I felt fine; the exhaustion that swept over me at the South Summit had passed, and my reserves were intact. Bashkirov and Vinogradski were strong and thinking clearly. Our young men were running on bottled oxygen and autopilot, not capable of offering much in the way of self-reflection regarding reserve power. If they collapsed, we all knew we would be in dire straits. With all due respect to their focus and determination, I had seen enough; someone else could pass judgment on this Olympian effort. We were going down. I photographed Asmujiono at 3:30 P.M., and Bashkirov and I started down with him and Misirin. Vinogradski turned away from the summit and went back to aid Iwan, who was eighty meters from his goal. Apa was sent to set up the emergency camp. Every minute became critical, as descending in the light of day was mandatory.
The group moved slowly across the ridge below the Hillary Step. I followed. Misirin fell several times below the South Summit. Iwan was put on Vinogradski’s last bottle of oxygen after he had carelessly disconnected himself at a juncture of fixed rope and fallen. Had Zhenya not grabbed him and reconnected him to the line, he would have slid about one hundred meters down the slope. With Bashkirov and Vinogradski following behind slowly because they had given up their oxygen, I went ahead with the three Indonesians along a route lit by my headlamp. At the tent, I removed the crampons from the boots of my charges and pushed them inside onto the insulated Karrimats. The sun was setting; it was easily thirty degrees below zero centigrade. Apa went down to the South Col with Dawa. Then began what Bashkirov in his diplomatic way describes as a very dramatic night. The full moon lit our tents; outside the night was still. Great silence was broken only by our voices. Showing his true colors, Zhenya brewed hot water continuously. We kept this up in shifts throughout the night. The reassuring flow of heat into our guts backed off the numbing cold. The oxygen mask was rotated across the faces of the three Indonesians, who cried or prayed if deprived of the bottle for too long. We made it though the night working together.
Dawn brought a splendid array of color and no wind. From that isolated aerie, the views of Makalu, Lhotse, and Kanchenjunga were spectacular. Morning sun bathed Everest in a blinding glory of light and us with warmth. The mountains below us were spread out like whitecaps on the ocean. We had survived. With a cautious descent the tenuous victory on the summit would become a true one when all our members walked into Base Camp.
We brewed one last round of water. Iwan, Misirin, and Asmujiono were more collected psychologically. They were out of oxygen, but good acclimatization and a night being weaned off the bottle had spared them from the worst effects of dependence. No one had frostbite. They moved slowly, but they moved! At the pleasure of the mountain we lived. We were going down without injury or the burden of tragedy.
By that time I felt secure enough in the stability of our situation to address my personal agenda. At 8,400 meters I began to search the slope for Scott Fischer’s body and located it half-covered with snow about thirty meters from the trail we had made going up. Ascending, I had carried a flag inscribed with farewells from Scott’s wife, children, and friends. I had wanted to wrap him in this cover before burying him. Ascending, given the physical shape of our team, I had not been sure that I would be able to find him or accomplish that mission, so I’d left the flag flying from the summit marker. I hope that Jeannie Fischer understands that was the best I could do. Evgeny helped me pack snow and rocks over the exposed parts of Scott’s body. We marked the spot with the shaft of an ice ax that we found nearby.
Evgeny and I arrived at noon on the South Col. Our Indonesian members had been reassured they would survive by a resupply of oxygen at the level of the Balcony. Back in the tents drinking tea among the debris of former expeditions, they were convinced.
The morning of the twenty-eighth I crossed the Col over to the edge of the Kangshung Face, where I had left Yasuko Namba during the terrible night the year before. Her body was partially covered with snow and ice; her pack was missing and its contents were strewn among the rocks. Standing there again, I experienced the confusion that I have about her death. For a time I was lost in those complex, difficult emotions. They are unavoidable and their lessons are burned in my memory. Slowly moving stones, I built a cairn over her body, marking it with the shafts of ice axes. Those acts of respect are all that I have to offer her family and Scott’s family to show my sadness over their losses.
