White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest

by Hall, Lincoln

  The heavy snowfall meant that the mountain was unsafe but, as we were impatient for exercise, we walked up to Camp I anyway. The following day Tim, Narayan and Tenzing skied up to the Stash to sort out five days’ food for our first stay on the mountain, which hopefully would be soon. The rest of us skied across to the Lho La, the name of the high pass between the end of Everest’s West Ridge and the much smaller peak of Khumbutse. We reached the 6000-metre pass (on the border with Nepal) just as clouds were starting to well up from the valley of the Khumbu Glacier, quickly obscuring our view. Between the West Shoulder and the fluted ice face of the long convoluted Nuptse Ridge, we could still see the infamous Khumbu Icefall where the glacier plunged down several hundred metres from the Western Cwm to the valley floor in a tumbled mess of giant ice blocks and crevasses. The Icefall provided the only access to most of the routes on the Nepalese part of the mountain and any attempts from the southern side were consequently a very serious proposition.

  We knew that at the moment four other Australians—Roddy Mackenzie, John Muir, Craig Nottle and Fred From—were climbing with New Zealanders Kim Logan and Peter Hillary in an attempt to scale the West Ridge. Their schedule put them several weeks behind us, but the bad weather which had slowed our progress made it feasible that we might reach the summit on the same day, a feat we had joked about with Peter and Fred in Kathmandu the previous year. The nickname of this Australian group, a close-knit crew based in Melbourne, was the “International Turkey Patrol”.

  We could see two separate camps close together on the upper lip of the Icefall, slightly below us and several kilometres away.

  “They’re probably there somewhere,” said Andy. “Let’s give them a yell.”

  At first we shouted Nepalese swear words, but the reply was barely audible and may even have been imagined. Again we shouted, this time a synchronised “Tur-key Pat-rol!”

  That got a definite roar of recognition. Floating across the thin, cold air came the words “A-team”—the nickname we had been given somewhere along the line.

  What a shock for the “Turkey Patrol” as they sat outside their tents watching avalanches pour off Nuptse, Lhotse and Everest’s South-West Face. Cries from another world. Our tiny figures would have been barely distinguishable against the snow slopes behind Lho La. As we skied the long gentle slope back to Camp I, I was charged with excitement. The human presence in mountains as huge as the Himalaya was never significant. Simple and shallow though it had been, our contact with the other expedition somehow helped to justify our right to be here. Proof that ours was not an isolated ambition, and the knowledge that others were risking their lives as we risked ours, made our climb seem more sane.

  We judged that, unless it snowed overnight, on the following day conditions would be right for us to head up the Face again. This time it was the turn of Tim and myself to lead the way. By travelling light, we hoped to reach our previous high-point early in the day and continue up to the safe ground at the base of the main rock buttress.

  Greg was keen that he, Geof and Andy should follow us up and establish a camp at the bottom of the buttress.

  A small team such as ours could not afford to waste energy. Too much work low on the mountain would burn us out and leave us with no strength for a summit push. All our efforts had to be productive.

  “What if there’s no camp site at the rock?” I asked Greg. “Will you carry all your gear back down again?”

  “There’ll be a place up there somewhere.”

  “And if there isn’t you’ll have to come all the way down, and you’ll be too buggered to go up the next day. That means there’ll be no one fresh and ready to go up. And that means we’ll have lost a day.”

  “If we do manage a camp tomorrow night—which we will—we’ll have gained a day,” countered Greg.

  “I suppose there’s no harm in being optimistic,” said Tim. “They should be able to find somewhere they can at least bivvy, and then move the camp up to a better site the next day.”

  Eventually a compromise was reached. The five of us would go up: Tim and I to make the route, Andy to carry a load, and Geof and Greg equipped to stay several days on the mountain. I admitted to myself that part of the vehemence of my argument was because I had looked forward to a day of climbing with Tim, uncomplicated by others. Tim and I had gone through so much together that climbing with him had come to be almost like being alone on a mountain; we communicated little directly but felt the reassurance of each other’s strength. However, I accepted that personal whims had to take second place to the expedition consensus on strategy.

