“Let’s say there’s twenty in the group, at least five or six have to be girls,” someone would speculate.
“More like ten or fifteen, I reckon.”
“They’ll be gasping for some men.”
“Definitely.”
“Bound to be some Scandinavian girls on it.”
“Several probably.”
“Historically, Tibet always has attracted nymphomaniacs.”
But when the pussy wagon did finally disgorge its occupants, we realized how far off the mark we had been. Along with Monty, the tour leader, there were just four paying clients: an anxious-looking couple in their sixties and two shaky-kneed men with beards.
In one respect we had been right. The trekkers were gasping—but from the effects of the altitude rather than anything else. It was all rather a blow.
But there was one good side to the truck’s arrival—it carried with it a bundle of mail from friends and family in the UK. We grabbed our letters and retreated to the tents to read the precious missives.
Fiona’s letter was full of family news about a short holiday they’d taken and a roundup of new plantings in the garden. Sitting in the bleak stone environment of the Rongbuk, where scarcely any plants grow at all, it sounded incredibly lush. It was all cheery enough, but the darker undercurrent to the letter was not difficult to decipher—Fiona knew very well how hazardous this expedition might be, and the stress of that was obviously turning the ten weeks into something that felt closer to ten years.
It wasn’t an unusual situation for us to be in, with me on one side of the world, and she on the other, but it was different this time and not only because it was a dangerous shoot. Fiona knew that Everest would be a watershed for me in many ways: that I wanted it to be my last adventure film, that I was trying to find a way to break the destructive pattern that our relationship had gotten into.
It wasn’t that the relationship itself was a bad one—far from it; in fact many of the good things in our relationship remained surprisingly intact. We had always been essentially happy together when we had been together, in fact in all the years we had never once raised our voices at each other in anger and somehow we still found the ability to laugh.
But that didn’t alter a fundamental problem: after two or three days back with my family I invariably found myself pacing the floor wondering how the hell I was going to tell Fiona about the latest attack of itchy feet. It wasn’t that I was bored with being there, it was more a permanent dissatisfaction with myself—a feeling that I could be doing better in the films I was making, better in the scripts I was writing, in fact pushing myself a darn sight harder all around. Perhaps that was the driving force that pushed me out of the door.
Whatever it was, Fiona was pretty fed up with it.
So what to do? There was still a massive amount of affection, and love, between us and I didn’t want to throw that away. And I certainly didn’t want to alter the chemistry of what was basically an extremely happy family. But I had pushed Fiona to the point where living with me was a lot harder than living without me. The tension of never knowing when I was going to sling on my rucksack and go had turned her into a bag of nerves.
I lay in the tent all afternoon, staring into space.
That night, at the evening meal, I found myself in a quieter than usual mood.
“You look a bit down,” Roger said. “What’s up?”
“Thinking of home.”
“Ah.”
It needed no more explanation—every single one of us suffered from homesickness at one time or another and we all knew it was inescapable.
“Better not to get letters from home,” Brian said. “It’s too much to bear.”
And in a way, he was right.
With so much time on our hands, the subject of how and when the team would be split was, not surprisingly, a well-worn topic of conversation. With nine climbers still in the running for a summit bid, splitting the group was a logistical necessity on two fronts: there were simply not enough tents available at the higher camps to support us all in one push—and a summit team of nine would be dangerously unwieldy. We would leave in two teams, three or four days apart.
The split was not a difficult decision for Simon. As Kees, Al, and myself were on board to film Brian, we would have to be in his summit team, as would Barney in his role as guide. That made us a self-defining team of five.
The four-man team was Simon, Tore, Sundeep, and Roger.
But which team would go first? That was the question that obsessed us during this extended wait at Base Camp. We discussed the pros and cons endlessly while we waited for Simon’s decision. Going first was a psychological advantage mainly because it meant less time spent stagnating at Base Camp. We had reached a peak of fitness, a peak of acclimatization, and our minds and bodies were poised on a hair-trigger ready for the attempt.
Days spent at Base Camp were wasted days, depressing days, days when a virus picked up from a visiting team of trekkers could wipe out any chance of success. Then there were the mental pressures of the waiting period. Doubts multiplied inside us like bacteria, the corrosive fears building as each of us contemplated in our own way the known and unknown risks to come.
We were all desperate to leave for the mountain.
There were other factors that gave the first team a perceived advantage. The oxygen and food supplies were all in place at Camps Five and Six and had been carefully calculated on a “man-day” basis. What if the first group had a one- or two-day weather delay and were forced to use up those supplies that had been allocated to the second group? Simon had assured everyone that he would simply restock the camps if this happened but, given the huge task of portaging the heavy cylinders up to the high camps, there was always the nagging doubt whether the precious oxygen would be in the right place at the right time.
Al pointed out another drawback for the second team if the first team was delayed. Tent space was extremely limited at Camps Five and Six—just two mountain Quasars would be available, space for four, or five at a pinch. The second group could be on their way up, only to find that the descending climbers were unexpectedly occupying Camp Five, creating a bottleneck and thereby forcing the upcoming team to abort their attempt. Al had experienced this very scenario on his second Everest expedition. In fact, a logjam at Camp Five had wiped out his chances of the summit.
