by Clint Willis
They waited until morning to discuss their options. Peter wanted to climb the mountain now. They could bring their sleeping bags this time. They could dig a cave in the snow bank he’d spotted the previous day. Chris was worried. The party was very low on food. He and Joe were very tired. The two of them thought that the climbers should all go down to Base Camp for a real rest. They could collect more food and then storm back up to finish the route. Chris also confessed his concern that he might lack the strength to make a second attempt if they tried now and failed. Al agreed with Chris and Joe; he wanted to go down.
Peter was angry—he knew he could finish the route now. The four of them packed and set off along the ridge. They climbed back up and over Junction Peak and made a long traverse through deep snow across the plateau to the Southwest Rib, which they had decided to use as a descent route. They arrived at the slopes above Advance Base Camp late in the day. Michael Ward had climbed up to meet them and to hear their news.
The party spent the night at Advance Base. They woke in the morning to gaze up at their mountain. The weather high on the peak looked bad. They were spared any sense that they might have reached the summit if Peter had won the argument the day before. They were relieved that there was no occasion for second-guessing. They felt vaguely pleased with themselves as they made their way down to Base Camp. They looked forward to Chinese food and British liquor.
Jim Curran had assembled his gear to film the climbers as they approached Base Camp. Jim was appalled by their appearance. All four figures were hollow-eyed and gaunt, more specters than men. He was staggered to hear that they meant to return to the route.
THE CLIMBERS HAD no thought of leaving the mountain—and they couldn’t afford to remain at Base Camp for long if they wanted to make the first ascent of the peak. A Japanese team had permission to climb Kongur from the north. The Japanese might arrive as soon as July 14—now less than two weeks away. The British climbers rested for three days. They left Base Camp on July 4 with enough food and fuel for ten days on the mountain. The weather at base had been poor, but the sky was clear as they set out; perhaps they would be lucky with the weather.
They were going to climb the Southwest Rib—the route Al had favored all along—and not the South Ridge. They had found the descent of the rib straightforward and had decided that it was the easier route. Joe still liked the South Ridge—it still seemed safer from avalanche—but the others overruled him.
They found their new route deep in snow. The going was harder than they’d hoped. The ground was otherwise easy—it wasn’t steep—but they felt the altitude more than they had on their previous attempt. Chris moved slowly and stopped for frequent rests. This evidence of his weakness depressed him. He offered to descend, to let the younger men climb the mountain without him. Peter snapped at him, told him not to be a fool.
The party reached the snow caves they’d dug during their early reconnaissance of the Southwest Rib. Peter wanted to keep climbing; they could dig new caves higher up. Chris and Joe disagreed, overruling Peter yet again. The party stopped for the night. The next morning’s weather was reasonable but the wind rose in the afternoon as they climbed higher. The rib grew steeper. Chris wanted to stop again but this time Peter had his way; he convinced the others that they could reach their old snow cave near Junction Peak. That would save the work of digging a new one.
Peter and Al went first. Al couldn’t stop coughing. He left the trail breaking to Peter. The weather got worse, making route finding difficult. They had left wands; someone would occasionally glimpse one through the blowing snow. Joe and Al eventually switched partners so that Joe could spell Peter at the soul-destroying task of breaking trail through the deepening snow. Peter at one point found himself standing on a cornice with a terrifying view down the South Face of the mountain. He retreated onto solid ground as quickly as he could, feeling as if someone had splashed cold water in his face.
Peter and Joe reached the cave near Junction Peak at nine o’clock that evening. Al and Chris caught them twenty minutes later; they had struggled even to follow in the others’ tracks. Chris in particular felt that he must have a day of rest before going higher.
The next morning brought clouds and some wind. Peter thought the weather looked reasonable but Chris pronounced it bad. Joe and Al didn’t bother to look outside. The four climbers decided to wait a day and then climb to the gully at the base of the summit pyramid. Peter all but promised that they would find sufficient snow to dig caves there. That meant they could leave the tents behind. Chris wasn’t so sure.
