Bear Grylls (22 page)

I opened my eyes when I heard the sound of someone peeing in a bottle. It was Mick again. I hadn’t even gone once yet.

‘Mick, can’t you ruddy do that lying down,’ I whispered.

‘It’s too big,’ Mick replied.

I knew that I would need counselling on my return, to get rid of that image of Mick always kneeling, grinning and pissing this brown, stinking urine into his see-through bottle. For a long time
afterwards if you said ‘Mick’ to me, then that was the image that leapt to mind. Everyone else had perfected the art of peeing whilst lying down; everyone, that is, except for Mick. He,
as they say, liked to do it kneeling.

As dawn arrived we began the irksome task of trying to disentangle ourselves from the mass of limbs and equipment in the cramped tent. We tried to get the stove to light but it had frozen solid.
I unscrewed the parts, removed the small gas filter to allow the gas easier access, and stuffed the various different bits down my bag. Ten minutes later it had thawed out and lit on the third
attempt.

An hour later we had each drunk a warm mug of water and were dressed, fumbling around inside for last-minute things. My gloves were still damp, but at least were warm when I squeezed them on. As
I manoeuvred myself from the tent, the fresh crisp air filled my nostrils. Waiting for the others to emerge, I sat and looked around. The heavy snow and driving wind of yesterday had been replaced
by beautiful stillness. I was transfixed.

We were now two vertical kilometres above Base Camp, and still one and a half vertical kilometres off the summit. Mountains that before towered far above us, at Base Camp, were now level with us
or below. I felt like a predator creeping slowly but surely up on the sleeping giant of Everest. But today we would undo all that slog. We would now have to descend again to Camp Two, then Base
Camp. The thought of retracing all those sweat-earned steps depressed me; but it was our only option. The human body cannot acclimatize any higher, and in the process of slowly catching this
monkey, we were being forced to retreat.

Sitting there, I glanced across to where Camp Four, the South Col, would be. The traverse above that led to the Yellow Band and then on to the Geneva Spur looked terrifying as it glistened in
the early sun. Above these features, somewhere to the north, lay Camp Four. I let my eyes scan the horizon above, wondering if the weather would come right and allow me any higher. I prayed it
would.

As I looked back down the valley I realized the severity of the Face we had climbed up in the wind and snow, only fifteen hours earlier. I checked my harness as I sat there.

Those few minutes that I sat, while Mick, Neil and Andy got ready, I experienced a stillness that I thought did not exist. Time seemed to stand still. I didn’t want the moment to end.

It had snowed heavily in the night and the ropes were now buried under several inches of snow that lay delicately on top of the glassy ice. It would make the descent much
harder.

Soon we were ready and carefully checked each other’s harnesses. It was worth the few seconds it took, and could save a life. Then slowly we started down. The rope ran through our
figure-of-eight abseiling devices, and buzzed as we picked up speed. I found it thrilling bouncing over the ice, leaning out, trusting the few pieces of cord that held us firmly in place. The
ropes, under friction, were warm to touch as they raced away above us. I tried not to think about the thousands of feet of sweat and toil that now flew through my hands. I didn’t want to
remind myself that I would have to do it again on the way to Camp Four and the summit; the prospect hurt too much.

On the way down we saw the specks of a few other climbers coming up. It was the Singapore team and an American climber. They must have left early. We passed the Singapore team and wished them
luck. The American was fifty yards below. I was feeling tired by now. The strain of a night so high up was making me dozy as I came down, and the thrill of the descent was beginning to wear off. I
just wanted to get down.

As I unclipped past the American, I groaned hello then clipped on past him. I was getting clumsy. Suddenly I lost traction in my crampons and skidded down the ice. The rope knocked the American
sideways. I tripped onto my back and the sheet ice whisked me away. Just as I began to accelerate, the rope jerked me to a halt. A second later the American smacked into me. We both lay motionless
for a few seconds, facing in to the slope – then clutched frantically for the rope.

‘Are you okay? Man, that was close. Keep your points dug in,’ he said almost casually.

‘Yep, I’m all right, I’m sorry, I lost grip suddenly. Are you okay?’ I replied frantically.

‘Yeah, yeah, but lucky this rope held, eh?’

We worked our way up carefully to the anchor point of the rope, and breathed deeply.

I buried my head in my jacket as my chest heaved. I had been lucky – again.

You can’t afford mistakes like that – you know that, Bear, I told myself.

The two of us grinned at each other. Only in such a precarious place can an accident like that bond people. In any other situation it would result in arguments and a punch-up, but up here you
are both struggling to do your best in a dangerous game. The mountaineer’s temperament is very laid back, and at times of stress like this it showed. He shrugged it off.

‘Hey, forget it,’ he said.

I carried on slowly down, carefully watching each step I placed. It had been my first mistake on the mountain and it could have been my last. I felt ashamed, as if I had somehow let the others
down. They were more forgiving, though, than I was to myself.

‘Getting some downhill practice in up there, were you, Bear?’ Mick joked. I grinned back at him sheepishly.

I hated having close shaves like that – I vowed it would be my last.

Back at Camp Two the tension fell away – we were ecstatic. Our final acclimatization climb was over. Michael and Scott were both there as well and shook our hands. I think
they envied the fact that we had the prospect of a good rest awaiting us back at Base Camp. They were still hoping to climb some of the way to Camp Three in the next few days, depending on how
Scott’s ankle held up. I think, though, Scott knew he was near his limit. We sipped the warm mugs of lemon tea and talked. Scott and Michael looked at us a little differently now.

