I continued work on the snow cave while he repeated his tale to Jim who, in a fit of conscientiousness, recorded it for the film soundtrack.
Half an hour later Tim arrived, unperturbed as usual. After a short break the three of us set to work and the snow cave grew at five times the rate. As the sun set we levelled the floor and passed our packs inside. It had been the hardest and most exacting day of the climb.
We estimated our Camp II to be at about 6900 metres. It was a long way from Camp I but the avalanche had shown that nowhere below was safe. As Tim prepared dinner we chatted about the possibility of the ropes and Camp 1.8 having been torn off the mountain. We would hear the extent of the damage when Geof and Andy came up the next day.
“Just as well it didn’t happen yesterday, Greg.”
The first night at a significantly higher altitude is always uncomfortable, but this time our exhaustion encouraged sleep to come easily.
The next morning as breakfast was cooking we radioed Camp I. Jim had replayed Greg’s description of the avalanche during dinner time with staggering effect.
“I’m not going to come up,” said Geof, “because I don’t want to die.”
The announcement astounded us. We appreciated that we had been lucky to survive the avalanche, but now that it was over it was an incident to laugh about. Avalanches of such a huge size could not happen very often. Anyway, we reasoned that yesterday’s slide would have cleaned most of the dangerously loose snow from the slope above. Certainly there was a possibility that smaller avalanches might strike us as we climbed but that was a risk we all had accepted back in Australia. Now at least the gigantic avalanche had shown that Camp II was safe.
Geof had weighed up all those factors and had come to a different conclusion On a small, essentially leaderless expedition such as ours, each of us had to assess what was an acceptable level of risk and what was not. Geof’s decision left us with less manpower but no less respect for him as a mountaineer. In fact, his reaction made me think a great deal about whether my decision to stay on the mountain was foolhardy.
The three of us talked about the risks and decided that we could continue. With Narayan and Tenzing we had shared the dangers of other mountains but now we felt the margin of safety was too small. It seemed unfair to ask them to accept risks which Geof had found unacceptable. We knew they would come up the mountain if I asked, but we preferred that they restrict their energies to Camp I where cooking for both the climbers and the film crew was almost a full-time job.
The previous evening Andy and Geof had debated for hours and both spent a sleepless night of worry. In the morning Geof reaffirmed his decision to stay down, but Andy chose to take the risk of coming up.
After breakfast Greg abseiled down to Camp 1.8 to fetch another load and while Tim belayed me I ran a couple of hundred metres of rope. I was intensely aware of the possibility of being avalanched until steeper and more demanding climbing distracted me. The ice slope which wound its way through steep rock onto the base of the huge snow slopes of White Limbo was more intimidating than difficult. So absorbed was I in the climbing that I did not notice another sizeable avalanche sweep down the Great Couloir a couple of hundred metres to my left. I ran out all the rope we had at the camp then abseiled back down to Tim.
Andy and Greg arrived from below shortly after Tim and I set about enlarging the snow cave. Andy was tired but impressed with both the climbing and the site of Camp II.
Since all the avalanches of the previous days had occurred in the afternoon, the logical thing to do was to get up early and be back at camp by midday. The next morning Tim, Greg and I left the snow cave at seven o’clock, Andy stayed in his sleeping bag promising he would get up soon and fetch another load from Camp 1.8. From our high point Greg belayed while Tim climbed. It was too cold to hang around until the rope was fixed so, unroped, I followed Tim’s footsteps. The surface of the snow was firm and we made quick progress until we came to the end of the rope where we waited for Greg.
“Perfect for a slab avalanche,” he muttered as he arrived. “The whole lot could go.”
We agreed it was foolish to spend more time up here than was necessary. Greg wanted to descend all the way to Camp I that day so Tim and I shared his load and watched him abseil down. Though we had no more rope to fix to the slope, we decided to climb another seventy metres to the shelter of one of the big rocks we had picked out from the glacier below. There we would be able to dump our gear without fear of it being avalanched. The snow was treacherously unstable, and it was with the added energy of adrenalin that we cached the gear and started down.
