Hixson went on to say he felt Dick lacked respect for the difficulties at extreme altitude, and after the first team had returned he was quick to point out that they were all haggard, despite being in superb physical condition. But his criticisms notwithstanding, Hixson never again brought up, beyond his short conversation with Dick, the possibility of dropping out of the third team, and Dick concluded that Hixson's yearning to get a chance at the top of Everest was stronger than his reservations about the strength of the team.
For the next week the climbing schedule unfolded as originally planned. The second summit team—Neptune, States, Ershler, and a Sherpa—departed camp 2, and two days later left from the South Col in the predawn of what promised to be a good summit day. This time those of us at camp 2 had no way to follow their progress; they had left the radio at the Col, and they had no video camera. Mid-morning, though, we unexpectedly received a radio call.
“Camp two, this is Ershler. I’m back at the South Col. I got very cold going up and knew I would risk frostbite if I continued.”
Ershler had tried to repeat Nielson's no-oxygen ascent, and we guessed that without the warming effect of the gas he had become more susceptible to the cold.
“The others are going up,” he continued. “I got a glimpse of them a few minutes ago, and they should be close to the South Summit.”
We mounted our telescope with hope of spotting them at the same place we had seen the previous team, but now clouds blocked our view. There was nothing to do but wait for Ershler's reports. He radioed that the clouds had blocked his view as well. Early evening we had his final report: States, Neptune, and their Sherpa had all reached the summit and were back safe at camp 4.
The expedition had now placed eight climbers on top, more than all but two previous expeditions in Everest's history. Now it was time for Frank's and Dick's attempts. Frank was feeling he was as ready as he could be. The day before he had carried a load to camp 3 and felt much stronger. In addition he had been successful in convincing Ershler to establish an additional high camp above the South Col, and the Sherpas had been freighting the necessary gear to a cache at 27,500 feet.
With everything in place, on May 15 Dick and his group were ready to leave camp 2. Frank gave him a bear hug, and the Sherpas cheered for their good luck as they tied together on a rope for their passage over the crevassed region at the back of the Cwm leading to the Lhotse Face. The weather looked stable: no wind, no clouds.
Dick made good time up the fixed ropes to camp 3, feeling much stronger than he had twelve days before. Arriving in camp, he squeezed in a tent with Hixson and Yogendra, and spread his sleeping bag. Then he arranged his personal gear of extra socks, extra underwear, two types of sun lotion, lip cream, vitamins, personal salves and medicines, a sewing repair kit, backup mittens and goggles, extra hat and hood, Xerox sheets of his favorite poems. We were always chiding Dick about the amount of gear he hauled with him, but he was quick to return our ribbing whenever any of us asked to borrow something from him.
They woke early next morning to start the long task of melting snow for tea water. Hixson called camp 2: “Hello Phil. Everyone had a good night's rest, and we'll be leaving in an hour. We'll call from the South Col.”
“Frank wants to talk to Dick,” Ershler said. Hixson handed the radio to Dick.
“Dick, this is Frank. How are you feeling?”
“Like a bull elk smelling the rut. I’m going to charge right to the top of this mother.”
“We're all rooting like crazy for you. Remember, if you get this one we'll not only have the Seven Summits but you'll be the oldest man ever to have climbed Everest.”
“I’m pushing for all I’ve got.”
Dick finished dressing, then loaded his backpack. Hixson was watching and said, “Dick, you've got too much crap. You'll slow us all down.”
“Well, I think I know what I can handle,” Dick said.
As he finished packing he thought, I’m going to show this guy once and for all I’m not the weak sister of this group.
Outside the tent Dick clamped his jumar on the fixed rope and left camp, setting a determined pace. It didn't bother him that he had more weight on his back than even the Sherpas; he had convinced himself that a heavy pack was good for his conditioning. Anyway, he planned on summit day to leave most of the extra weight at the South Col; he figured that then his pack, even with the oxygen bottle, would be so much lighter he would feel like he had wings on his heels.
