I needed canisters of oxygen, one for each of the stranded climbers. To all my questions about where I could find our supply, Pemba just threw up his hands. Finally I understood our supply was finished. I knew it would be impossible for me to assist five people alone. I went to the tents of Rob’s expedition, opening doors, asking for help. No one showed any initiative. Rousing the person closest to the door of our Sherpas’ tent, I woke Lopsang, our climbing sirdar. He muttered unintelligibly about the need to help Scott. Everyone in the tent slept in unconscious exhaustion, all using bottles of oxygen. I asked Lopsang if he could help me; he could only repeat that I needed to go for Scott, who had told him to send me. So then I understood that Scott was waiting, counting on my strength. Strangely, in our last conversation we had considered that possibility when he had approved my rapid descent to the South Col. Finally, after further questioning of Lene and Klev, it became clear to me that Scott was not with the group of stranded climbers. Then I had choose what I thought Scott would want me to do; my first responsibility was to help the clients who from my understanding were near death. Lopsang said he was sick and unable to go with me. He was enduring the hardest time of his life. It was too dangerous to expect the Sherpas to volunteer when only ten or fifteen meters from the tents one completely lost control of the situation.
One of the Sherpas surrendered his bottle of oxygen, a mask, and a regulator. Following the directions I had, I spent thirty or forty minutes making my way to the edge of the Col where it falls off to the Kangshung Face. Seeing no one, I realized that I needed more information. I found my way back to camp and woke Klev. He said that I needed to go down over the ridge; the people were huddled a little lower than the place I’d turned back. Neal had revived a little and confirmed the information. Struggling in the storm a second time, I found the ridge of rock and began going down. I saw a beam of light; Tim Madsen had turned on his headlamp. Three people were huddled in a tight group. One person was lying motionless on the rocks next to the group: that still figure was Yasuko Namba, Rob Hall’s client. I could not see the fifth person anywhere. Putting the mask I carried on Sandy Pittman, I turned on the flow and asked who could move with me. Charlotte Fox agreed to try. I told Tim to take turns using the oxygen with Sandy. He asked me why I was alone. There was no one else to help, I said.
To keep Charlotte from slumping to the ground, I had to hold her arm over my neck and support her body with my other arm. Half dragging her that way, we faced the hurricane-force wind. I had to stop often. It took me forty minutes to cover the four hundred meters to the tents. After removing her crampons I pushed her into the tent with Neal Beidleman. He helped her by sharing the oxygen canister he used, though he was still not feeling well. Again, I went to Rob Hall’s tents trying to get someone to go with me for Yasuko. One Sherpa responded to my pleas; he quickly came out of the tent, but seeing the intensity of the storm, he refused, saying he could not risk his life. Who could blame him, when not even the guides were capable of working in those conditions?
I took another bottle of oxygen from one of our Sherpas and headed back over the familiar route. Sandy was more coherent when I arrived. Yasuko, next to them, had not moved and showed no signs of life. I focused on Tim and Sandy. Without another bottle of oxygen it was senseless to think about helping anyone else. It was after four o’clock in the morning. Sandy could not support her own weight. Her feet dragging, I picked her up, half carrying her. Using the second canister of oxygen, Tim was able to move independently, but his pace was slower than ours. He showed great courage, trying not to lag behind. His strength was amazing considering this was his first time at high altitude and he had poor acclimatization. We struggled about thirty minutes and made it to the tents. I helped Sandy and Tim out of their equipment. I asked Pemba to bring everyone hot tea.