There were no other chores for that day, Tim and I lolled around on our “verandah” soaking up the view. Andy arrived shortly, looking very annoyed with himself.
“I dropped my pack,” he growled. “It’s at the bottom of the Face.”
I glanced at Tim who also looked puzzled.
“Ah, Andy … What’s that on your back?”
“That’s Geof’s pack. I took mine off while I put on my sunglasses and it overbalanced. It fell down the Great Couloir. Geof caught up to me so I took his load.”
“Well, that’s not such a major calamity. Geof will bring yours up tomorrow. It should have survived the slide down the Couloir.”
“So Geof decided to come up,” said Tim. “That’s good news.”
“He said he didn’t mind so long as he could start going down by midday before it gets too dangerous. Narayan and Tenzing felt the same.”
“Cheer up, Andy. Have some chocolate.”
It was not a serious incident. His sleeping bag and personal gear were in the snow cave. Andy was just annoyed with himself for being so careless.
“Everything’s got its bright side, Andy. Think of the good story it’ll make.” But he only scowled at me.
In the morning the three of us abseiled down to Camp 1.8 to fetch the loads Narayan and Tenzing had carried up. On the way down I stopped to rearrange the rope in Greg’s Gully to make ascending it easier. Narayan and Tenzing arrived at Camp 1.8 just as I abseiled into view. Narayan was his usual exuberant self, even at this height, while Tenzing, also typically, was smiling gently in the background and saying little. We took their loads and jumared back up the ropes. At these altitudes every hundred metres makes a critical difference. It was noticeably easier carrying heavy loads below Camp II than it was just fixing rope above. The trend would continue until, near the summit, every step would be a tremendous, barely manageable effort.
On the bitterly cold morning of 18 September we left the snow cave half an hour before dawn. The first light of day revealed high, dark clouds across the sky from the south to the north-west. The clouds were a sure sign of bad weather and an explanation for the sudden drop in temperature. The early morning cold cut through my clothing as if it did not exist. My feet and hands, which had been warm when I left the snow cave, soon froze. All of us felt chilled to the bone. The cold tore at our lungs as we gasped for air. I burst into a fit of coughing. The cold air was more than my throat could take. It was a case of climbing up to the top of White Limbo as quickly as we could, dumping the gear and descending to the shelter of the snow cave. I cannot remember much of that morning because so much of my attention was focussed on the cold and the attempt to stop my body succumbing to it. To make matters worse, the final snow slope of White Limbo was very unsafe. A thin crust rested on deep, unconsolidated snow—perfect conditions for an avalanche. Out of habit I glanced at the weather, but my discomfort prevented me from taking in the beauty of the colours captured in the foreboding clouds.
At the top of White Limbo we anchored the rope to a large rock, cached the gear and immediately started down. For the last couple of hundred metres the sun shone and the temperature rocketed up. Suddenly life was bearable again.
Back in the snow cave we melted snow for tea and packed the few things we wanted to take down from the mountain. The time had come for us to have a good rest and wait for the best conditions to atte
mpt the summit. We drank our tea then radioed Camp I that we were on our way, leaving a few minutes apart as only one person could descend each length of rope at a time. It made more sense to wait in the snow cave than on small stances on the mountain. I was the last to go and by the time I reached the glacier it was snowing gently. Soon it worsened to a blizzard, and once again Geof’s coloured flags marking the route proved their worth.
At Camp I the three of us sat in the mess tent drinking and talking to the others for an hour or two before heading down to Advance Base Camp with Greg and Tenzing. For about the fourth time on the expedition I staggered into camp exhausted. After I sat down and drank some tea I began to feel the benefits of Advance Base. The icy bite in the air was no longer apparent and every breath felt silken to my sore throat. After four nights at almost 7000 metres the air 1500 metres lower seemed full of welcome oxygen. We slept solidly until late in the morning.