He was almost flying now. Each time he glanced back the distance to the others had increased. For about an hour he lost himself first with thoughts about Snowbird, then with stanzas from “The Cremation of Sam Magee” and “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”
Soon he was sliding his jumar clamp up the rope as it ascended a rocky outcrop named the Geneva Spur. The grade steepened to over fifty degrees near the top of the Spur. The altitude was 26,000 feet. Even though he wasn't using any supplemental oxygen, he felt great.
Dick thought, I really am made for this kind of work. If I’d gotten into mountaineering as a young man I might have been world-class with a whole big list of first ascents. But that might have been at the cost of other things, like Snowbird. But if I do make it up tomorrow, it will be like having my cake and eating it too.
He slid the clamp and pulled back to tighten it on the rope as a balance while he moved his feet. One boot up, scrape the rock to find a foothold, step, move the other foot, balance, slide the clamp, pull tight, move the feet again. The slope eased and he looked up to see an easy snow traverse leading to the South Col. And there, tantalizingly close and awesome, was the upper mass of Everest.
In thirty minutes Dick was at the Col gazing from the saddle across the plateau of Tibet, arid and brown and extending to the horizon. What a vaulted world—to his right the ridge climbed to the summit of Lhotse, to his left to the summit of Everest. He stood transfixed for a moment until he felt the chill of the first afternoon breeze, then he moved his pack into one of the three tents at camp 4. In an hour he heard the crunch-crunch footsteps of the others, and stuck his head out to greet them.
“Howdy you all!”
“We're late because we dropped behind to get photographs,” Hixson said.
Dick thought, Heck, I took pictures too. Why doesn't he just accept the fact he took longer to get here? People are always doubting my ability to be able to do what I set out to do. I’ll show them all tomorrow.
Hixson moved into the next tent, and soon they were all busy melting snow, preparing drinks and dinner so they could get to bed early; they hoped to leave camp about 2:30 next morning. Dick slept restlessly, not so much because of the altitude, he felt, as the anxiety over the task that lay before him. He tried to bolster his confidence by telling himself he had done very well on Everest the year before, and he had done very well so far this year. But at the same time he couldn't help wondering if things would suddenly change when he hit 27,000, or 28,000 feet. Would it be like a marathoner's “wall” that either you had to break through or it broke you?
Man can take bad news, Dick told himself as he rolled and tossed, but he can't stand uncertainty.
At 1:30 A.M. Dick heard the Sherpa light the small butane stove, and opening his eyes could see the blue flame like a waning moon cast a steel-gray light over his sleeping bag and other gear in the tent.
Well, Bass, he told himself, let's get your tail in gear and have at it.
In this halflight Dick searched for his clothes to dress. He had slept in his long john underwear, and now over this he pulled quilted down pants and a pile fabric jacket. Then over the quilted down, another pair of pants made of nylon to protect against wind and a down parka over the pile jacket. He had slept in one pair of socks, and over these he pulled another, thicker pair.
By now his fingers were numb, and he welcomed the metal cup of hot tea, wrapping his hands around it, sighing with the first sip. Then he finished dressing. He held his boots over the stove, kneading the tongues unti
l he could force his feet in; it took another ten minutes for his toes to overcome the cold-boot shock and regain feeling. Next he pulled on knee-high nylon overboots. He was breathing hard; even something like getting dressed, when at 26,200 feet, can be a major effort. Although he wasn't hungry—another effect of high altitude— he forced down some cereal mush. Then he crawled out of the tent to strap on his crampons.
It appeared their luck with the weather would last. There was no wind, and the stars through the rarefied night sky lit the snowfields so brightly they would be able to navigate without headlamps. One of the Sherpas led the rope, and Dick was second. As they climbed out of the Col the slope abruptly steepened. Soon there was loose snow that sloughed with each step so it was necessary, especially for the first two people, to kick in each foothold. Still, they made good progress and before long Dick was lost in the rhythm of pressure-breathing and rest-stepping so that it came as a surprise when he realized the star-lit snow was growing a brighter, pale pink.