I think of how ready Iwan, Asmujiono, and Misirin were to die, and I remember how the families I know who have left loved ones here bear their sorrow. Our success can only encourage other inexperienced climbers. With all my power I wish I had another way to make a living. I am a sportsman, with many objectives in the high mountains that I would like to try. Any man who has a capability wants to explore the limits of his potential. It is too late for me to find another profession, but I have great reservations about bringing inexperienced men and women into this world.
This may sound harsh, but I don’t want to be called a guide. I don’t want the responsibility of choosing between a person’s ambition and his life. Each individual alone must bear the responsibility of that choice. The distinction between guide and consultant will be mocked by some, yet that is the only protest I can make about the guarantee of success in these mountains. I can be a coach and adviser; I will spend my strength as a rescue agent. But I will not guarantee success or safety for those who take up the challenge of complex natural phenomena and physical debility that waits at high altitude. I have accepted that I may die here. Our team descended to the sweet embrace of victory. Many people contributed to our success, but above all, we were lucky in playing our game of Russian roulette. The expedition had an ending that does not burn in my heart.
* * *
Seventeen four-star Indonesian generals flew to Kathmandu to debrief our expedition members and staff. As Major General Prabowa Subianto and I were discussing the details of our success, the conversation strayed to the status of the Malaysian expedition. They were stuck in Base Camp, their progress stymied by the rotten weather that characterized the climbing season. I needed to point out what we had gone through and what the general had gambled in this competition. I observed that his rivalry with the Malaysians reminded me of my own country’s competition with America during the late fifties and the sixties, when the two superpowers were in the “space race.”
“When we launched Sputnik, it caused a general degree of panic in America,” I said. “Russians had the same feeling when U.S. astronauts walked on the surface of the moon. One of our generals gathered the cosmonauts.
“‘To outshine this American accomplishment we will have to undertake a mission that is truly spectacular, something definitive,’ he told his captive audience. ‘Gentlemen, our next mission is the sun. After this, no one can doubt our superiority.’
“The hushed silence was broken when one of the cosmonauts spoke up: ‘But, General, we will burn.’
“‘Don’t worry, comrade,’ he replied, ‘you will fly in the night.’”
General Prabowa was not amused.
Lhotse–Everest Traverse
In the spring of 1997, Anatoli and his climbing partner, the Italian Simone Moro, had their names included on three permits that allowed them to consider traversing the summits of Lhotse and Everest. After the Indonesian celebrations in Kathmandu, Bashkirov was also returning to the Khumbu as the leader of a team of Russians who were climbing Lhotse.
My original plan had been to follow the Everest climb with the Indonesians with a sports ascent, a south-to-north traverse of the peaks of Lhotse and Everest. That turned out to be too ambitious. The Indonesian expedition proved to be a tremendous challenge for us. After fighting for the lives of our charges on the slopes below the summit of Everest, Vinogradski, Bashkirov, and I went back to Kathmandu and spent two and a half weeks in that dirty city waiting for a group of Indonesian generals to arrive so we could get paid. During that time, the toll our work had taken in psychological and emotional energy registered on me. Though I had
spared my physical resources for the traverse by using supplemental oxygen during the Indonesian summit bid, back in Kathmandu I had no juice. I felt like a squeezed lemon. A series of expensive permits had been paid for, and my Italian friend Simone Moro was gaining acclimatization and would soon be waiting for me to return to Base Camp. The traverse was my main sports objective for 1997, and success would have set a milestone in high-altitude endurance. Just having my name on the necessary permits, which made the climb legal, made attempting the route irresistible. Other psychological pressures urged me on. Before leaving America, I had responded to questions posed by an interviewer from Men’s Journal magazine. He was curious about how my bus accident and the subsequent operations on my eye had affected my abilities as a mountaineer. That interview supercharged the issue of performance for me. When no one pays much attention, you climb according to the dictates of your own judgment. But when your life and behavior become the focus of interest and comment for thousands of people, you start to feel that you must constantly prove yourself, that you must present a good face even if you don’t feel like it. For me that was a new and difficult situation.
