Bear Grylls (14 page)

Thengba, five foot and a tiny bit tall, with knotted, dirty black hair, cut untidily round his ears, fiddled nervously with the stove. It wouldn’t light. He shuffled on his worn Reebok
trainers with no laces in them, and tried to fix the pump of the petrol burner. He licked the end of the plunger and squeezed it back in, and then started vigorously pumping pressure into the tank.
Eventually the petrol ring crackled, then burst into flame.

All the Sherpas huddled around the stove, chatting nervously in low fast whispers. For the third time in ten minutes, everyone hurried out of the tent into the darkness to scan the Icefall,
hoping to see a light or some indication of the Icefall doctors. Still there was nothing, and the wind was getting up by the minute. The Sherpas looked to Mick and I for help. We had been the only
other people at Base Camp to have gone into the Icefall; but we could offer no answers. As the minutes dragged on, the options available to us dwindled.

Mick and I talked together, desperately trying to assess what we could do.

‘Okay, let’s look at this logically,’ Mick said. ‘They have either become trapped by the ice or alternatively one of them could be injured and is trying to make it back
down slowly. If it’s not one of these, then . . .’

We were both well aware of the dangers up there and knew that there was a strong possibility that they might have been killed. Why else were two of the most experienced Sherpas out so much later
than ever before, with no sign of any light up on the mountain to indicate they were alive and moving? They were up there now in treacherous conditions. The Icefall was being blown by ferocious
winds that were whipping snow across the ice. The wind cracked against the canvas of our tents and the noise carried across the glacier. The situation was worsening.

As we tried to reassure the Sherpa cooks, we knew secretly that the two Icefall doctors could either be dead or fighting for their survival. They were not equipped to last a night in these
conditions. They always climbed with the minimum of personal equipment, so as to allow them to carry more rope and ice screws. Dressed only in thin clothes, designed for six hours’ work in
the heat of the day, the cold could claim their lives all too quickly.

We seemed helpless. What can we do? I thought. Come on. In these conditions we would be unlikely even to find our way though the maze of ice, in order to find the start of the ropes. The frozen
footprints that showed the way before, would now be covered in six inches of snow. The ropes would also be buried, and climbing in such conditions in the depths of the Icefall would be virtual
suicide. Unable to see crevasses that lay hidden by thin layers of freshly fallen snow would be like walking into a death trap. The chances of surviving it would be slim, and the likelihood of
finding two dead men would be high. The frustration this brought was untold, as we sat and waited. It was now 10.00 p.m. We knew time was running out for them up there.

Bernardo sat with us in the tent, the strain of the last few hours written across his dark brow. We had lit a strobe light at Base Camp for the Icefall doctors to see if they were alive; to give
them hope. I doubted, though, that they would be able to see it, as the beam seemed to get swallowed by the mist and swirling snow. All we could do was make hot flasks of tea in case we heard
anything, and then just wait and pray. The minutes dragged on like hours.

By midnight there was no change. We agreed that all we could possibly do was try to sleep for a few hours then get up before dawn, and set off in hopefully better weather into
the Icefall. Heading up, even in those conditions would be extremely unwise, but it was our only chance of finding them – alive or dead. It was a hopeless situation, and the prospect of the
Icefall in those snow-covered conditions terrified me. I went to my tent, and knew that we had no other choice – we would leave at 4.00 a.m. I dreaded finding the two men, who had hauled me
to safety only days earlier, dead. It confused me; it was all happening too fast.

As I lay in my tent, I could hear Mick shuffling inside his. He was getting his boots and harness ready, and sorting out any other kit he would need. It was cold and pitch black outside, and his
flash-light flicked busily round his tent.

We were together in the thick of it, a million miles from the safety of home. Everyone at Base Camp looked to us both. Even the Sherpas from the Singaporean team had refused to join us, when we
had asked for their help. They had not had their Buddhist ceremony yet, where they pray for protection on the mountain. To venture into the Icefall beforehand would be tempting the goddess’s
anger to the extreme. They would not do it. The responsibility fell on us two alone. We were the only people who had been in there before and knew the route.

