THE DEATH ZONE
(The expedition’s doctor provides another view of the RAFMRS 2002 Everest Expedition)
(Images: Map of the route, the RAFMRS Everest Team, and Dan Carroll, summit leader)
My wristwatch alarm beeped insistently, only just audible over
the flow of oxygen into my facemask. I unzipped my tiny tent and peered at the
night sky. A hundred miles away the horizon flashed and flickered in the grip
of a storm. In glimpses and shadows of glimpses the peaks and troughs of
the world below were thrown into relief across that vast terrain. But
here, near the top of the world, the summit ridge of Everest glowed dimly above
me in the starlight and only a faint breeze whispered over the steep snow
slopes. Camp 3. 8,300m. 9pm. 400m to the summit, a whole
day's climbing away.
This was the
Death Zone; the zone above 7,700m where survival for any extended period is
impossible. Every minute spent at these altitudes, even with supplementary
oxygen, brings an inexorable deterioration in the human body. Appetite is
non-existent, the cells of vital organs are lost at an alarming rate, and
profound wasting of the body is inevitable. Ferocious storms and jetstream
winds are the norm rather than the exception on the upper reaches of the
mountain, and for climbers who become trapped here, survival is rare. But
despite the distant tumult this lonely place was calm.
I heard my
two companions, Ted Atkins and Jim Groark moving about in their tents below me
as they started their preparations. We were members of a 13 strong RAF Mountain
Rescue Services team attempting to climb Mount Everest from Tibet, and 10 days
before, in a rare spell of fine weather, we had witnessed two of our team make
the first successful RAF ascent of the mountain. The elation of being part of
this event was still with me. However my own first attempt on the summit had
ended in failure when I was forced to retreat from 7600m with a sick team
member.
It was now
early June, the start of the monsoon season, and with it had already arrived
fresh falls of snow, making conditions hazardous. No one before us had ever
reached the summit in the month of June. As if knowing something we
didn't, all other expeditions had left the mountain several days ago, and we
were completely alone.
I began
melting snow on my stove. It would take hours to generate the two litres of
water I had decided to take. A desperate compromise; at such altitude the
body cries out with fatigue and weight must be minimised, but the body also
cries out for water. It was midnight before I was finally ready. Sitting
in the entrance of the tent, I struggled to fit my harness and crampons, straps
stiff and incompliant in the freezing air. Ted and Jim soon emerged from their tents
and joined me outside. I checked the two oxygen cylinders in my rucksack and
set the regulator flow rate to two litres a minute. At this rate, if all went
according to plan, we would have enough oxygen to reach the summit and return
to the camp with some to spare. Any perceived advantages this precious gas
would give me soon evaporated when I lifted the rucksack onto my shoulders. A
two litres per minute flow rate would be barely enough to compensate for the
extra weight of the cylinders. Despite this I didn't have the courage to leave
them behind, the increased incidence of frostbite and altitude sickness on
oxygen-less ascents all too clear in my mind.
We set off
towards the start of the fixed ropes leading to the summit ridge, three small
figures groping in feeble torchlight across the vast expanse of the north face.
These ropes had been left in place by previous expeditions and varied in
quality depending on how long they had been there. In places, particularly
where they passed over rocky outcrops, they were so frayed that at best they
provided psychological support only. I clipped into the rope and started
to climb. In an attempt to blot out the agony that any physical exertion at
these altitudes brings, I let my mind wander back to the fateful 1924
expedition, the third of four British pre-war expeditions to the mountain.
Almost 80 years before to the day, George Mallory and Andrew Irvine had set off
from their high camp, probably sited very close to where I was now standing, in
their quest to be the first to stand on the summit of the world's highest peak.
Mallory was one of Britain's finest mountaineers. Irvine, probably the least
experienced climber on the expedition, was at least young, determined and very
fit. He also had a particular talent for getting the best out of the rather
primitive and unreliable oxygen system they were using. The pair was last seen
by Noel Odell at 12.50pm through a break in the cloud, and approaching one of
the famous steps in the summit ridge. The clouds then closed over them and they
disappeared into mountaineering folklore. Did they reach the summit and then
perish on the descent 29 years before the triumph of Hilary and Tensing?
Whatever had happened, my respect for those inadequately equipped Everest
pioneers was growing with every day I spent on the mountain.
