No Such Thing as Failure

by David Hempleman-Adams

  The big question for me, and for each of us individually, was which team I would be a part of. I sought the advice of the head Sherpa, Ngatemba, who had more experience on Everest than the rest of us all put together. It all boiled down to a balance of advantages in my view. If you went in the leading team you had first use of the oxygen, which seemed a big plus. Also the Sherpas would be pushing very hard, as they’d all receive a bonus if they managed to help just one person reach the summit. After that, the number of complete ascents made no financial difference to them. The disadvantages of going first were that the lead group had to erect the tents for both teams at camp four, and set up a fixed rope from the South Summit at 28,750 feet to the Hillary Step 150 feet further up. There might also be deep snow, which would mean hard going for those leaving first but easier for others following with a track already laid. If some of the first team failed to reach the summit it could also leave additional oxygen for those coming after, which would allow them to climb at a faster rate. What swung it for me in the end was that Ngatemba said he would be going with the second team. In my view it made sense sticking close to a man who had already reached the summit once before.

  There were seven climbers in the lead team, six of us in the second, plus Sherpas of course. My team included Dave Callaway, Roger Mear and Martin Barnicott. I felt the balance of strength and experience was with us, except perhaps for Brian Blessed who was also included. Our group was completed by Lee Nobmann, a Californian timber tradesman. As we made our way back up to Base Camp, excited yet fearful, we all knew that this was finally it. From now on there would be no stopping en route to the summit, if we were going to get there. I was slightly concerned about losing strength, having already dropped 20lbs in weight. Brian on the other hand had very deliberately arrived in Nepal clearly overweight, and as a result was now down to his optimum size and ‘fighting weight’.

  The first group departed Base Camp on 3 October, with pretty emotional farewells. None of us knew if we would ever see them again, and there were bear hugs and much back-slapping as they went on their way. More rice was thrown and we watched them into the distance until the tiny specks disappeared from view. It was eerie being left behind for the first time, and all we could talk about over dinner that night was how we felt they might be faring. We heard over the radio that they made it safely to camp two without mishap and the weather forecast looked good. All we could do was keep our fingers crossed. Our turn to move would come on 6 October.

  The night before we left I walked over to say goodbye to the Spaniards, who strapped up my chest with bandaging and wished me luck. I then went and knelt down alone by the Sherpas’ altar. I don’t consider myself religious in any traditional sense, but I felt I was going to need a lot of help and guidance over the coming days, so I placed some rice on the altar and said a prayer. I also wrote a letter to Claire, which I’d told Steve I’d do and leave on my sleeping bag in my tent. I remember he just looked me and said, ‘Ok Dave, I understand.’ I didn’t say much, there wasn’t much to say, just that if she received this letter it meant I wasn’t coming back, that I loved her and knew she would continue to look after our children. I wasn’t being morbid or negative, I know other people who do the same thing, and it was something that many men did before going over the top in the Great War. It’s the only time I have ever done this, but I suppose it is an indication of just how dangerous I knew the next few days would be, and maybe the pain from my ribs made me reflect even more on my actual prospects of surviving. I had every intention of returning but, as any mountaineer will tell you, each climb could be your last, particularly on Mount Everest. I was now ready to go, filled with trepidation and excitement.

  Our team split into two groups, myself with Mear and Callaway. It was a long, hard day to climb from Base Camp, over the Khumbu Icefall, past the site of camp one and up the Western Cwm, finally to overnight at camp two. We woke the next morning brimming with excitement, as whilst we would be climbing to camp three we knew this was summit day for the first party. We set off early before dawn, the lights on our helmets shining brightly like miners down a coal shaft. After a couple of hours I noticed Callaway was struggling, stopping frequently and clearly suffering very badly with diarrhoea, which is something pretty vile to try and put up with on a mountainside. Dave had become a part of me over the last two months, but I was becoming frustrated with our slow going and kept thinking to myself ‘Please don’t fail again, Dave.’