We lay and tried to mentally prepare. I wondered what the doctors were thinking at this moment, if they were still alive. They knew we would come as soon as the weather allowed us a chance;
until then I prayed that they would have strength in whatever they were facing. I drifted in and out of sleep.

At 1.30 a.m. I heard the clanking of metal on metal. I knew the sound so well; your harness makes that noise as the karabiners and descenders hit each other. Someone was moving
slowly, very slowly. I hurried into my boots and down jacket, grabbed my headtorch and scurried out into the night. Mick emerged from his tent as well, and there, moving towards us through the wind
and snow was Pasang, shuffling at crawling pace. He was covered in snow from top to bottom, his cuffs had frozen solid, and icicles hung from his goggles and hood. He waved wearily in the direction
of the Icefall.

‘Nima come long way behind. Very slow, tired. Need help, very tired,’ he stammered.

Thengba was up, spouting with excitement in very fast Nepalese. He was ushering Pasang to the tent. We sat him down, and filled a mug with tea. There would be footprints to guide us now –
we had to get going to try and find Nima. We left Pasang with the other Sherpa cooks, and hurried out. Thengba refused to let us go without him and raced off into the darkness following the prints,
muttering to himself under his breath. I knew that Nima was his best friend.

Thengba was completely under-dressed; he wore his same old holey trainers and had no gloves. He was too scared to think, and had rushed off. He wanted to find Nima. We caught up with him and
tried to persuade him to turn back, otherwise he would get frostbite. He refused and insisted on following us into the Icefall. The footprints were becoming covered again but we could still make
out the vague impressions through the fresh snow. We shouted and waved our lights into the distance as we went. We had to find Nima soon.

Thirty minutes later and only 500 metres further on, we were in the middle of the flowing ice, at the foot of the Icefall. The wind was atrocious and it was bitterly cold at this time of night.
Thengba shuffled along behind.

Suddenly round an ice pinnacle emerged this figure, stumbling drunkenly through the snow. He moved like a man of a hundred years old. Hunched and weak. He collapsed to rest in the snow. We
hurried to him.

‘You’re okay, Nima. You’re safe. We’ll be home soon,’ we reassured him. Mick gave Nima his headtorch so that he could see where he was going more easily. It brought
some life to his steps. He wanted to show us that he was strong; he didn’t want to let us down. He soldiered on with great effort a few more stubborn yards, until we forced him to rest and
drink from the flask. Then he collapsed.

We tried to help him undo his crampons, now we were out of the steep ice. It would help him move freer. He wouldn’t let us initially; he was too proud. Even though his fingers were stiff
with cold, he tried to free the buckles on his crampons. But his fingers wouldn’t work and he reluctantly allowed us to help. When we got them off we noticed that Thengba was silent.

A quick glance revealed that he was shaking with cold having rushed out into the storm so ill-equipped. It was Thengba who now needed the help. Even Nima in his depleted state recognized this.
They were the oldest of friends. Nima was the mountain man, Thengba the cheerful cook; Nima knew that his friend was not used to coping in these conditions. We struggled to get Thengba wrapped up
and Nima to his feet, and then all slowly began to get moving. We must have looked a sorry sight as the four of us staggered into Base Camp; but by grace, these two extraordinary men, who
epitomized man’s ability to resist the forces of nature, were still alive.

As we drank tea and ate noodles round the petrol stove in the tent, the smiles began to appear. Thengba had his dearest friends back again; he felt safe now. As we warmed ourselves and sat
huddled around, the story of what happened slowly emerged.

They had got so close to completing the route to Camp One, that they decided to work a little longer, to save having to return through the Icefall again the next day. They wanted to complete the
job that had taken three hard weeks of work to put in.

As they reached the last part, they saw ahead a sheer thirty-feet wall of ice that would lead up to the lip of the Icefall. Working together, Nima climbing and Pasang supporting the end of the
rope, they started up the face. It took time to ascend and secure the route, as they screwed pitons into the ice, through which to feed the rope. Neither had watches and at dusk they were forced to
turn around and return back towards Base Camp. Once it was dark it became a different battle.