The ground
was not steep in mountaineering terms, but an unstable layer of fresh snow over
loose shale made it an unnerving experience. Col Norton, leader of the 1924
expedition, had described it as like climbing on a loose tiled roof, and I
could see why. I could take no more than three paces before having to gasp for
breath, and soon resigned myself to a snail's pace. The others were fairing no
better. Reaching the end of the section of rope, I found it anchored to the
rock by a loose and rusty piton. Resolving to pull more gently on the rope in
future, I clipped into the next section of rope and set off upwards again.
After only a few metres the rope disappeared beneath the snow. I tugged at it
and suddenly it pulled free revealing a frayed end. I gave a silent prayer of
thanks that I had not had to rely on it to hold a fall. A fall from this part
of the mountain would be difficult or impossible to arrest, resulting in an
uninterrupted tumble to the Rongbuk glacier over 3000 metres below. I
cast around to find the next section of rope but there was no trace of it.
Cursing our misfortune we spread out to widen our search, the beams from our
head-torches pathetically inadequate for the task. I had been on much more
technically difficult ground in the mountains before, but had never felt so
insecure as I did now, lacking even the dubious safety of the fixed rope, and
with downward vision seriously restricted by the oxygen mask. After a
futile hour and a half of searching, we retreated to the tents.
Although
confident of making it to the ridge, none of us relished an un-roped descent in
those conditions. The next morning dawned clear and calm, and we decided to
make another summit attempt that evening. We spent the best part of the morning
returning to our high point of the previous night, and in the light of day
found the next section of fixed rope. We replaced the missing portion with rope
we had discovered on one of the old tent platforms, and then continued to the
base of the gully leading to the ridge, pulling the remainder of the buried ropes
free of the snow. We then descended to our tents. As
I removed my crampons I felt a snowflake brush my cheek and looked up in alarm
to see dark clouds approaching. The flake was soon joined by others, and within
20 minutes it was snowing heavily with a steadily increasing wind. An hour
later it was clear that this was no passing squall. If it did not stop soon we
would have to abandon our summit attempt. At 2pm Jim made the wise
decision to go down, hoping to make it as far as Advanced Base Camp before nightfall.
Knowing it would be our last chance at the summit, Ted and I decided to stay
put in the vain
hope that the weather would relent. By 4pm the fixed ropes that we had
struggled all morning to free had become completely buried by fresh snow, and
the concerned voices over the radio of our teammates at base camp confirmed the
futility of our wait. Even the descent now looked like having the makings of an
epic.
I filmed
Ted's final radio call to Base Camp, bitter disappointment in his voice as he
informed them of our decision to abort. We hurriedly packed and set off down
now unstable snow slabs. The weather closed in, the storm grew and we
hoped we would make it to the relative safety of our tents at Camp 2, 700m
below. The first part of the route descended directly down the north face
of the mountain before a long traverse to meet the true north ridge. As we hit
the ridge the wind intensified, the driving snow rapidly freezing any exposed
flesh. Around us there was only white except in quick clearings of the thick
cloud; gigantic forms loomed among the snow wastes and empty air.
We passed an
abandoned tent of an Australian Army expedition. Inside was the body of one of
their compatriots now 10 days dead, still wrapped in a sleeping bag. We had
all known him as a typical Australian, friendly, easy going, and also an
accomplished mountaineer. His small tent, a flimsy mausoleum among the frozen
slopes, flapped thinly in the biting wind. Exhausted and despondent, we carried
on past.
Conditions had become near whiteout, and I peered anxiously down, hoping to catch sight of our tents at Camp 2. This part of the mountain is notoriously windy, and tents are frequently swept from the ridge. I experienced a flood of relief when, after what seemed like hours, we finally stumbled upon them. Digging the flysheet out of a bank of snow, and without pausing to remove my crampons, I dived headlong into the tent. I cursed when I found a small area of the inner tent unzipped. It had allowed the driving snow inside, almost completely burying the two sleeping bags. At least I was now sheltered from the wind. I wondered how Ted was faring in his own tent just 20 metres away, but gave it only a fleeting thought. There was no way I was venturing into the storm again to find out.
In the days to come the disappointment of failing when the top had seemed so close would intensify, but for now I felt only relief. We were only half way down the mountain, and still had the avalanche-prone face beneath the North Col to negotiate, but the worst was over - we were out of the Death Zone.
