GOING DOWN
I took some quick pictures of the incredible views of 8000-ers Makalu, Lhotse, Cho-Oyu as well as some climbers returning on the Nepali side. Of course some pix with 7summits.com stickers, Dutch flags and scarf and other stuff :-)
Then around 1400 and bit we headed down again.
Oww, if I thought I had been out of energy going up, strangely enough, I felt worse when descending. I had to stop even more often, and could not figure out what was going on. Was my oxygen set malfunctioning? Did I need sugar?
The descent was slow and painful and Lakcha was getting angry with me, saying I was a 'Lazy climber'! I really wanted to get down faster and knew the time and oxygen consequences, but just couldn't. After each 4-5 steps, I literally collapsed onto my feet, panting and hyperventilating for several minutes.
Even abseiling the 3rd step, took me so much effort that I thought I could never get enough breath again and would just die on the spot, trying to breath.
But after several minutes I finally had enough oxygen in my system to be able to open my eyes and slowly continued. Descending the 2nd step is a lot scarier than going up it as you first of all see the drop you will make when you mess up, 2nd of all some bodies who messed up before you, 3rd of all, down climbing over an edge, placing your feet onto small rock holes that you can not see is even harder than pulling yourself up the other way around.
If you add full loss of energy to this, you might imagine that I had some thoughts of just not going down the 2nd step and simply waiting on top of it until conditions would improve....
But of course that would not happen, so after a few tries, I found the right sequence and safely descended onto the ladder.
So it continued all the long way along the ridge, until before I knew it, darkness started to fall. Why so long? Every time I had done a few paces, I had to rest, almost fell asleep, scaring myself awake, still out of breath. This also points out the importance to climb with a partner, if not a professional Sherpa, then at least someone who can watch you and vice versa...
When we finally entered the exit cracks down to camp 3, I was chanting to myself: ‘Slowly, Camp3, water!'
My thirst was getting incredible; the last water/energy juice I brought was frozen solid. Darkness fell quick, if you miss a few minutes after every few steps, time seems to go like a time-elapsed film of a Serengeti sunset, unreal but fast.
I still had to sit down every few steps, or I would faint and fall down, but it made Lakcha mad. But I had no choice, my legs would not carry me further and only with the most concentration I could balance myself at all and get down a few meters. Focusing on the small wins, I went from rock to rock, from snow field to snowfield, still aiming at the water of camp 3, but resisting the urge to simply dive down to 8300m.
It was dark when Lakcha said we needed to abseil the next section, but when I gave him my figure of 8 (descender), he dropped it, tingling down into the darkness. But fortunately automatism allowed me to make an HMS knot in the dark and I could abseil with it.
My headlamp had fallen out of my pocket early in the morning, when I stowed it away at dawn. Now this was a major pain and more reason for unwanted delay. So Lakcha had to lead the way down the last snowfields and then shine the shallow light back up, so I could try to follow it back down.
When we finally reached camp it was about midnight, almost 23 hours after leaving. Some other Sherpa's came out to help and dragged me the last few meters to the tent where John was sleeping and simply threw me in, much to dismay of John who was trying to sleep in the tent where one side was already ripped to pieces.
I felt happy, lying on the floor side of the tent, breathing oxygen. That was, until, I felt all kinds of stuff thrown on my face and I heard poles or ropes snapping and realized I was in the overhanging bottom part, with just one layer of plastic separating me from a drop towards the Rongbuk glacier, I panicked and simply wanted out..
So I shouted for the Sherpa to pull me out, which he did with brute force, causing John (who did not even know it was me at the bottom) to get angry as many of his belongings went out the door as well. At the first pull the sherpa pulled off my glove and the hard wind immediately hit me the moment I was pulled out of the tent. There was another small tent opposite and I got inside, and was greeted by two other Sherpa's, not ours, but friends nonetheless.
I crawled in the corner, trying not to disturb them, even helping them by blocking the gap in the entrance by my body, stopping the wind from blowing in. I tried to rest on a bed of oxygen bottles and asked the 2 if they could make me some tea, water, juice or anything fluid. It was not quite clear if they were preparing for the summit as their English was limited (mine probably too..), but they kept on feeding me fluids whenever I asked.
Every time I fell asleep I was immediately awakened by a violent itch in my throat, coughing myself awake and resulting in hands or mouthfuls of phlegm, in different colours and coming straight out of my throat. Sometimes this was a great relief as I found I could breathe a lot easier, with or without oxygen, but sometimes, the stuff just did not come out completely and blocked my breathing even more. But the fluids definitely helped in getting it loose.
3rd June: 8300m - ABC, 6400m
This way I worked myself through the night, coughing, spitting, breathing little oxygen and thinking about daylight. When it finally came I was helped by our Sherpas in getting my gear together and started the descend towards ABC. Still the wind was hard and no step was easy.
The night had not given me any energy, which was strange as normally even 20 minute sleep is enough to get going again.
