aftershock
The Quake on Everest and One Man’s Quest
Jules Mountain
Published in 2017
by Eye Books
29A Barrow Street
Much Wenlock
Shropshire
TF13 6EN
www.eye-books.com
ISBN: 978-1-78563-501-4
Copyright © Julian Mountain, 2017
Cover by Chris Shamwana
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
To my daughters,
Steph & Lizzie:
I thought about you every day on Everest
With grateful thanks to
my brother, Rick, and my dad, Michael,
for all their support over the years
Also to Nick Russell, who was a fantastic help
in the early stages of this book
I would also like to thank the cancer team
at UCLH London for their fantastic treatment,
and the UCLH haematology cancer care charity,
which has been a source of inspiration to me.
Part of the proceeds from the sale of this book
will go to the charity, whose website is
www.uclh.nhs.uk/hcc
Contents
The avalanche and the big C
From days on Mont Blanc to dreams of Everest
Leaving loved ones
Joining the expedition
Scenes from the Khumbu Valley
Acclimatisation
Base Camp basics
Climbing Lobuche in alpha mode
Avalanche aftershock
The emergency tent
The day after
Life goes on – but the expedition?
Up the Icefall with rising hopes
The Icefall revisited; the expedition in peril
Duplicity and dashed hopes
An unexpectedly easy exit
Epilogue: to the summit
Pictures
About Eye Books
Other titles from Eye Books
The avalanche and the big C
My head throbs from the festivities of the night before. Alcohol is not a good idea at altitude, but we were dancing and drinking into the early hours with very little oxygen, so I am enjoying a quiet rest day.
I’m lying in my ‘coffin’ – my minute tent at Everest Base Camp. The canvas is about half a metre above my face, and my two kit bags are squeezed in next to me. It’s -2°C. My breath rises from my mouth like small plumes of smoke as I try to catch a midday nap.
My feet are tucked in the end of my sleeping bag; my eyes are shut. The sun is shining in through the tent lining – a day like any other I’ve experienced in the five weeks I’ve been here.
Suddenly and without warning, the ground I am lying on abruptly moves half a metre to the left.
I open my eyes with a start. What on earth? Did that really happen? Did the entire earth just shift beneath me? Or was it last night’s whisky?
Again, I feel the earth move. The ground underneath me lifts me up half a metre, as if something is pushing into my back, before suddenly shunting to the right. What the hell’s happening? I am lying on a glacier of 100 tons of ice – nothing could move that!
I heave myself up out of my sleeping bag; rip the tent zip open. The snow in front of me, calm and serene, blissfully unaware of the plans the mountain has in store for it, clings to me as I half-crawl out and stand upright.
I see Donat and Iwan just in front of me, staring up at Pumori as if hypnotised. Usually, with Everest looming so majestically overhead, there is little reason to look at the Goliath’s smaller sister, but right now... Careering down Mount Pumori is the biggest avalanche I have ever seen. Coming right at us...
The entire sky is filled with a giant, cascading wall of white. A beautiful and deadly collision of debris – rocks, ice and white dust – and all of it heading straight for me.
It rolls, turns, tumbles every which way, billowing right and left and everywhere, as it surges invincibly on down the mountain.
From ground to sky there is nothing else; just this wall of whiteness thundering towards us, oblivious of all in its path, full of heartless violence.
Everything is gone – nothing exists in the world, but this...
Crikey!… This is it – I’m dead! I’m dead!
There is nothing I can do but accept that I am about to be swept away forever by an avalanche. After all the near misses and close calls of my life, after all the lucky escapes from hospital, I must exit here, thousands of miles from my loved ones.
My daughters, my girlfriend, my family in England drift into my mind; time seems to be slowing infinitely to allow me to think about them all, one last time. It feels as if 15 minutes have passed since I emerged from my tent, but it’s actually only a few seconds.
I look down. I’m not even wearing boots; just socks on my half-frozen feet. Could I run? I glance over my shoulder.
Donat and Iwan have thrown themselves behind a two-foot rocky outcrop, but I don’t have time to get there.
Running is out of the question. The avalanche is hurtling towards me at 150 kilometres an hour, and the ground is an obstacle course of rocks, guide ropes and ice. I am sure to trip. And anyway, where to run? I think of the icy lake just behind me on the glacier – what if the avalanche throws me in?
I have to get down. Now.
I dive headfirst into my tent, and hit the floor, burrowing my head into the ground.
The avalanche is on me, all around and on top of me.
I am being buried alive in snow.
* * * * *
How on earth had I come to such a pass? What was I doing on Everest in the first place?
My original goal in life was to build and sell a company, and I achieved that in 2005, when I sold my management consultancy business to a French firm. I then went on to build another consultancy business and sell that in 2007, just before the crash, so it seemed I was doubly lucky, but that wasn’t the only thing going on in my life...