  Tim and I reached the top of our fixed ropes just as the sun hit the Face. I shouted down to Greg that the kitbag had been spared by the avalanches. A whoop of joy was his answer.

  The next few hundred metres we climbed as quickly as possible because the wide gully was not a safe place to be. First of all, I ran out two hundred metres of rope to the shelter of a big black rock in the centre of the gully. My difficulty then was to find a good anchor in the poor rock. With that done, Tim jumared up the rope and led out a further hundred and fifty metres to the base of the big rock buttress. But there was no suitable camp: the snow slope was steep and the snow too shallow for digging a snow cave. Both Tim and I made attempts to explore the ground higher up, but the climbing was difficult and the ice-covered rock unrelentingly steep. Added to that unsavoury combination it began to snow heavily. Soon avalanches would be pouring off the Face.

  “Time to get out of here,” I called down.

  The others did not hear me, as they were busy digging a ledge on which to squeeze the tent. Quickly I placed an ice-screw as an anchor and abseiled back to the proposed tent site. I did not envy Geof and Greg what would undoubtedly be an uncomfortable night in an unsafe position. While Tim and Andy helped put up the tent I continued abseiling down the ropes. Luckily it stopped snowing before the slopes became too dangerous. On the glacier I watched Andy cross the dangerous ’schrund then skied down to wait in the comfort of the tent at the Stash. From there the three of us skied the good snow down to Camp I. We had been on the move for fourteen hours—a long day at these altitudes—and went to bed exhausted.

  For Tim and me to be fresh enough to relieve Geof and Greg after two nights on the mountain, we needed a rest day, yet someone had to accompany Narayan and Tenzing up the ropes the next day with essential supplies for Geof and Greg. Andy was the only choice. He was probably not quite as tired as he had not broken trail nor plugged any steps. We woke late in the morning several hours after Andy had left with Narayan and Tenzing. Later he said he was tempted to shout at our tent as he left to instil a little justice into the start of the day.

  At last we were making real progress. Geof climbed the ice-covered cliff above their tent to reach a steep, unstable snow slope. The slope sharpened to a crest which butted onto a vertical rock cliff about twenty metres high. The first ten metres of the cliff were covered with enough snow to allow straightforward climbing. Above was a vertical ice-choked gully which took Greg two hours to climb although it was only ten metres high. The rock was loose and many of the holds were frozen over so that he had to chip the ice away before he could hang on. The footholds were so small that he needed to remove one crampon from his boot. At the top of the gully the snow slope continued up steeply. He climbed until the rope which tied him to Geof became tight. Above, at least another hundred metres of steep ground remained, and where he clung to the mountainside there was no place for a camp. Because it was late in the day and Geof was unable to climb the rope up the gully with only one jumar clamp, Greg decided that the best thing to do was to descend. He placed his ice-axe in the slope as an anchor then abseiled down to Geof.

  Mike and Howard were filming the climbing from the glacier with Mike’s huge telephoto lens. At one stage, the snow which Greg cleared from the holds gathered loose powder as it slid down the slope below, and the small avalanche landed directly on their tent. When Andy, Tenzing and Narayan arrived
at the camp (which we had named 1.8 in the hope of finding somewhere better for Camp II higher up), they found the tent flattened and the poles broken. They cleared the snow away but left Greg and Geof to repair it as best they could.

  The two climbers reached their camp at about six o’clock. Immediately Greg radioed Camp I with news of the day’s progress, not knowing that Mike and Howard had kept us well informed. We began to discuss whether they should stay there or descend, though there seemed to be no question in Geof’s mind: he regarded the camp as too dangerous. A larger avalanche could sweep the tent from the mountain. Greg was keen to keep the forward momentum and was prepared to risk another night so that he could work with Tim and me on pushing the route up the mountain the next day.