  He stopped a couple more times, then eventually untied himself from the rope, turned round, and began to walk back. I was further up the mountain and started screaming at him: ‘Callaway, just make it to camp three. Callaway. Come back!’ He didn’t even turn his head. ‘You poor bastard,’ I said out loud to no one in particular. Mear, who had watched the whole episode in silence, pulled the team together and told us to carry on. In moments I was back in climbing mode again.

  As we drew closer to camp three one of the first summit group suddenly descended from the heights. We all asked him if he’d reached the top, but he shook his head sadly. He’d reached the South Col before suffering from oedema—a condition characterized by an excess of watery fluid collecting in bodily tissues—which had forced him to turn back. He could see the South Summit from the South Col, but knew he couldn’t carry on. It must have been a desperately difficult decision for him to make, a terribly brave one under the circumstances, but undoubtedly the right choice in the position he found himself. Climbing even a few feet higher could very easily have resulted in his death. As I watched him disappear downwards I contemplated the fact that I was hoping to reach the summit with a broken rib, whilst two of the strongest guys on the whole trip were already out of the running.

  Twenty minutes later Roger Mear suddenly stopped climbing, moved to one side and sat down. At first I thought he just needed a pee, but he unclipped himself and since I was in the middle of the group came over and handed me the rope. ‘I don’t feel at all right. I’m having problems and I’m going down,’ he said. Barnicott and Blessed were way behind us further down the mountain, which meant just myself and Nobmann were left. We were both shocked by Mear’s sudden and totally unexpected departure, but felt relatively strong ourselves as we clambered into camp three late that evening.

  The next morning we set off to climb up to camp four on the South Col. We were aware the first group must have reached the summit by now, or failed to do so, but we had no way of knowing which until we hopefully met them on the way down. Blessed set off like an express train this time, seemingly brimming with confidence and strength. He shot across the Lhotse Face and then the Geneva Spur towards the South Col like a man possessed. None of us could keep up with him. Midway through the day the other members of the first group started to appear. Ginette was in the pair who emerged first, jubilant at having succeeded, and I am sure we all felt the same mixture of elation and envy on their behalf. Then came Steve Bell and Graham Hoyland, who had also made it to the top, along with the Venezuelan Ramon Blanco, who at sixty had just become the oldest man thus far to do so, a record he held for a long time. They all looked pretty rough with sunken eyes, but Ramon had suffered the most and was totally shot away. He’d left us at Base Camp fighting fit, but now he looked far older than his years, dehydrated and devoid of any strength.

  The final man now arrived, also having reached the summit, but for him the achievement would always be tarnished. Apparently he’d experienced problems with his oxygen and one of the Spanish climbers who was nearby had come over to help out. Just before reaching his camp that evening the Spaniard had failed to clip himself in correctly, and had fallen 4,000 feet to his death. For the man he’d assisted all the exaltation of reaching the summit had been erased by this tragedy and he was in tears. We all chatted for a few minutes but both groups were anxious to go their separate ways. It seemed now as if Everest was posting new danger signals at every turn. At 6.00 p.m. that evening we finally crawled into camp four at the South Col, a flat plateau litt
ered with debris from previous expeditions. On the far side I could clearly see the final inhospitable slopes of the mountain, looking so close but still nearly 3,000 feet away.

  As I made my way over to a tent I noticed one more body, frozen in death. He was the corpse of an Indian climber, apparently fully-preserved and half hidden behind a boulder. This and all the other bodies on the mountain will remain there for eternity, although some are subsumed within the body of its ice and snow, sometimes to be spat out many years later as with that of Tony Tighe at the bottom of the icefall. Nobody can ever bring them back down, at that altitude the task would simply be too difficult and dangerous for anyone attempting to do so. I studied them for a while, as it is almost impossible not to do, and reflected that they were probably better climbers than me. The South Col is a windy, desolate place to lie at rest, and it reminded me once again that above all I needed to remain lucky.

