by Ben Fogle
We took turns to peer out of the tent onto the mountain slope. Nothing.
It’s strange where the mind turns to in the hours of darkness.
I felt loss. Fear. Loathing.
I looked at my children’s names that I had scrawled onto my sleeves in indelible marker as a reminder of what I had left behind. I grasped my wedding ring that was on a chain around my neck to avoid cutting off circulation in my swollen fingers. I longed for home and my loved ones.
I imagined the pain of talking to Ant’s wife and family and telling them how much he had enjoyed his last few weeks on the mountain. I lay there and wept. I wept for Ant. I wept for the wretchedness of the moment and I wept for my lost dream.
People were missing on the mountain. My summit bid was over, I was convinced of that, and our priority was to find our missing friends. But the mountain was angry, furious and we were in the death zone, caught in the eye of the storm.
I peered out of the tent. A jet-black cloud the colour of tar was looming from the Tibetan side of the mountain. We were stuck in hurricane-force winds in the death zone with half a dozen missing climbers and sherpas. If I had concocted a nightmare before we set off, it would have looked like this.
We lay there for what felt like an interminable amount of time. Ed went to check the radio traffic again. There was still no news from the mountain.
Then Kenton took another look outside. In the distance, he spotted something.
‘I think I have a visual.’
‘One, two, three, four, five … six.’
‘I have a visual on six climbers!’
He grabbed the radio and immediately messaged the team at Base Camp and Camp 2. As they got closer and closer, we could make out the familiar beard of Ant. The relief was unbelievable. Kenton burst into tears too. The combination of altitude, exhaustion, worry, fear and stress had worn us all down. We lay there in shock. Their final journey was over; for us, it was just the beginning.
Through that night, the three of us lay there in that tent as the wind howled with a violence and anger I had rarely heard before. The pressure would sometimes compress the whole tent so that it squashed across our faces and somehow, snow and ice blasted in through the zipped-up flaps covering us with a dusting of snow. I pulled my oxygen mask on and off for those next few hours, in an effort to conserve oxygen. We would now be forced to spend an extra day in the death zone with only limited oxygen.
It was hard to believe the tents could withstand this kind of battering. It wouldn’t take much to shred them. One little tear or hole and the material would be stripped from above us, exposing us to the violence of the wind and ice. Without the protection of the tent we wouldn’t survive for long out here. It was the longest night of my life.
By morning the wind had abated. We stepped out from our little yellow tent into a sea of destruction. Bags and kit had been blown across the already wind-torn, weather-wrecked camp. It was difficult to tell what was old and what was new damage as we wandered through the wreckage in shock, like survivors from an air crash.
Ant was not in a good way after his descent. Without sunglasses, he found the reflection from the intense sunlight on the snow and ice had temporarily blinded him. Weathered and beaten, he and Ed began their descent back to Base Camp, while we gathered ourselves and prepared for our final bid for the summit.
Emotionally and physically drained, I pulled myself together. I had to silence the inner doubt. I was in the death zone. So close and yet so far. I had never in my life been so isolated and remote from the outside world. If we perished now, our bodies would be left where they lay.
The feeling of utter isolation and solitude was both liberating and terrifying.
I felt so vulnerable.
The only way was Up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adversity
We all face adversity at some point in our lives. It can strike like lightning. We can never prepare ourselves for all eventualities, but we can arm ourselves to cope better.
For me, part of the attraction of expeditions and heading out into the wilderness is to take myself out of my comfort zone and give me perspective. Without experience of adversity, we are ill-prepared to cope with the unexpected.
Life is full of ups and downs. It’s this contrast that makes it so interesting. Can you imagine how dull it would be if it was always consistent? We might avoid pain, suffering and unhappiness, but without ever experiencing those sentiments we would be equally unable to experience euphoria, happiness and ecstasy. It’s the light and shade that brings texture and meaning to our lives.
