Bear Grylls (19 page)

Neil’s cough had been a persistent noise alongside me through the ice. Every five seconds he would hack this deep, dry cough. He now swore openly at it. It was slowing him down
considerably and we were happy to go at the Iranians’ slower pace, to help Neil. The cough was obviously debilitating him.

One of the strengths of a small team lies in its ability to help each other and to know everyone well enough to be able to do this. Many times ahead Neil would help me, but for now it was he who
needed it. We encouraged him and took more rests than we would have normally done. Secretly though, we longed to get out of here. Time spent playing this Russian roulette with the Icefall was time
too long. As Andy would say, ‘just get through it as quick as you can, as each step in it is a gamble.’ It was 9.00 a.m. when we all eventually stood aloft the tumbling ice below.

By Neil’s own admission, there had been a time during the last two hours when he doubted he could even continue, as he felt so weak. It just went to show that even the strongest are not
immune from the mountain’s strain. Climbing Everest is about heart more than everything, and Neil was showing this again. That vital ingredient inside had brought him those precious few steps
closer to his dream. A dream he was giving so much for.

We were slowly learning the tricks of living on the mountain, or maybe we were just becoming numb to the discomfort; whatever it was, that second time at Camp One was better than before, and I
even slept a few hours during the day. My acclimatization must have been working. As the day wore on we found various ways to relieve the boredom of watching ice melt. I took the time to get some
pictures of Mick and I dressed in nothing but boots, rucksack and ice-axe, standing above the Icefall. This wasted countless minutes and kept the team amused for hours afterwards.

During the photo session, as we were both posing naked, feet astride, with expressions of bizarre origin, two Singapore climbers emerged exhausted over the lip of the Icefall by our tents. As
they looked up in anticipation of beholding the wonder of the Western Cwm, they were met instead by myself, stark naked, hopping across the ice telling Neil to get a blooming move on as my tackle
would soon get frostbite in this wind. I think I slightly ruined the moment for them.

The Everest team within Henry’s group had now been split into two parties, us three being with Graham, whilst Geoffrey was to join the others – Allen, Carla and Michael. His giardia
was now better, and to his credit as soon as he felt on the mend he was determined to reach Camp One for a night. Whilst we had been resting at Base Camp, Geoffrey had completed his acclimatization
night above the Icefall. As he was coming down to rest, we had passed him on our way up to Camp One. He looked happier and fitter, and was back on track. It was a shame not to have him in our
group, but that was the way it had gone. We knew the weather wouldn’t wait for us and we had to push on to Camp Two, regardless.

The next morning at Camp One, the frost in the tent was infinitely worse than at Base Camp, and at 5.00 a.m. I sat up to pee in my bottle, shaking the tent. The others cursed as
icicles fell down on their bags. Dressed in inner-boots and windsuit I then went outside to have a crap. We had dug a hole right on the lip of the Icefall and it seemed dangerously precarious,
dropping my trousers and squatting quite so close to the edge. I hurried and finished as quickly as I could. It wasn’t quite like at home with a newspaper, sitting there for hours on end,
enjoying the leading articles in the local rag.

The best way to get out of the tent in the early mornings was to get dressed and packed up, one at a time, until everyone was sitting inside the tent ready. Then one at a time, we would shuffle
to the entrance of the tent, put our crampons on with our feet outside the door, then clamber out. We were getting used to this now and soon the three of us and Andy were heaving on our rucksacks
on the plateau outside the tent. It was still bitingly cold at this time, and we pulled our hoods around us tight.

Our sacks were heavier than before, laden down with the various items that we had stashed previously at Camp One, as well as all the new equipment we had brought up from Base Camp. We were each
carrying full down salopettes, down jacket, sleeping bag, two roll-mats, headtorches and batteries, inner fleeces, a large quantity of freeze-dried food packs, cameras, and two litres of water. We
helped each other heave them onto our backs and set off into the vast whiteness of the Western Cwm. Despite being heavy, they weren’t a scratch on what they would be when they contained two
large oxygen cylinders, higher up. We knew these carries lower down would strengthen us for the times higher up.