  I did indeed feel fortunate and reassured to be sharing a tent with Ngatemba that night. The wind was whipping up and I was finding it difficult to breathe. We were aiming to set off for the summit in the early hours of the morning, but with the wind whistling louder and louder around our tents I feared that we would never be able to make the attempt. You don’t sleep much at that altitude, if only from the excitement of what you are about to try and do, and it would take us a couple of hours to get ready for the final climb, so I asked Ngatemba what we should do, just as Barnicott’s voice echoed across from his tent asking the same question. His view was that we should all be prepared to set off, and reassess the situation when the time came.

  At 1.30 a.m. impatient with the wait and almost bursting with adrenalin, I asked whether we were going or not. Quite frankly I’d probably have stupidly headed for the summit by myself if I’d had to, but Ngatemba felt we should all go. From then on we would not be roped together but out there on our own, the four of us remaining in the group—myself, Barnicott, Nobmann and Blessed—plus Ngatemba and two other Sherpas. We were about to leave, when Blessed suddenly piped up. ‘I’ve got a problem,’ he announced. ‘I’ve got frostbite.’ We all looked and saw some on his fingers, but it’s my opinion that it was his decision not to use oxygen that finished him off at this late stage. He wanted to attempt a ‘pure’ climb, and at that altitude had suddenly tired and burnt himself out. Barnicott offered to remain with him, but Blessed and the rest of us told him to go for the summit. Brian wished us good luck and we disappeared into the night.

  The climbing became tough as it got steeper and the snow became deeper. I remembered how I’d read that Chris Bonington had struggled at this stage of the ascent, through to the South Summit. Three hours into the climb, before dawn had begun to break, something made me raise my head and my torch shone directly into the face of yet another frozen body just a couple of yards away. I will never forget it as long as I live, and this time it was very obviously a woman. Her body was upright in a sitting position leaning against her pack. Her eyes were open and her long, blonde hair was flowing out behind her. She looked almost peaceful. I later learned that this was the German climber Hannelore Schmatz who had died on the mountain in 1979, fourteen years previously. Exhausted by her climb to the summit she had stopped to bivouac as night approached, despite her Sherpa guides urging her not to do so. One of them remained with her until after she died, and as a result lost most of his fingers and toes.

  As I rose higher and higher part of me was expecting to experience something almost spiritual, as Bonington described when he finally made it to the summit in 1985. I can’t say I did. I didn’t meet my father or see any angels, and I’m probably glad I didn’t as it would have been the surest possible sign of oxygen deprivation. I saw nothing but the sun slowly appearing over Lhotse behind me. But a hundred yards from a ridge where we knew we would be picking up more oxygen I suddenly felt disorientated. I hadn’t a clue what was happening to me, but Ngatemba was close by and I told him I didn’t think I could make it that far. He checked the valve on my apparatus and quickly discovered that I’d been climbing for the last half hour without receiving any oxygen, because the cylinder I’d been using was only part full. I dragged my confused body up to the ridge, and my senses were soon restored when I could help myself to some much needed oxygen. We’d had so little available that throughout the climb I know I was moving on no more than one litre a minute, less than you should have, and using a much more rudimentary oxygen system than one would have today. Frankly I probably climbed virtually without oxygen, but having a mask does give you a sense of reassurance which seems to make it easier psychologically.

  It was from here that Hillary and Tenzing made their final attack. The sun was now beating down, and as I climbed up a gradual ridge to the South Summit I became so unbearably hot that I tore off my fleece and left it on the ice to collect on my return. I decided to stay close by Ngatemba. Barnicott had pressed on ahead and Nobmann was not far behind us. Each step had to be taken with care. I knew climbers had died at this late stage, and when peering through the holes in the cornice, or staring at the deep, deep drop straight down the South-West Face, I could see how easily that might happen.

