I gathered the last of my strength and switched places with Reinmar. With clenched teeth I swam through the final meters of bottomless powder that overlay the ice crevasses of the bergschrund. Finally after forty minutes more work, my crampons found traction in hard snow below. As I moved forward, the depth of powder decreased to two feet, then to the top of my plastic boots. On the level ground ahead I saw the abandoned remnants of a camp—a Russian Primus stove, a few abandoned oxygen bottles, and an orange shovel with the name Ed Viesturs written clearly on the back. I had found the site used by members of the 1992 Russian expedition led by Vladimir Balyberdin.
Ed Viesturs and two other American climbers, Scott Fischer and Charlie Mace, had been on that expedition. Ed Viesturs I knew and respected as a strong mountaineer. I had first met him in Kathmandu when the Americans and the Russians were celebrating their ascents on Kanchenjunga in 1989. We had succeeded on different sides, as usual. After that our paths crossed many times, on Lenin Peak, once in the Caucasus, and again in 1991 after our ascent of Dhaulagiri and his success on Everest. With an impressive ascent of K2, Ed Viesturs became the seventh person in the history of mountaineering to climb the three highest peaks in the world. It was my turn to add my name to the short list. Judging by the determination of my German friends that day, I felt the opportunity would not be lost.
About five in the afternoon Reinmar and I dropped our load of supplies and gear at the hard-won site for Camp III. We started down. The weather became pleasant toward evening; the wind that had worried us all day ceased, and the air was still during our descent. Reinmar was ahead of me until he decided to rest for a moment. I passed him at the beginning of the steep portion of the route where the fixed lines began. It was difficult to say which of us was more exhausted, Reinmar after four nights and days steadily working above six thousand meters or me after struggling all day long through the terrible snow. After rappelling down the first section of rope, I turned to locate my friend; he was moving down steadily as well. After I saw him past the worst section, I turned to continue my descent. The route below us all the way to the tents was protected with fixed line and was not so difficult.
Peter and Andy were fortifying their tent when I arrived at Camp II. I removed my crampons and climbed into my tent. I fired up the Primus stove and melted a pot of water from the snow I had prepared before leaving that morning. Drained by my day’s efforts, I drank the water and sank into sleep, comforted by the warmth of my sleeping bag. Shouts awakened me. Judging from Peter’s and Andy’s voices, I knew something unexpected had happened, and that it must concern Reinmar.
Rushing out of the tent, I found Andy standing next to Reinmar, who was covered in blood. Fifty meters above the camp, he had unclipped from the fixed line at a juncture of rope. He had relaxed his guard too early. Believing the snow was stable névé, he had misstepped his crampons onto ice and slipped. Collision with a ridge of rocks that jutted out of the snow was all that had kept Reinmar from falling over the rocky south wall into bottomless space. A head wound was bleeding profusely, and he had cuts over his face. He said he felt that he hit his head and chest pretty hard.
We were concerned about a concussion, and because of his pain when breathing, it seemed likely he had broken ribs. All his extremities were functioning fine, and only time would reveal if he had serious internal injuries. Reinmar settled into Peter and Andy’s big tent, where we cleaned and bandaged his wounds. I boiled water all night long and carried it to their tent thinking because of the head injury we needed to rehydrate him. The night was terribly cold. I did not sleep until just before dawn.
July 20 I awoke tired and groggy from the night’s ordeal, but I immediately began preparing tea. We decided it was best to descend to Base Camp. It took us a long time to get ourselves ready. We helped Reinmar into his clothes and harness and at about 10 A.M. started down. Andy went first, Reinmar next, belayed on Peter’s rope. After securing the tents, I left camp with my backpack full of Reinmar’s extra belongings. I caught up with my friends at Camp I.
Many climbers were ascending the fixed line and settling into their tents while we enjoyed a good lunch and drank more tea. Ernst, who had been informed of the accident by radio, had prepared everything for us. The weather had stabilized and was perfect for working on the route. We warmed ourselves in the sun, enjoying the food and tea. Reinmar was upset when I told him that I had his personal gear. Embarrassed or uncertain of his plans, he insisted he could carry his things. I did not say so, of course, but I thought the climb was over for him. When he’d left the higher camp, I believe he, too, harbored serious doubts that continuing was possible. At Camp I with only side pain to remind him of the accident, giving up on the insidiously dangerous peak was no longer a certainty.
Under the blazing sun, we began a lethargic descent from Camp I. Heavy, wet snow stuck in our crampons and our boots got heavier. Tired bodies were forced to work a little harder. As we finished negotiating the last section of fixed rope, fortune smiled on us from the face of a cute, young British doctor. Thoughtfully she had hiked across the glacier to help us. From the first sight of her, our fatigue disappeared. Suddenly we were laughing and chatting amiably. Sitting on the rocks, we drank tea and watched as she cleaned and examined Reinmar’s wounds. She led us back to the British camp, where she skillfully put six stitches in his scalp. Although she confirmed our suspicion that he had a broken rib, his other injuries were superficial. Reassured by her diagnosis, Reinmar would go back up the mountain.