The great Cwm lay before us, as we made our way slowly along the valley. Fifty yards, then a rest – pacing our steps. The Cwm sloped up in giant steps of ice every few hundred yards or so.
Sometimes we would contour along these on tiny snow trails, and sometimes ladders roped together would span the thirty-foot high walls. We would clamber up the metal rungs and peer over the top to
see the next level of glacier ahead. At other times we would just simply clip our jumars on and dig our crampon points into the ice and battle up and over these small vertical lips.

The route zigzagged its way across the valley floor, slowly gaining altitude. The crevasses were becoming more frequent, and were now wider and deeper than in the Icefall. Several climbers had
had very narrow escapes in the last few seasons, when the ground beneath them collapsed to reveal one of these monsters. Their ropes alone had saved them.

The Sherpas by now had found a route through to Camp Two and we followed the trail religiously. Even if we needed to go to the loo, it had to be done on the trail. It wasn’t worth stepping
off it, even a yard. We remained clipped to the ropes even when it seemed flat and stable. The floor had hidden secrets below it and we didn’t want to risk anything.

The crevasses, that were now every hundred yards or so, needed at least one or two ladders to cross them. The drops below seemed sinister as they disappeared into black. We would clip in twice
and shuffle across. The famous Scottish climber Mal Duff, who had died suddenly of a heart attack at Base Camp a few years earlier, had once commented that ‘only on Everest would these
crevasses be considered safe’. He was right. We were gaining confidence and found ourselves skipping over the ladders with dangerous disregard. But there were too many to worry about all of
them. You would never get anywhere stopping and debating each one, you would be too exhausted from mental fatigue.

The pace got slower and slower as we wound our way along the deep snow of the valley floor. We were desperately trying to reach Camp Two at the top end of the glacier, before the sun got too
strong in the sky. The Western Cwm in the heat of the day can rise to well above 80°F, as the sun reflects on the ice and the heat becomes trapped by the walls of rock and ice, thousands of
feet high on either side. We needed to reach Camp Two within five hours to avoid this heat trap. It was 7.30 a.m. and already the shadows of the ice were being replaced by the glare of the sun.

As we came over one particularly high lip in the glacier, we saw for the first time the face of Everest in the distance. Hidden from view before, by the Nuptse corner, the mighty summit now
loomed before us, still some 8,000 feet higher. It took my breath away. So far the only glimpses we had had of the summit were from the trek up to Base Camp. Even then the huge wall of Lhotse and
Nuptse had hidden the majority of Everest, and all we could see was the summit ridge with the wind howling the snow off the top; and always so far away. Now here she was up close. She was no longer
hidden by these other mountains but instead looked vulnerable and exposed. It was as if we had walked unsuspectingly into the goddess’s home – I felt as if we were looking upon royalty
indeed.

There was no longer any ambiguity as to where the summit was. We had come round the corner and the vastness of her black rock and ice face soared up into the clouds. As the sun rose over the top
of Everest, its rays filtering between the wind and snow from the summit, we sat on our packs, silent and alone. The feeling of that sight is still strong now. All I could think was that whoever
created this was a genius.

There we sat like specks in a white sea of ice, with Camp Two still far away on the horizon. Those last few kilometres across the glacier to the moraine, where Camp Two was to be put, were
longer than I could have ever imagined. Mick, Neil and I plodded in each other’s footsteps – slow, laborious, considered steps. Twenty at a time was all we could manage, before we
needed to rest. We would take it in turns to count silently, before announcing quietly – ‘twenty’.

We were drained by the altitude and heat, and Camp Two never seemed to get any closer. The climber David Breashears once remarked on this heat, ‘you literally pray for a puff of wind or a
cloud to cover the sun, so you can keep moving on up the Cwm.’

After four hours of battling against this, Camp Two was clearly visible – it was now so close. Those last hundred yards dissolved into a haze of discomfort and eventually we dropped our
heavy packs on the rocks and drank. Camp Two wasn’t much considering the effort we had given to reach it; in fact it was grey and dull. Tucked into the shadow of the vast wall of Everest
above, it seemed forboding and unwelcoming. Shingly rock covered dark blue ice that ran into water in the heat of midday. Nothing was solid but instead everything was sliding and slushy. I tripped
trying to scramble over a small ledge of ice. I was pissed off and tired and couldn’t be bothered with all this.

