Kingdoms of Experience

by Andrew Greig

  Sunset. Liz holds my ankles as I squirm out to the entrance. It’s stopped snowing and the sky is glowing over Kellas’s peak and the darkening valley below. I take pictures for us all, come inside and re-fix the Karrimat. Mal comes on the radio from Camp 2 above us, and is surprised to find Liz still with us. She assures him the situation, though cramped, is under control; he asks us to bring the oxygen regulators and masks up first thing tomorrow so he can take them on to C3 in the morning. C2 is full up too, with Mal, Sandy, Chris and Tony all dossing there. Apparently Sandy and Chris put in a really good day’s work at C3, enlarged the first snow platform, re-sited the tent, then dug another platform and put up a second tent. Camp 3 is as good as it will ever be. Good wishes for tomorrow, see you, youth …

  I take a sleeper and get through the last brew and settling-down for the night in something of a daze, only vaguely aware of Liz crawling over me towards the entrance.

  An uncomfortable night of elbows and knees and bodies competing for comfortable space. We doze on and off, Liz and I making an insomniac’s brew at 2.0 am to relieve sore throats and pass the time.

  8.0 am Terry’s alarm goes off, dragging me out of muzzy-headed sleep. Odd how here we are tied to sleeping pills and clocks, the symbols of high-pressure urban living. Terry volunteers to take up the most urgently required oxygen gear, so gets up first while we lie letting him clamber over us. He scrapes out more snow from round the entrance, and starts melting for the first brew. I’ve always wondered why it takes climbers two hours to get going in the morning – now I know. Just getting dressed when you can’t sit up, when every movement could knock over a stove, or bring down snow from the walls, is a slow, precise activity when you feel like one of the living dead.

  A brew, we force down a half-defrosted Xmas pudding each, then Terry leaves with a ‘see you up there’ and a farewell thumbs-up. More room now; I retrieve socks, gloves and inner boots from inside my bag, pull on the layers, breathing steadily. Put on harness and crampons while kneeling at the entrance – a relief to be able to clip in. Quite a lot of soft deep powder snow overnight, the hill-food bags are buried, and visibility is very limited through the mesmeric snow. Still – I’ve come here for 7090 and Mal’s waiting for my gear. Liz says she’ll see if she will follow on or not; she’d initially intended just CB’s, but now she’s more than halfway to 7090 …

  Terry The route up to C2 was not very long, you could see most of it from C1, but a very steep traverse with a fixed vertical section over the ice, and then a 30-yard section actually into the snow-hole at about 50°. Trouble was the whole of the route had been plastered in new soft deep powder snow during the night. So I struggled. All the way – it was absolute purgatory, worth it though …

  Wake up, Andrew. You’re mid-route and this is serious. Put my fist through the axe’s wrist-loop, clip in jumar, safety krab; sack on, unclip safety sling, and slowly, stiffly, set off up into new territory, wiping snow off my goggles.

  Proper hard this is, like the last section up to CB’s, but ten times longer. Loose snow on ice – so kick in firmly, test the step, sink in the axe, push the jumar along, pull, another step. Push the mountain down and it pushes me up.

  One long rising traverse, roughly parallel to the crest of the Ridge I can see dimly up on my left. On my own in this grey-white world, absorbed in care and effort and the ground under my feet. It comes to me that this is what I’ve always sought – an experience that would absorb me entirely. Then even that thought slips away. Now I’m vacant, counting steps, feeling the strain, head cleaned out like a billy-can scoured with snow.

  Jumar is slipping again, icing up. Unpleasant, have to use it only as a safety line, which means more leg effort. Steps are insecure, sending slabs off down the hill. A steep section, soft with it. I finally reach and clip to a stake, knock the ice off the jumar, continue … Round a corner, if I’m where I think I am, I’m glad I can’t see down, it’s a long drop. Then I see Terry up above, wave. ‘Hey Terry, how much further?’ But it’s Mal, who shouts back, ‘In there!’ and points to his right. I come on another 20 yards and realize I’m practically there: the usual tangle of gear, and a deep slot into the slope. ‘Well done, youth,’ he says, asks after Liz.

  ‘Push the route.’

  ‘I intend to,’ he grins, and stomps up the fixed line to 7090.

