everest Base Camp levels now, which is nice to think of. There’s plenty of tales about unprepared people – even superfit National Rugby League players – collapsing with altitude sickness on just the walk in to EBC. We’re comfortably at the same height. By comfortably I mean we are wedged in between rocks on a sloping tent platform.
My smugness about my acclimatisation disappears halfway into the night, which is punctuated by splitting headaches. I knew this was coming, I just expected it a bit lower. Last time I was in Nepal these headaches started at about 3500m. They’re no easier at 5400m. I pop some ibuprofen and try to get some sleep, which proves elusive.
November 17 - Camp 1
I’m better in the morning, or at least I tell myself so. We brew up and eat some breakfast, but I’m moving slowly. It really was an awful night. The plan today is to head to Camp 1, drop a bit of gear and head back to Base Camp. I leave last of all from ABC, picking my way through the boulder field to the base of the slabs below Camp 1. The boulders are massive, two or three-metres high in some cases – similar to those below the summit of Cradle Mountain in Tasmania – and they get bigger the higher we get. Towards the slabs we’re literally leaping from boulder to boulder, at close to 5800m. It’s a short trip, maybe less than 1km as the crow flies, but it takes me close to three hours to pick my way through. There’s rock cairns built on the ridge which blocks the view of Camp 1, and they are enticingly close, but always far away. Despite looking fairly flat – we are contouring the ridge – it’s still about a 200m vertical gain.
I catch up with the rest of the boys at the base of the slabs, where they’ve been collecting their harnesses and helmets from where they were portered to, and are waiting to ascend the fixed rope. We probably don’t need a rope here, because the slabs are something you’d scramble up at sea level but it’s welcome to have something to pull on. Sherpas fairly dance beside us, unroped, as we puff our way up.
Dave approaching Camp 1. The slabs are behind his pack.
We find our tents – mine is below a sliding slab of death rock – dump a bit of gear and have a rest for a bite to eat. Steve is staying here the night, a couple of days ahead of us in the acclimatisation schedule, and he’s looking strong. We snap some pictures with the summit spire behind us – it’s a wondrous place. From Camp 1, you can peek over the vertiginous northern side of the South-West ridge and see all the way down the Khumbu valley to Tengboche. It’s a spectacular view and well worth the trip.
The oxygen pressure is welcome as I descend almost 1.5km to Base Camp, but the exertion of a pretty big push – about seven or eight hours in total – is showing as I stumble into the mess tent, last again.
November 18 - ABC
Back to ABC again today. It seems like a lot of work – up, back, up, back – but it is improving our acclimatisation. Apparently. I’m now on Diamox, a medication which boosts acclimatisation by aiding respiration, not so much to help me acclimatise but to help me get over the niggling cough and liquidy feeling in my chest. The Diamox helps a bit. Some people regard Diamox as a bit of a cheat, like doping before a race. Maybe it is. But my health needs to be good otherwise I won’t even get the chance to run this race. I feel like the past couple of weeks – couple of months, really - have been a balancing act trying to get and stay fit while avoiding injury and illness. I know I’m coming to a health crash – I always do after something like this – and the trick is to time it so it happens when I’m off the hill. In fact we’re all suffering some sort of health niggle. No-one really climbs in the Himalaya feeling perfectly healthy.
Happily, my time to ABC is a bit better today, about 2 hours and 40 minutes. Maybe I am acclimatising, although maybe it’s just that I know the route and where I can stretch out and where I can rest.
The penultimate climb before the final 40-minute stretch to ABC is still soul crushing. Despite the arresting scenery all around it seems there’s really nothing to look at except the dusty scree in front of you.
We settle in for another night at ABC, reading and watching the sunset.
November 19 - Camp 1
Today’s a short day, exertion wise, but a big one psychologically as we set off for Camp 1 for two nights. It’s still upwards of three hours by the time I get into Camp 1, last again. I’m blowing a bit, disappointed at myself that it’s taking so long. Maybe I should have trained harder, done a few more trips up Mt Barney. Regardless, I’m in the tent after Dave and he’s jagged the hill side of the tent, which means I’m half on the hill and half…not. Pays to be a winner. Dave and I have our afternoon snacks of pate and olives as we watch the sunset from our tent.
