On July 24, Fritz and Pasang finally reached the glacier, mere shadows of the men who had left weeks before. Wiessner was so emaciated he could encircle his ankle with his thumb and fore-finger. Pasang, doubled over in pain and passing bloody urine, had bruised a kidney in the fall below Camp VIII, and every step felt like a knife in his back. Each man clung to the other as they lurched across the glacier, often falling to the rocks.
Further up the glacier, Tony Cromwell was returning from the base of the Abruzzi Ridge, where he had hoped to get a glimpse of the three men on the mountain, or a sign of what might have happened to them—avalanche or fall. Finding neither, he had started back when he saw two men far off the usual route to base camp. Each was stumbling, falling to the rocks and struggling to get back up.
It was Fritz and Pasang. Tony approached the men and exclaimed how glad he was to see them. Everyone at base camp was worried there had been an accident.
Looking up from the rocks, Fritz struggled to stand. Then, still holding onto Pasang, he pointed a shaky finger in his deputy’s face and demanded, “Why was the mountain stripped? What is the meaning of this!? You know, Dudley could have you put in jail for this insubordination! This sabotage!”
But his voice was gone. The words came out a crackled rasp. Still he raged on, as perhaps his guilt over having left Dudley yielded to the much easier emotion of blame.
Tony was stunned and infuriated. How dare Fritz accuse him of anything? Wiessner was their supposed leader and he had been on his own crusade for the summit, ignoring the team and its increasing problems, for his own vainglory! Now he was accusing him of incompetence and neglect? Besides, where the hell was Dudley?
Fritz waved his hand toward the mountain. He is at Camp VII. Someone needs to go.
Whom did you have in mind? Cromwell demanded. He told Fritz that everyone on the team was either exhausted, suffering frostbite, or had already left for home. There’s no one left! he shouted. Besides, Sherpas are not high-altitude guides, they are high-altitude porters! They are not trained or equipped to make such a rescue.
We’ll send the Sherpas up, Fritz persisted, as if not hearing. And then, when I’ve recovered, I’ll try again for the summit. I was nearly there…I could see the summit. It was right there. I nearly did it!
As Fritz described his summit attempt and how close he had been to the top, Tony, disgusted and enraged, turned on his heel and headed back to base camp. Fritz stumbled along behind with Pasang.
WHEN THE REMAINING team at base camp saw the men approaching, they came running from every direction to greet them. Many had thought they were dead and were enormously relieved to see their friend, Pasang, and their leader, Bara Sahib, safe and back at base camp, although he was just a frail whisper of a man. But he didn’t act frail. Fritz immediately confronted the smiling Sherpas. Why didn’t you come up to Camps VIII and IX with supplies as I ordered? he demanded, leaning into their bewildered faces. Why did you strip the camps? he screamed at them in a screechy rasp.
Tendrup, the man considered by some on the team to be their best Sherpa aside from Kikuli, tried to explain what had happened. They had been afraid of traversing the slope above Camp VII without steps, and he had called but no one had appeared from the tents in Camp VIII. They had not heard a sound or seen any signs of life from the mountain above them for more than a week and thought them all dead. They were cold, exhausted, frightened, and running out of food and fuel. With no sahib to give them direction in Camp VII, they did the one thing they thought most important for the team: they saved the last of the valuable equipment and fled for their lives.
Finding a target for his rage, Fritz attacked Tendrup. Tendrup had robbed him of the summit and caused Dudley to now sit thousands of feet above them waiting for rescue. It is all Tendrup’s fault! As far as Fritz was concerned, the summit had been stolen from him through others’ actions, not his own. He had been within a few hours of the top but their laziness, insubordination, and sheer evil intent had ruined the mission. Not only would he never forgive them, he would have their hides and Dudley would sue them all.
Dudley! He is going to have you all put in jail! Fritz raged.
As Fritz paused for breath, Tony pounced. Us, put in jail? You’re the one that owes him $1,300 and left him on the mountain! If anyone is getting sued and going to jail, it’s you!
As Fritz reeled from the accusation, others took their opening and started questioning him. Why did you leave Dudley alone? How could you leave him with only a Sherpa’s thin bag and a handful of matches? Why didn’t you turn back at Camp VI, when you saw that it was empty, and go get Dudley?
