There was also a television.
“This runs on one of the two solar power units,” said one of the guides, “so there’s only a limited amount of power. Once it’s gone, it’s gone – no more TV until it’s able to charge the next day.”
Still, I was more than happy with this arrangement – at least there was somewhere for us to spend time that wasn’t our tiny, one-man tents, which we now had to kit out.
My tent looked more like a coffin, with just enough room for me to lie flat. The two-man tents up on Lobuche had been bad enough – I was dreading having to stay in this for the next six weeks.
But still, I was proud to be here. I had made it as far as Everest Base Camp.
Base Camp basics
“What on earth are you doing, Jules?” asked an American voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder, and saw Hilary, Donald’s wife.
“Making a patio.”
I was panting like a dog, absolutely cream-crackered, as I lugged over all the relatively flat stones I could find in the vicinity of my tent. With my pickaxe in hand, I knocked them into shape and fitted them into the entrance area around my tent.
It was exhausting work. Every movement took all my energy – I felt like an old man of 95. The rocks seemed to weigh double, triple what they would at home.
“A patio?”
“Yeah – I’m fed up having to put my boots on in the snow. We need some civilisation around here.”
Hilary laughed – it was good to hear her laugh; she’d been suffering quite badly from altitude sickness.
“You’ll have to do ours next!”
“That’s what you’ve got your husband for,” I replied, as I dropped a particularly heavy stone in place. I stopped for a breather.
Donald looked over from his seat outside the tent he shared with his wife.
“Thanks for that,” he laughed. “I won’t hear the end of it now.”
“Sure you will – right after you’ve built us our patio!” said Hilary.
I laughed, before heading off in search of another rock for my entrance area.
We’d been at Base Camp for a few days now, trying to get used to the alien way of life and the very, very thin air. We ate our meals together in the mess tent, watched films in the white pod and slept alone as best we could in our bright yellow canvas coffins, except for Donald and Hilary who had a slightly larger husband-and-wife tent by pre-order. I wished I could have had one of those for myself.
In the warm sunlight of the morning, my sleeping bag was draped across the top of my tent, in an effort to dry it out. Any condensation quickly froze during the nights, creating ice crystals on the roof of the tent, waiting patiently and malevolently to shower down on you when you least expected it, making your sleeping bag wet.
A small stream trickled past the outside of my tent, cutting a meandering path through the ice.
My tent was pitched near an undulating hill in the glacier beneath us. The hill was covered in rock that had fallen into the valley, and which the glacier was carrying along as it inched its way down the valley.
I walked up the hill, panting like mad, and found a suitable rock to finish my patio, so I chipped away at it with the pickaxe until it came loose. With an effort I lifted it and slowly wobbled back to my tent and slotted it in place.
I stood up, wheezing, admiring my handiwork.
It was about time for breakfast, so I readjusted the guy lines before heading off. It was necessary to do this every couple of days, as the infinitely minute movement of the glacier caused them to slacken over time.
Breakfast was served in one of the mess tents in the centre of our camp – every day we had sausage or bacon and eggs; it was the best meal of the day.
I thanked Bill – the highest chef in the world – and took a seat at the table. Sitting in our thick, padded downing jackets, we all looked like a group of colourful Michelin Men.
Life at Base Camp had normalised relatively quickly. We’d all settled in and were excitedly counting down the days until our turn to attempt the summit. I was also counting the days until I would see Steph and Lizzie again. I missed them terribly.
We had a strict calendar of events to follow over the next few weeks, including practice climbs and hikes – we even had to camp at altitude on the 6,200m summit of Lobuche, in order to help us prepare and acclimatise for Everest.
For now, however, we ate and chatted, getting to know each other better in the relative safety of our mess tent at EBC. Unbeknown to all of us, that same mess tent would soon be serving as a hospital tent for dozens of critically injured people, its roughly carpeted floor stained with blood, the air filled with the stench of urine, treacly thick blood and death.
I finished my breakfast and headed out into the sunshine. One of the paradoxes of the mountain was that it could feel warm in the daytime, due to the sun’s rays at altitude, but as soon as 4pm arrived the temperature would plummet to -15°C, and everybody would rush to their tents to get thick downing jackets and trousers on.
I sat down in the centre of the camp on a plastic storage bin and grabbed the camp guitar. I had no idea who had thought to lug the thing up there, but I was glad they had – it was a great way to pass the time…although cold fingers made it difficult to play.
The guitar was, unsurprisingly, pretty battered, and in dire need of replacement strings. I tuned her up and struck a chord. The clear twang of the strings echoed and reverberated in the valley.
It was a beautiful, alien sound in this landscape, but it felt so natural.
I pulled a C chord and sang a few lines.
I drew a sharp, rugged breath – the thin air made it very difficult.
There was clapping behind me. Hilary was standing outside her tent, pale-faced but smiling.
“Yeah, Jules,” she said. “That’s great!”
“My fingers are a little cold.”
She came over and sat down with me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, gently striking another chord.
