The Everest Years

by Chris Bonington

  ‘Don’t be so flippant,’ Frank shouted at him.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ Dick replied. ‘You’re the one always saying you have more than one chance on these climbs. I want that picture of us together on the summit.’

  ‘OK I really appreciate how you feel, old buddy, but I think Chris and Rick had better go for the summit. At least we’ll be sure of getting someone there. Let’s hope we get our chance when this wind drops.’

  I promised that Rick and I would go with them in a second attempt even if we did manage to make it that day, and then we separated, Rick and I heading into the wind, the others dropping back down that high cold valley towards the camp.

  I couldn’t help a sense of relief that there was no one to look after and that we were now two peers, each capable of looking after himself. We reached the head of the valley and were on a broad col with a subsidiary peak on our right barring any view of the ice cap. On our left an easy-angled ridge curved up towards the summit of Vinson which was now in sight. It must have been about 500 metres above us, not much more in scale than from Red Tarn to the top of Helvellyn in the Lake District, and we were approaching the equivalent of Striding Edge. We had dispensed with a rope, since we were now off the glacier and there was no danger of crevasses. The snow was firm under foot and it was just a question of steadily plodding, head bent in an effort to protect one’s face from the wind. I was just wearing sunglasses since my goggles had broken on the previous day. I didn’t try to cover my mouth and nose since I found that the glasses misted up. I would just have to put up with the agony of ice particles being driven into my face and the accompanying risk of frostbite.

  I had drawn ahead of Rick but waited for him just below the crest of the ridge. The wind was so fierce that I had to cling to my axe, driven firmly into the snow, for fear of being blown over. When Rick caught up, he was having trouble with his goggles. He had masked the lower part of his face with a scarf and, consequently, was having problems from frozen condensation. He could hardly see where he was going.

  We set off once more. The wind drove you into a small world all of your own. I kept one mitt over my face, leant on my axe, took each step very carefully, braced against the force of the wind, looking only the few metres in front of me. Step followed painstaking step until I reached a rocky gendarme on the crest of the ridge. I tried to find shelter in a small niche to wait for Rick. There was no sign of him. And then I became so cold, I could wait no longer. I picked my way over the rocks, clinging to them to avoid being blown off balance, and followed a series of snow-covered ledges with awkward strides in between. I was uncomfortably aware of the steep drop into the high cwm below but soon I was on the other side of the rocks and the ridge broadened out once again into a snow slope. It stretched up to a head wall of snow and there, beyond that, perhaps 200 metres above me, was the summit of Vinson.

  I waited, worried about Rick. Should I go back for him? But surely he couldn’t have got into trouble? It was little more than a walk as far as the gendarme. Had he turned back? I couldn’t tell. But the summit was there, a siren that for me was irresistible. It would only take an hour to get there. Go up and then look for Rick on the way down. I set out once again, but I kept glancing back and then, to my immense relief, I saw a tiny figure near the end of the ridge. Rick had turned back, maybe because his goggles had been misting up so badly. The head wall was now in front of me, looking steep and daunting. I plunged my axe into the snow, kicked into it and slowly worked my way up. Each step had become an effort. It was as if I was on a Himalayan peak at over 6,000 metres, rather than the 4,897 metres of Mount Vinson; perhaps the speed of our ascent had not allowed enough time for acclimatisation. But the remorseless wind was the greatest impediment, tearing out of the clear emptiness of the pale blue sky. I have never felt so alone.

  I had reached the top of the head wall and the snow fell away gently on the other side. I pulled myself to my feet, pushed one foot in front of the other against the wind as I stumbled those last few steps to the highest point in Antarctica. Part of me wanted to share the joy of being on this summit with the others, and yet I found myself revelling in the absolute isolation. I was the only person left on the surface of the earth. There was no life, just a sky that was almost unbearably clear and the great sweep of the polar ice cap on one side, with the Welcome Nunatak, like the fins of a school of dolphins cutting its smooth surface in the middle distance. The view had now opened up for beyond the dividing line of the range I could gaze northwards towards snow-clad peaks stretching into the distance. Above them, very high in the pale sky, in a light feathered fantail, was a wedge of cloud. Could it be the vanguard of a storm? I prayed, prompted by my mixed emotions of supreme elation and guilt. I prayed to God to help me be less selfish, less single-minded in my drive for my own gratification.