We had proved we could cope at our altitude threshold and survive. We all knew that this boded well for a chance of the top. No one said this as there were too many other factors that could stop
us, but deep down we knew we had done all that had been asked of us. I couldn’t help feel a tinge of pride. We had done okay.

The next day, we left Camp Two carrying the minimum of gear. Most of what we had ferried up would be needed for a summit bid. It would wait for us there. The route down through the Cwm –
for the first time – felt pleasant. Our bodies revelled in the rich air. We crossed the crevasses with confidence, not due to altitude-induced nonchalance but because of pride. We were almost
back.

I breathed deeply at the top of the Icefall, as we gazed down into the depths below. The more I saw it, the more I dreaded going back in. I guess that as we were getting closer, the stakes
increased; suddenly there is more to lose. I clipped into the rope and dropped into the ice, leaving the Cwm behind me. All went smoothly until half an hour later.

Neil had just reached me, and Mick was waiting two yards further on. Suddenly we heard a piercing crack as a slab of snow tumbled, bouncing across the ice boulders. The snow engulfed the north
side of the Icefall, creating this deep rumble. We crouched and watched as the cloud of snow settled only a few hundred feet away.

As we squatted, we could see Base Camp clearly below. Binoculars would be watching us from there. We moved efficiently down the ropes with fresh vigour. We’re too close to screw it up now,
we’re too close, I thought.

By 12 noon we were gazing back up at the now-silent Icefall. Jokey’s voice broke that silence. I think she summed it up, as she candidly muttered under her breath, ‘Bloody men, I
don’t know.’ A smile spread warmly across her face and she hugged us excitedly. It was good to be back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I woke from a deep slumber to the sound of excited voices outside my tent. Sherpas were scurrying around frantically. All of us shuffled from our tents to see what was
happening. A Nepalese porter, who was not from the Khumbu valley area, was moving quickly towards our camp. He looked tired. Strapped from his head, an old canvas band supported the weight of a
wicker basket laden with various things. He shuffled into camp, grinned, and eased the weight from his back.

Sherpas grouped round him and questioned him eagerly. Soon all went quiet, the Sherpas moved aside and the porter turned to us.

‘British expedition? British?’ He mumbled in pidgin English, ‘Telephone from Lukla, long journey. English man two days behind.’ He produced from his basket a small box,
covered in polythene. He smiled as if he knew how much this cargo meant to us.

Since our own satellite telephone had exploded dramatically at the hands of the rickety generator in Namche Bazaar all those weeks ago, our communication back home had been minimal. Using
Michael’s telephone had caused endless friction, and would have required a mortgage to have used it at all regularly – thus hampering our desire to ring home. At last the replacement
phone from British Telecom had arrived. Jokey shone with pride. She had organized it via e-mail, and could hardly believe her eyes that it was now with us.

It had travelled out with her replacement communication officer, Ed Brandt, who had sent it ahead by runner from Lukla after flying into the foothills. He knew it would reach us sooner that way.
The porter had carried it at high speed up to Base Camp in only four days. The pace showed. He sat sipping milk tea, wrapped in blankets, and mumbling with the Sherpas in between swigs. Ed would be
still somewhere in the valleys beneath us, but he had done well. Our communications home were now up and running.

Most of the team were now back at Base Camp and we only awaited the return of Nasu and Ilgvar after their ascent to Camp Three. They were the only two from our party still not back.

Geoffrey had also reached Camp Three successfully, along with the rest of the Everest group, Carla, Graham, Allen and Michael. Scott, though, was now returning to Base Camp for the last time. He
had decided his injury would prevent him going any higher. He had witnessed the extremes of the mountain and her beauty, but would not risk going further. From Camp Three onwards you enter another
world. A world where only the fittest and lucky survive. He had decided not to continue. He had done extraordinarily well already.

Henry had been to Camp Two and was acclimatized to that altitude. He also made the decision not to go higher. He would supervise the summit teams from either there, or back at Base Camp. Time
would decide. Base Camp, for now, was busy feeding exhausted, hungry men and women.

We were now receiving, almost daily, very accurate weather forecasts from Bracknell in the UK. These, for the price of $500 a go, gave us the most advanced precision forecasts available anywhere
in the world. The latest climatic information was gathered there. It was coined from satellite and weather centres round the world, as well as from commercial jets flying at altitudes of up to
45,000 feet. All these sources were sending regular weather updates back to the Bracknell base – and for a price we could access it.

Our lives would be dependent upon the accuracy of these forecasts up the mountain. Being caught out unawares up high was fatal. Bracknell could help prevent this and were able to determine wind
strengths to within four or five knots accuracy, at every thousand feet of altitude. Such information was invaluable, but as with all forecasts, they were only predictions. Three weeks later Neil
and I would find ourselves fighting our way through deep snow towards the summit in winds of up to 50 knots. Wind that was not meant to be there. If we had known this, events might have turned out
very differently. But for the moment, the forecasts came pouring in. The entire team would then crowd round eagerly to see what the skies above us were bringing. It still didn’t look
good.

When the summit is being clipped by the jet-stream winds that pound her day and night at over 200 m.p.h., any summit attempt is impossible. At Base Camp on a still night we could lie in our
tents and listen to those winds some ten thousand feet above us. The sound seemed to shake the mountain.

For now we were waiting for those early signs of the monsoon to arrive in the Himalaya: the time when the winds over Everest’s summit begin to rise. The snow then ceases to pour off her
like a smoking volcano. At that time, a stillness descends and the mountain beckons those who have waited.

For the time being, the summit was still being blown ferociously. We didn’t have to be able to see; we could hear it. We tried to busy ourselves at Base Camp as we began the waiting game.
There was much to do.