“I’m struggling.”
I felt very sorry for Hilary. She was only here to support her husband, Donald. She wasn’t even going to attempt any climbs; Base Camp was her Everest and she’d already achieved it, but she was suffering from altitude sickness.
“They’ve got me on Diamox and a whole heap of other pills,” she said. “I should be OK…”
She didn’t look particularly convinced by her assertion.
I thought back to the lecture we all had before leaving Pheriche. We had visited the medical centre there, which had been set up by Western climbers and doctors and dealt with people suffering from altitude sickness. All on a voluntary basis, of course – the Nepalese government had higher priorities for our permit money.
The talk had been given by one of the Western doctors who had been stationed there for six months, and it was fascinating…if a little terrifying. He talked us through all the potential medical conditions associated with high-altitude, including the symptoms and prognosis.
People suffering from acute mountain sickness (AMS) were normally OK, provided they got back down to a lower altitude very quickly and took a concoction of steroid-based drugs. There were three stages of AMS that we were constantly on the lookout for. They appeared in the following order:
HAH (high-altitude headache) – a bit like being hungover, with a very bad headache.
HACE (high-altitude cerebral edema), where the brain swells with fluid and the sufferer seems drunk and disoriented.
HAPE (high-altitude pulmonary edema) – where fluid develops in the lungs and results in a nasty cough. This could be deadly.
HAPE was especially scary. If not treated, it could result in the sufferer drowning in the fluid build-up in the lungs. Imagine that: drowning at 5,400m above sea level. The treatment was Sildenafil; its
street name is “Viagra”…so there you’d be, drowning on a mountainside with a hard-on!
I felt sure Hilary was on the lower-end of the altitude sickness spectrum, but it must still have been difficult to endure. It was like being constantly slightly drunk, with no way to prevent it – your body feels distant and numb; everything spins slightly.
On top of that, you’re never sure whether fluid is going to build up in your brain or in your lungs… It must be quite frightening.
“I’m sorry to hear that – I hope you feel better soon,” I said. “Any requests?”
“Do you know anything by The Beatles?”
Instinctively, if a little stiffly, I pulled a G-chord on the weathered neck of the guitar, took a deep, wheezing breath, pulling as much oxygen out of the thin air as I could:
“It’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog...”
It was difficult to play in such conditions, but the quality didn’t really matter. It was just great to be there, sitting at Base Camp in the sunshine, playing and singing. It all felt very natural – I felt at one with my beautiful, desolate surroundings.
I played the guitar for a while, chatting with Hilary and others in the group who joined us. There was a pleasant, convivial atmosphere – everybody was pleased to be at Base Camp and we were having a good time.
The next day, we were due to climb Lobuche, as practice for Everest. We were going to spend the night in the freezing conditions at the summit, in order to prepare us for the challenges ahead at Camps 1, 2, 3 and 4 on Everest. Everest includes Base camp (at 5,400m) then Camps 1, 2, 3 and 4, and then the summit (at 8,800m).
I was looking forward to it. After all, I’d come here to climb – but I was also enjoying the downtime at Base Camp. It was nice to grab a guitar, have a chat and soak in the atmosphere of the place.
While I had some time, I decided to try to send an update to Freecom for my blog, as well as a couple of emails to Steph and Lizzie.
A Kathmandu-based company called Everest Link had set up a wifi station with two satellite dishes. They were charging $50 for 1GB of upload data, which was extortionate, but we were the epitome of a trapped market, so they could charge us pretty much whatever they wanted.
It was a very slow process, and as everybody got up in the morning, the bandwidth very quickly became full, making it impossible by midday to send any emails.
I sat down on a nearby storage bin.
First things first. I emailed a note to Steph and Lizzie. I pressed send. And waited…
I tried pressing send again, with the same result.
This continued for around ten minutes, before the email eventually went. I stared fixedly at the green bar inching across the top of the screen. The signal was dismal.
The blog update took forever to send. I tried at first to send some pictures as well, but...no chance – the system was being hammered by the number of users. It was impossible to hold the link long enough to send anything.
The only other option was to hike down to Gorak Shit. They had a telephone mast there, a big steel mast – a repeater station. It was actually possible to get 3G signals down there… Once I had used up the remaining 800MB of data on my card, I decided to hike down there instead.
It is amazing how the lack of ability to communicate with loved ones – which we now take for granted with mobiles in the Western world – brings you down very quickly. Suddenly, as I pressed send for the umpteenth time, I started to wonder what I was even doing here? If I’m spending so much effort and money trying to communicate with the people back home, why was I here?
Sure, it was a big adventure – if a little surreal – sitting in the snow and playing guitar, but why was I really here? Could I really do another six weeks of this, and summit Everest? Freezing in my coffin every night, struggling to breathe, fighting to communicate with my loved ones… At that moment it all seemed a bit pointless.
That’s the way it grabs you – one minute you are happy, the next desperately missing your loved ones and feeling down. I looked around Base Camp at the people milling about, sitting around drinking tea. Why were any of these people here?