Fritz explained, through a throat so dry and swollen that every word was painful, that Dudley was okay but that he was weak, his feet were blistered, and he needed help to get down. Finally, unable to answer the last of the questions and feeling increasingly cornered, Fritz countered that Dudley had stayed at Camp VII because he “insisted” on going for the summit—that he was in fine shape, totally fit and strong, and all he needed was a rest. That provoked a question for which he had no answer: If Dudley wanted to go for another summit bid, then why did he descend from Camp VIII?
Fritz had no answer. It didn’t make sense for Dudley to leave Camp VIII if he in fact wanted to go for a summit bid. He’d had enough food and fuel at Camp VIII for a few days, particularly since he had run out of matches and been unable to cook food for two days until Fritz and Pasang arrived with a new supply of matches.
Fritz was trapped, and like all trapped animals he lashed out. “After all, a Himalayan mountain is like war! You must expect a few casualties!”*
The men stood staring at him, their mouths agape. Had he really just said Dudley was expendable? Death was to be expected on high-altitude expeditions? No one said a word as the statement hung in the still, cold air.
ALTHOUGH THE TEAM still had a rescue to launch, Fritz ordered Tony and Tendrup out of base camp, commanding them to leave in the morning with Joe Trench and the first group of porters and wait for him in Srinagar. Jack, who stood nearby, thought the banishment out of place; every man was needed to launch the rescue of Dudley, particularly their strongest Sherpa, now that Kikuli was hobbled by frostbite. But again he said nothing and Tony and Joe packed their bags.
The confrontation seemed to drain Fritz of his last energy. Soon after, he crawled into his tent and fell into a coma-like sleep. Later he wrote:*
The mountain is far away. The weather is the best we’ve had so far. Will it be possible for me to go up after a rest with some Sherpas and with Jack, if he is in shape, pick up Dudley and then call on the summit? 7 days of good weather will be necessary. Maybe the Gods will be with me and let me have what is due to me.
The next day, Tony headed down the glacier and back to civilization in a rage, already formulating his version of the ill-fated expedition. With him went Joe, Tendrup, and twenty-two of the porters laden with most of the team’s gear. As they walked, Joe and Tony compared their notes, their thoughts, and their memory of what had just happened. Tendrup, thoroughly dismayed and confused by Fritz’s angry accusations and banishment, followed close behind.
With Fritz physically and mentally exhausted and Tony gone, Jack was left to organize the rescue. At 9 a.m. on the 25th, he set out with Dawa, Kitar, and Phinsoo to get Dudley. They reached Camp II by 3 p.m. and reset the tent that Fritz and Pasang had huddled beneath the night before. The morning of the 26th they left Camp II as soon as the sun hit the tents. But above camp they found that much of the length of the fixed safety ropes was unusable because the hot midsummer sun had melted out many of the anchor pitons. Another increasing hazard in the warm sun was rockfall, ranging in size from marbles to steamer trunks, which melted out of the snow and showered down around them with increasing frequency and velocity. One, sounding like a sewing machine at full throttle, missed Jack’s head by inches and whizzed by him so fast he felt its whoosh rather than saw its size.
As they moved from Camp II to Camp
IV the next day, Jack once again began to feel sick and dizzy. Given his previous collapse above Camp VI, Jack knew that his chances of getting much higher than where he was now on the mountain were slim. Beside him, Dawa complained of a pain in his back and chest, and Kitar simply refused to go any higher without Jack or Dawa. Once again Jack turned to the Sherpas, ordering Kitar and Phinsoo to go for Dudley, while he turned and descended with Dawa. On their way down the mountain, Dawa recovered sufficiently at Camp I to gather old cigarette butts from around the camp and make Jack a “horrible” cigarette out of their remains and a sheet of brown paper.
While each of their sahib bosses had quit the climb and now the rescue, Kitar and Phinsoo bravely continued up alone to Camp IV. There they stopped and waited for assistance to come from below.