Inevitably in life, we will all suffer the pain of loss. Losing someone we love must be one of the most painful experiences we have to go through, but for me it was the pain of losing someone I never got to know that shook me to my core.
I was filming for NBC News in Russia when Marina sent me a photograph of a positive pregnancy test. The little cross marked another chapter in our lives. We already had two children, but we had both dreamed of a third. We both came from families of three siblings and I think we instinctively always wanted to replicate what we had.
It wasn’t to be. Willem’s death crushed us. Marina remained in hospital while I looked after the children in a beautiful house overlooking Salzburg. We had to arrange for our stillborn son to be cremated and for his ashes to be sent home.
Two weeks after losing little Willem, Marina was discharged from hospital and we all flew home. It was a particularly poignant flight. We had flown out with the hopes and dreams of a family that was soon to be five, and returned empty and hollow, a family of four. Her stomach was still distended from the pregnancy and the trauma, and a young girl sitting next to Marina on the flight asked when she was due.
It’s strange how we cope with adversity. I held it together pretty well. My focus was all directed at Ludo, Iona and Marina. I put them first. Everything was about them. In hindsight, I probably should have focused a little on my own mental anguish, but I was so preoccupied with trying to regain control of our life.
Marina grieved openly. She would often weep uncontrollably while I held her tightly. My own grieving was internal. I found it difficult to digest. I was grieving for someone I had never met. I gave up work for a month and stayed with my family, but life goes on and eventually I returned to work. It sounds strange, but I felt a strong sense of guilt. Guilt that something so monumental had happened, and yet I was returning to normality.
As the months went on, I found myself becoming increasingly insular. I began to have panic attacks in public places. I can remember going to an awards ceremony on my own, as I had done dozens if not hundreds of times before, but this time, I found myself hiding in the loo, suffering social anxiety. I eventually fled in tears. This wasn’t me. I felt I was losing control. And therein was the problem.
In losing Willem, I had lost control of the one thing I have always been able to do: protect my family. Instead, I had been thousands of miles away. I was powerless and helpless.
I found myself becoming more and more reclusive. Eventually, I sought help. We had been seeing a counsellor to help us through the grieving process and she was able to help me understand why I was feeling as I was. It was a strange feeling of vulnerability that I hadn’t experienced since childhood. It was like my confidence had taken a kicking. All my hard work to boost my self-esteem over the years had been lost and I needed a way to recapture it.
The reason I am such an advocate of taking risks is precisely because adversity will strike each of us at least some point in our lives. Without risk taking, we simply don’t have the mental aptitude to cope when the shit really hits the fan. Rather naively, I assumed that Everest would be a breeze; after all I had rowed the Atlantic and walked to the South Pole. Many more people had climbed Everest. How hard could it be?
But Willem loomed large on Everest.
Perhaps it was the spirituality of the place. Perhaps it was the fact that he was the catalyst. Maybe it’s because I mis
sed him, but I felt his presence often.
The first time was on my way to Camp 3. I was on my second rotation and quite frankly it was terrifying. I felt helplessly out of my comfort zone. The Lhotse Face was icy and hot. The sheer wall confounded me. As I dug my crampons into the blue ice, I asked myself why I was there. It was a mountain wobble, but this one felt more significant.
As the thin mountain air stole my breath, I stared deep into the icy wall and I saw him. I felt his presence. Not in a literal sort of way, but in a powerful, uplifting, empowering way. From that moment, I felt his presence. At night, the clear sky was peppered with the most incredible starry spectacle. One star in particular always seemed to shine a little brighter, and it always brought me great comfort, particularly when we had a late-night climb.
When doubt enveloped me, I would simply look up at that star and I felt the power surge back through me. I don’t know if it was a sense of purpose or a sense of companionship but thinking about him helped. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t overpowering. I thought about Ludo, Iona and Marina just as much, it’s just that Willem helped overcome any sense of solitude. I never felt alone. I always felt like someone was watching over me.