The lead Sherpa began to slow, so he switched places with the Sherpa on the back of the first rope. Dick remained second. An hour past dawn they stopped for their first rest. Dick could now look over the Lhotse-Nuptse ridge that had for so many weeks fenced his view. The giants of the earth were now before him: Lhotse, Makalu, Kanchenjunga, Cho Oyo. There was still no wind, no clouds, everything promised a perfect summit day. Hixson, last on the second rope, arrived and sat down.
“How do you feel?” he asked Dick.
“Tired, but I’m all right.”
“Well, I feel great.”
Dick thought, You should, being sixth on the ropes. You ought to try breaking trail in second position.
He looked away from Hixson, then stared across the sea of peaks. Nearly all the summits were now below him, and soon even the two or three that appeared eye level would be below. All of them, every one across the surface of the planet, would be below. The thought fortified him, helped him put things in perspective. He decided it was foolish to continue letting Hixson upset him. It was only producing negative thoughts that would drain his energy—no, more than that —detract from the joy of what he was about to achieve.
Feeling better, he looked out again over the remote fastness of Tibet, down on the glaciers like flows of frozen lava spilling from the peaks and onto the sere, umber earth. Then the corner of his eye caught something closer at hand, about thirty feet away. It was faded orange and red.
“What in the world?”
The others turned.
“My God,” Hixson exclaimed.
“It looks like a body.”
“It's gotta be Mrs. Schmatz.”
They had all heard the story. Mrs. Schmatz had been the wife of the leader of a German expedition in 1979. Up to the time of the tragedy their climb had been a notable success, having in only thirty-two days placed all team members on top, including Mrs. Schmatz. She and three others, one of whom was Ray Genet, the foremost guide on McKinley and a legend in his own time, plus two Sherpas, were the second group to reach the summit. On their descent, about halfway back to high camp, she and Genet decided to bivouac without sleeping bags or tent because she was so tired. It became a bitterly cold night, and when dawn finally broke, Genet was dead. One of the Sherpas returned to them from the South Col, tried to get her moving, but she managed only a few steps when she too collapsed and died. That Sherpa, Sungdare, seriously frostbitten, continued down alone. He lost several toes, but since then has gone on to climb Everest three more times—more than anyone else.
Now they stared at her, frozen in the place where she had died. She was lying face-down, her head turned away from them. Dick could see she was half in the ice; her clothes, a parka and windpants, were sunbleached but intact.
“I sure don't feel like going over and having a close look.”
“Me neither. Let's go.”
They shouldered their packs, and were about to start when Dick spoke up. “What do you say I trade this second position with someone. I’m afraid I might burn out before we get to the top.”
Dick still felt good, but he was concerned, having heard the stories about how easy it is to drain your energy at this altitude. He was now much higher than he had ever been, and he didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. One of the Sherpas took his second position on the lead rope while he tied to the rear of the second rope, with Yogendra and Hixson. Soon they passed the equipment cache that Frank would use to establish a high camp on his ascent; that meant they were at about 27,300 feet. A rope length above the cache the snow started to deepen, and their pace slowed. It was a minor nuisance for Dick and the other two on his rope, but for the Sherpas up front it was a strenuous task: the lead man had to lift each foot as high on the slope as he could, then pack it until the snow supported his weight—usually not until after he had sunk to his thigh—then lift the other leg out of its hole and strain to place it as high as possible. At high altitude such postholing, in order to keep after it hour upon hour, requires an undistracted lust for the summit.
Now each Sherpa could lead only for a little distance before rotating the lead to the one behind. Looking up, Dick could see the Sherpas had reached the crest of the southeast ridge and were sitting together, resting. Dick still felt strong. For the last two hours he had been climbing on only one liter a minute oxygen flow; he was confident he now had gas reserves sufficient to reach the top. As he approached the crest he could feel the wind start to build; they were high enough to begin losing the shelter of the lee. But the wind wasn't bad. There were a few clouds building too, but again they didn't seem bad. Everything looked good; he was confident they would make the top.