When Jack made it to base that evening, he immediately went to Fritz’s tent to discuss their next plan. Fritz had hoped to recover within a few days and was even still considering another summit bid. But he had remained weak and totally unable to head back up the mountain. That left Kikuli. After two months on the mountain, most of it managing loads to and from Camp IV, and now with frostbite threatening his feet, Kikuli stepped forward and said he and Tsering would leave at first light. Having seen the ravages of frostbite all too clearly, Kikuli undoubtedly knew this rescue could cost him his toes, even his feet, but still he went, not only for Dudley but for his two friends Kitar and Phinsoo, who would otherwise be abandoned as well.
Fritz gave Kikuli instructions to burn gasoline-soaked paper for a fire signal in case of trouble, and then sent him up the mountain.
In what is considered by many mountaineers to be the most Herculean effort in Himalayan climbing, Kikuli and Tsering reached Camp VI in a one-day ascent of 7,000 feet on what is arguably one of the most difficult, dangerous routes in the world, using ropes which were pulling their anchors and under constant threat of rockfall. On the way, they found Kitar and Phinsoo waiting in Camp IV; once again, the Sherpas had been afraid and unwilling to traverse the ice slopes above without proper equipment or leadership. With Kitar and Phinsoo now in tow, the four men reached Camp VI by nightfall.
In the morning, Kikuli, Kitar, and Phinsoo left the tent, leaving Tsering behind. The rapid ascent had left him with acute mountain sickness, and Kikuli instructed him to rest and have tea and food waiting; they would return that evening with Wolfe Sahib.
Shortly after 10 a.m., the Sherpas reached Dudley at Camp VII, seven days after Fritz had promised to “be right back.” They were stunned at the desperate condition of their refined and gentle sahib, and embarrassed to see that he had relieved himself on his remaining food and in his sleeping bag, apparently unable to crawl out of the tent or even into a corner.
As if awakening from the dead, Dudley slowly focused on the faces staring at him. Reflexively he reached up to smooth his long and matted hair. It had turned totally white and hung in his ashen, gaunt face. He had always taken such pride in his appearance and here he was, reduced to this.
“Wolfe Sahib,” Kikuli said, “it is Kikuli.” He tried to hand Dudley his mail and a note from Fritz.
Dudley feebly took the letters and note but they fell out of his hand. He lay there, his brain trying to comprehend what was happening.
“I ran out of matches,” Dudley said, the words coming as a whisper. They were the first words he’d spoken to another human being in a week.
“Yes, Sahib, no problem. We have matches. Mister Dudley, I help you up,” Kikuli urged, taking Dudley under the arms. He noticed Dudley had sores on his left hand, probably frostbite or even a bad burn from the stove. Kikuli tried to be gentle; he knew sores easily get infected because they can’t heal at high altitude. He had seen it before on Nanga Parbat and Kangchenjunga. Only after the men descended the mountain and started down the glacier did their wounds stop oozing pus and crust over.
Dudley shook his head feebly but struggled to obey. Half crawling, half being pulled out of the tent, Dudley was hauled to his feet. It had been days since he’d stood, and his blistered feet sent shocks of pain through his legs. He was dizzy from starvation and dehydration. Kikuli quickly tied a rope around his waist and secured it to his own but before he could start down the slope, Dudley fell to the snow in a soft pile. Kikuli barked orders at Kitar and Phinsoo to clean up the worst of the mess in the tent and to start the stove and make Sahib some tea.
Kikuli kneeled by Dudley, urging him to try again.
Perhaps embarrassed that the Sherpas were seeing him in such revolting shape, his pants soiled and his hair, hands, and teeth dirtier than they’d ever been in his life, even on the front lines carrying dead bodies to the camion, Dudley shook his head no. “I need to collect myself. Come back tomorrow. I’ll be ready to go down then.”
While a proper diagnosis of Dudley’s horrific physical and mental state will never be made, he most likely was suffering from cerebral edema, a swelling of the brain which causes confusion, dizziness, and irrational, defiant behavior. While medical experts don’t have all the answers as to why it happens, they surmise that it is a combination of the atmospheric pressure, a sodium imbalance in the blood, capillary damage from uneven distribution of blood through the brain, and the body’s tendency to store fluid when confronted with the crisis of dehydration. The only cure is immediate descent. Today’s climbers know that if a person stricken with cerebral edema is not brought to a lower altitude within hours, he or she will most likely die soon.
While he was not able to medically identify Dudley’s condition, Kikuli saw that the gracious sahib was not right and tried again to get him up and to urge him to come with them, now. But Dudley again refused. “No. I’ll be ready tomorrow. Not now.”