We slept late the next morning, and no one was in a hurry for breakfast. The day was sunny, without wind. One could only envy those men who were working up higher in such perfect weather. After eating, I stripped down to my underwear to spend fifteen minutes sunbathing on a cot. My stomach was full and the warmth of the sun was intoxicating. I fell asleep instantly and came to my senses three hours later. The result was a vivid red sunburn, which became so painful that it kept me from sleeping that night.
On July 22 the weather changed and another storm enveloped the mountain. Tired climbers from the other expeditions returned from their high-altitude camps. I heard the clank of their equipment and the rhythm of their tired steps as they passed our tents. The day evaporated; we visited other camps or entertained friends in our mess tent. Dan Mazur and I had time to catch up on the events in our lives since 1991.
Reinmar felt better. Again I watched him put aside the adversities that fate had dealt him. Perhaps it was that ascent that makes me superstitious. How does a man escape his destiny? Now as I look back and analyze events, I am certain that if we had made a proper acclimatization, we could have avoided the tragedy that awaited us. Every setback and difficulty conspired to keep pushing us up the mountain. Each difficulty forged a link in the chain of events that would cost my friends their lives.
That night we sat in the mess tent discussing our tactics. We had news from the Swedes that a window of good weather would begin on the twenty-eighth. Calm conditions were predicted to last for about forty-eight hours, then a major storm would follow. We decided to leave Base Camp on the twenty-fourth for Camp I, move to Camp III by the twenty-sixth, establish Camp IV at 7,900 meters on the twenty-seventh, and go for the summit early on the morning of July 28. We had one or two days of leeway, but if success eluded us during that window of opportunity, there would be no time for a second chance.
When asked for my opinion, I said we did not have adequate acclimatization to 7,300 meters, much less 7,900 meters. I cautioned Reinmar and Peter that our bodies were ill-prepared for those heights, that an attempt on the summit would be dangerous. As a team, I felt we would run out of power at or near the top, but that it would be difficult to turn around so close to our goal. The descent could be treacherous. But I added that I was ready to go with their decision. They were my leaders. Peter and Reinmar insisted they had never experienced difficulty above eight thousand meters. I pointed out that the last five hundred meters on K2 should not be compared to the difficulty
of other mountains. Still, if they were going, I was ready to accept the risk. The discussion ended on that stark note, and we did not come back to the topic. By unanimous consensus, we were going up.
To provide a diversion from the bad weather, Reinmar and Peter sent out invitations to members of all the other expeditions to join us on the twenty-third for the “Baltoro Rock Olympics.” Wet, falling snow did not deter one hundred climbers of every nationality from abandoning the comfort of their tents to participate. The entry requirement was a team song and introductions. The main event required marksmen to knock a small rock off a bigger one from one hundred paces. There was no end of ammunition in the endless store of rubble around us. I do not recall which team won; the opportunity to laugh and talk was more important. Socializing went on late into the night. For a day, humor and friendship relieved us of the burden of our ambitions. Reinmar’s organizational skills and Peter’s unfailing energy and enthusiasm presented us with those gifts.
On July 24, Peter, Ernst, and Reinmar climbed to Camp I: the Canadian-American team had started out this way—slow, with a night at the lower camp. They had hoped an easy day would compensate for the long one that came at the end. Andy left at five in the afternoon, so the climb to Camp II would not be as long and hard for him. For me it would take seven hours to reach II. Traveling light, I left Base Camp on the twenty-fifth at five-thirty in the morning. Two members of the Swedish expedition, Rafael Jensen and Daniel Bidner, followed in my tracks. I arrived at Camp I as my friends were finishing breakfast. There I brewed tea and rested awhile before setting out with Andy. Reinmar was in no hurry to move; it appeared to me that his ribs were bothering him. He did not move with the same ease he had in the days before his fall. What could I have said to him? How could I have helped him? In those situations, each person makes his own decision to go up or to end the risk and go down. I watched Reinmar begin to ascend, just as sure, but slower on the ropes. There was still time for him to change his mind.
I passed Andy and Ernst and arrived at Camp II with Peter only to find the big dome tent broken and torn by the wind in the last storm. Another adversity; they fell on us one after the other until they no longer surprised me. Peter’s down suit and sleeping bag had blown out of the tent. Unable to conceal his emotions, he said the climb was over for him. Fate seemed to be giving him the opportunity to abandon the effort. He began to descend. Sitting there alone, I felt relief in my soul. Deep in my heart, I believed that without proper acclimatization our attempt was too risky. I gathered the remaining things from the broken tent and put them aside in a place protected from the wind. Then I climbed into my tent, set up my stove, and began melting snow into water for tea.
Later I heard the voices of my teammates, Peter’s voice as well. I understood from their conversation that Ernst had given his down suit and sleeping bag to Peter. Ernst was giving up the summit attempt. This was wise of him, because in our situation, given his age and without better acclimatization, he had little chance of succeeding.
