Bear Grylls (27 page)

At 11.10 p.m. they left Camp Four. The full moon had been on 11 May; the ideal summit time. By now, though, over a week later, the moon was fading. They would need all the light their
headtorches could provide. But batteries don’t last long in those conditions.

The jet-stream winds were silent, the night was still, and they left earlier than intended. They wanted to be ahead of all the other teams up there. It was a good decision.

Leaving Camp Four, Mick felt unsure about his oxygen supply. His mind wandered vaguely as to a reason why. He reached behind him and checked the flow-rate gauge again. It read 2.5 litres/ min.
That was right. He let it fall back down to his side. He tightened his mitts again and carried on. He knew he was going slowly. Something wasn’t right. But there was nothing he could do in
the dark and in those temperatures. It was well below — 30°C.

Five hours later, the trail of climbers was snaking its way slowly up the unroped ice, towards the Balcony Ledge at 27,500 feet. At 1,500 feet below the summit, this is the first objective to
reach after leaving the Col. They were moving slower than expected. Mick’s headtorch, despite having had a fresh battery in it, had now failed. It had got dimmer and dimmer, until he was
eventually left to grope his way up the ice in the darkness. The lights of those ahead were all that showed him the route.

At 6.15 a.m. dawn arrived. Sitting on the Balcony Ledge, they changed oxygen canisters. They removed their goggles, exposing their faces to the elements for a few seconds. Neil snapped the ice
that hung from his mask; it was frozen condensation. Then their faces were hidden again, as the breathing apparatus was refitted and the tanks heaved onto their backs. Nobody spoke.

The weather that had looked so promising at midnight seemed now to be turning. Few even noticed. Michael the Danish climber, who had been hoping to climb solo and without oxygen, was no longer
there. He had turned around at 5.00 a.m. Oxygen is what keeps the body warm up high. Without it Michael was slowly freezing. He knew he would die if he carried on. He bravely turned back; his
attempt was over.

The climb above Camp Four is where it all counts. It is the great leveller and the great divider. So many climbers manage to fight the Icefall, the Cwm, even the severity of the Lhotse Face, yet
it is this part, the final part, that makes the difference. It is here that people fall away. It is here that all the real work happens. Michael had tried, and no doubt he would try again in future
years. For now, though, he was exhausted. His body could take no more. He was experienced enough to recognize this. Turning back for Camp Four is a frighteningly difficult decision. Michael had the
courage to take it.

Other climbers were also forced back. Some were struggling with their oxygen, some knew deep down what was, and what wasn’t, possible. These also turned back. They say that it is at the
actual gates of a new world that most turn back. It was true; many were now turning back before it got too late. One can argue that they were the sensible ones.

Another climber slipped after half an hour of the ascent; he tumbled down the hard ice to the Col 100 feet below. He had broken two ribs and struggled back to the tents. He was lucky to have
been still so close. Had that happened higher up it might have been very different. He sat the time out anxiously at the Col, waiting for news from those still climbing. It was to be a long
night.

Mick and Neil still pushed on. Carla was slow behind them but continuing at all costs. Her courage was showing itself. She hung on. Allen was also quietly climbing. He didn’t say a word
but stayed firmly with them. By 7.00 a.m., back at Camp Two, we had still heard nothing.

Various Sherpas were putting in some stretches of rope below the South Summit. It was hard work on the steep ice face, which was now covered in loose powder snow. None of the route so far had
been roped. Rope was heavy and had to be carried, and was therefore used very sparingly and only on the most exposed sections.

Everyone knew the dangers up there, but the altitude seemed to numb people’s minds. Nobody cared. Climbers tottered dangerously on the Face beneath the South Summit, their crampons
scraping loosely across the ice under the snow. Any small section of rope was clutched at frantically. In those conditions it is almost impossible to make ropes 100% safe. They are all dodgy, but
people didn’t care. If they saw a rope, it spelt safety to them. Their minds weren’t capable of interpreting them as anything else.

At 10.05 a.m. Neil reached the South Summit. The true summit was within his grasp and he knew it. He sat and looked in amazement at the view ahead. He could see the final ridge that led to the
Hillary Step, and above this the gentle slope that would lead the final 200 metres to the summit. His heart raced. He knew that this was his chance. In 1996 the disasters had robbed him of the
chance to go above Camp Four. Two years on he was here again, only this time the summit was within reach. Nothing was going to take it from him. He felt strong, and glanced hungrily along the ridge
ahead. He waited anxiously as the lead Sherpas and several American climbers arrived. Mick should be here soon, he thought.