The climbers set off the next morning, July 8. Chris made nervous jokes about the risk they were taking. He still wanted to bring tents, but in the end no one had the strength to carry them. The ridgeline that led from Junction Peak to the base of the summit pyramid was covered with deep snow. Joe led through unconsolidated drifts that he found frightening; these slopes seemed very likely to avalanche. Chris belayed him from the ridge crest; he would leap to the other side of the ridge if Joe fell. Joe was sick with weariness. His fatigue dulled his fear. He looked back after a time and saw that Chris had abandoned his stance—was just walking behind him on the other end of the rope. They would go together if the slope avalanched.
Chris took over the lead at the start of steeper ground. He led through on rock caked with a thin layer of brittle snow. He moved with great care into deeper snow at the verge of a huge drop. He might have wandered onto a cornice; it might collapse under him. He went down on all fours for a time to distribute his weight more evenly.
The ground was not technically difficult but the climbers carried heavy packs and they were clumsy in their layers of warm clothing and their bulky footwear. They felt sick and their limbs were almost unbearably heavy. The growing exposure took them aback at moments. They were like dancers who strike a pose and then catch someone’s eye; they felt themselves teeter and sway.
Pete and Al went ahead now. They moved cautiously up the ridge. Chris took notice of an enormous wall of cloud approaching the peak; it had the look of something wicked. The climbers reached the bottom of the summit pyramid. There was very little snow, less than Peter had promised. They scraped at the snow and ice and wound up lying head to head in narrow slots in the ground. Chris called the slots snow coffins.
The storm had arrived while they were digging. There was too much snow and wind to move. The hours passed in a silent procession with little change to mark them. The climbers drifted in and out of a sense that it hardly mattered what became of them.
Chris felt the walls of his snow coffin give way in the night. He dug the snow out in the morning and climbed back in. The storm continued for another three days. Time blurred. Each new night’s darkness came as a surprise. They were hungry, though. They worked their way through their food and felt themselves grow weaker. Each man at moments imagined himself already dead on this mountain. Their bewilderment at times blended with a sense of relief. It was almost pleasant to be in their slots where for days on end almost nothing was required of them. They had achieved some kind of liberation. This was easy.
CHRIS POKED HIS axe through the roof of his little cave on the morning of July 12. He saw gray mist; still, they could not stay here any longer. He packed and then emerged into sun. The sky above the low fog was clear. The day was cold and windy but there was no threat of further snow. They could climb again—and he was thrilled at the thought; he had forgotten that he’d come to climb the mountain. He shouted for the others. He was impatient for the first time on this expedition—not anxious, only eager. They should go. They should leave now for the summit. He felt his lost youth rise up in him.
The climbing ahead looked difficult. Pete and Al roped up and went before the others. The two of them swapped leads on awkward and dangerous ground with mixed climbing on snow and rock. Pete’s hands lost feeling after several pitches. He took off his mittens; his fingers had turned dusky blue at the tips.
It scared him. He asked Joe and Chris to move
past into the lead. The party climbed a ridge of snow and broken rock until the ground opened up and they could follow snow to the top of the mountain. They had climbed 150 meters in five hours. The way to Kongur’s summit lay open before them.
Pete took off his boots and rubbed his feet. The others waited. He put the boots back on and the climbers continued. It was a vast relief to simply walk, but already something slipped from them, faded. Their former difficulties were like snapshots, inadequate. Their memories seemed well-meant lies. It was better not to think of it.
They continued to move toward the summit. They felt their bodies’ suffering. Until now they had chosen to believe that it did not matter if they suffered. Here they allowed their bodies a certain modest importance; it would be good if this discomfort would stop. Chris felt his love for his companions even as he acknowledged his weariness; he had stored both feelings in the same place and they came into his view all at once. His eyes filled as he continued to move his legs and lift his feet; he was a certain kind of machine. He wished only to continue to breathe, to inhale and to spill his exhalations back into this sky.