Part of the helplessness of losing this little boy had been the lost dream. Here was a little boy who would never know the smell of popcorn, or the sweet taste of summer raspberries. He would never know Peppa Pig or the misery of car sickness. He would never know the taste of ice cream or the unpleasantness of Brussels sprouts. He would never know life. What would he have become, I used to wonder. What would he have done with his life?
As a father, my role is to nurture and protect and I always felt I failed Willem. Of course, nature works in her own way and Marina and I have always been pretty united behind the idea that what will be will be. I made a resolution when we lost Willem to ensure that we as a family lived our life to its full. I know it sounds like a cliché, but if you ever count up the days of frowns and cross words, they add up pretty quickly.
Marina and I decided we would live our lives more brightly. We would let them burn bright with light, happiness and opportunity, and it was from the embers of this huge fire that Everest had been born. I wanted to pursue my dreams. It’s so easy to say no, there is always an excuse to not do something, but my new resolve was to seize the moment and live my life with no regrets.
It was just before 8 pm on the night that we attempted to climb to the top of the world. I hadn’t slept. Rest had been fitful, the combination of the oxygen mask, fear and excitement had kept me awake for the couple of hours we had. I could already hear the crunch of crampons on the crisp new snow around the tents as early departures set off on their summit bids.
I pulled my mask from my face and slowly pulled myself from the warmth of the sleeping bag. My heart raced with even the minimum of exertion as I pulled on extra layers in the battle against the chill of the night. I unzipped the tent and stepped out into the night air. Camp 4 was a hive of activity as teams clipped on harnesses and crampons under the flickering light of their headlamps.
The night was windless and clear. It’s amazing how much difference a day can make. Camp 4 had gone from wretched to benign. It felt safe and comfortable. I looked up towards the mountain flank of Everest and could already see a dozen lights on the mountainside. There were a further 20 climbers getting ready to leave.
I pulled on my harness and strapped my crampons to my summit boots. Although it was cold, it felt warmer without the wind chill of the previous day. I stepped from one foot to the next and leapt up and down until the thin air stole my breath. I slipped two bottles of ‘O’s’ into my bag alongside a bottle of melted snow-water and a handful of snacks. Then I made sure I had my sunglasses and my goggles close by and pulled my summit mittens over my thin wool gloves. In the short time I had spent strapping my crampons onto my boots, I had already lost all feeling in my fingers. I wheeled my hand in a great circle to try and get the blood flowing into my numb digits.
I thought back to all the other expeditions over the years that had set off from this very point, full of hope, fear and aspirations of reaching the summit. So close and yet so far.
I thought about my family. They would be having their lunch now, oblivious to my departure for the highest point on earth.
Of course, I could have called them. I had my satellite phone. I was feeling good psychologically and physically, but it felt wrong. Why burden them with the fear of the unknown?
Up, from here the only way was Up.
I tried to imagine myself on the summit. I tried to drown out the ‘down’ that flooded through me like a raging river. I had to be positive, but once again the nagging voice of doubt took over. ‘What if the weather turns unexpectedly again?’ ‘What if I can’t climb a section because it’s too technical?’ ‘What if someone dies while I am there?’
I was at risk of losing control of my mind. This was the battle of mind against mountain all over again.
Slowly, we trudged from the camp and down across a frozen glacial lake before beginning the long ascent up towards the famous Balcony. A single rope had been set up onto which the early departures had already begun their slow, meticulous climb.
It wasn’t long before we reached the slow-moving group.
We had left at 8 pm, several hours earlier than Kenton normally departs for the eight-hour climb to the summit. We had hoped to get onto the mountain before the slower climbers snarled up the route. But we were already too late. Ahead of us was a queue of about 30 climbers, all from one very large Chinese group.