  Then I noticed a token of man’s former presence. An up-ended ski pole was stuck into the snow close to the summit. I had brought with me a little Union Jack given me by John Hall at Rothera. I tied it to the pole and photographed it with Vinson in the background. I then photographed my own long-flung shadow to prove I had been on top of Antarctica. It was time to turn back. I scrambled down from the summit, finding an easier route to avoid the steep head wall, treading carefully, for the drop on either side was steep and long, then over the gendarme, and it was easy snow all the way after that. Just a matter of putting one cramponed boot in front of the other.

  As I came closer to the camp, I couldn’t help feeling a reticence. What was their reaction going to be? They must have mixed feelings about my having gone for the top. I let out a whoop. Dick poked his head out of the tent.

  ‘Hey man, you made it. Well done!’

  The others added their congratulations. They were warm and kind. Rick got the stove going and soon pushed a mug of tea into my hand. But I couldn’t drink it. My beard and moustache had built up so much ice that it had frozen them on to my balaclava. It was as if I had an armoured visor guarding my face, and it took half an hour’s painful pulling and cutting to free it so that I could get the cup to my lips. Meanwhile Rick told me that he had begun to feel dizzy with weakness at the base of the rocky gendarme. It was this, combined with the fact that his goggles had completely frozen over, that had forced him to turn back. He had nearly died from typhus whilst crossing New Guinea only a few months earlier and he probably still hadn’t fully recovered his stamina.

  I longed to crawl into my sleeping bag but I was desperately worried about the high cloud I had seen from the summit. Our camp was so exposed that it would have had little chance of resisting a windstorm. I could remember all too vividly how slow and precarious our walk through the crevassed glacier had been the previous evening.

  ‘I hate to say this, fellas, but I think we must get the hell out of here back to the lower camp. The weather looks as if it’s going to break and if it does we need my bolt-hole.’

  ‘But what about our next attempt?’ Frank protested. ‘We’d have to come all the way back up.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a sight better having to do that than risk being caught here by a windstorm. You wouldn’t have a bloody hope. This mountaineering is a serious game. Believe me, Frank, I know.’

  ‘I think Chris is right,’ Rick said. ‘We shouldn’t risk it.’

  ‘I don’t agree, but I suppose I’ll have to defer,’ was Frank’s response.

  ‘Well, I’ll just go along with our leaders,’ said Dick, easy-going and relaxed as always.

  So we packed and started back down the glacier. I didn’t relax until we had passed the col and were descending the easy slope leading to our bolt-hole. I then knew that whatever the weather did, we would survive. It was only later that I learnt just how deeply depressed Frank had felt at this moment. He had to put so much effort into every step he made on the mountain and was pushing himself in a way that I could never fully appreciate. He had known so many disappointments and through sheer dogged determination had kept going.

  It was
n’t just the cost of getting to Antarctica, it was the effort he had made as well. He knew that he could make it to the summit if he was given the chance and was certainly prepared to risk losing his nose in the process. The dangers I had pointed out were all nebulous. My judgement and caution were born from experience, influenced by the cruel toll the mountains had taken on friends. In addition I was having to take responsibility for others. It is much easier to take a finely calculated risk for yourself.

  It was midday before I woke. The others were beginning to stir.

  ‘Can you guys come over in half an hour or so for a chat?’ called Frank.

  It was only when I crawled out of the sleeping bag that I realised just how tired I was. In terms of distance and height gain the previous day’s climb had been little more than the equivalent of a walk up a Lakeland peak, but it had meant reaching 4,897 metres, and I had certainly felt the altitude. On top of that had been the Antarctic cold and wind.