As we had expected, the weather was bad the following day. Everyone apart from Jim and Colin came down to Advance Base Camp. As competent climbers with previous Himalayan experience, Colin and Jim felt a little frustrated in their role as film-makers. In an attempt to combine their love for climbing with the job at hand they planned to go up to Camp II, dig a second snow cave, ferry supplies up there, then stay to film our return. They hoped to film the next part of the ascent by climbing with us to the top of the fixed rope at 7500 metres. It was an ambitious but possible plan.
Advance Base Camp was noticeably colder than it had been two weeks before. The grass which had once been green was now a dull brown. The flock of a dozen Tibetan snowcocks which lived around the comparative oasis of our sheltered and watered valley had retreated to lower, less hostile altitudes for the oncoming winter. Yet to us, Advance Base was a haven of comfort after our time on the mountain.
Unfortunately my cough had followed me down. The slightest effort reduced me to a fit of coughing. The rawness of my throat from the extreme cold on the mountain was compounded by a bad headcold. Now was precisely the time I needed to be fittest and strongest. Long sessions of yoga gave me some relief, but it was only with time that I would recover fully.
The bad weather passed quickly but in its wake a strong wind remained. From the summits of the mountains around us snow was blown in plumes, and of course the biggest plume was from the summit of Everest.
During our last stay at Advance Base Camp all we had to preoccupy us were thoughts of the two tentative forays we had made up the Face, and the huge amount of mountain still to be climbed. The weather and the danger had left us frustrated and concerned that we might have chosen a season of exceptionally bad weather. This time we could feel satisfied with what we had achieved. One camp was established on the mountain and well stocked with provisions, and we had gear and food cached halfway up the Face at the top of the fixed ropes. Now, at last, everything was as planned. We were poised ready for the summit.
The knowledge that the next spell of clear, windless weather would see us struggling towards the top of the world’s highest mountain made us nervous with anticipation. We all knew that for a small team, unassisted by oxygen equipment, the dangers of mountaineering were doubled or trebled at extreme altitudes. The lack of oxygen made one’s reactions to an accident slow, and perhaps inappropriate. Death was never very far away.
To the fear that we naturally felt was added a concern about how we would perform individually. If I did not recover from my cold and cough I knew that I would be unable to reach the summit. My disability was slight enough to be ignored at sea-level but at 8000 metres and above it would be crucial. An oxygenless ascent of Mt Everest is probably the hardest imaginable feat of strength and endurance, and to have any chance of success, I needed to be one hundred per cent fit.
My weakness took the edge off my spirits. Enthusiasm for the climb was replaced with depression. I kept to myself and sought distraction from my worries by reading. Tim and Greg were rearing to go and Andy was in very good spirits. Geof had reasoned that as the big snowfalls of the monsoon had ceased, the danger of avalanches was reduced sufficiently to make the level of risk acceptable.
With a small team such as ours, personal ambition had to be a secondary consideration. On every other expedition I had climbed strongly and well. Now, on the most prestigious climb of them all, I might have to force myself to take a back seat. My ego found that possibility hard to consider.
After two days the wind appeared to be easing and on the third day it was back up to Camp I for the last time. We agreed virtually without discussion that we would all attempt the summit and let the mountain choose the victors, although it was probable that one or more would turn back before our highest camp, so fickle are one’s physiological responses to extreme altitude. With success or failure depending on so many things all of us had reservations about ourselves and about each other. Apart from the technical problems of the climbing, the next few days would be a continual struggle to stay aware of everything around us. The slightest miscalculation could be our last mistake. It was little wonder that as I walked up the glacier my reasons for attempting such a dangerous goal turned over and over in my head.
If I can keep control of my mind, I told myself, I’ll be all right.
I looked up to the summit and tried to imagine distances, times, and the enormous space which would surround us.
Winter had arrived at Camp I. Apparently the calm season of autumn had been overlooked. No trees existed; no disposable leaves gave advance notice of change. In Tibet, the rugged lines of the landscape suited the sudden changes in climate. The storms of the monsoon had changed to the clear, cold skies of winter.