Something told Neil that things were not going right. In the blur of high altitude, the realization of what was happening slowly began to dawn on him. Over the next ten minutes the dream that
had eluded Neil once was going to elude him again. Anger welled up inside him as he heard various American climbers arguing. Their voices were slow and laboured, but the message was clear.
Somewhere along the way there had been a misunderstanding over who had what rope. Suddenly, here at 28,700 feet, some 335 feet below the summit of Everest, after so much work and risk – the
reality dawned. There was no more rope.

Whose fault it was, and why, will always remain a mystery. These things happen in the world above 26,000 feet. It is a scary and surreal place. No one had intended the error, but it had
happened. These professional men were suddenly reduced to floundering, exhausted wrecks. There was nothing they could do. It would be impossible to continue along the corniced ridge without any
rope. It would be suicide. Continuing was not even an option. The head Sherpa there, the great Babu, confirmed this. Even Hillary had used rope here. Without any, it was too dangerous.

The snow was now pouring off the summit again. The winds were returning. The sound alone told them that; that deep, penetrating roar. They cowered in the snow on the South Summit. They had one
choice and they had to act quickly. They had been motionless for too long. They had to retreat. Neil stared through his goggles at the summit only a few hundred feet above. He slowly let his head
fall forward. All he felt was an emptiness. He turned and never looked back. He started down a different man.

The radio call came ten minutes later from Neil, from just under the South Summit.

‘We’ve had to turn back. There’s been a screw-up with the rope,’ he muttered slowly. He sounded drained. ‘We’ve just left the South Summit. We’re all
okay. I’ll call in from the Col. Neil out.’

Henry at Base Camp could only hear the crackle of the radio. The full message couldn’t reach him. I relayed it to him from my tent at Camp Two. At random times on the mountain, the weather
prevents the radio signal travelling very far. It was one of these times. At Camp Two, even I could only just hear. I sat in my tent and wondered what the hell was happening up there.

Things then began to go very wrong and, as is the nature on high mountains, when this starts, it can all begin to happen very quickly. This was no exception.

I was woken from my doze at 10.50 a.m. as the radio flared into life with the sound of a voice. It was Mick’s. He sounded weak and distant. He was calling me.

‘Bear at Camp Two, this is Mick, do you copy?’ he mumbled.

‘Roger, Miguel, go ahead,’ I replied. I sat up and held the radio close to me.

It crackled furiously and all I heard was something about oxygen.

‘Mick, say again. What about your oxygen? Over.’

There was a short pause as he fumbled with the controls through his mitts.

‘I’ve run out. I haven’t got any.’ The words echoed round the tent.

His tank must have been leaking since he had first used it, I thought. He would have been suffocating as he climbed. I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong with his tank. They had been
checked and double-checked. I tried to find an answer. No one, though, would ever know, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was my friend, my best friend was now dying some 6,000 feet above
me and there was nothing I could do.

‘Keep talking to me, Mick. Don’t stop. Who is with you? Mick, tell me,’ I said firmly. I had to keep him talking. If he stopped talking and lost consciousness I knew he would
never come down. If he couldn’t move up there, then I had to get a picture of who else was there. It might be his only chance.

‘Allen’s here. He’s got no oxygen either. We’re sitting here . . . It’s not good, Bear.’

I knew that. I felt hopeless. We had to find Neil. Their survival depended on someone being above them.

‘Mick, come in, Mick?’ No reply came. ‘Mick, do you read?’

A minute later his voice came back on the radio.

‘Getting ready to assume the “dying in Asia” position, Bear,’ he slowly said. We had joked for years about the ‘dying in Asia’ position, whenever we felt
things were becoming dire. It had only ever been a joke. In our wildest dreams, though, we had never imagined a conversation like this. ‘Mick, for God’s sake. Mick?’ I weakly
replied.

‘Bear, I reckon Allen has ten minutes to live. I don’t know what to do.’ Mick cut off. I tried to get him back on the radio but no reply came. Nothing came from him for twenty
minutes. They were the longest minutes of my life.

I sat alone in my tent. Geoffrey didn’t have a radio. I felt lost and feeble. Mick, come on, move, please, I pleaded with him in my mind. I prayed he could hear.

Mick describes what happened up there: