The day after New Year's Breashears called Dick.
“We've got it. Naess says you can go, but it will set you back $75,000. And that only pays for getting on their permit and using their route. We'll still be responsible for all our own food, equipment, and Sherpas.”
“You've got to be kidding!”
Dick now faced a terrible dilemma. On one hand he felt a surge of excitement thinking he had another chance to complete the Seven Summits—even becoming the first person to do so—but on the other hand his finances were at rock bottom due to cash-flow demands of a major lodge he had started at Snowbird (the same one whose blueprints he had been backpacking on all seven mountains). His business manager, Thurman Taylor, as well as his banker, had been telling him he couldn't afford any unnecessary expenditures for the foreseeable future, and Dick figured he didn't even need to ask to know their answer about spending seventy-five grand on another climbing extravaganza.
But this time Dick misjudged his business manager.
“We'll scrape up the money somehow,” Thurman told him.
“I don't believe what I just heard.”
“You've got too much time, energy, and money in this thing not to finish it.”
“Thurman, if we didn't have the same type plumbing I’d kiss you.”
So Dick agreed to pay what the Norwegians wanted, and Naess telexed Katmandu notifying the mountaineering officials of the additions to his team's roster. Everything was set. Dick figured he had plenty of time to organize their food, equipment, and oxygen. Then a week later Naess called Breashears to say he had just received a cable from Katmandu.
“I’m afraid it's bad news. The Nepalese say they have a new policy prohibiting foreigners from joining national climbing teams, and consequently they prohibit you and Dick from joining the expedition.”
“That's crazy. We can't accept that.”
“I agree. Listen, I have to come to New York in two days. You and Dick meet me there, and we will decide what to do.”
“It's just a bunch of B.S. they're laying on us,” Dick told Naess when they rendezvoused. “You've got Bonington on your team, and he's British.”
“I know,” Naess agreed. “It's ridiculous. So I suggest we do this: I will write a letter to the Nepalese saying I must have David here on the team as the cinematographer, and you because we need your monetary support. All of which is true. Then David should leave immediately for Katmandu and hand-deliver it.”
Three days later Breashears walked into the familiar Katmandu office of Mr. Sharma, the same Nepalese Undersecretary of Tourism in charge of Mountaineering whom Dick had pleaded with a few months before.
“I am sorry,” Sharma said, “but this is a new policy.”
“But it's nonsense,” Breashears replied. “You have people of mixed nationalities on these teams all the time. Bonington is on this team.”
“But the new policy also says all team changes must be made at least four months before the expedition begins.”
“That's also nonsense. You know on these big expeditions the team rosters change up to the last minute.”
“Again, I am sorry. At any rate, I cannot make the decision. Your petition must now go to the Minister of Tourism.”
Breashears knew it was essential to get a personal audience with the Minister before he had the all-too-easy opportunity to scribble on the petition “request denied.” So the next day Breashears went to the Minister's office.
“I am sorry, the Minister is not available,” said the young man at the front desk.
Breashears told him he would wait. He waited until the office closed that afternoon. Then next morning he was back, and he kept his vigil through the day. Finally he got a short audience late that afternoon.
When Breashears saw the Minister he wasn't sure if his sullen face was a basic mannerism or just a bad mood from having to deal with Dick Bass again. Either way, Breashears sensed it would be an uphill battle getting this guy to approve the petition.
“You must know by now about our new policy,” the Minister said bluntly. “It's a rule, and there's nothing I can do about it. The only person who can change it is the Minister of State. The petition must go to him. So why don't you go back to your country, relax, and we will telex the reply in three or four days.”
Fat chance of that, Breashears thought.
He figured his only hope now was to get in to see this Minister of State before the petition arrived on his desk.
“I am sorry, but the Minister is a very busy man,” the secretary at the front desk told Breashears the next morning. “It will take maybe one week to arrange such an appointment as you request.”
“But I don't have a week!”
“Again, I am sorry.”
Breashears wasn't sure what to do. He let out a sigh as he gazed around the office.
Wait a minute, he said to himself. Who's that at that other desk? Isn't that Mr. Ale?
Mahabir Ale was the Liaison Officer on Frank and Dick's 1983 Everest Expedition, the same man who had spent the entire two months of that climb in base camp. Breashears had come to know him quite well.
“Mr. Ale, what a surprise. Remember me, David Breashears?”
“Yes, of course. Nice to see you.”
“I didn't know you worked here.”
“I am the personal assistant to the Minister of State.”
“You've got to be kidding. Listen, it really is nice to see you. Say, why don't we go to lunch over at the Yak and Yeti? I want to tell you what I’ve been up to lately …”
Breashears got the appointment next morning. He walked into the Minister's office and his first impression was encouraging. The Minister was about sixty years old, with a grandfatherly face and cheerful smile.
“First, it was unfortunate what happened to Mr. Bass last year,” the Minister said. “The police tried to ignore our standard procedures, and I had no choice but to ask you and Mr. Bass to come down the mountain.”
Breashears realized this Minister had been intimately involved in the clean-up expedition, but he didn't know if that was good or bad.
“We weren't aware of what the police had done until it was too late,” Breashears said diplomatically. “But when we did get our final order to descend the mountain, we obeyed. Now we have this very up-and-up deal with the Norwegians, and frankly, sir, I believe Dick Bass deserves one more chance.”
“Oh, yes, so do I.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I signed the paper as soon as I saw it.”
“What did you say?”
“That Dick Bass can climb the mountain.”
“Are you sure you said that?”
“Young man, of course I am. Listen, I know all about Mr. Bass. Last fall he had a press conference where he issued a statement to make sure everyone understood his position. Well, I read the statement very carefully. I know that Dick Bass is an older man like me, and I know about why he wants to climb this mountain. Now I think it would be encouraging to all people my age if Mr. Bass were able to climb Mount Everest. So you go right now and call Mr. Bass, and tell him to start doing his exercises.”
Breashears rushed back to his hotel room to make the call.
“This guy just up and said flat out you can come and climb Everest.”
“How come he was on our side?” Dick asked.
“Sounds like it was that press statement you handed out last year.”
Dick recalled how at the time he wrote the statement he wasn't sure anyone would bother to read it.
“It just goes to show,” Dick said, “by what slender threads our fate hangs.”
Breashears and Dick had less than a month to gather together food, oxygen, and equipment. But now they had done it so many times they had everything ready in two weeks. Breashears left for Nepal on March 13, but Dick wasn't able to get away until March 25. By the time he flew to the Lukla airstrip on March 29 the rest of the team, including Breashears—who was filming—were through the Icefall and on their w
ay to camp 2.
A normally prudent person might have been concerned about falling behind, but Dick was confident, perhaps to a fault, he wouldn't have any problems. Even without the normal lengthy acclimatization, he felt he could march right up the mountain. After all, he rationalized, this was his fourth expedition to Everest in approximately three years (a record in itself). He knew every step of the way (other than the last 1,200 feet of vertical) and consequently he had “no anxiety or fear because of the unknown.”
He also had what he called his gameplan. This was to pick up Breashears at base camp and for two weeks trek the Khumbu area, climbing three lesser mountains, each around 20,000 feet. Dick felt this would help him to acclimatize as well as improve his climbing strength and proficiency. After the two weeks he would return to base camp and climb from one camp to the next straight up the mountain, with an acclimatization layover of only two days at camp 2.
“From base camp we'll be able to reach the summit in five or six days,” Dick had said when he and Breashears had first devised the plan.
So now, as he walked from Lukla toward base camp, he left most of his climbing equipment and clothing stored at a Sherpa's house in Namche Bazar, thinking he would pick it up in a few days when he returned en route to the first of his three fitness climbs. When he got to base camp, however, Breashears, who descended from camp 2 when he heard Dick had arrived, had a new proposal.
“The Norwegians are zooming right up this thing,” Breashears said, “and at this rate they'll be on top in a couple of weeks. So there's no time for practice climbs. You should stay here a few days, hike over to Kala Patar, then go up to camp two and spend a week or so to finish acclimatizing.”
“But I left all my gear in Namche.”
“We'll send a note down and have a yak herder bring it up.”
The next morning, though, Dick said he wanted to pick it up himself. “I need to sort through my things, and besides, hiking down and back with a fairly heavy pack and at a fast pace will help me get aerobic.”
“Okay, but be careful. Don't twist an ankle or get any blisters.”
Dick was confident he could make it to Namche Bazar in one day, a distance that normally would take two or three. He was “feeling like gangbusters” as he hefted his forty-pound pack and left base camp late in the morning. He made very good time down the glacier and through the upper villages, but by late afternoon his right foot was starting to bother him. He was trying so hard to get to Namche before nightfall, though, that he didn't take off his shoe and have a look at the areas of discomfort until shortly before the Tengboche Monastery. He was mortified to discover several huge blisters on the ball and toes as well as the heel.
Oh Lord, he thought, I’ve blown an inner tube and Breashears is going to kill me.
He slept at the monastery, and next day the blisters looked not only worse than he feared, but he had deep painful bruises as well. In addition, the long downhill trek had jammed his foot forward so much that he had a swollen big toe with a blackened nail he was sure to lose. He hobbled the remaining five miles to Namche and spent the next two days with his foot propped in the sunlight, draining the blisters with his Swiss Army knife. Then he bandaged the wounds as best he could and took five days to limp back to base camp, arriving on April 16. There he radioed Breashears, who had been up the Lhotse Face filming the Norwegians and was now back in camp 2.
“I have a couple of blisters on my foot. I’ll be fine, but I think it might be a good idea to rest a day or two before coming up.”
“I told you to be careful with your feet!”
“Don't worry, it's not bad.”
It wasn't bad—it was horrible. There were actually blisters within the blisters, exposing muscle and tendon. Despite what he told Breashears, Dick was not only concerned about his foot but also his lack of conditioning. After resting for two days he decided it would be a good idea to force himself to make a carry up the Icefall to camp 1 and back down, as he needed to accelerate his acclimatization.
Halfway up the Icefall his heel hurt from having gravity push it back in his boot, so he decided to turn around and go back to base camp. But going downhill put the pressure on the front of his foot so that it hurt even more than the heel. Now he really was in a fix. Obviously he couldn't stop and sit down in the middle of the Icefall. He felt he had no choice but to turn around again and continue uphill.