Then I understood I was unable to do more. My strength was exhausted. I crawled into my tent. How long had I been without sleep and food? I felt no fear inside or any other emotion, probably because of my insane fatigue. Maybe this made it easier for me to analyze our situation, even in those last hours. If I had been able to use oxygen during the rescue, perhaps I might have been able to maintain my strength. That was impossible. I needed every bottle I could find to help our clients. Though physically devastated, I was vividly aware that Scott had problems. Spending the night in such storm conditions without any way to replenish his energy, without oxygen and the protection of a tent, would definitely cause frostbite. At that moment, I tried not to think the worst. Scott was much stronger than the other guides or our clients. I thought he would endure. Every hour was important to him. While I was taking tea from Pemba, I asked him to wake two of our Sherpas, any of them who could work. I told him to find oxygen canisters, find one extra for Scott, make a thermos of hot drink, and send two men immediately. It was twilight, the clouds had lifted, the snow had stopped, and visibility had returned up to the level of about 8,400 meters. For some reason I hoped that Lopsang had recovered enough by resting in the night that he would be able to ascend to Scott. Drained of all strength, I climbed into my sleeping bag, shivering. Finally I slept.
Two hours later I woke when Pemba brought hot tea again. My first question was “Has anyone gone up to Scott?”
From his silence I knew the answer could only be no. Again I asked him to pass on my request to the Sherpas; we needed the most rested to go without delay to meet Scott with oxygen and hot drink. Neal had recovered somewhat. I could hear him moving in the tent nearby. Our focus now was to get the clients down from the Col. Within an hour everyone in our tent was prepared to descend. Klev Schoening asked me accompany him. He had problems with one eye and also some minor frostbite. Reasonably I tried to reassure him that one of our Sherpas would be able to assist him adequately. The situation with Scott was still unclear, and someone besides the Sherpas needed to be available to respond to his needs.
Though everyone was stressed and distraught, no one in the group at camp had suffered any serious injury. I knew with the help of the Sherpas they would descend rapidly on the fixed rope. Once off the Col the weather would improve, and that decrease in elevation would immediately make a difference in how they felt and performed. I consulted Neal, who was silently and quickly collecting his things. Charlotte, Sandy, and Tim were prepared to leave. I told them that I wanted to remain in the camp. Out of the tent door, I saw two of our Sherpas at around eight thousand meters, heading up to Scott. A little higher climbed two Sherpas from the Taiwanese expedition of Makalu Gau, and even higher we could see two men from the Adventure Consultants team rushing to rescue Rob Hall.
I went to the kitchen and asked Pemba who had gone up for us. He said the father of Lopsang and Tashi Sherpa. From their distance above camp I estimated they had left after my second order about 8 A.M. Within fifteen minutes the clients began to descend, aided by three Sherpas. Lopsang and Tshering Sherpa remained. Lopsang informed me he was still sick, offering me no more information. He could only glower at me; obviously he blamed me for not going to help Scott. He did not understand what the night with the clients had cost me.
I advised Lopsang to notify me of any news that came from above. Still exhausted, I crawled into the shelter of my tent, but I could not sleep. Two or three hours later I heard the voices of Pete Athans and Todd Burleson as they arrived from Camp III. They had radio contact with the camps below and shared information with me regarding what was going on up the mountain. Rob Hall was fighting for his life on the South Summit. Trapped trying to save Doug Hansen, during the night Rob had suffered severe frostbite. Doug Hansen had slipped descending the Hillary Step and disappeared. Rob was unable to descend by himself. He waited for the help of his Sherpas, who left at 6 A.M. and were then struggling in the hurricane-force wind that continued to blow higher up. There was no news of Scott or the others who were missing. Pete, Todd, and I knew of many cases where experienced climbers forced to bivouac in the cold at high altitudes had survived, suffering manageable frostbite. We coun
ted on that possibility for Scott Fischer, who we knew was a strong man.
During this time we watched a group of people descend on the route, hoping that it was Scott with the aid of the Sherpas. Taiwanese climber Makalu Gau arrived in camp about 2 P.M. His Sherpas had left an hour earlier than ours and had been able to rouse him to consciousness with oxygen and hot liquids. Scott had been left next to where Makalu had been at about 8,300 meters. Arriving later, our Sherpas tried to rouse Scott but were unable to bring him to consciousness: he had a pulse and was breathing but was unable to swallow the liquid they offered. They secured a mask to his face and turned up the flow of oxygen before descending.