While I was waiting in Kathmandu, my body sank into the lethargy that characterizes my physical rehabilitation after hard climbing. The capital city, with its polluted atmosphere, is not the best destination for a rest. If you go to Nepal to climb, you are better off getting out of town as soon as possible. Though there was a lot of celebrating after we arrived, I avoided drinking alcohol. That drew some sarcastic remarks from my Russian friends. Again the scars on my lungs from the 1991 Everest expedition let me know of their presence—bronchitis developed and my throat became sore.
Time ticked away. In the back of my mind I knew that Simone was waiting. Finally on the fifteenth of May, Bashkirov and I flew back to Lukla. His Lhotse expedition members had been left on the glacier to acclimate. The group of Russians had an interesting objective—they planned to traverse the three peaks on the Lhotse Massif. When I decided that I needed an extra day of rest in Namche Bazaar, Volodia mocked me a bit, saying I was sick because I had refused to drink vodka with the group in Kathmandu. In a hurry to rejoin his group, he went directly to Base Camp. On the seventeenth, surveying the summit of Everest from the village of Pangboche, I could see an arc of snow suspended in the wind across the top that would prevent anyone from making much progress above eight thousand meters. So I rested there for another two days, sending word of my planned date of return to Simone with passing Sherpas. I suspected that he was nervously waiting for me. His sponsor had paid for his opportunity to climb; it represented a lot of money for him and I felt responsible for the agreement we had made. My respiratory condition improved and I pushed on up to Base Camp. When I arrived, Simone had some minor health problems, but he was well acclimatized.
Though I sensed I was not in perfect form, my sickness seemed to be over. I would allow my intuition to lead and started to climb. Leaving Camp II at 6,800 meters at about midnight, we arrived at the Russian assault camp about 5 A.M. The tents were empty, for earlier that morning Bashkirov and other members of the team had begun their summit bid. Simone and I brewed tea and rested for about two hours. I began to cough—the bronchitis again. Until that time Simone and I had climbed at the same pace, but when we left camp, Simone went out ahead of me. Soon we caught up with the Russians, and as we climbed with them for a while, I spoke with Bashkirov.
“How are you, Volodia?” I asked.
“I didn’t sleep well. I had a low fever during the night, and now I feel a little tired,” he responded.
Nothing in his demeanor made me worry. He spoke normally. I confessed that my own condition left me wanting for better.
Simone arrived at the summit first, then I came up. My illness was progressing rapidly. I advised him that I would not be able to attempt the traverse. We began to descend. Encountering Bashkirov about thirty meters below the top, protected from the wind in the couloir, I asked how he was feeling.
“Not too well,” he replied, “but as leader of the expedition I need to wait for the slower ones, Bagomolov and Pershin, who are coming. Waiting will give me time to do some filming for my sponsors.”
When he asked how I was doing, I told him that I found myself falling asleep on the top, drifting away from reality. I was not in any sort of normal condition and felt that I had to get down quickly. Now I think that I was lucky to get down alive.
Bashkirov waited another two hours for his climbers. He did not make it back to camp. When I spoke to the other Russians about his descent, they said he simply became ill, then lost consciousness. His condition deteriorated even though he was supplied with bottled oxygen. Well or not well, Volodia was able to ascend to the summit of Lhotse in three or four hours less time than the men he was leading. Weaker people lived and he did not—why was that?
As a coach I know that when you have achieved peak athletic form, the body’s defense mechanism becomes weaker. You are more susceptible to illness. Any exposure to a bacteria or a virus makes you sick. There is a balance in the human body. You work and work, but strength is not limitless. If you train for speed, then endurance suffers; if your strength improves, your endurance decreases. At high altitude a similar reversal occurs: as your acclimatization improves, you feel better with the elevation but your strength decreases. Too much time at altitude weakens your defenses and you are more susceptible to illness, yet your body has no energy available to fight disease. That day I had a simple sore throat, a cough, but I knew that I could not make the traverse. I did not feel sick necessarily; I simply felt that if I fell asleep, I would never wake up. Bashkirov’s situation deteriorated fast; waiting those few hours caused his death. When I spoke with him after the summit, neither of us had any sense that events would take such a tragic turn. He did not feel well, I did not feel well, that is all; it did not seem too bad.
