up we go because it’s colder, and bacteria and germs are less prevalent; it makes me feel much safer biting my nails!
Spent much of our rest-day today reading a book detailing the disaster on Everest in 1996; the disaster that Neil so narrowly escaped. I find it all too near. It’s
kind of hard to ‘armchair’ read a book that goes into graphic detail about how so many lives were lost in a storm high on Everest, when you’re actually on the way out there
yourself – and you’re scared enough as it is. Still I guess the key is to learn from what happened. In many ways it boils down to being courageous when the chips are really down,
and not just acting courageous when you’re all safe and cosy. Courage should always be softly spoken. I must remember these things now.
A few hours later, we had arrived in the little village of Pangboche, the home of many Sherpas who live and climb in the Everest region. The houses were perched on the steep
slopes of the valley, overlooking the gorge below. Many of these were full of climbing memorabilia, heralding past triumphs or disasters, and famous names lined the walls.
In this village, we were to meet Henry our expedition manager, who had been up here getting acclimatized, before having to head back to Kathmandu to arrange the collection of the oxygen cargo.
Mick and I headed off to find him. He was staying with the head-Sherpa, or Sirdar, as they’re known – called Kami. Kami’s job was to organize the Sherpas who would help us carry
supplies on the mountain.
The house Kami lived in was a beautiful, traditional Sherpa house. We entered through a tiny wooden door that led into a stable where the yaks lived. This was a small low room, with a packed mud
floor, covered with straw. Through the darkness, a shaft of light revealed a wooden staircase going up into the main living area of the house. As the stairs creaked under us, we emerged into a
large single room, where the whole family would live, cook, and sleep. A mud stove gently burnt in the corner, and the sun shone through the smoke that leaked from its side. Great yak furs lined
the floor and beds, whilst yak droppings dried in the corner. These would eventually provide fuel for the stove. Tucked up in the corner of the room, grinning from ear to ear, twiddling his beard
and sipping on a lemon tea, sat Henry.
We spent the afternoon with Kami and Henry, rummaging through barrels of equipment and checking all the supplies, so that Henry would know what had gone missing and be able to resupply it in
Kathmandu. Everything came out; from tents to ice-probes for finding people under an avalanche, aspirins for thinning the blood and helping acclimatization higher up, to even mayonnaise. Hundreds
of ice-screws, kilometres of rope, and a mountain of Mars bars. Once at Base Camp, resupply would be almost impossible, everything had to be checked and double-checked now.
Later on that day with Henry, whilst chatting to the Sherpas who had just come back down the valley, we heard our first piece of tragic news. A porter had been killed in the ice approaching Base
Camp. Neither of us knew him, yet that evening there was a soberness amongst the three of us as we sat and heard what had happened.
The porter had been ferrying equipment up to Base Camp – a long trip that many of them do as an extra source of income. This time, though, he had been climbing over the glacier towards
Base Camp too late in the afternoon, the time when the ice is least stable. Base Camp is perched at the head of the glacier, at the foot of the mountain, and the route is found by snaking
one’s way across the ice, amongst the huge glacial pinnacles that line the trail. As the climbing season approaches, this trail becomes better and better trodden – but in the early
days, such as now, it was still pretty much virgin territory.
During the afternoon the ice is always weaker after a morning of sun on it. Apparently this porter had become
Spent much of our rest-day today reading a book detailing the disaster on Everest in 1996; the disaster that Neil so narrowly escaped. I find it all too near. It’s
kind of hard to ‘armchair’ read a book that goes into graphic detail about how so many lives were lost in a storm high on Everest, when you’re actually on the way out there
yourself – and you’re scared enough as it is. Still I guess the key is to learn from what happened. In many ways it boils down to being courageous when the chips are really down,
and not just acting courageous when you’re all safe and cosy. Courage should always be softly spoken. I must remember these things now.
A few hours later, we had arrived in the little village of Pangboche, the home of many Sherpas who live and climb in the Everest region. The houses were perched on the steep
slopes of the valley, overlooking the gorge below. Many of these were full of climbing memorabilia, heralding past triumphs or disasters, and famous names lined the walls.
In this village, we were to meet Henry our expedition manager, who had been up here getting acclimatized, before having to head back to Kathmandu to arrange the collection of the oxygen cargo.
Mick and I headed off to find him. He was staying with the head-Sherpa, or Sirdar, as they’re known – called Kami. Kami’s job was to organize the Sherpas who would help us carry
supplies on the mountain.
The house Kami lived in was a beautiful, traditional Sherpa house. We entered through a tiny wooden door that led into a stable where the yaks lived. This was a small low room, with a packed mud
floor, covered with straw. Through the darkness, a shaft of light revealed a wooden staircase going up into the main living area of the house. As the stairs creaked under us, we emerged into a
large single room, where the whole family would live, cook, and sleep. A mud stove gently burnt in the corner, and the sun shone through the smoke that leaked from its side. Great yak furs lined
the floor and beds, whilst yak droppings dried in the corner. These would eventually provide fuel for the stove. Tucked up in the corner of the room, grinning from ear to ear, twiddling his beard
and sipping on a lemon tea, sat Henry.
We spent the afternoon with Kami and Henry, rummaging through barrels of equipment and checking all the supplies, so that Henry would know what had gone missing and be able to resupply it in
Kathmandu. Everything came out; from tents to ice-probes for finding people under an avalanche, aspirins for thinning the blood and helping acclimatization higher up, to even mayonnaise. Hundreds
of ice-screws, kilometres of rope, and a mountain of Mars bars. Once at Base Camp, resupply would be almost impossible, everything had to be checked and double-checked now.
Later on that day with Henry, whilst chatting to the Sherpas who had just come back down the valley, we heard our first piece of tragic news. A porter had been killed in the ice approaching Base
Camp. Neither of us knew him, yet that evening there was a soberness amongst the three of us as we sat and heard what had happened.
The porter had been ferrying equipment up to Base Camp – a long trip that many of them do as an extra source of income. This time, though, he had been climbing over the glacier towards
Base Camp too late in the afternoon, the time when the ice is least stable. Base Camp is perched at the head of the glacier, at the foot of the mountain, and the route is found by snaking
one’s way across the ice, amongst the huge glacial pinnacles that line the trail. As the climbing season approaches, this trail becomes better and better trodden – but in the early
days, such as now, it was still pretty much virgin territory.
During the afternoon the ice is always weaker after a morning of sun on it. Apparently this porter had become
Similar Books