But to cut a long story short, all day, I had the same pace as when returning from the summit, making Lakcha mad. I really wanted to try walking longer stretches, but the few times I tried to pass the limits of what my body told me I could do, I had to repay by total exhaustion, hyperventilation without control on spots where I needed to hold on, but couldn't.
So I continued my slow descent, pushed by Lakcha and went slowly down the ridge and snowfields.
Marian called me when I was at about 7300m, descending the relatively easy snow slopes, and as I was going the same pace as 3 or 4 other climbers, I assumed that I was out of the danger zone and told her that another 3 or 4 hours would do it.
No way. Half way down the ropes from NC to ABC I suddenly felt dizzy, fell to the ice and had trouble not sliding down the face.
The extra oxygen bottle Lakcha had arranged and which he had put on 4l/minute had turned empty, which hit me on the head like a steel hammer.
So it was again dark when I abseiled one rope, using my HMS carabiner, while he was shining his light from the other rope.
Coming down on the flat, 'easy' part of the glacier I could not stand on my legs at all and fell al the time while following Lakcha's small bundle of light through his legs. No voice to warn him, I just fell down and lay there until he realized I was no longer there. I had to stop myself from sleeping in my warm down suit in the dark night, get back up my feet and stumble a few meters before collapsing again.
I did not make it to the end of the ice where 2 other Sherpa's where waiting for us with tea. Even though our radio never recovered, we were followed by our team and they were sent ahead to help us back to ABC..
After the tea and relieved from the weight of my backpack and crampons, I could walk again, but still only for a few meters before hitting ground. More Sherpa's had arrived and our Sirdar Mingma said that it would be faster if they could carry me.
I had not a single bit of energy or pride left to argue against this and so, almost 48 hours after setting out for the summit of Everest, I was carried the last few hundred meters back to camp, over a simple rock path, that normally takes only a few minutes...
Alex and Doctor Andrey were waiting for me and placed me on a makeshift intensive care room in our huge dining tent. Andrey opened up my down suit and started giving all kinds of injections; from soothing to very painful ('This should hurt!').
But the best was the tea and juice they gave me, although it was followed by rough fits of coughing and spitting, mixed with weird dreams about Russians not wanting each other to speak.
4th June: ABC, 6400m - BC, 5200m
The next morning Andrey seemed pleased to find me still alive, though they both had checked on my all night long.
'Time to get up, we are packing'. It took me ages to get upright, amazed by what I had spat out in the big bowl during the night of hallucinations dreams.
But I had to get to my tent, start packing as the yaks already arrived.
What's more, I had to get going as I should be down in BC, 20 km away the same day...
So I started packing, feeling like I had drunk the entire expedition liquor cabinet the evening before and still weak.
While walking down I had to focus constantly, but could continue for longer periods and even made it down before dark, totally exhausted...
5th June: BC, organizing
Finally I had a reasonable decent night for the first time since leaving ABC a week ago, though I still feel totally hangover.
Today we pack our BC and get ready for the descent, but I also want to talk to Andrey about what happened to me.
'Your old infection was slumbering and only came back up on the summit ridge due to the extremely hard and dry wind, drying your throat, creating some kind of acute Bronchitis, blocking your throat as no phlegm could go out and it was all stuck and dried in place, therefore not letting enough air in, even with maximum oxygen flow.
When you were brought in, your blood pressure was so low and you had a serious cerebral oedema, as a result of the ongoing hypoxia, so I gave you 2 shots of dexamethason, some stimulants and painkillers to keep you going. It is a fairytale you came down by yourself and that you are alive now."
I thought about this and suspected a bit of Russian drama, but reality hit me only when that same evening we heard about someone from Gary Kobler's group, who had a similar problem, but less serious, he turned around on time and managed to get down to 7700m camp after his summit attempt.
But there he died the same night.
Should I have turned around? Of course, especially when you know all the facts afterwards. I summited with an acute bronchitis and made it down alive, though it only feels so now, several days after.
Whatever the best course of action would have been or should be, Everest is a serious mountain and should never be underestimated by anyone. Do not climb alone, and as I can add from personal experience which I am lucky enough to share now: if you are not 100% fit, forget it. The summit is far less than halfway down on Everest.
6th June: BC- Zhangmu
Just entered the internet cafe and one of the first things that struck me was the death of Scottish climber Rob Milne. Though we never met, Rob contributed a lot of pictures to the site as well as GPS coordinates from his climbs, some of them were even used in the just released Aconcagua guide. We agreed by email to meet on the summit. I wish his family and friends all the strength they will need to help overcome the loss of this great person.
Simultaneously I read about the 7th summit of my friend Jake, whom I had the pleasure to take to the summit of Denali in 2003; if it weren't for the summit of Danielle Fisher a few days before, he would have been the youngest 7summiteer as well.
Ok, have been writing for 5 hours non-stop, time for some recovery sleep as I need a long way before I am strong again...
Hope this story makes any sense, maybe can help others, or just confirms to you that climbers are complete nitwits ;-)
Signing off from a lonely internet cafe, 04.16 Beijing time,
Harry
Harry Kikstra,
7summits.com