A medical emergency or an accident might also scupper the chances of the second group if it were forced into a rescue mission for members of the first. The odds seemed to be stacking up against the second team, but one factor above all others could wipe out any advantages the first team might have at a stroke: the weather.
“It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference which team goes first or second.” Al was, as ever, the voice of wisdom on this subject. “If the weather socks in, then neither group will make the summit. The second team have got just as much chance of hitting the right weather window as the first. It’s down to luck.”
The weather window. That precious, fragile, elusive moment of opportunity. That, more than oxygen, food, and tent space, would decide who if any of us made it to the roof of the world.
We needed that window but we also feared it. A weather window could just as easily be a weather trap. We had all marveled at the awesome speed at which conditions can change on Everest. A clear blue day can, and frequently does, deteriorate into a savage blizzard in less than an hour. That window can slam shut as fast as it opens, and Everest’s five-lever deadlock flips into place to secure it.
It was a humbling fact, the mountain’s ultimate trump card, and the reason why no one, no matter how brilliant a climber they are, can be totally sure of success. We could try our best to predict what conditions would be like for our summit attempt, but ultimately we would be in the hands of fate.
The possibility of a second attempt for any of us was one that we hardly discussed. We were all aware that the recovery period following an unsuccessful climb to 8,000 meters (26,246 feet) w
ould almost certainly push us beyond the ten-week period of the expedition. We accepted we would have one chance, and that was it.
Finally Simon announced his decision, making a tour of the camp and telling each one of us individually in our tents (cynically, I interpreted this move was a tactical one to prevent potential protests if we were told en masse).
Brian, Barney, Al, Kees, and myself would go first, leaving in two days. Simon, Sundeep, Tore, and Roger would follow on three days later. Inevitably the teams were dubbed the “A Team,” and the “B Team.”
There were no dissenting voices but Tore, particularly, was frustrated to hear he would be spending more time at Base Camp. He, more than any of us perhaps, was getting increasingly depressed as each day of inactivity crawled by. Sundeep and Roger took the decision as well as they could, but they too found it hard to contemplate more days at Base Camp while the A Team was on the mountain.
There was only the slightest hint, but it was there nevertheless, that Simon’s decision was partly a political one. Himalayan Kingdoms had a lot to gain in publicity terms if Brian reached the summit; his status as an actor would ensure widespread news and print coverage in addition to our film.
Was that why Brian and our film crew had been given the prized first slot? To give us the first, and best, chance with the maximum resources in place? The question was never aired publicly, but most of us, particularly the B Team, believed it was a possibility.
Brian was as sanguine and relaxed as ever. Like Al, his temperament was perfectly tuned to the long waiting days at Base Camp. Unlike the rest of us, Brian did not allow himself to get frustrated, he accepted the inactivity for what it was—part of the whole process.
“We’re climbing the mountain,” he told me, “even when we’re sitting here. We’re getting strong, getting ready. A good day here is just as valuable as a good day high up—it all helps. There’s no point in moving until we’re sure the conditions are right.”
So saying, he would retire, the very model of calm, to the “Himalayan hotel” dome tent for some classical music and a browse through a book. And it wasn’t just an act; Brian really was capable of relaxing in this situation. I greatly admired the strength of mind and maturity this revealed. Brian understood perfectly the importance of the “waiting game.” He could shrug off the pressure when the rest of us were buckling beneath it, perhaps a trick that he has developed from years of acting where the ability to control first-night nerves is paramount.
Halfway through our waiting time at Base Camp a surprising rumor began to circulate that Richard, the Financial Times journalist, was coming back to join the expedition. It originated from the Indian team who were in daily radio contact with Kathmandu. In one of their communications they had received a message from Richard via the Indian embassy there to say he was intending to return.
Simon sent back a strongly worded radio message indicating in blunt terms that in no circumstances should Richard seek to rejoin the expedition. Having one fewer member to account for had altered Simon’s logistics on the mountain. Put simply, there was no food or oxygen now in place at the high camps for Richard, and it was too late to alter that. Simon’s message elicited no response.
“Hi, boys!” Three days later, Richard sauntered into camp, having hitchhiked across the Tibetan Plateau from Kathmandu.
“I specifically sent a radio message to Kathmandu instructing you not to come back!” Simon told him, frostily.
“You’re not having your fucking tent back!” Brian chipped in.
It was hardly the friendliest of receptions.
I had seen this “odd man out” syndrome on other expeditions and now Richard was experiencing it in its bitchiest form. The chemistry of teams adjusts itself and changes in subtle ways once one of the number has gone. When that person tries to reintroduce himself unexpectedly, he invariably finds himself alienated and “frozen out”—no matter how popular he had been in his earlier incarnation.
Richard was barred from going any higher than Advance Base Camp, but he decided to stick with the team to carry out his professional obligations to his newspaper. This impressive display of professionalism meant that he was one of the only journalists on hand to file reports when the storm swept in just days later.