If you are a professional high-altitude climber, your body adopts a rhythm for dealing with prolonged stress and recovery. We worked hard with the Indonesians, and in the two weeks we had waited in Kathmandu our bodies had begun to retune. During the period of recovery, which I feel usually corresponds to the same length of time the body has been above six thousand meters, we again attempted a challenging climb. Interrupting your body’s period of recovery and remobilizing physical resources before rehabilitation is complete is a bad idea. That is what Bashkirov and I did by returning to Lhotse after working with the Indonesians.
High-altitude mountaineering is the most dangerous kind of sport; it has the highest rate of fatal consequence. Most of these tragedies happen because human response is so unpredictable at high altitude. Though I have enormous potential at altitude, I am not protected. I know that if I get sick, I, too, can perish. You can’t accurately calculate all the odds; maybe God is unhappy with you one day. You get yourself into the situation with your samochuvstvie, your overall readiness, then fate plays its hand. To say that one person is stronger than another and that is the reason one survived and another did not is the same as saying nothing. Comparing Bashkirov’s strength to that of the men on his team who survived, is like comparing the sky with the earth. Logically the strongest would have survived, and that was not the case.
The same situation occurred with Scott Fischer. A professional level of training allows you to overwork your body. Competitive conditioning increases your ability to perform because it teaches you to wring out the last reserves of your energy. For an untrained athlete it is almost impossible to push so far and hard that all physical reserves are exhausted. On some unconscious level the body protects itself. Those are the very margins the superathlete overrides.
Broad Peak and Gasherbrum II
I rested for ten days after the summiting of Lhotse and then flew to Pakistan, arriving on June 14. I did not have a lot of ambition, but I had paid for my part of the expedition cost earlier in the year. Using Thor Kieser’s Base Camp at Broad Peak for rest, I intended to support myself and ascend alone.
On June 27 I climbed to 6,900 meters carrying my shovel, down suit, sleeping bag, and tent. I cleared a campsite, secured my tent, and descended to Base Camp at about 9 P.M.
On June 28 a cataclysm of weather prohibited further progress. I had never seen anything like it; the sky was clear, then in a few hours it began to snow heavily. Delayed until July 6, at 3 A.M. I left camp and crossed the glacier to begin climbing the mountain proper about four-thirty. The slopes were burdened with snow. No one had climbed above the level of Camp II. I met Ed Viesturs descending with his partner and I continued up, breaking trail to the level of my tent. After shoveling it out, I climbed inside to rest. One of Thor Kieser’s clients, a young man named Mark, poked his head through the door. He announced that he wanted to accompany me to the summit as the next day was July 7, and he believed the numbers 7-7-97 would be auspicious. Mark had never climbed an 8,000-meter peak, and this was his first ascent to the level of 6,900 meters. Gently I advised him that his idea was crazy, that he should simply descend to Base Camp the next day. This provoked an emotional response. Weary and incredulous, I packed my bivy sack and thermos and quietly slipped out of the tent. Climbing until I reached 7,200 meters, I bivouacked on the slopes about 9 P.M. and slept.
Waking to start in the darkness of a still morning, I climbed an unknown route burdened with snow and arrived at the bottom of a steep couloir. Standing on the pass below the summit about 8:30 A.M., I took off my down suit. Sun-warmed on that windless day, I positioned my black overboots so as to melt snow to water and rested. About 1:30 P.M., dressed in light clothing, I began ascending the summit ridge. The route was not technically difficult, but the new snow made it dangerous. Near the top a cornice broke off under my feet. Jumping off the falling island, miraculously I landed on solid rock. At four-thirty, from the peak I surveyed the relief around me. The other end of the dangerously snow-burdened ridge looked to be about the same elevation as where I stood, give or take a meter. For me, I was on the summit. Empty, I descended. One hour later back on the pass, I caught my breath and redressed in my down suit. Darkness came on the mountain. Following the vague trail of my own footsteps, I descended in the light of my headlamp, stopping to doze as I felt like it. The cold would wake me and I would resume climbing down completely unaware of and unburdened by the pressure of time. About midnight I arrived at my tent. Mark was distraught, thinking he had killed me.
Above the Clouds Page 25