  Greg finished the conversation with the comment that his eyes were sore because he had climbed all day without his sunglasses. Down at Camp I we looked at each other knowingly.

  “He’ll probably be snow-blind tomorrow,” I said.

  “No probably about it,” said Jim. “He won’t be able to see a thing.”

  Back on the radio, “How did it happen, Greg?”

  “I took my pack off at the bottom of the gully when we were still in the shade and it was four hours before I got back to it and put my glasses on. What does Jim suggest I do? The pain is getting worse by the minute.”

  Jim named the ointments in the first-aid kit he had made up for each of us. “The silly bugger should know better than that with the amount of time he’s spent in the mountains.”

  The problem was that the glare from the snow had burnt his eyes, and the result was that he would be blind for a day or two.

  “Do you think we should try and talk him into coming down?” asked Howard.

  “No point!” I answered. “He’s too stubborn. Tomorrow he’ll probably try and climb with his eyes closed. As it’s only temporary damage there’s no real danger in him staying there. At least, no more danger than if he could see.”

  Sure enough, when Tim and I reached Camp 1.8 at mid-morning the next day, Greg could barely see out of one eye and was completely blind in the other. Inside the clumsily repaired tent he wore sunglasses because any light whatsoever was painful.

  Tim had gone ahead with some rope and the hope of reaching a good camp site. I shouldered my heavy pack and said to Greg, “We’ll be back soon to help you up to a better camp than this disaster area. How’s that for optimism?”

  The optimism was justified, though it was hard work plodding up the steep loose snow, and Greg’s Gully (as we immediately nicknamed his solution to the vertical cliff) was a real struggle. Because Tim had moved the anchor another two hundred metres higher, the stretch in the rope rendered it not much use as an aid. I cursed Tim for adjusting the rope inconsiderately, then cursed myself for carrying such a heavy pack. Driven by my anger I puffed up the 200-metre slope above.

  Tim was waiting at the top. A few words from him and my anger vanished. It was only misdirected energy. Tim had done well to fix the rope unassisted and I should have been pleased with myself for managing to carry a thirty-kilogram pack up steep ground to almost seven thousand metres. High altitude had closed my mind to the fact that I was living out every climber’s ambition—a perfect day of climbing a new route on the highest mountain of them all. On an expedition, high altitude becomes the excuse for every flash of temper and mood of darkness.

  Behind Tim the ridge levelled out, though both sides dropped away steeply. He pointed to a spot twenty metres further. “There’s a possible site for a snow cave over there.”

  Walking along the crest of the rib was like being on the pointed roof of a building a kilometre high. The snow sank under our tread into definite footsteps and gave an illusion of security which walking on roofing tiles could never have done. The situation was magnificent, with the steepest part of the Face behind us now. On one side of the rib was the Great Couloir. There was nothing to give perspective or scale. It was possible to believe that the huge ice cliffs of the Great Couloir overhung us, though logic told us that since we were to the right of the Couloir that could not be the case. On the other side of the rib it was a sheer drop to the bottom of the Face. We were higher than the peaks of Khumbutse and Lingtren so we could look over them to the peaks of Nepal’s Gokyo Valley. Changtse no longer loomed above us for an impossible distance. All around, up and down, the views were spectacular. It was a great place for a camp.

  “What do you think?” asked Tim.

  “If the snow is good, it’s fantastic. It had better be good because it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere else.”

  “We can’t go any higher than this, anyway,” said Tim as I unstrapped the snow-shovel from my pack, “or we’ll never get here in a day from Camp I with loads.”

  Tim dug a metre or so into the snow then poked into the hole with his ice-axe. The snow was deep and firm, in perfect condition for a snow cave. Tim headed back down to fetch another load and to help Greg, while I set about digging the cave.

  The first task was to dig a ledge across the Face, wide enough and long enough for us to sit on while we attached our crampons to our boots, and so that we could lounge about and enjoy our afternoon tea on beautiful days such as this. Having room to move around outside, unroped, did away with the feeling of being trapped by constant danger.