We slowly set about the task of erecting our tents. At Camp Two, around 21,200 feet, we were to have an advanced Base Camp, with separate mess tent and now one tent between two people – it
would be luxury – but setting those tents up was irritatingly slow. Our tent sponsors had promised that they could be erected in minutes; we proved them wrong. Half an hour later of slipping
on the ice, and still it looked limp and incomplete. We measured the base, secured the canvas, and started digging a platform into the moraine, upon which to site it.

My head was pounding, and I was dehydrated. Bent double, scraping shingle off the ice for an hour and a half, just exacerbated the headache.

Everyone was suffering from the effects of the altitude here, but eventually, two hours later, Mick and I had our site flattened. It wouldn’t have passed any tests with a spirit-level but
it was the best we could do at that height. It would have to do. We sprinkled a few more handfuls of shingle in a last vain attempt to level it, then moved the tent into place; it fitted more or
less. We knew that in two days the sun would melt the ice around the tent and that our once almost flat site would soon resemble a model of the Pyrenees – still, there was nothing we could
do. We snapped the poles into position, weighed the flaps down with rocks and crawled in, exhausted. Tomorrow would be a rest day, giving us a chance to get used to the height.

That night as the sun disappeared from the Cwm, we experienced a new sort of cold. It was deeper and seemed to penetrate through even the warmest sleeping bag. My nose was running and I felt the
snot freeze as it dangled from my nostril. I shook Mick to show him; he groaned. Mick and I both felt awful. It is a lingering dullness in the body, coupled with a pounding headache and slight
nausea. Neither of us had eaten much that evening, despite being drastically in need of sustenance. At this height, even without the levels of exercise we were taking, the body needs to receive
almost three times the amount of calories that it needs at sea-level. At the moment we just weren’t getting it.

In our tent Mick was dozing. It is the best solution for this discomfort – to numb the mind and lie in a haze. I shuffled to my knees to urinate before settling into my bag. As I knelt and
peed into the bottle, the plastic warmed my hands as it filled up. It felt good. The tent was at a slight angle and full of sharp lumps, and I shuffled on my knees to ease the discomfort. Suddenly
the pee-bottle slipped through my cold fingers. Urine spilled everywhere. I clutched frantically for the bottle, but by the time I snatched it up the majority of a litre of dark brown stinking piss
was already chilling inside the sleeping bag – my sleeping bag.

On the mountain there is nothing more personal than this item. You cherish it, watch over it, and relish in it, as you spread it out each day. It is your chance to escape for those hours inside
it; away from the reality of the situation that you are in, as you try to forget. Mine was now a soggy, stinking mess. It would soon freeze on the ice. I wiped as much as I could away with my
fleece, I had nothing else to use. I had to keep my thermals dry at all costs. Soon my fleece was damp and I stuffed it down my bag. I would try to dry it overnight. All damp kit, such as socks and
inner boots, always went down the bag. Here they were warm and would slowly dry – that was unless you had poured urine all down the bag earlier.

Mick had suddenly come to life. He thought it the funniest thing since we had set foot in Camp Two. He had hardly uttered a word since arriving, and now bounced back. At least it had made him
feel better – bastard.

‘Well that’s a relief, Mick, I was worried I might be too comfortable,’ I added. We had a rule – the more dire the situation the more relieved we would appear. It had a
funny way of defusing the most stressful of situations.

‘You lucky thing, I wish I could have a sleeping bag full of piss!’ Mick retorted.

He soon turned over, lying there quietly chuckling every five minutes until he eventually went silent. I had climbed into my bag wearing the minimum of clothes. I didn’t want everything to
get wet. I didn’t sleep at all that night, and lay there, longing for the warmth that I knew dawn would bring; but dawn came all too slowly.

I was up early, even though today was a rest day. It was 5.30 a.m. and I could now see in the pre-dawn glow. I dressed in all my down gear and clambered out of the tent. The
mess tent was next door, and I poked my head in. The Sherpas were still asleep and I quietly sneaked out. I looked down the valley – the mist seemed to linger at the end, above the Icefall
far below. People at Base Camp would be staring up into this thick cloud, yet for us up here above it all, the mountains were crisp and as clear. Nothing stirred.