Joe called down to him. Chris looked past him out across snow to the summit—perhaps 30 meters. Joe untied from the rope and went ahead with the film camera. He stopped in the snow just below the top and filmed the others as they walked past. He filmed them on the top and then realized that the film would reach England before he did. His mother would see it and worry that he’d been killed. He ran around to get himself into the picture. He had forgotten that his mother was blind.
It was very cold and windy. They stayed ten minutes. The sky above receded into space, a deep blue; clouds billowed below them like feather quilts across the folds and tops of other mountains. They climbed down into deeper snow and Chris and Joe and Al began digging. Peter with his frozen fingertips couldn’t dig. Chris and Joe finished digging their cave before Al finished the one he meant to share with Peter. Chris and Joe didn’t offer to help Al. Peter blew up at them. Their happiness and their gratitude and their knowledge of the work ahead, the descent, made Chris and Joe contrite. The climbers made tea in their caves. It was two o’clock in the morning when they drifted off to sleep.
THE SUN WAS shining when they awoke. The wind had dropped. It was still very cold. They came out of their caves into the daylight and stared across to Kongur’s Northeast Summit. They had judged it to be lower than their high point—the Central Summit—but now they weren’t sure. Pete said they must climb it; after all of this they must be absolutely certain. The others agreed. The four of them left their packs and moved in pairs across snow slopes, back up over the huge hump of the Central Summit and across to the Northeast Summit. It wasn’t higher. They turned back, relieved for some reason that their original judgment had been right. They retraced their steps and reached their snow cave below the true summit in the afternoon.
It was late—past four o’clock—but they wanted to get down, past the dangers of the summit pyramid and the upper sections of the ridge from Junction Peak. They needed the food they had left in the snow cave at Junction Peak. The night might bring bad weather. The climbers might be stuck up here for days. They had been here for too long.
The descent was dangerous. They were tired and frightened, and tired of being frightened. Their wish to be safe and to rest made them hurry; they were inclined to believe what they wished to believe. Peter was just ahead of the others when he came to a section steep enough to require a rappel. He tossed the ropes and leaned back on them, and began a traverse. The rope caught a rock overhead and tugged it loose. The others saw it and shouted and saw the rock hit him.
They watched him disappear down the rope; his brake hand had come off and there was nothing to slow his fall. Joe in his mind’s eye saw Peter slide off the end of the rope. The vision was familiar, as if he had seen it before in a dream.
A moment passed and Peter’s voice floated up. The rock had knocked him unconscious for a moment but his rappel device had somehow caught the flesh of his hand. That had been enough to slow his descent, and the pain had revived him. The others hurried down to him. Peter had blood on his face and he was unsteady on his feet, but he could move without their assistance. The four climbers carried on down the ridge, looking for their snow cave at Junction Peak. Peter and Al went out front again. Joe and Chris followed them as the sun sank lower in the sky; they were racing it now.
It grew dark on the ridge but the moon was enough to guide them. Chris had never been so weary. He could take a few steps but then he would stop; after a time he could take a few more steps. He longed for a place where he could lie down and sleep. Joe moved deliberately behind him. He didn’t hurry Chris, who was dimly moved by such patience, such intelligence. They reached the snow cave. Chris in spite of his horrible thirst went to sleep without waiting for tea.
The morning was better. They were getting close, now. They made their way up and over Junction Peak and then through deep snow across to the Southwest Rib and then down. They were too weary to consider the avalanche risk. The descent was a dream. Chris wanted to sit down but if he did he would sleep and he could not face the prospect of waking up to more of this.
Michael Ward and Jim Curran met the climbers above Advance Base Camp. They had imagined their friends lost in the storm that had shrouded the peak for three days. The party spent the night at Advance Base. The next morning they descended to Base Camp to be received by the rest of the team, including the smiling porters. Liu Dayi, the Chinese liaison officer, was smiling as well. His relief at their safe return was evident and very touching as he wrapped his arms around Chris and whispered the Englishman’s name: Ah, Bonington, Bonington.