  Looking up I saw Barney on top of Hillary’s Step, beckoning me to join him. ‘Come on Dave,’ he shouted, ‘you’re nearly there!’ The step is only 30 feet or so high but almost vertical, and as I reached the top he helped to haul me up. I fell to my knees and hugged him, partly because he had already reached the top but mostly because I realized that after Hillary’s Step there was nothing now between myself and achieving my childhood dream. Barney said he would see me back at the South Col and shot off down the mountain, leaving me to stare up at the final hundred feet to the summit.

  However long I live, whatever I do, I’ll never forget that moment. At precisely 11.38 a.m. on 9 October 1993, I stood there in disbelief on the peak of Mount Everest. I’m not sure I’d ever really believed this would happen, and now here I was gazing out over the Himalayas, down to China on one side, and in the other direction way, way down south to the plains of India. I took a few deep breaths and tried to comprehend what I’d done. Bending down I dug a small hole and stuck a Twix in it for the gods, for surely they had helped me reach this point. I hope they have a sweet tooth. I also picked up an ice screw, discarded by another climber, which I thought might be a gift my old teacher Mansell James would appreciate.

  I had three minutes or so there by myself before Ngatemba appeared, smiling as he reached the summit for his own second time, and moments later we were joined by an ecstatic Lee Nobmann. I had half an hour up there, and we took photos, hugged each other, fought to hold back the tears. Then it was a matter of trying to regain concentration for the descent, as I knew the lives of more climbers were claimed on the way down the mountain than going up, a mixture of exhaustion, dehydration and carelessness taking their inevitable toll. But the weather held for us and we shot down to the South Col, to be greeted by Brian Blessed who gave me a huge bear hug, which this time really did prompt the tears to flow down my cheeks. We were quick off the mark next morning, having no intention of hanging around on the mountain any longer than necessary, dashing down to camp two in a day, despite the fact that I discovered a touch of frostbite myself on my left big toe.

  Back at Base Camp, into which we finally crawled at 5.00 p.m., they’d received news of our success and everyone had remained except for a couple who needed to go on to Pheriche to have their own frostbite treated. Even as we clambered down through the icefall for the last time a Sherpa tripped on a ladder, and was left hanging from a fixed rope in mid-air over a deep crevasse. It was a reminder, as we hauled him to safety, that it was never too late for the mountain to claim another victim, but also a clear example of the Sherpas’ apparent frequent disregard for safety which I have never been able to understand. They would often laugh at us Westerners for always clipping-on when we crossed crevasses, even though it was clearly the only sensible thing to do. Perhaps it is just the result of their belief in Karma, if it is wri
tten that you will die on the mountain then that will happen, but it still strikes me as utterly mad. Some Sherpas can also be relatively inexperienced, since due to the financial rewards on the mountain many actually start their training there. It is also felt that Miyolangsangma, the goddess that supposedly dwells on Everest, only occasionally seeks retribution from those who trespass.

  Steve Bell was there to greet us, and just kept saying ‘that’s brilliant’. In return I told him that, having taken sixteen people to the summit, nine of us and seven Sherpas, he’d just become one of the most successful Everest team leaders of all time. I found myself crying again, now not only because I had reached the summit but because I had also lived to tell the tale. Slipping away for a quiet moment by myself I made my way to the Pujah to express my gratitude to whoever, or whatever, had been watching over me. Then I went over to the tent where I had left my letter to Claire, and ripped the piece of paper up into tiny shreds. She wouldn’t need to read it now. I’d be coming home to tell her everything myself.

  It was only a week after we had both just summited the mountain from the southern route, that over a cup of tea on our way home back in Pheriche, Graham Hoyland first asked me, smiling, ‘Shall we try an Everest expedition from the north side? Shall we go back to Everest one day?’

  Everest has always held a magnetic pull over me. I was thirty-eight back then in 1993 and at the height of my fitness, when I was physically ambitious and my aim would always be to reach the top whatever happened. Since then Graham had returned to the mountain on nine occasions but I’d never been able to do so, since I was always working full-time or on other expeditions so could only climb in holidays when I could organize time off.