Bear Grylls (12 page)

After four years of trying to raise the sponsorship to climb again, Bernardo was once again at the foot of the great mountain. He was hoping to be the first South American Indian to reach the
top of our world’s highest peak. Bernardo spoke very limited English, and once he discovered that I spoke Spanish, the floodgates opened. I was drowned in a barrage of conversation. I think
Bernardo had missed the banter, having walked in silence through the valleys for over two weeks. I just sat and listened, enjoying his clear South American accent, as we discussed the climb
ahead.

Bernardo, having just reached Base Camp, needed to rest for a few days – but wished us both luck for our preliminary climb in the Icefall. He said he would be watching us through his
binoculars, and finished his mug of tea by saying,
‘Vaya con Díos’
or ‘God’s speed.’

Sleep didn’t come at all that night, as I lay thinking about what was now only a few hours away. The cracks and rumbles of the Icefall seemed especially loud to me; or
maybe it was just my ears being over-sensitive to their groans. I tossed and turned, looking every half would be an hour at my watch to count the time remaining until my alarm would sound. I just
wished for deep sleep, so that I strong the next morning. But it never came.

Leaving the warmth and security of a sleeping bag for the cold chill of night is one of the worst parts of climbing. The cold that the night provides, ensures greater stability
in the Icefall. It is during these night hours that much of one’s climbing has to be done. By day, not only is the ice weaker, but the temperatures soar dramatically. Trapped in the ice, with
the heat of the sun blazing down, has been known to literally sap the strength from a man. Skin becomes burnt in a matter of minutes if not protected, and temperatures that have an hour beforehand
been in the minus 20s°C, can now rise to over 80°F.

Early starts, like this morning, would become matter of fact by the end; but in that pre-dawn chill, leaving my warm sleeping bag was, mentally, the greatest struggle. It was times like this,
when I was still sleepy, that I felt the most vulnerable and alone.

As I sat up, the condensation that had frozen within my tent shook all over me, covering me with icy flakes. Struggling to get into my knee height, high-altitude boots shook the tent even more,
and engulfed me again in icicles. These boots alone weigh more than most people’s entire shoe collection put together, and fastening them took almost ten minutes. Reluctant to actually unzip
the flap of the tiny tent and allow the wind in, I dressed as much as I could in the confined space of the tent. I rolled over to put my harness on, and pulled it tight around my waist.

‘Morning Miguel,’ I stammered, in the direction of Mick’s tent.

‘Hola Oso
(“Morning Bear”),’ the reply came. Mick was learning Spanish very quickly, now that Bernardo and I had been speaking it continually.

My sister had named me ‘bear’ as a baby, and I have no idea why. I certainly wasn’t hairy and rarely growled, but for some strange reason the name had stuck. I had hoped that
by the mature age of seven and a half, I would have grown out of it; yet here on this frosty morning at the foot of Mount Everest, at the age of twenty-three, the nickname still remained. I shook
my head and smiled.

And so went our standard early-morning greeting. Whether it was at Base Camp with our tents only inches apart, or higher up the hill, with our bodies only inches apart, the greeting each time
that we had to get up was the same. Said with cheerful irony, it invariably made one feel better. It made you feel that you weren’t alone in being cold and miserable.

We both emerged from our tents; it was 5.30 a.m. As Mick sorted out his rucksack, I went to try and crap behind a rock. Dawn was always the best time for this, as all the faeces were frozen and
didn’t smell. As the sun warmed Base Camp each day, the stench of the makeshift stone hole, smeared with misfires, was pretty rancid.

The challenge I found that early morning was undoing an all-in-one windsuit, whilst trying to keep it off the ground, then squatting, wiping and trying to keep my hands warm, all at the same
time. That first time of doing it all dressed up was a shambles. But practice would make perfect; and of practice, I knew, there would be plenty.

We tried to force down some Sherpa porridge, but only really managed a few mouthfuls. I was nervous, and felt sick swallowing the stodgy mess. In hushed voices, as if not wanting to awake the
Icefall, we said goodbye to the Sherpa cook, Thengba. We then gently lay a small branch of juniper on the fire and watched it crackle into life. We put our rucksacks on and followed Nima and Pasang
through Base Camp, to the foot of the Icefall.

For twenty minutes we snaked our way through the rock and scree, heading for the entrance to the ice. The trail of bootprints left in the slush of yesterday afternoon had now frozen solid, and
showed us the route. The entry-point was marked with a bamboo cane that the Sherpas had left. I looked back at Base Camp, and could see the smoke of the juniper still smouldering away. I hoped the
prayers would work.

We were the first Western climbers to be entering the Icefall this year. So far only the Sherpas had been into her depths. We sat on the ice at the bottom, with jagged pinnacles rising up above
us on all sides. As the Icefall flattens at its end, it fluctuates along, rolling in these crests of contorted ice. Hidden amongst the pinnacles, away from the view of Base Camp, we sat and began
for the first time in months to put our crampons on. A mixed feeling of excitement and trepidation flooded my body. At last we were beginning the task that had been a dream for so long. I yearned
just to get started, to get my teeth into it. I felt that once the bit was between my teeth, then it would be easier to hold on to. But with it came that nervous, sick feeling. Ahead was the
unknown.