The severity of the new season was also a surprise. We decided to leave Camp I early: the snow would be frozen firm and we would reach Camp II early enough to be well rested for the hard day’s climb up to Camp II. We left Camp I before dawn, expecting the cold to be fierce but tolerable. Soon, however, my hands and feet rebelled at temperatures which must have been minus 20 degrees Celsius. The circulation in my hands and feet had never fully recovered from frostbite suffered six years before. My throat was still raw from the coughing fits which had plagued me at Camp II and contact with the cold air set me off again into paroxysms of coughing that left me breathless.
I can’t climb the mountain when I’m like this, I told myself as I plodded along the glacier, cursing the pain in my fingers and the energy drain of my cough. I’ll be a physical wreck before we leave Camp II. What to do, I wondered. Push on without the strength to help make the route higher up the mountain? Or stay behind? The only answer seemed the latter. A week earlier I would not have believed I could talk myself out of the summit attempt so easily; I would have given anything to be able to try. But now, with a headcold making me tired, my cough leaving me weak and breathless, and the monstrous cold nibbling my hands and feet, it was a simple choice. My body had made the decision for me.
I staggered up to the Stash. This day, unlike any other, I had fallen a long way behind my friends. Geof and Greg were still at the tent, putting on the climbing gear they had left there. Mike and Howard had risen very early to film our preparations as we arrived and left the Stash. Geof was just leaving as I dropped my pack to the ground.
“I’m not going to come up. My cough’s exhausting me. And this cold!”
Geof was not surprised, because the day before at Advance Base I had confided my fears about my health.
Greg did not seem to hear, busy as he was rummaging for some misplaced equipment.
“Greg,” I began. “I don’t think I’ll come up …”
He was flabbergasted.
“Why not?”
“This bloody cough is burning me out down here. It will be impossible up there.”
“But Lincoln,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think we can do it without your strength. I really don’t.”
His words made me realise the importance of what I had given up. The summit of the world. The goal we had been trying to reach for
two months. And what was more, as our small team was dependent on each and every member, my decision to stay down might cost the expedition its prize.
I sat on my pack, head in my hands, reduced to tears which I half-heartedly attempted to conceal. Mike was quick to film and to signal Howard into position with a microphone.
“But I have no strength at the moment. I’d only be flailing along behind coughing my lungs out.”
Greg and I sat and talked for half an hour. I was surprised at how much he was upset by my decision. Some of that no doubt came from an appreciation of how much each of us had put into getting this far, and therefore how much I was giving up. Of course, in my concern with my own problems I had not thought of the effect of my retirement on our chances of putting someone on top. But no amount of encouragement could cure me. Greg and I hugged each other before he shouldered his pack and plodded after the others, heavy in spirit.
I crawled into the tent to warm my numb hands and feet. In an hour the sun would arrive. I sat there waiting for it, thinking about my decision. Was it as simple as all that, or did fear colour my judgment?
I was scared. Of course I was scared. The risks were not the insinuated threats common to all mountaineering but, as our narrow escapes had shown, direct dangers with no respect for any pretensions we may have held of immortality. Some climbers seemed to operate on the premise that death was something that only happened to other people. I had been close enough to dying too many times to believe that. And now, I keenly felt how much there was to live for, how pointless it would be to die on this mountain. To stay down would ensure my survival. Were my cough and headcold an attempt by my subconscious to protect me from a fatal ambition by yielding my body to disease? It was impossible to know. My disability prohibited an attempt on the mountain, and that was all there was to it.
A couple of hours later, Mike, Howard and I sat in the sun watching the slow progress of the others up the ropes. It was the first time I had seen the Face with climbers on it from anywhere other than directly beneath. They were nothing more than tiny dots moving imperceptibly higher and higher.
White Limbo: The Classic Story Of The First Australian Climb Of Everest Page 14