They had been so busy that they had worked too late; neither had noticed the menacing weather coming over them. The clouds brought darkness with it earlier than normal, and with only one
headtorch their progress became slower and slower as the battery gradually died. By 8.00 p.m. the battery was dead and they were still dangerously high. By now the storm was in full force; they
could see no further than five yards. Crawling on their hands, they slowly descended through the Icefall.

Three times Pasang came within inches of being swallowed by the ice, as the snow-covered ground in front gave way to reveal perilous crevasses. Each time Nima behind had held the rope fast, and
stopped him falling. It took five hours to descend the route in this manner. But they knew that they could not afford to wait until morning. The cold would not allow it. If they stopped moving in
those temperatures, the mountain would cruelly claim another two victims.

At 1.30 a.m. Pasang had staggered past my tent – his karabiners clinking.

Lessons had been learnt: you have to watch the time in the Icefall, you must have sufficient equipment to cope with emergencies, and always a headtorch each. These are
fundamental; but the doctors were masters, and all masters get lazy. It is their great determination and quiet strength that brought them back in those conditions. Conditions that would have
devoured lesser men. Despite this, they knew they had been lucky. Smiling and much warmer, two slightly subdued Icefall doctors went to their tents to rest. It was 3.15 a.m.

The whole of Base Camp had been waiting with baited breath. Relieved, we sat with Bernardo and a couple from the Singapore team, sipping tea along with a bit of chang for ‘medicinal’
purposes! We were grateful for the strobe light they had placed at Base Camp – it had helped guide the doctors down. There had been nothing more they could have done; none of them had yet
been in the Icefall.

Bruce, the Singapore team’s Base-Camp manager, who was as un-oriental as a Yorkshire pudding with his broad Scottish accent and mannerisms, cursed the taste of the chang.

‘It’s a Jack Daniels I need at a time like this,’ he joked, as he took one last swig before returning to his camp.

Soon we were back in our own tents – the wind was steady. The sound was soothing and I fell fast asleep.

At 4.30 a.m. I woke abruptly. I could hardly hear myself think there was so much noise. It was still dark, and the fierce howling of the wind shook my tent until I feared it
would collapse. I felt instantly wide awake, and spreadeagled myself across the inside of my tent to hold it down. The wind came in gusts. A small lull of still, then . . . wham! The tent would be
almost lifted underneath me and the sides whipped so ferociously I feared they would rip. Snow poured in through the vent at the back of the inner-lining, as it blew in waves under the outer
canvas. It then swirled around my tent. I tried to jam some equipment against the vent to stop it, but it was in vain. It still poured in.

Mick was fighting the same battle. He had managed to build up some equipment against the lining of the tent, but still he was soon lying in about four inches of snow.

We both resorted to the only option available. We climbed deep inside our bags and sealed ourselves from the snow and cold air. For two hours the mountain goddess seemed to blow mercilessly,
creating this fearsome howl of an 80 m.p.h. wind, screeching across the ice. Base Camp was being pounded.

‘Bloody hell, Bear, this is crazy, budge up,’ Mick shrieked, as he unzipped my tent and squeezed in. ‘No point us both losing our tents, we might as well make sure one
survives. Mine’s even worse than this, I was in deep snow.’

We had to shout at each other to be heard above the wind.

‘Thank God the doctors got back. If they were still out in this they’d have survived about ten minutes – no more,’ I yelled.

‘Tell me about it. I almost got blown off my feet coming three yards to your tent,’ Mick replied.

I felt safer with Mick. We sat huddled together, wondering how long this outcry from the mountain would last. These were jet-stream strength winds. What the hell are they doing at Base Camp? I
thought.

By 7.00 a.m. the wind seemed to be dying gradually. Still though, snow licked across the glacier at a frightening speed. All the Singapore team came and gathered in our mess tent. Mick and I, by
now, had also abandoned my tent for the bigger communal mess one. About fifteen of us in total, including the exhausted Icefall doctors, whose hopes of a long-deserved rest had been shattered,
gathered round the stone table.