I did pack too much kit for this trip, but one thing I’m not regretting is my Jetboil stove, with its Sumo cup – about twice the size of a normal one. We have to melt snow at Camp 1 for water – no superhuman kitchen boys here – and the stoves Tim has had provided by his local logistics team are a bit old and tired. The Jetboil destroys snow and Dave and I, despite being the last in, are the first to have a brew. Pretty soon the Jetboil is being passed around the team.
Our Camp 1 tent below the sliding slabs of death.
November 20 - Camp 1
It’s a glorious day in the mountains. We pack a few snacks and head out from Camp 1 towards Camp 2. We’re not actually going to Camp 2, just to the base of the famed Yellow Tower below it. Camp 2 is probably the most spectacular campsite in the world, a tiny platform, big enough only for about six tents, perched on top of the spire of the yellow tower. But the effort to get there isn’t worth it for what is an acclimatisation climb.
And now it really is a climb. We’re traversing below the South-West Ridge, which slopes away ever dramatically below us, but we’re not really gaining much elevation for the first 45 minutes or so. It’s good practice, clipping in and out of the ropes before we turn left and go up the steep slopes we’re traversing. Then we start to pick a winding route upward. It’s what the Americans call a Class 3 scramble, with a few easy Class 5 sections - probably about a Grade 10 in Australian climbing standards. Plenty of handholds, but it’s vertical in many parts and pretty soon there’s about 1km under our boots. The consequences of stuffing up your footwork here is much greater than an embarrassing slide. In fact, a few years ago someone died on this very section of the mountain when they abseiled off the end of a rope that hadn’t been fixed below.
Moving from Camp 1 to the Yellow Tower
There’s patches of ice too, tiny gendarmes of it in small fields. We’re still in our approach shoes, the same ones we’ve worn since Kathmandu, as it’s fairly warm with the sun on the rock. It means we have to be a little more careful negotiating the icy bits, as we don’t have mountain boot tread. But we also don’t have mountain boot weight, and it feels like we’re dancing along the rock. I’m feeling ecstatic. This is why I love the mountains. The air is clean and clear, there’s a great view, a frisson of danger and it’s glorious. The danger comes from examining the rope anchors too closely, some of which are really sketchy and appear more psychological than stable. One of them is an aluminium snow stake hammered only about halfway into a crack in the rocks and tied off. It’s safe as long as you don’t fall and weight it. But the rock is so positive under my feet that I’m really confident I won’t need to test the anchors.
It’s hard work the higher we get, both in terrain and breathing. Towards the base of the yellow tower we actually cross over from the southern to the western side of the South-West Ridge. We have to go up a steep, icy ridge, beaten into a tiny gully by a month of climbers, trying not to slip on what are now blocks of icy steps. From there, we ease out around to our left, onto the northern side of the ridge, for a heart-pumping climb around and up. It’s a short section and only takes about 10 minutes, but for about five of these I have almost 2km of air beneath my feet. I’m not vertiginous, far from it. If I was on a building with this much air beneath my feet I’d be a gibbering mess. But here, on the mountain, I feel strangely secure, which is counter-intuitive given the fragility of the alpine rock I’m pulling on. I’m also too intent on what I’m doing for fear to fully grasp hold. Five minutes later and we’re at the base of the Yellow Tower. We can’t really see it properly from where we are – you need to go around another small corner – but we can see the mass of mountain above us.
A sample of the ropes below the Yellow Tower. The yellow rope is the newer one, but we clip our safety ‘biners into as many as we can. Imagine trying to work out which one is the newest one in the dark and cold on summit night. (Photo: Emily Hendrick)
A selfie of me and Dave’s arse, with the Yellow Tower in the background.