Just before selling my second business I found a lump on my head, behind my ear. I was told there was an 80% chance it was a benign lump. In other words, a harmless growth. Of course I am not an 80% guy; I am a 20% guy, and no, it was not a benign lump – it was a tumour. I had cancer – the big C. It’s like a steam train hitting you – your world stops.
And not just any cancer; it was in my head. If it had been in my leg or arm it could be cut off, but you can’t exactly cut your head off – it’s a little bit self-defeating. And just when I was trying to sell my business.
I spent the next two weeks in and out of hospital, having scans and tests, and a great big needle stuck into my head, just behind my ear, with no anaesthetic.
After a painfully long and nerve-wracking week, during which I tried very hard to focus on the consultancy business and not to think about the lump, I went back for the results. As I walked in I saw the consultant’
s face looking up at me sympathetically. Before he had even opened his mouth, I knew – it was cancer. He said it could be one of two types; one was treatable, the other was not good. When he said “not good”, I didn’t realise that, in consultant speak, this means you will be dead in a matter of weeks. Unfortunately, the biopsy did not identify which one it was, so he recommended they operate on me immediately.
On top of selling the management consultancy business, I was also moving house that weekend. I decided I should move house anyway. Otherwise I might never live in my new home at all. So the operation was planned for the next Tuesday.
I came out of the consultant’s office feeling very, very sick.
The move was a blessing in disguise, as it kept me busy all weekend, hefting boxes with the removal men and making beds and getting the kitchen up and running.
When Monday came I was very nervous. I went into the office as usual and told the staff I was having an operation, and that I wouldn’t be in for the next week, thinking to myself that I might never be back there at all.
I went into hospital early on Tuesday morning after a sleepless night. The consultant told me it was to be a seven-hour operation, in which they would remove the parotid gland, and all the lymph nodes around the gland and further down my neck. And then he hit me with it: “We may have to remove your voice box. Please sign this consent form.”
I duly signed, not knowing, if I came round at all, whether I would be able to speak. I hate going under, as I feel I am losing control, and I am a control freak.
During the operation they severed all the nerves in the left side of my face, causing that side of my face to drop and nothing to work normally.
When I came round, I was high as a kite on whatever they’d given me, and very, very sleepy, but I could talk. Thank goodness.
I looked truly terrible, as if someone had slid the whole of the left side of my face downwards. I couldn’t find the parts of that side of my face; my brain didn’t know where they were because all the nerve endings had been severed and re-joined in a random pattern. I had an itch on the top of my ear, but my hand couldn’t find the top of my ear – it was really weird, as if the left-hand side of my face was not mine but somebody else’s.
My brother, Rick, came to see me the next day. He is my rock and we are very close. We discuss all our issues together. I wanted to sit up in bed to try to feel normal, but my brain didn’t know what was going on. I was in intense pain, even with the painkillers, and I couldn’t speak properly because I couldn’t move the left side of my mouth, so I slurred my words. But we chatted.
Then I wanted to get out of bed for a pee. My brother called the nurse and she helped me slowly to my feet.
I was like a 100-year-old man as I hobbled to the loo. The nurse had to help me pee (no room for dignity). I was horrified when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I looked like Quasimodo.
I shuffled back over to the bed and very slowly sat in the armchair next to it. I was desperate to feel normal. I sat for the next three hours chatting to Rick. My head was spinning, trying to compute what had gone on in the past 24 hours. I was in a lot of pain, but at the same time, I had a numb, out-of-body feeling.
Suddenly, I started to feel very poorly. I asked Rick to help me get back into bed.
As he did so, I could feel my heart racing. “I feel really ill. Get the nurse, get the nurse!”
My brother’s face showed total panic. He looked at me again and then dashed for the door, screaming, “NURSE! NURSE! MY BROTHER! NURSE!”
She came running in and immediately pressed the red button behind me. It was the crash team button… Oh shit, this wasn’t going to be good.
Next thing, a doctor comes running in, followed by a team of two with a trolley of equipment, and on top I could see the defibrillator. Bloody hell, I’d survived the op but now I was going to die the day after.
My heart was racing and my chest felt very, very tight, as if I had a car on top of me. I was sure I was having a heart attack – not uncommon after a general anaesthetic and a lengthy operation.
“We may have to open you up so that I can massage your heart.” WHAT?! “It’s a messy procedure and we will have to cut your sternum.”
Jeepers. My heart raced even faster. This was it. I was going to die.
While the doctor was telling me this, the others were ripping off my pyjamas and sticking pads all over my chest. If I hadn’t been having a heart attack, this was enough to bring one on.