Knowing that we would be leaving imminently, I gave a small parcel of letters to Sundeep for safe keeping. As the weeks had passed, I had realized that we could take nothing for granted on our summit push. Something as simple as an avalanche could kill us just by chance. I had written a number of brief “good-bye” letters that I now gave to Sundeep.
“Could you post these for me if I don’t come back?” I asked him.
He looked down at the slender pile of letters in surprise.
“Of course.”
It may seem a morbid thing to have done, but I was actually happier leaving for our summit attempt knowing that those letters would reach the people I loved in case anything untoward happened. Not saying good-bye would be the hardest thing of all, I felt.
“Hey, Matt,” Sundeep called after me as I returned to my packing, “I sincerely hope I don’t have to post these!”
“Me too.”
Looking thoughtful, he returned to his tent to store the letters in a safe spot.
The B Team waved us off from Base Camp on May 8, after a cheesy photo session in which the A and B Teams posed uncomfortably, separately and together. I dislike team photographs and found myself feeling superstitious about the event—I’m not sure exactly why; I also sensed that the rest of the team was reluctant. Perhaps a team photograph is another of those moments, like the flash of nerves I experienced when I saw our names on the climbing permit for the first time, when the vulnerability of the enterprise is suddenly vividly clear.
Those names typed on the list, those confident rows of smiling faces captured in a photograph at Base Camp—how effortlessly the mountain can scratch them out. And how frequently it does. Team photographs often become obituary shots in the literature of Himalayan climbing, and not a single one of those smiling faces has the faintest knowledge of the fate that awaits him.
Barney more than any of us hated the photographs. He wouldn’t even show his face, but put his sunglasses on the rim of his sun hat and tipped it down so his eyes couldn’t be seen. At the time I thought his behavior was foolish, but later I realized that he probably felt the same as I did, only more so.
Al too was uncomfortable with the team shots. He has a collection of similar expedition photographs that are filled with the faces of the dead. But he stood to attention with the rest of us as two members of the Norwegian team took the group pictures.
Our third trek up the East Rongbuk was a very different experience from the first two, with all of us fired up by the adrenaline rush that this time it was for real. The sheer pleasure of being unleashed from the constraints of Base Camp seemed like a catapult shot: I almost felt as if I was walking at sea level, and my mind was clear and untroubled.
After our familiarization climb to 7,000 meters (22,965 feet) at the North Col, our bodies were now able to take these lower altitudes in their stride. Compared with the thinness of the air at the Col, the East Rongbuk, between 6,000 and 6,500 meters (19,684 and 21,325 feet), now seemed to offer rich lungfuls of satisfying oxygen. One month earlier we had been gasping for breath here as we completed the sixteen-kilometer (ten-mile) trek for the first time, taking three days to reach Advance Base Camp. This time we would be a lot faster, reaching ABC in two days.
Although there was no yak traffic on the glacier, there were other distractions. On the lower Rongbuk, we caught glimpses of shy Tibetan deer feeding on the tiny patches of vegetation. When we disturbed them, they ran for the safety of the higher ground, scaling the fragile scree slope so nimbly that not a pebble moved beneath their hooves. On the East Rongbuk we saw no mammals, just a few hardy birds that had arrived with the warmer weather, pecking through the remains of yak fodder for seeds and chaff.
We also saw the Ti
betan snowcock, a duck-sized bird that looks like a customized pheasant. Its call is a bizarre cackling sound. Barney told us a tale about a German climber who had shot and eaten one of these birds a few years earlier. Not long after, he was killed while crossing one of the meltwater rivers in full flood. We left the birds well alone.
Around us, the glacier was showing the signs of the spring thaw. Silty meltwater streams were now flowing strongly through the moraine, carving out sinuous routes from the gravel and revealing the milky-white ice beneath. We had to work much harder to keep our feet dry and in some spots only a series of strategically placed boulders enabled us to cross the fast-flowing water.
In places the streams disappeared from sight into sinkholes and ran underground, deep down into the bowels of the glacier. These subterranean streams could sometimes be heard as a rumbling sound beneath our feet, like the sound of a tube train beneath a London street. I looked into one of the sump holes, where the water rushed down into a perfectly round, polished tube of blue ice, large enough to admit a small car. There was the horrifying temptation to jump into it. I wondered what it would be like to be sucked down for a high-speed white-water ride beneath the ice. A bit like a spider getting flushed down a drain, I decided—but colder.
The warmer days of spring had caused another change; now the steep valley sides above the glacier were far less stable. Rocks that had been frozen in place through the winter were thawed out and loosened—primed to fall down to the glacier below. The resounding crack and clatter of rockfall echoed back and forth, particularly on the lower sections of the East Rongbuk where the valley sides are steepest and most friable.
On two or three occasions we had quite near misses from tumbling boulders. Brian got the closest call, shuffling out of the firing line as fast as he could, while two killer rocks bounced past just a short distance off.
The Other Side of Everest Page 14