A quick Snickers bar and it’s back down the ropes to Camp 1. Jon has shown us a way to descend that my frightened brain considers way too fast, by wrapping your arm around the rope, and going down head first, instead of using a figure 8 descender and going down backwards. It’s fast, but terrifying, even though you’re still clipped into the rope by double ‘biners. One loose footstep and you’re tumbling to the next anchor. I use a figure 8 where possible, which is to say, almost all the time. Slower, but I feel safer. I’m reenergised when we hit Camp 1. This has been my best day on the hill so far and it’s reminded me of why I do this. I sleep a lot better that night too, a product of exertion, elation and Diamox.
November 21 - Camp 1
Back down again today. Steve arrived at Camp 1 last night on his summit push. He’s really that far ahead of the rest of us. I shake his hand and congratulate him. Have I mentioned he’s a machine? He introduces me to another Australian, also called Matt, who’s on the same summit push. It’s a nice to connect with people from home, even though part of the attraction of these expeditions is to meet people from other countries. They’re both on their way to Camp 2 today and will head off to the summit early tomorrow morning with Jon and Kaljang Dorjee, Steve’s Sherpa.
Steve is way out ahead of us in acclimatisation, but surprisingly, I’ve now found myself in the middle of the pack. Adam, Dan and Richard have struggled a little, both with acclimatisation and illness and they’re now going to be a day or so behind us. Richard, in particular, is suffering from maddening congestion and headaches. It’s sobering to see such fit guys slow down, and an indication that altitude is an equal opportunity leveller. The rest of us – me, Pete, Laurent, Dave, Roland and the Marine – are all on the same schedule. Dave and I still plan on getting to Camp 2.9. With Gyalgen Dorje, Dave’s Sherpa who’s an absolute Everest legend, we reckon we’ll be good. Three years ago, Dorje enchained (climbed in the one push) all three peaks of the Everest massif – Nuptse, Everest and Lhotse – in a three-day push with British climber Kenton Cool.
Before making any decision, we need to hear back from Jon, who will recce Camp 2.9 on his summit push tomorrow with Steve. We are a bit worried about the weather. It’s forecast to close in soon, maybe a day after our summit bid, although that can change. Steve will definitely have the rails run here.
Despite starting the expedition feeling inadequate, I’m now feeling strong and confident. I’ve already climbed this mountain a dozen times in my dreams, visualised the tough bits, worked out what I need to do. I like doing that with challenges like this. With Ama, there have been a few videos around in the past couple of years with the rise of helmet cams, so I’ve already seen a lot of the ground on YouTube. I was introduced to visualisation techniques when I used to play rugby and they really do work for this. I know there’ll be surprises, I know there’ll be things I can’t possibly anticipate, but you accept that there will be chaos and plan for the things you can control. The last couple of days at Camp 1 have also boosted me and I know I’m nowhere near the weakest climber. I’m not the strongest either, but this is a pretty high achieving bunch of guys, so I’m pretty happy to be mid
dle of the pack.
I’m down to Base Camp fairly swiftly (for me) and resting up. We have two days here, so we potter around, having showers and getting our washing done by our indefatigable kitchen staff. I wander down to the Lodge a couple of times for lemon and ginger tea and to post some updates on Facebook. It’s amazing to see so many of my friends interested and following the expedition. Tim has his own Facebook page, Everest Expedition, the name of which does nothing to reassure my mother that this trip is in any way safe. My pleas to Tim before the expedition to change it to a less perilous name went unheard. The walk down to the Lodge is pleasant, passing some small alpine streams and dodging yaks. However the walk back is always maddeningly tough, despite the much lower altitude. It always seems to take me at least 10 or 15 minutes to find any sort of rhythm. Speaking of which, I’ve now finished my Julian May audiobook and decided to shuffle my favourite playlist, listening to INXS, the Dropkick Murphys and the Cat Empire (and the odd Winnie the Pooh song snuck on there by my children) as I weave between boulders.
Tim and his team have shown up after their week-long trek into Base Camp. We passed a few of them on the way down from Camp 1 – one of them Ciaran, was at ABC in about two hours flat. He’s super fit – another Steve, it seems, and a pretty impressive human. A neurosurgeon doing research at Cambridge, he’s played both Super League and Heineken Cup rugby in England and serves as a ring doctor for boxing (when he’s not boxing himself). Way to make the rest of us feel inadequate.
The Mother's Necklace Page 5