After hearing that news, I consulted with doctors at Base Camp, who advised me of a slim possibility that Scott might regain consciousness. I prepared to go up the mountain. I had directions about medicines that might help and packed them, along with a thermos and three bottles of oxygen. Lopsang’s father had taken two full bottles from Ed Viesturs’s supply. Tashi and Lopsang’s father were not optimistic about Scott’s condition. I asked Pete Athans and Todd Burleson if they would go with me. They said climbing at night in unstable weather was irrational. Pete said this with tears in his eyes. I answered simply that Scott still had a chance for survival, maybe one in a thousand. I had to do something. In those circumstances the chance of Scott’s surviving was incomparably smaller than the chance of my dying. For me it was impossible to think that Scott, breathing oxygen, might come out of a coma needing help and die waiting for me.
I left camp about 3 P.M. One hundred meters from the tents, I encountered a person wandering slowly across the Col. At first I thought this was Scott. I thought miraculously the oxygen had revived him or that I was hallucinating. By that time all those unaccounted for were known to be dead. Moving slowly with arms extended in front of his body, I saw a frozen face overcome by the pain of survival. His shaking, lifeless arms were carried as though they did not belong to him anymore.
I asked, “Who are you?”
He answered, “This is my last time. I never want to do this again.”
It was Beck Weathers. The phenomenon of his courage and endurance urged me up the mountain; his survival fueled the hope that my friend also had a chance to come back to life. I called Todd Burleson and Pete Athans and helped Weathers back toward the camp where I delivered him to their care. Late in the afternoon, I headed up to Scott, turning on the flow of oxygen to speed my ascent.
After two hours of climbing, I arrived at the place where I expected to find him. Scanning the relief, I saw a shadow that did not look like the outline of rocks. Quickly I recognized Scott’s clothing and went to his motionless body. His down snowsuit had been unfastened; one naked hand was presented as if he were giving a signal of his location and asking for help. I lifted his mask and looked into his face. I found no signs of life—no breathing, no pulse—but I could see that his passing had been recent. Scott Fischer had put up a hard fight for his life. Only at that moment could I believe that he had succumbed to the mountain. There was nothing I could do. I covered the top of his body with his pack; I thought to protect his face from the ravages of the birds that scavenge the slopes in good weather. I wrapped his body in rope. In a kind of daze I stayed doing these things for about a half hour. Then I became aware that the wind was gaining strength and it was snowing again. It came to me that I had to go down, that darkness was falling.
After forty-eight hours of stress and tension I worked like a robot, moving in nervous tension. As I descended, the wind increased to the same paralyzing speed as the night before. At the end of the fixed ropes, darkness and blowing snow limited my visibility to two meters. After the end of the fixed ropes I moved to the left to avoid the steep ice and the cracks in the snowfields. Descending in the small halo created by the light of my headlamp, I came to the slightly sloping, almost horizontal part of the pass. To survive I had to thread a path between the drop-off on the Kangshung Face and the west slopes, crossing to the other end of the vast oblivion that was the South Col. I turned right, orienting myself by the wind. No light signals came from the tents this night. My headlamp illuminated a wall of milky darkness. Orientation lost, I moved for an unknown time not knowing where I was. Soon I could not estimate distance. I sensed that I was close to the southwest face; afraid of the abyss, I turned back and tried to retrace a direction keeping the wind at my back. In those moments, I felt that someone was close to me and that presence calmed me. Turning into the wind, I struggled on, and after a time I discovered that beneath my boots the rocks and ice were strewn with metallic garbage and discarded oxygen canisters. I knew the tents were somewhere nearby, but where? I moved out from a point and returned, trying to explore a circle, making the radius wider each trip. My bearings were lost in the snowy blizzard. The battery in my headlamp died. I crawled in the darkness, engulfed in the howling noise of the blizzard. Then apart from the sounds of the wind, I heard a long human scream. Moaning and crying continued. I tried to orient myself to this sound. I was close to the end; a tortured human cry was a beacon. Only when my gloves touched the fabric that enclosed the moaning climber did I understand that I had found our camp. I groped along the ground for my tent and moved in out of the storm, crawling into my sleeping bag. I drank the tea from the thermos I was carrying. With a flashlight I checked my watch. It was midnight: five hours of wandering in the blizzard, more than seven hours since I’d left camp to find Scott. Later I would understand I had Beck Weathers to thank for my life. It was his voice crying out in the night.