I whiled away the rest of the day, sitting in the white pod reading the Paul McCartney autobiography I had lugged up to Base Camp with me.
A lot of the time that we weren’t on practice climbs or hikes we spent in the white pod, wishing the hours of the day away. Thinking forward to summit day and going home to my daughters helped me to stay sane.
It was impossible to move quickly or to do very much at Base Camp, as the air was so thin that it was exhausting. Lying around and reading was so not me, but it was an easy option, and I was starting to slow down and enjoy it.
I tried not to think about my motivations, and just to get on with it. Some of the others, particularly those who had tried to reach the summit before but failed, were as keen as mustard. I wasn’t really feeling such intensity at that time.
After dinner, I retired to the white pod to hang around the heater and watch some films. When the power ran out before the end, I realised we could wire the TV up to the solar power unit for the lights – and did so.
I was aware I was probably breaking some rules, but I didn’t really care at that point. The escapism of the film was a perfect way to forget the frost constantly biting at my fingers, to expel all thoughts of the cold, dark, lonely coffin of a tent that I would soon be crawling into.
Finally, I turned off the television, zipped up my jacket and braced myself for the cold outside. I walked carefully over the ankle-breaking, rough, icy terrain, the spot of light from my head torch bobbing in front of me, illuminating a small patch of ground ahead, warning me of large rocks or ice ridges.
My tent came into view. I grabbed my wash bag and headed to the toilet tent to have a pee, clean my teeth and wash my face. It was bloody freezing – 15˚C – but it was important to maintain hygiene, healthy teeth and a routine.
I crawled into my tent, removing my boots and leaving them on my ‘patio’. Zipping the tent behind me, I pulled off my thick downing jacket and trousers and got into my sleeping bag. I left my beanie hat on, as always. There was a downing head cover on the sleeping bag but I found this too claustrophobic.
It felt like crawling into bed in a freezer. The layers of clothing, the sleeping bag, the tent lining didn’t seem to be doing anything; I may as well have been lying naked in the open.
I clenched my teeth, pulled my beanie hat further over my ears and shut my eyes. If the cold froze them shut, at least then I might be able to get some sleep.
If every night was going to be like this, I wondered how long I could keep this up.
Just take it one day at a time, I thought to myself, just one day at a time...
* * * * *
I needed to pee.
I tried to ignore it; I didn’t want to move. My body heat had warmed up the sleeping bag, but that would dissipate in seconds if I opened it. Still, I really needed to pee.
I cursed my lack of foresight – the boxed wine had gone straight through me. Apparently it is relatively normal to pee a lot while one acclimatises.
There was nothing else for it. I had two bottles at the ready for this exact situation.
Fumbling for my head torch, I switched it on and pulled it over my beanie hat. I unzipped my sleeping bag, slid my legs out and got onto a cramped all fours. I found my pee bottle and started to pee into it, directly above my sleeping bag.
One false move and the sleeping bag would be soaked in smelly pee.
I finished, screwed the top on the pee bottle and slid back into my now cold sleeping bag. I was tempted to bring the pee bottle in with me, to help keep me warm, but resisted that urge – if it leaked in the night I would smell like hell the next day.
During that night, I woke regularly, my bladder screaming. Each tim
e it was an even more complicated process, using the bottles to relieve myself. As they filled, the operation became riskier.
My eyes opened once more – only this time it was bright. The sun illuminated the yellow canvas of my coffin.
I had made it.
I unzipped my sleeping bag and immediately a wash of cold air flooded in like freezing water. I pulled on my thick downing jacket and downing trousers over my climbing trousers.
Carefully, I shimmied out, taking great care not to disturb the tent; shimmering ice crystals had formed in the night, hanging down from the canvas of the tent above me like a million skinny frozen bats, ready to drop down on to my face at the slightest touch.
I unzipped the internal entrance of my tent and sat with my feet over the porch to put on my boots. Once I was completely covered, ready for the elements, I unzipped the front of the tent.
Snow poured in.
I cursed the mini-avalanche as it poured over my feet.
It had snowed again in the night – unusual for this time of year – so I had to dig my way out of my tent. I pushed against the wall of snow, pushing it away from the entrance, and crawled out.
Base Camp was covered in a thick layer of fresh snow, two foot deep in places. The tracks and many of the large stones and rocks by which I navigated had been covered.
It looked almost entirely new, a freshly re-made Base Camp for the new day.
Today was Lobuche. We were climbing the 6,145m mountain today, and staying the night near the summit.
Shit – the fresh snow was going to make it even harder going, but I was excited to get out of the camp and get climbing.
My head ached from the cheap wine.
It was a risk, drinking the wine. Either you’d feel rough all night long and it’d make things infinitely worse, or you’d keel over in your tent and forget your worries, forget that you’re at 5,400m, at -15°C, with very little oxygen.
I’d actually had quite a good night’s sleep.
Aftershock: One Man's Quest and the Quake on Everest Page 7