We set up the three-man tent we had stored for Camp IV. Then we lit up the stoves, cooked dinner, and quickly settled in for the night. Later we heard the two Swedish climbers arrive. They elected to follow our plan of assault. Like us, Daniel and Rafael found their tent broken. They radioed Base Camp and asked permission of the British team to use their tent. Roger Payne, the leader of that expedition, kindly agreed.
After breakfast on the twenty-sixth, as Reinmar and I dressed to leave for Camp III, a foul wind began to blow. I thought the force of the blast would sweep away the tents and us as well. I was silently grateful for the snow wall that we had built days before, which afforded the only protection from the gale. The sun was shining through the clouds that flew over us, but no one started out. We contacted Base Camp for a weather report and learned the window of good weather was predicted to move in on the twenty-ninth. We had to wait. The storm was relentless and blew with hurricane force all day and all through the night. The Swedes, like us, endured the gale in their sleeping bags protected by the thin walls of a buffeted tent.
When we awoke on the twenty-seventh, it seemed that the tempest had passed. Reinmar and I broke down my hard-tested North Face tent and packed our backpacks. Loathe to move from their shelter, Peter and Andy watched us and the weather. Like the Swedes, they were not in a hurry to leave that refuge.
As if lying in wait, the wind increased as Reinmar and I started out. Weighing the effort it would take for me to reconstruct the tent against the effort of climbing, I chose the latter. It was possible to balance my body against the direct pressure of the gale; I leaned over into the slope and moved up, secured by my jumar on the fixed line. Everything necessary for the night was in my backpack. Our instructions were that if anyone ascended to Camp III that day, they should wait for the team there. I needed no further permission. Seeking relief from the wind, I stopped in a crack, pressed against the rocks, and looked down. Below me, Reinmar was climbing. Andy moved into the squall, but gave up and rejoined Peter, who prudently observed our efforts from the tent. In that moment huddled against the rocks, I felt the wind begin to abate.
It took four more hours of climbing to arrive at the loads we had dropped for Camp III. I selected a place for the tent in the lee of an ice wall above the site of the old Russian camp. I shoveled away snow, making a hard, flat surface for the tent. Reinmar arrived about two hours later. He informed me that Peter and Andy had decided to wait at Camp II until the next day.
I felt pretty well during the night, but the next morning I was much less energetic. That was normal for the first night at 7,400 meters. After the sun hit the tent, I stirred from my sleeping bag and slowly prepared water for tea. The air was still. Protected from the wind by the ice wall, the sun-warmed atmosphere in the tent reached tropical comfort. The heat and altitude made me feel sluggish, and I had no appetite. I knew that I was better off moving around to stimulate circulation. So after eating some dried fruit and drinking tea, I decided to dig a snow cave to compensate for our lost tent, knowing it would save Peter and Andy some effort when they arrived. Reinmar watched for a while. Despite complaining of pain in his ribs, he ate a hearty breakfast. I advised him against working with the shovel. The weather appeared to be clearing, and wind had decreased. Reinmar went down to the load dropped previously by Peter and brought it up to camp. After five hours of work, a cave big enough for three people was finished. Reinmar decided to settle into the comfortable space with me. We moved our things from the tent, freeing a place for Peter and Andy who finally arrived later that evening.
After breakfast on the twenty-ninth we loaded our packs in clear, calm weather and started out for our assault camp. Last to leave, I packed up the food in the cave and covered the entrance with the dry bag we had found, securing the cave for use on our descent. Above me Peter and Andy moved up really well, and Reinmar was ascending easily. The route was in perfect condition: the hard névé snow was easy for climbing. I felt worn-out from the digging the day before and caught up with the group only after they’d stopped to rest before a steep section. Above the rest spot we could see the terrain flatten out, and we knew that there we would find where previous expeditions had made their assault camps. There were two routes to the flatter ground: up a steep, icy slope or around through the deep snow. We chose the second alternative. I climbed about one hundred meters and passed Andy and Peter. For another hour I took the lead, breaking trail in the deep snow up to the gentler slope. The weather was perfect: the sky was cloudless, the wind mild. Mercifully, the forecast of good weather proved true.
The remains of a tent and some equipment abandoned by the Slovenian expedition littered the site of Camp IV. The summit was clearly visible, and from that perspective the final distance did not look too difficult. In one hour we were in our tents, two men in each. We prepared dinner and climbed into down sleeping bags.
From the security of our tents, the clank of equipment was heard as the Swedes approached camp. Like us, they had
minimal acclimatization: Rafael and Daniel had spent only one night at 6,800 meters. In favor of light loads, they carried only a tent, thinking they would sleep without bags and leave for the summit just after midnight. They counted on the warmth of their excellent down suits and state-of-the-art gear to protect them. I wondered if that was enough to compensate for the lack of acclimatization. I surrendered a down sleeping bag to them that I had found abandoned in the tangled equipment remains around camp. The night was bitterly cold.
Above the Clouds Page 11