Kikuli sat back on his heels. It simply wasn’t in his social reference to tell Wolfe Sahib, any sahib, what to do. Servants didn’t command the master, even if the sahib was sick and weak and clearly out of his head. Kikuli had no choice; he and the other two Sherpas had left their sleeping bags at Camp VI and they couldn’t stay at Camp VII overnight without them. They would have to leave Dudley and come back tomorrow. Handing the wretched man a cup of hot tea and a chapati—a pancake-like flatbread which was a staple for the Sherpas and porters because it was easy to prepare and carry—the three men left, promising to return in the morning to bring Dudley down.
The Sherpas descended to Camp VI where Tsering waited with hot tea. Alarmed that they were alone and without Wolfe Sahib, Tsering sat crouched by the stove making soup while the other three told him the sad story of the sahib and his deplorable condition.
The next day the four men were forced to wait out a twenty-four-hour storm. As the storm battered the tent they sat huddled, discussing how to handle their stubborn, weak sahib at Camp VII. He was obviously sick in the head and too feeble to descend, but they couldn’t simply go down without him; there would be too many questions and accusations. They knew all too well how the Sherpas were the first to get blamed during a crisis and the last to get thanked after a victory on big mountains. No, they would go back up when the storm broke and if they weren’t able to get Wolfe Sahib moving or if he still refused to come down, Kikuli would get him to sign a note explaining that he wouldn’t or couldn’t descend. Hopefully that would satisfy the sahibs at base camp.
Finally on July 31, Kikuli, Kitar, and Phinsoo again left Tsering alone in the tent while they roped together and started out across the steep, avalanche-prone slope which had so worried Wiessner a week before.
The only trace of the Sherpas was found fifty-six years later. In 1995, American climber Scott Johnston was walking up the glacier above K2 base camp when he spotted something incongruous sticking out of the ice and rocks. As he neared, he saw that it was what remained of a human torso: bits and pieces of a spine and a pelvis, covered by shards of a blue and white cotton shirt, tattered cotton pants, and desiccated flecks of skin. A threadbare hemp rope was tied at the waist. As with nearly all climbers who fall or are avalanched off K2, the violence of
the fall and then the movement through the churning glacier had removed the head from the body. Hoping to identify the remains, Johnston bent and pulled a small black leather wallet out of the pants pocket. It was full of Emperor George V Indian rupee coins, pennies to a Westerner, but hard-earned wages to a Sherpa in 1939.
Chapter 11
Dudley’s Vigil
Although we climbers usually don’t admit it, we are always more or less conscious that the strange and irresistible call of the mountains is also a call towards the end of life. And for that very reason we love them all the more, and find their call more sublime. Our secret heart’s desire is that our end should be in them.
—ELBRIDGE RAND HERRON
Match case found near Dudley’s remains in 2002. (Jeff Rhoads)
The study of high altitude and its effect on man is as old as the mountain sickness first suffered by explorers as they climbed out of the valleys and villages and moved upward toward the summits above. While men started experimenting with the density of air as early as the 1600s, the science of high altitude didn’t properly develop until they braved the demons and dragons rumored to live in high mountains and climbed above 10,000 feet for the first time a century later, experiencing headaches, nausea, panting, fatigue, and insomnia. Early scientists believed that 10,000 feet was as high as man could safely go. But as adventurers and naturalists began exploring the mountains of Europe and eventually climbed 15,781-foot Mont Blanc in 1786, they realized humans could survive far above 10,000 feet and possibly go to even greater altitudes. Just how much greater remained a matter of debate for generations to come. By the turn of the twentieth century, balloonists had flown to 28,000 feet, several getting killed in the process because they ascended so quickly that they literally suffocated, but no one believed man could climb on his own feet to those same heights, let alone do it without supplemental oxygen. Simply put, if anyone who lives at sea level is quickly taken to 18,000 feet, he or she will be desperately ill within ten minutes and some will soon grow comatose and die. That same person, taken swiftly from sea level to 25,000 feet, has two minutes of consciousness before lapsing into a coma and dying within the hour.
The Last Man on the Mountain: The Death of an American Adventurer on K2 Page 19