Yogendra reached the Sherpas, and sat down next to them; Dick could see they were discussing something. Then Hixson joined the discussion. Dick couldn't make out what they were saying while he continued climbing toward them. When he was within twenty feet Hixson turned toward him and said, “Well Bass, this is as far as we go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Sherpas have had it. They don't want to go any higher.”
“What should we do?”
“Go back down.”
“Back down?”
“If we go on we'll slow down even more and I’m afraid we'll run out of oxygen. And with this group, we're very dependent on it. Plus it's steep here, the snow is unconsolidated, and if one of us slips, I don't think the other could hold him.”
There he goes again, Dick thought. What he means is, if he slips, I won't have the ability to hold him.
“But we're so close,” Dick said.
“I’m worried if we tried to push on we might get stuck on the way down in the dark.”
“Well, hold on a minute. Let me think.” Dick hunkered over his ice axe, then looked up. Above and to the right was the summit. They were almost at the 28,000-foot level, only 1,000 vertical feet and less than a mile distant from the top. Dick knew he had the strength to make it. More than enough strength. In fact, he felt great. Should he go alone, then?
He looked down. The clouds below were building and the wind was picking up.
He thought, It'd be my luck to take the gamble and then have the weather trap me up there so I’d end up like Mrs. Schmatz.
Dick had promised his family he would above all be prudent, and not take any foolish risks. To go alone was definitely contrary to that promise.
If only I had someone strong, Dick thought. A good rope leader with the background experience to get up and down this thing in one piece.
So what to do? He recalled how Frank had always said that if he himself couldn't make it his first attempt, he wanted to have the supplies necessary to try again. Dick considered the possibility: there was still oxygen at the South Col, and these Sherpas had with them right here three full bottles that they could cache at this spot. That would be more oxygen than he would need. Why couldn't he follow Frank's backup strategy, then? Especially since he felt so strong. It would be a little more work to go down a
nd come back up, but at least this initial effort wouldn't be a complete waste: first, they had this oxygen up here, and second—and much more important—this would be valuable experience. The second time he would know what it is like at 28,000 feet; he would know it would be within his physical strength. That mental comfort alone was worth the effort of this first attempt.
Dick thought, So I’ll go down to camp two, get a fresh Sherpa group together, come back up and climb this beauty.
“Okay,” he said to Hixson, “I guess you're right. Let's go down.”
Dick watched the Sherpas cache their extra oxygen in the snow so he could use it for his next attempt. While taking the extra bottles out of the Sherpas’ packs, though, they discovered that one of them, Ang Dali, had failed to open the control knob. No wonder he had been so slow: he had been climbing all morning without supplemental oxygen, trying to breathe through a useless mask and as a consequence rebreathing his own spent air while carrying two bottles weighing seventeen pounds each. This Sherpa, throughout the expedition, had been very strong, always carrying the heaviest loads, but now, as they started the descent, he was completely spent and near useless.
Hixson, ever-more worried that if one of them slipped he might pull the others off the slope, insisted they belay their descent. After an hour of this, though, it became obvious it was not really necessary and was taking far too much time. It took them nearly four hours to get down to camp 4, everyone except Hixson. He obviously was feeling very tired, and he sat down for nearly an hour before crossing the Col to camp. Dick figured Hixson's high anxiety level up above had drained him. When he finally joined them, they called camp 2.
“What's going on? Where are you?” Ershler inquired intently.
“South Col. We turned back at the Southeast Ridge,” Dick said.
“Why?” Ershler shot back, having seen the weather look good from below.
Dick couldn't hide his deep frustration and disappointment. “The team quit me. The Sherpas were worn out from postholing and Ed didn't want to chance it without them. Yogendra was noncommittal.”
Seven Summits Page 21