  I crawl into the cave. Terry and I grin at each other, Sandy gives me a brew, a quick pat on the back, and sets off after Malcolm. Terry and I lounge back in the spacious cave, beaming like idiots. I light up a celebratory cigarette; it tastes just fine. After a brew Terry says, ‘Might as well go up to 7090 while we’re here.’ I nod, so we stiffly plod through the thickening snow – no sign of Liz – and clip into the short length of fixed rope up the steepish last 100 feet, on to the crest of the Ridge. So this is my summit, typical, can’t see anything. No Buttresses, no Pinnacles, just 80 yards of whirling snow. ‘Could be on Rannoch Moor,’ I joke to Terry. He’s quietly selecting a few loose stones, I pick up a couple. Nothing special about them, just little splintered rocks, but they took a bit of getting. We take a few photos; nothing will come out, of course, but it doesn’t matter. We know we’ve been here.

  A last look around. Well, that’s it. Time to go home. Beam me down to Scottie, please.1

  We descend back to C2. Terry starts brewing, but it’s snowing heavily now and oddly mild. Even I know that could add up to trouble. No reason to hang around. I give myself the usual Get It Together pep-talk (climbing would be a lot easier if it was second nature to me as it is to the lads, but then it possibly wouldn’t mean so much) and set off resolved to do this dodgy descent as fast as possible. Side-hill, down-hill, ploughing deep footsteps which crumble and slip. It’s far too warm. At the first snow-stake – Hey, Liz! – bent over her axe, gasping, she straightens up looking very tired and pissed off and relieved to see someone. ‘How far is it?’ ‘No distance, you’re almost there’ … ‘Really!’ I add, seeing her sceptical look. She says she’s having trouble with the jumar slipping all the time, having to test it; I suggest she doesn’t pull on it and just uses it as a safety line – much faster. I can see exasperation on her face, she obviously thinks it’s a silly suggestion. But it’s up to her, she’ll make it now anyway, however slowly and cautiously she moves.

  I congratulate her in advance and slither off into the white world and crawl 30 minutes later into CB’s, where I’m writing this waiting for the brew to boil. This is like home. Liz has tidied it up really well. God this drinking chocolate is the business. Better start another brew for Terry and Liz coming down. Feel satisfied. Not ecstatic, just satisfied. Summits are only something to aim at, like the horizon, a helpful illusion.

  … So here’s Terry blocking out the light. ‘Hi, Andy!’ ‘Don’t tell me, it’s a white hell out there.’ He nods, plastered in snow from head to toe, grinning with pleasure. I can see he’s tired though, as I pass him a mug. Then ‘Hey, Sandy!’ It’s our puzzled Highlander. It feels good to be in control and be able to casually present him with a brew. His eyes flick over me, assessing my condition in a moment. ‘Yes, the youth’s fine,’ I can practically see the thought. When I’m concentrating I can usually read Sandy’s reactions to anything these days, so we must be getting closer. And he knows I can, finds it almost embarrassing, grins at me sheepishly and looks away. He’s had a busy day – he took another oxygen cylinder and some climbing gear to C3 to add to his and Chris’s double carry of the day before (that’s a major advance, surely), left the gear somewhere near the C3 tents and set off down, worried about finding his way in the near white-out, very aware of the Kangshung Face cornices somewhere on his right, peering for disappearing footprints. ‘Not too nice, eh? Pity you two didn’t get a view.’

  ‘Well, it’s just consumer durables, Sandy,’ I say, and see him start slightly as I use his phrase. He’d called in on Liz at C2, seen her safely on her way, overtook her on the way down here. Now he was keen to move on – I am too. Sandy said the des
cent could be wild, and we should keep in sight of each other. So Terry agreed to wait for Liz and come down with her. ‘See you at ABC,’ then off.