A yak arrived in Base Camp that afternoon; it carried champagne sent by the trip’s sponsors. The expedition put on a feast the next evening. Their celebration lasted far into the night; an almost hysterical edge crept into the repeated toasts, the laughter and the shouting in the huge darkness of their valley.
THE JAPANESE HAD arrived and begun two separate attempts on Kongur from the north. A large group laid siege to the East Ridge. Meanwhile, a smaller party—three climbers—hoped to make an alpine-style ascent of the North Ridge. The three men set out for the summit on July 16. They carried enough food for nine days on the mountain.
A local man, a shepherd, looked up a week later and saw three figures on Kongur’s North Ridge through a break in the fast-moving clouds. The three figures were climbing snow near the top of their ridge. The shepherd watched until clouds rolled across his line of vision. He turned back to his flock. No one saw the climbers again.
22
THE KONGUR CLIMB was a prelude. Chris had promised his family never to return to Everest. Mick Burke’s death in 1975 had been especially hard on the Boningtons’ two young sons, who had come to know Mick as a kind of playful uncle or older cousin. But the Chinese decision to open their borders to foreign climbers meant that the British could approach Everest from its north side for the first time in more than thirty years.
Everest’s northern slopes had been the scenes of seven failed British expeditions between the two World Wars—including George Mallory’s last expedition in 1924. That expedition had ended when Mallory—the most celebrated climber of his generation—had disappeared with his young protégé Andrew Irvine high on the mountain’s Northeast Ridge.
The Chinese had eventually made the first ascent of the North Col route, which intercepted the Northeast Ridge about 1,000 feet below the scene of Mallory’s disappearance. No one had ever tried to climb the complete Northeast Ridge itself. The ridge was a daunting three miles long, dividing the mountain’s sheer East Face—the Kangshung Face—from its North Face. A complete ascent of the Northeast Ridge would require climbers to negotiate a series of steep rocky pinnacles at about 8,000 meters before joining the North Col route near the summit.
Al Rouse had applied to the Chinese for permission to try the Northeast Ridge. He had since decided that Bonington should lead the
expedition. Chris had the sponsor—Jardine Matheson, which had backed the two Kongur trips—as well as credibility and contacts with the Chinese. The idea was that the four Kongur climbers would return to China the following year—1982—to make an alpine-style ascent of Everest’s last unclimbed ridge. They had spent hours on Kongur discussing their prospects.
As it turned out, Al didn’t go. He wasn’t wanted. He never understood exactly why. He hadn’t delivered a stellar performance on the second Kongur expedition. He’d been sick during the early days of the trip. He’d annoyed the other three climbers with his somewhat fussy concern for the finer points of climbing ethics. He’d annoyed Peter still more by hanging back with Chris and Joe when Peter wanted to push ahead.
It didn’t help that Al and Peter had a history—for a time, they’d competed for the title of England’s best young rock climber. And now Al was making inroads in the expedition game, threatening to replace Peter and Joe as British mountaineering’s latest young prodigy. Al’s privileged background and his Cambridge education hadn’t exactly made him a snob but he was something of a showoff. He sometimes had the air of a precocious child, one proud of his achievements. His sheer appetite for argument could be obnoxious.
There was something else, too. Al had angered Chris before the second Kongur expedition by publicly making light of the mountain. The young hotshot had been perhaps a little embarrassed to be part of an establishment expedition. He’d indicated during a press conference that Kongur would be easy—a mere walk-up: The really surprising thing will be if we need to use a rope. Chris believed that Al’s remark had caused some people to dismiss the expedition and its considerable achievement.
Whatever the reasons, Chris drove down to Al’s home in Sheffield and gave him the news. Al was genuinely devastated. He had considered Chris a friend. He’d defended him when other young climbers dismissed the older man as a throwback. Al experienced this rebuff as a public humiliation and a serious blow to his ambitions as a Himalayan climber.