Our already slow pace was reduced to a standstill. It was a little like being stuck on the M25. We stood there for 15 minutes before taking several paces, followed by a further 15-minute wait. After an hour, we began to get restless. We wondered if there was an obstacle like a crevasse or even a steep climbing section somewhere up ahead that was acting like a bottleneck.
‘Unclip from the rope and attach to me,’ instructed Kenton.
I was sandwiched between two climbers. On the 60-degree slope, I unclipped from the mountain rope and using my crampons, dug my toes into the snow and pulled away from the long line of people.
We could now clearly see the long line snaking up the mountain, but there was no obvious sign of what was slowing everyone down.
I clipped onto Kenton’s harness, and using his ice axe, Kenton began to crawl up the inside of the queue, dragging me behind him. From a near standstill, we were now suddenly making progress as we passed several climbers on the rope, but it didn’t take long until the thin air left me gasping for breath. I collapsed onto all fours with the effort, panting deeply. In this short period of recovery, the slow-moving line inched ahead, effectively leaving us back where we had started.
We must have done this half a dozen times, each time overtaking one or two climbers.
It was as exhausting as it was soul-destroying. By now we had been trapped in the queue for nearly three hours.
‘You need to turn your flow rate of oxygen down,’ instructed Kenton. The flow rate dictated how much oxygen is released each minute. The higher the flow rate, the more oxygen you receive, the better you feel but the quicker it runs out. The lower the flow rate, the worse you feel but the longer it lasts.
I turned it down to one litre a minute and could already feel a drastic change in my breathing. We had several spare bottles, but they were to be ‘cached’ on the mountain ready for our descent.
I looked at my bottle which was already less than half full. We could still make out the lights from Camp 4, we had been on the mountain for three hours and we had barely made any headway.
How much oxygen did we have and how long would it last? I was worried. At this rate, we wouldn’t get to the summit until early afternoon. It seemed hopeless.
‘Is it worth turning back?’ I asked Kenton in desperation.
He pointed out that if we did, we wouldn’t be able to make another summit bid as we didn’t have enough oxygen at Camp 4. It was n
ow or never.
Suddenly, I felt the summit slipping from my hands again. I felt a pang of anger and rage. Why were they moving so slowly? Why wouldn’t they stop and let us pass? It felt so unfair. It wouldn’t have taken them long to pull over. There was plenty of room and it was safe to do so. It would have taken five minutes.
I felt a surge of ‘mountain rage’. ‘DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH EFFORT I HAVE PUT INTO THIS?’ I wanted to shout. ‘HAVE YOU ANY IDEA OF THE SACRIFICES I HAVE MADE? YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS TO ME.’
I could feel my heart rate rising in anger and frustration.
Despite the agitation and harrumphing from the build-up of other climbers who were now queuing behind us, the group ahead continued at their snail’s pace, unmoved, unbowed and unaffected by the frustrations behind.
Can you blame them? They too were pursuing their dreams and hopes, they too had made sacrifices.
By now we had been stuck for nearly four hours. It was after midnight and my first oxygen bottle was about to run out. On a normal ascent, it should have lasted nearly to the summit. We had to change the bottle on the line or risk being overtaken by the climbers behind us, pushing us even further back.
I knelt on my knees and Kenton dipped his gloves into my rucksack. With a swift movement, he pulled the empty bottle from my back, unscrewed the regulator and screwed it onto my spare bottle. This was the last of the bottles that I was carrying; another was in Sherpa Ang’s bag.
Effortlessly, he screwed the new bottle onto the regulator and slipped it back into my bag. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. Time was running out though. It was nearly 1 am and we hadn’t even reached the Balcony. Kenton suggested free climbing to pass the climbers ahead once again. My heart sank. I had found it difficult to recapture my breath each time we overtook some of the slow climbers.
I clenched my teeth and unclipped from the rope. Once again, Kenton clawed into the snow on all fours and began to work his way up past the slow climbers ahead. Four climbers, then two, then six. Before we knew it, there were just two climbers ahead of us.