  I notice how careful Sandy is transferring himself from the cave to the fixed line, do the same. Soon I’m standing above the couloir; it looks wild. Sandy is going across very carefully, setting off small avalanches, kicking steps which slip away as he moves into them. He’s even facing into the slope and front-pointing at times. I glance up at the looming seracs above, they’re what I’m worried about. It’s much too mild, too much fresh snow. Sandy’s past the mid-traverse snow-anchor. My spontaneous prayer is as always in two parts: please let me get off with this; but if I don’t, that’s alright. Here goes …

  The rock rib, can’t remember a thing about that traverse, it must have been too demanding to stand back and observe – hey, concentrate, you’re okay but don’t ease up now, double friction-brake for the ice-bulge and over we go, in the mountains there you feel free, and I’m suddenly beneath the bad weather in dazzling sunshine of a still and perfect afternoon, there’s Sandy way below glissading towards the bottom waving his arms and having a whale of a time, but I’ll just walk down leisurely for there’s no hurry now and I don’t want this moment to end, tramping down the fixed narrative ropes of the North-East Ridge on a sunny afternoon …

  We sit in companionable silence at the bottom, feeling mellow as the sun and hushed by the majestic tranquillity of our surroundings.

  ‘Well, that’s me done,’ I said finally. ‘Now I’ll just watch you guys.’ A lingering regret almost – with all the necessary loads now up to 7090, this will be my last snow/ice climbing till Scotland next winter.

  ‘I envy you,’ Sandy says. Eh? ‘I wish it was like that for me – just one target, you do it and enjoy it and that’s enough. Me, even if, Inshallah, I make this summit, I’ll not be satisfied, I’ll go on needing another then another. It just keeps on renewing itself, like this snow, you know …’ and his thoughts wander underground out of sight and sound.

  Ambling back across the glacier like two middle-aged gentlemen rambling down the 18th fairway towards the golf clubhouse, exclaiming about the clouds and suchlike. Sheets of white clouds rising vertically above the North Col, the Basques must be struggling above there today, hope they’re alright; rapid clouds boiling up the Kangshung Face; spindrift hissing horizontally across the blue; stately galleon clouds fully rigged drifting overhead … A fall knee-deep into a small crevasse reminds me to keep my eyes firmly on the ground. We plod on together, the umbilical intimacy of the rope between us.

  ‘That’s it, thanks for the company,’ Sandy says as we unrope then stumble up the moraine bank to the Mess Tent, where Sarah has the life-saving, consciousness-raising brews waiting.

  Terry and Liz turned up four hours later, at dusk. They’d struggled on the way back, wading through ever-deepening fresh snow. We say ‘Hi’ in hoarse whispers, can scarcely speak for burned lips and constricted throats, the product of two days of gasping and coughing freezing, very dry air. The sweetness is there, but sunk to the bottom below our fatigue, like cherries in a cake.

  Terry Liz and I congratulated each other when we got down to the little lake and took our gear off. Even though we were both knackered, we agreed that it was the most exhilarating day we had ever spent climbing. We both felt on top of the world for reaching our own personal height records of 7090 …

  Wonderful, wonderful Sarah had stayed up to cook for us. As we walked up the path from the lake to the Mess Tent everyone was putting their heads out of their tents congratulating us. A lovely warm glow to finish off the day.

  As we catch up with the news it’s clear there’s been some real progress in the last couple of days, with crucial carries of O2, food and climbing gear being made up to C3. Tonight Mal and Chris are sleeping at C3, intending to carry on to C4 tomorrow. If they can get loads up there and enlarge the miniature snow cave we’re right in there. He said on the radio that it was wild, he and Chris being shaken around in their separate tiny tents. But he was in excellent humour, openly pleased with the bumblies’ carry, and congratulated Liz – unusual for him. Tony’s on his lonesome up at C2 tonight after carrying to C3. It was planned that Nick would go up to join him today, but he’d turned back at the Raphu La when the snow came on heavily. Mal’s obviously bothered by this news. There’s so many people on the go now, all out of sync with each other: Sandy with no one in particular, Tony ditto, Allen, now Nick. Seeing today’s weather, Rick followed Jon down to BC for a short rest, but there are doubts as to how long they’ll stay together. The general feeling is we’re not using our now limited energies as well as possible, but nobody quite knows what to do about it: making up suitable pairs again would mean people having to hang about to get in sync, and we feel there isn’t time for that. We’re waiting for Mal to redeploy our forces – but he’s on the hill now, working very hard, frequently out of contact with ABC, and of course completely out of contact with BC. So it looks like the ’rolling maul’ method will continue a little longer.