No one was at camp 1 so he decided to bite the bullet and continue the rest of the way to camp 2. He told a Norwegian who was on his way to base camp to tell the others what he was doing.
Dick found a first aid kit in camp 1 and changed the dressings on his wounds. He limped out of camp. He was halfway up the Western Cwm when he spotted Breashears coming down to meet him.
“Base camp radioed me you were coming up,” Breashears said. “I can't believe you did this to yourself.”
Breashears’ exasperation changed to pity, though, when he saw Dick's face. His brow was furrowed and he limped with his right foot splayed in a kind of duckwalk. He was clearly in pain.
“It's bad,” Dick admitted. “The pain's making me nauseous.”
“Look on the bright side,” Breashears said. “At least until your blisters heal you won't be able to gallivant off and really hurt yourself, or do something else as stupid as this.”
It took Dick five hours to make it to camp 2, and there the Norwegian team doctor instructed him to stay off his foot until the blisters healed. The next day Breashears said he was descending to base camp to pick up a lightweight movie camera he planned to take to the summit. He also wanted to rest a couple of days at a lower altitude; he was feeling debilitated both by his relatively rapid ascent up the Lhotse Face and the hard work of filming for the Norwegians.
As he left camp 2 Breashears issued a final admonition to Dick: “Stay put and don't do anything foolish.”
It took only one day, however, before Dick was going stir-crazy. So he decided to bandage his blisters and take a walk to the base of the Lhotse Face. It took about an hour from camp 2, and while his foot was tender it didn't hurt as much as he expected so he decided to repeat the walk the next day.
The following morning at 5:30 he left camp with the Sherpas, who were carrying loads to camp 3. Since Dick wasn't carrying a pack, he soon pulled ahead. He maintained a steady rhythm, moving one foot after the other. He felt good, and his foot wasn't hurting him too much. It was a clear day, and the morning snow was firm.
For the first half hour the glacier floor was fairly flat, and since he didn't have to pay much attention to his footing he started to daydream, thinking about what he would do when he got to the summit. Over the last several days he had composed a prayer he wanted to say once he got on top, and now he reviewed it in his mind, making sure he had it set to memory. He also wanted to compose another kind of spiritual message—a card addressed to Marty Hoey that he would put in a plastic bag and throw off the summit down the North Wall—so he spent some time thinking about how he might write it.
As he continued his steady step-step his mind drifted to a fantasy about what it would be like to climb Everest without supplemental oxygen.
That would really be something, he thought. I wonder if I could pull it off?
His reverie was interrupted when he noticed the snow starting to get harder and also steeper as he neared the base of the wall. Soon he had to begin kicking small footholds in the slick surface as he climbed the final hill to the beginning of the fixed ropes.
Maybe I ought to put my crampons on, he thought. But I’ve only got a hundred feet to where I turn around. Probably not worth the bother.
Suddenly his feet shot out and in a split second he was on his back sliding. He tried to roll over and dig in his ice axe pick, but it bounced off the hard snow and flew out of his hand. In three seconds he had accelerated beyond control.
My God, just like Marty, he thought. This might be it.
Suddenly he hit a patch of soft snow and stopped—just a short dist
ance above a deep crevasse. He lay for a moment, wondering if he was injured. His right leg and arm hurt, his pants were ripped, but he decided that other than some possible bruises he was okay. He slowly started climbing back to the Sherpas, who had watched the entire slide and now were standing wide-eyed and speechless. He had slid about 350 feet.
“Whatever you do,” he told the Sherpas when he got back to them, “don't tell David-sahib about this. He'd kill me for sure.”
Dick was worried that if Breashears found out, he might question Dick's ability and judgment and perhaps even have second thoughts about wanting to take him to the summit. Back in camp 2 Dick was further chagrined when he found out some of the Norwegians’ Sherpas had seen the fall, and he had to swear them to secrecy as well.
As Dick walked to his tent he thought, Every time Breashears tells me not to do something, I end up doing it. That boy's putting a hex on me!
Inside his tent he pulled down his torn pants to discover a huge hematoma on his right thigh that was already turning red and even purple.
I’m really a mess now, he thought as he bathed his leg, arm, and backside with Absorbine Jr. Black, blue, and blistered. Maybe the weather will turn bad, slow down the Norwegians, and give me a few days to heal before I have to make my summit bid.
As it turned out, the next afternoon Dick got the few days he would need to convalesce when Breashears returned to camp 2 complaining of aching muscles and nausea.
“Feels like the flu or something,” he said as he crawled in his tent.
Breashears stayed in his sleeping bag for three days. Meanwhile the Norwegian team had maintained their rapid progress and two days later the first summit team, including Chris Bonington, reached the top. For Bonington, who had led three previous Everest expeditions but had never reached the top himself, it was an intensely satisfying personal achievement.
Breashears forced himself to come out of his tent to hear Bonington describe his ascent.
“We were unroped above the South Col because you simply don't have time to set up proper belays,” Bonington said.
Seven Summits Page 39