At six the next morning, Tashi woke me with tea; he and the other Sherpas were going down. I slept a couple more hours. When I emerged from the tent, I met with Pete Athans and Todd Burleson. They were preparing to descend with the severely frostbitten Beck Weathers. Friends from the Himalayan Guides expedition, Michael Jörgensen and Brigitte Muir, gave me something to drink in their tent. I had to rest; it was difficult for me to move. Two hours later I felt able to pack up my gear. Our camp was abandoned in disarray. I dismantled the tents, thinking the equipment belonged to Scott’s company and I should be responsible for it. I collected small things Scott had left that I felt would have sentimental value for his family: his knife and his ice ax. I imagined that Scott had carried these things on many expeditions. Absently, I picked up a few personal items that belonged to our clients to return to them.
Leaving camp about 4 P.M., I took photos of the storm raging on the crest of the mountain. Suddenly I had the impulse to go to the place where I had found our clients during the blizzard. I wanted to pay final respects to Yasuko Namba. I felt deeply that she might have survived if I could have given her the attention I gave Sandy. Why did I not put more focus on her? Had the notion of commercialism so shackled my brain that I could not look beyond the responsibility to those who had paid Scott and therefore me for assistance? That question will remain with me forever.
Making my way down to Camp II slowly, in the darkness at about 8 P.M. I crept into my tent. The next day, May 14, I descended to Base Camp. Exhausted and empty emotionally, I could not shake the thought of Scott waiting for me. He had counted on my strength when he’d lost consciousness. In that twilight of sleep, freezing, he stopped fighting for life. The last of my strength had been spent fulfilling what I thought was my duty, but in my eyes that was no comfort. If oxygen had been brought to Scott even one hour earlier, the situation might have been changed in his favor. In the early hours of morning when he needed me, I could do nothing for my leader. I had nothing to pay the great mountain for Scott Fischer’s life.
Lhotse
When I returned to Base Camp, I experienced a turbulent flood of conflicting emotions. Coping with Scott’s death and my adrenaline-soaked nerves and muscles left me restlessly exhausted. Concern for my physical state prompted our expedition doctor, Ingrid, and Neal to try to help me, but the medicines they gave me triggered an allergic reaction. My emotions released in a torrent during the memorial service, but there was no psy
chological relief in weeping.
Neal assumed the responsibilities of expedition leader. At the memorial I spoke with him about climbing Lhotse. He and Ngima, our camp sirdar, were occupied with the details of getting our climbers and gear to Kathmandu. In early March, Scott had put my name and that of several interested clients on a Lhotse permit and paid for our share of the cost. The impulse that compelled me to climb after such a tragedy may be impossible for some people to understand. It may seem a vain and ambitious act. It is difficult to explain. Mountains are my life. At the time I remembered the standard that Scott had set for all of us when he’d climbed Lhotse and Everest back-to-back. Repeating his achievement, demanding of myself the price in effort he had once paid, was a way I could express my respect for him as a mountaineer. I wanted to say farewell to him that way. Neal told me to go; he understood.
Tired and a little crazy, I left Base Camp on the night of May 16 at 8:30 P.M. By midnight, I reached Camp II, where I rested an hour and drank some tea before heading up to Camp III. The dark, enormous slope blended into the night sky, and the boundaries between earth and heaven disappeared. Anxiety binding me to the tragedy was pulled out of me and released into space. The night gifted me with strength and tranquillity. The emotions that bound me to the earthly world slipped away. Weathering the cold, at 4 A.M. I arrived at a tent where I expected to find my friend the Danish climber Michael Jörgensen. I drank tea, closed my eyes, and slept like a stone for four hours. Leaving at 8 A.M. I saw evidence of strong winds ripping across the South Col; snow was brushstroked up toward the sun rising over the peaks. The sky was clear. The weather was good enough. It, the altitude, and technical difficulties on the route were my adversaries.
Above the Clouds Page 19