  Urs and Andy are up again, ultra-keen, like greyhounds kept in the traps too long. Urs is emphatic that he wants to do the Pinnacles without O2, and Andy is optimistic that it can be done. Unvoiced doubts in the air – Urs has been super-confident before, but seems a changed person in bad weather above 7090. After a rest-day they will be ready to go to C3 and then, Inshallah, a start on the 1st Pinnacle. All the necessary gear will be there for fixing it. We’re so near to achieving something.

  Jon: ‘It’s now going to get very, very naughty.’

  Chris slumped forward in his arms dangling resting position, croaked his story through a mangled larynx at ABC next evening: ‘I cooked the most fantastic meal, was really chuffed, drifted off to sleep … Getting on for 1.0 am I woke up, thought “God, I feel awful.” So I went outside, decided it wasn’t that, went back inside – and immediately had to rush for the cooking pot … [long pause] Filled it in one. [Laughter] I spent bloody ages filling it with snow, washing it out …’

  Andy Nisbet: ‘That was very noble.’

  Chris: ‘It wasn’t very noble … I had another meal after that!’ [Delighted laughter].

  Mal 12th May. Bad during the night, chaotic when I spilt a pan of precious water down my sleeping bag. Chris is in one tent, myself in the other – strong wind and a lot of rime ice. Up at 6.30 – Chris sick so he opted to descend. Took one O2 bottle as load and set off. Very windy with high spindrift. Deep snow in couloir on Butt 1, eventually got up to 7,850, felt great and moving well. Fantastic views, now well above Changtse and almost level with Cho Oyu. Could manage 8,000 metres easy even with a load, which is a confident feeling. Descended to ABC in the late afternoon, Raphu La awful with deep snow. Chris fucked and off to BC; Urs, Andy and Sandy off to Pinn 1 tomorrow. Progress under way, but Expedition on a very fine line.

  A lot is going on in this brief entry. There’s the joy and confidence that everyone who made 7,850 felt, knowing now for sure that they could go to the magic 8,000 metre mark without oxygen, thus adding the world’s 14 highest mountains to their future options. Chris’s illness. Urs diagnosed bronchitis, like Tony’s, so he would be out of things for a while. Another partnership split. As with many other events, we did not realize how crucial this was to be. If Chris had been able to carry with Mal to 7,850 they might have had the energy and security to put in a couple of hours work enlarging the C4 snow-hole. And that could have made all the difference when Andy and Urs arrived there two days later …

  But unknown to us at the time, something far more serious had happened on the North Col route. Kurt and Julie were camped on the Col, filming. In the afternoon, Kurt was working outside the tent. He spotted four figures descending, in pairs, the top of the long snow slope that runs down to the Col. Relieved to see them again, he called to tell Julie, who was inside the tent, the good news. But minutes later the figure second from the front seemed to stumble, then slide, an accelerating slide down past his partner
in front, who was in turn jerked off his feet. The two of them tumbled over and over gathering momentum as Kurt and Julie watched helplessly. Finally they crashed into a rock outcrop and lay still.

  Mari, the Basque leader, emphasized later that Kurt and Julie’s level-headed help made all the difference, and possibly saved a life. But when Kurt reached the Basques it was too late to save one man: Juan Jose Navarro, the climber who had stumbled first, had been killed by the impact with the rocks. The remaining Basques were still profoundly shocked, almost helpless. Kurt had been through this before, all too often. He examined the injured Basque, Antxon. Some concussion, shock of course, something wrong with his hip or leg, and possibly a broken arm. It was imperative to get him back down to the Col. They had already covered the dead man with stones; Kurt rallied the shocked climbers and helped Antxon to the tent on the North Col. All the Basques were in a bad way, passive and shocked, and had to be given brew after brew as the leader, Mari, explained what had happened.

  They’d gone up to their tent at 7,500 metres, then the weather turned bad – a lot of fresh snow and a full Everest gale. Worst of all, they couldn’t get their lighter to work in the draught and so ended up spending three days up there, trapped, without a single brew. So when the storm abated and they began to descend, they were all in very bad shape, weak, seriously dehydrated. The slope they were on was easy, 20° Kurt estimated, but one stumble by an exhausted man and that was it.

  All for the want of a reliable lighter.