The doctor was shouting at the team as they stuck a tube down my throat, to stop me from choking when they cut me open. He then rolled me on to my side and shoved the largest needle you have ever seen into my backside. It made the biopsy needle look wimpy. My heart was racing so fast I thought it would come out of my chest. They then rolled me back and put an oxygen mask on me and started an IV drip. I could feel myself drifting.
The doctor was looking into my eyes, but I was fading fast. I tried to find my brother. I was mumbling, “Rick, Rick, Rick”. He took my hand and I drifted off.
I awoke some time later to a lot of concerned faces staring down at me. I had gone into anaphylactic shock as a result of the operation, and nearly died.
“Am I ok?” I mumbled through the oxygen mask.
“You are for now. We’re going to monitor you closely,” said the doctor.
“Rick, don’t leave me, please, please, don’t leave me, I don’t want to die alone tonight.”
“I won’t leave you”. They brought a camp bed in and Rick slept right next to me, holding my hand all night.
In the morning, the consultant came. “I heard we had a bit of an incident last night.”
“Yes, we did, but please let me go home.” So they discharged me that afternoon and my brother drove me home very, very slowly. Every speed bump and pothole hurt like hell.
This experience gave me the belief that you have to live every day as if it’s your last.
Over the next five months, I had gruelling chemotherapy, all my hair fell out and some of my veins collapsed. I was determined to prove to myself that I was no less of a man, that anything I could do before I could still do now, and that I could get back to the same level of physical fitness. What I needed was a physical challenge to prove this, and the more challenging, the more I would prove it to myself.
You never feel more alive than when you’re close to death!
From days on Mont Blanc to dreams of Everest
The wind buffeted us wildly as we stepped out on to the knife-edged ridge. We checked our harnesses one last time before we began the 150-metre crossing. People had been known to lose their lives on this treacherous arête, plummeting hundreds of metres before smashing on to the rocks below.
I knelt down, checked my crampons. The metal gleamed in the sunlight like precious silver. I tightened them – better to be safe, I thought.
They’re strange things, crampons (basically metal spikes that strap to the bottom of your climbing boots); they make my feet feel alien, cumbersome. They always remind me of something from a James Bond film – that bad guy with the poison-tipped knife in his shoe.
I could feel the wind blowing against my face, yet also the lack of oxygen in the air. I took a deep breath.
We edged tentatively along, the rope tied between us giving just enough slack. I could feel a bead of sweat on my temple.
I looked up. The scenery was magnificent: a sprawling array of snow-covered mountains as far as the eye could see, the purity of their snow-capped peaks contrasting vividly with a seamlessly blue sky.
No time for that now. I could appreciate the beauty when I got back – when I was safe.
Step by step, we inched closer to the plateau at the far end.
I gripped my ice axe tightly, ready at a second’s notice to dig it into the ground and arrest a fall, if either Fred or I tumbled.
> Fred was about five metres ahead of me. The wind was howling, and he huddled against it in his protective clothing, advancing cautiously.
I trusted Fred; he was a great guy. There are very few people in the world that I trust enough to be roped to – after all I’m 15 stone, and if I fell, Fred would have to hold me – a six-foot-three, 95-kilo guy takes some holding.
But…there was still that nagging doubt. If I fell, if I failed to arrest myself with my axe, would he react in time? Would his mind be quick enough, would he jump off the other side of the ridge to counterbalance me? That’s a tall order when it comes to it.
I didn’t know – there was only one way of knowing, and I didn’t much fancy taking that bet.
We shuffled onwards towards our goal, each locked in our own thoughts, eyes down, focused on where we were putting our feet.
With each step, I pulled my foot free, fighting against the suction of the snow, and wedged the toes of the crampon a step ahead. I took care to avoid the sharp edges of the crampon – I’d lost many a pair of salopettes (trousers) to these lethal things.
Next time I looked up, unexpectedly I saw we had arrived; I breathed out heavily, as if I’d been holding my breath the whole way across.
As we unroped, I took a second to appreciate the scenery. Not many people would be able to witness this first hand – I knew I was lucky, so it felt a shame not to be able to stay there for longer.
Time was marching on, though. And so must we.
We re-roped on a longer reach as we began descending from the smaller plateau to the Vallée Blanche, high above Chamonix. Up near the top of Mont Blanc, alone, on foot in thick snow, we might as well have been 1,000 miles away from anywhere. We trudged on, the snow crunching under our feet with every step as the crampons went in.
All the time, I kept my eyes peeled for hairline cracks in the snow; that telltale sign that indicates a crevasse.
If I missed one and stepped onto the thin, breakable crust of snow that covered it, I would be swallowed whole by the darkness. If Fred could not arrest me, I’d be lost to the depths in less than a second.
Aftershock: One Man's Quest and the Quake on Everest Page 1