  There was plenty of room for the seven of us to sit around in the big tent on foam mats and sleeping bags. Frank, as usual, presided over the meeting. He did it well, a sign of his effectiveness as a senior executive. Dick, his equal partner and undoubtedly the stronger and physically the more competent of the pair, seemed happy to let Frank take the chair, recognising his expertise in this particular field. It was in part the secret of their success as a team, each valuing the other’s strengths.

  Frank started by asking me for my views on what we should now do.

  I replied: ‘I know you were unhappy about coming back down here but I think we’re now in a really good position. We’ve got about three days’ food and fuel and you’ve got the snow cave if the weather breaks and your tents are destroyed. You can sit it out here until the wind drops and you think you can make it to the top. In the meantime I’m happy to act in support. Someone is going to have to go down to the plane, anyway, to tell Giles what’s happening. Otherwise he’s going to have to come looking for us.’

  Down with the plane crew I slept for twenty-four hours and still felt tired when Giles and I set out to make the food carry up to the others. Although he was a comparative novice on crampons, he moved naturally and easily, far outstripping me. Back at the plane again time dragged. It was impossible for us to judge conditions high on the mountain, but we were convinced that the weather must be suitable for a summit bid and couldn’t understand why they hadn’t completed the climb and returned.

  After three days Giles and I made another carry. As we approached the tents, we saw two little figures coming down from the col. Had they reached the summit?

  We knew they had from the great whoop one of them – it had to be Dick – made before they were even in shouting distance. When they reached us, Dick told how he and Rick had gone for the top in a single push, while the other four had used the intermediate camp. They also had reached the top and would soon be on their way down. It was a tremendous relief to me that they had all realised their ambitions and that we could now celebrate our success without reservation.

  A few hours later we were all back at the plane. Frank was tired and his nose raw, adorned with an unsightly black scab that he wore like a medal. This had been very much his expedition for without his drive and determination we would never even have reached Antarctica. I could sense a feeling of achievement that went very deep, but he had only just made it. He had slipped just below the summit and fallen eight metres or so, fortunately without hurting himself. On climbing back up, characteristically, he had asked Marts, ‘Have you got it on film?’ only to learn that Marts hadn’t even seen the fall. But his arrival on top of Antarctica was recorded just a few minutes later. Miura had also reached the top and then skied most of the way back down.

  It only took us a couple of hours to load the gear, take group photographs of the successful team and warm up the engines. Soon the plane was bumping over the sastrugi in search of a clear run. We were now more lightly laden and, in spite of the altitude, took off effortlessly, making a swing past our mountain and then following the line of the Sentinel Range on our way to Siple. We were going to pay a social call on the American base and, at the same time, try to buy some fuel to give us a better reserve for the return journey.

  The atmosphere was celebratory as we skimmed close to the mountains. There was a lunar quality to the terrain in its empty sterility and the harshness of the contrast between light and shade. I longed to return here and was already talking to Rick of the possibility of trying that huge West Face of Mount Tyree.

  We were coming to the end of the range; the peaks now beneath us were little more than scattered rocks jutting out of a frozen ocean of ice and then we were over the ice cap, smooth, monotonous, featureless for mile after mile.

  ‘There it is. That’s Siple.’

  There were just a few dots in the snow and gradually, as we circled down, we could pick out a couple of huts and a cluster of aerials. Empty fuel drums marked the runway and we could see a little group of people gathered near its end. In the last fortnight our aircrew had built up a real relationship with the Siple radio operators, chatting to them daily and discovering mutual acquaintances from former polar trips.

  Our welcoming committee crowded round the hatch as we climbed down to be greeted by their warm congratulations. I could now see that what had appeared to be huts were merely large tunnel tents, built on much the same principle as wartime nissen huts. But we were heading for a box-like structure, little larger than a workman’s hut. There was no hint of what we would find inside. It was a little like Dr Who’s tardis. On swinging open a heavy door, we found a shaft plunging down through the snow. Twelve metres of steel ladder led into a cavernous chamber dimly lit by electric lights. You could hear the steady throb of an engine. A long single-storey windowless hut crouched in the cavern. Access was through large doors, like those in big commercial freezers.