We began to weave deeper into the maze. Our crampons bit firmly into the glassy ice, with their fresh, razor-sharp teeth. It felt good. As the ice steepened, and we began to climb further into
the frozen labyrinth, the ropes started. The days of hard work by the Sherpas showed us the route, as the ropes snaked away into the distance. We clipped our karabiners that were attached to our
harnesses on to the fixed line. The rope twisted up and over the walls of ice in front of us. A few strong pushes and we would clamber over their lip, lying there breathing heavily in the ever
higher air.

There ahead would then be the next contorted ice face that beforehand had been hidden. As we went higher we began to see Base Camp below us, getting smaller in the distance.

I was getting used to wearing crampons again and stepped carefully to avoid tearing my windsuit on the sharp teeth. I was rusty, and twice the blades sliced a gash in the material as I tried to
kick a crampon into the ice.

The dawn brought with it some haze and soon Base Camp was obscured from sight. We checked our equipment again, and kept moving on. The pace behind the Sherpas was steady and manageable; I was
feeling good. Despite now going higher than I had been since we had arrived in Nepal, I was coping okay in the thinner air.

Soon we came to the first of the aluminium ladders that spanned the yawning chasms that appeared amongst the broken ice. Elaborate systems of ropes secured these ladder bridges, but still
occasionally we would reach a point where the crevasse had shifted. Here the existing ladders would be suspended, twisted in the air, ropes torn apart as the weight of the moving ice wrenched the
structures asunder. We would wait and watch as Nima and Pasang, who were also known as the Icefall ‘doctors’, would get to work repairing and fixing the route across.

All work in the Icefall was undertaken in silence. It was safest like this. During the regular breaks that we would take, the Icefall doctors would quietly smoke, leaning against the ice walls
all around. Smiles would be exchanged. As sections were repaired, we would continue on up. We would change onto the new rope, clip in, and start across the precarious ladders, with the crevasses
stretching away into the blackness of the abyss below us. The Sherpas believe that some of the crevasses are so deep that they come out in America. Looking deep into them, I could understand their
reasons. There was something sinister about the nature of these silent tears in the ice.

We would focus carefully on each step across. Our spiked crampons would slide on the metal ladders until they gripped in a groove and held fast. Only then would you step again, your eyes keenly
focused on the ladder and not the drop below. That was the key to crossing these safely.

We didn’t want to have to test the strength of the ropes that we were clipped into. They were a precaution rather than a lifesaver. Because of the amount of rope required in the Icefall,
the standard of the rope was low. They were designed really just to support you as you climbed, rather than be able to cope with the strain of a long fall. It was thin multi-purpose rope, and you
would not want to rely on it in an emergency. Instead, we would just have to be cautious with each step.

Once across, we would be panting heavily; we would unclip and clip into the next rope ahead, and move away from the danger of the crevasse edge. Then we would rest and recover our energy.

Four and a half hours of this slow progress, and we were getting right into the heart of the Icefall. Tucked under the shadow of an overhang, we drank and rested. It wasn’t the safest of
places, but then again nowhere was on this frozen waterfall. The sun was now getting stronger. As we rested, we covered our heads and faces with our hoods to protect ourselves from the glare and
reflection all around us. We knew the danger of the sun in this place, and carefully reapplied the thick sunblock.

We started moving again, following the ‘doctors’ up through the broken mass of ice. We would shuffle over giant ice cubes and frozen bridges that lay at 50° angles, right under
the face of a dark overhang. I knew that what we were standing on had, a day ago, been part of the overhang now above us. We could see where they had peeled off.

Soon we reached a flat area of plateau, about halfway through the Icefall. We thought we could see the top of the Icefall, far above and in the distance; but we weren’t sure. It was
noon.

The Sherpas then announced that they were going to remain on this plateau, to finish repairing a section we had just crossed. The two of us agreed to carry on for a couple of hours, to try and
reach the three-quarter point before returning to meet them, and all descending together. They told us to turn around before 2.00 p.m. at the latest. We had now been in the Icefall for six
hours.

We set off alone. I led the way, feeling still relatively strong. It was wonderful and freeing to be alone here with Mick, climbing together, communicating silently, and working our way up the
Icefall, where only the Sherpas had been before.

It was good to have that focus of concentration where your mind is uncluttered and thinks only of the job in hand. Our minds felt sharp as we kicked into the ice and secured ourselves to the
next rope. The air felt fresh as it filled our lungs. Your body needed all the oxygen it could get from each breath and it seemed to savour the moment as the air rushed in. It felt good.

The route now steepened and a series of ladders strapped together leant against huge forty-feet vertical ice blocks. The overhangs became bigger and more sinister. We were careful to be precise
in what we did, and became acutely aware of our surroundings. We didn’t talk. At 1.45 p.m. we could go no further. The route ahead had collapsed the night before, and a jumble of vast ice
blocks lay strewn across the face. The rope shot vertically down below us, drawn as tight as a cable, as it stretched under the weight of the ice around it. I looked at Mick behind and he pointed
at his watch. We were at our time limit and needed to turn around.

I was just ahead, and noticed that I was standing in a particularly vulnerable part of the Icefall. I felt suddenly very unsafe and started down towards Mick. Suddenly, 200 metres to my right, I
heard a large section of ice break off. The block tumbled, like a dice across a board, down the Icefall. I crouched, just staring. As the snow settled behind it, I got to my feet, then hurried my
pace down towards Mick. I wanted to get out of here now, I felt too exposed.