  Once I had dug a ledge the size of a single bed, I began to tunnel into the slope at the far end. There was a lot of snow to be shifted, but with the snow-shovel I could carve large blocks which I then rolled down the slope, and so made good progress. Every half hour or so I would take a five-minute rest to have a drink, eat some chocolate and admire the incredible panorama around me. After two and a half hours I had a hole big enough to sit a couple of people. It was an awkward size because there was not enough room to wield the shovel efficiently. I was crouched inside when I heard the familiar “Whoompf!” of an avalanche.

  Sounds like a big one, I thought. I’ll have a look at that.

  I stepped out onto my narrow ledge and looked across towards the West Shoulder where I expected to see the avalanche. There was nothing. I turned to face the North Col. Nothing there either. With horror I realised the only other possibility. I jerked my head up to see the sky filled with huge clouds of snow, seconds away from sweeping me off the mountain. There was nowhere to go but into my embryo snow cave. As soon as I had flung myself inside, the avalanche hit. Thousands of tonnes of snow poured over the entrance. There seemed to be a real danger of being buried alive. I crawled out onto the ledge I had cut into the slope and pressed myself against the wall. There at least I would be buried less deeply. Snow was forced into my nostrils and my mouth as I breathed so I covered my face with my hands.

  “Please don’t let the whole slope be swept away,” I said aloud, not so much to anybody or anything, but in the irrational hope that voicing my wish would make survival more likely.

  After several minutes the slide of snow lessened and finally stopped. The air was full of snow swirling in the wake of the avalanche. The late afternoon sun glinted from the tiny flakes, reminding me of the facts which at that moment needed no further emphasis—how beautiful is the world, how good it is to be alive.

  I gave a whoop of delight, then sobered with worry about the fate of Greg and Tim. I shouted and heard an answering cry. Somebody was alive at least. When I tried to hold my ice-axe I realised that my whole body was shaking with the shock. Not wanting to trust my trembling legs I crawled along our tracks to where I could peer down the steep slope. Greg was only fifty metres below.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah!” was the feeble reply.

  “What about Tim?”

  “He was answering nature. His clothes are full of snow.”

  Greg’s answer told nothing of Tim’s safety but his manner implied he must be all right. I lay back in the snow and laughed hysterically. It was the biggest avalanche I had ever seen, let alone been underneath.

  “Lincoln!” There was an urgency in Greg
’s voice.

  I stood up and listened.

  “I’m soaking wet and really cold. If I’m not there soon come and give me a hand.”

  “Do you want me to take your pack?”

  “No, it’s just that I’m cold.”

  “Okay. You’re nearly at camp. Give me a yell if you need me.”

  The sun was sinking low in the sky. Time to return to digging that night’s shelter.

  Soon the cave was big enough for me to work in more quickly. When I bulldozed the accumulation of snow off the ledge with my boots Greg was just arriving. He looked worn out and was shivering violently. The snow of the avalanche had worked its way down his neck and sleeves and into his pockets so that now his clothes were quite wet.

  He sat down to catch his breath while I pulled dry clothes out of his pack and listened to his story. Both he and Tim had seen the avalanche fly over the ice cliff above and had thought how impressive it would be watching it roar down the Great Couloir. As it tumbled closer and closer they realised it was too huge to be contained in the Couloir. There was nothing they could do but watch it fly over the edge of the rib and bear down on them. Tim, who was in the process of doing up his trousers, threw himself back to the fixed rope where he had attached his pack and hung on with all his might. Greg, who was firmly tied to the fixed rope a little way above, was swept off the slope. The snow poured over him, stretching the fixed rope as the force of the avalanche tried to drag him down. Then it was gone, leaving them stunned but uninjured.

  “It took my mind away from my aching eyes for a while,” he said in conclusion. “Pass me the radio, will you. Camp I has got to hear about this.”