  As we pushed open the door, we went into another world – a cosy, centrally heated middle America. The living room had murals of forest and mountains on one wall, bookcases and cheerful posters on the others. A hi-fi was playing pop music. Easy chairs and coffee tables rested on a deep pile carpet. We were offered beer and then a magnificent meal of succulent steaks, French fries and frozen vegetables, ending up with watermelon and kiwi fruit that had been flown in from New Zealand a few days earlier. This wasn’t even a special feast laid on for us but just their standard fare.

  It was a very different atmosphere from the base at Rothera which was rather like an Outward Bound school.

  In Siple there was more a feeling of people doing a job of work and of having transported, as far as possible, a little chunk of suburban America into the middle of the Antarctic ice cap. Although they were heavily outnumbered, women are employed on the American bases. There were two women to twenty-seven men at Siple. It’s still a man’s world with the British Antarctic Survey, however. They don’t allow women into Antarctica.

  The American summer field trips tend to be on a larger scale than the British ventures, with greater logistic support, so that the field camps become mini-bases with a fair number of home comforts and a rule against anyone straying more than a kilometre outside the base perimeter. We were told the story of a climber, working at the big base at McMurdo Sound which is the size of a small town. He had been unable to resist the temptation of attempting nearby Mount Erebus, the only known active volcano in Antarctica. He set out one morning without asking permission, since he knew he wouldn’t get it. He was sighted from the base when he was about halfway up. The base commander ordered out a helicopter that hovered over him and he was told by loud-hailer to turn back immediately. He took no notice. They then dropped a net over him, he was bundled into the helicopter and put on the next C130 flight back to New Zealand.

  The bad weather that had threatened but never quite arrived was now sweeping down the Graham Land peninsula. Rothera was already storm-bound, a few hours later it reached Siple. It was a strange contrast, between the air-conditioned womb of
civilised comfort under the snows and the screaming, driving snow of an Antarctic blizzard on top. We were at Siple for four days and nights, though they were even more timeless than had been the climb. We watched successive videos for hours at a stretch – Bridge on the River Kwai, Love Story, The War of the Worlds – made ourselves TV snacks in the well-stocked kitchen, cat-napped on the sofa in the lounge and then watched more videos.

  Giles was on the radio every few hours, checking the weather conditions at Rothera. ‘Time to go, folks. We’re off in an hour.’

  Outside, it was as wild as ever. You could only see to the next marker flag which were set at intervals of about ten metres. The plane was lost in a white murk, and it took an hour to dig it out of the snow. We were all tensed and silent as Giles taxied out into an almost total whiteout but if we waited for the weather to clear at Siple, the next front would have already reached Rothera. The plane surged forward; it was barely possible to tell when and if it had become airborne, except from the tone of the engine, until we had climbed out above the cloudbank into the sun.

  The hours went by. Giles was in radio contact with Rothera. It was still clear there, but clouds were beginning to form. The next front was rolling in faster than they had anticipated. We were now over the Graham Land peninsula and caught glimpses of peaks, dark water and the jigsaw of ice floes below us. Then Alexander Island came into view, its higher peaks jutting into cloud. A low mist was settled over the airstrip. We couldn’t land. We were now totally committed. We didn’t have enough fuel to get back to Siple or to fly on to the Chilean base on the far tip of Graham Land.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Giles told us over the intercom. ‘I know a few spots which might be clear where we can go and sit it out.’

  He swung the plane round and followed the coast where big ice cliffs spawned bergs and dark slopes of rock and snow swept up into the lowering clouds. We flew over a deserted base, a little collection of brightly painted toy houses, and coasted in to a flat stretch of snow, a uniform grey-white that merged with the grey sky. The engine whined and we were thrust back in our seats as he accelerated quickly.