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National Geographic : 1981 Oct
Contents
opened my eyes, I didn't know whether it was evening or morning. I didn't want to look at my watch. Deep inside I was fright ened. Not only of the present situation. My fear encompassed all my 30 years of climb ing mountains: the exhaustion and despera tion, and the thundering avalanches. These sensations spread over me and merged into a deepening fear. I knew what could befall me up there, and how great the drudgery would be just below Everest's summit-when it was tantaliz ingly so near and yet so far. Had I not known what to expect and how to cope with it, I could not, hour by hour, step by step, have done what my body rebelled against. oHE MORNING SUN on August 19 hit my tent and began melting the frost on the inner walls. Slowly I packed. I decided to leave behind two cans of sar dines, a gas cartridge, and half the soups and teas to lessen the torture of my load. The weather was good. I knew I had to reach the top the following day. I moved very slowly for the first 50 me ters. Then I swung into my rhythm once again. I felt fresh in the clear, crisp morn ing air. Not for long. Within an hour I was wading through knee-deep snow as I approached the steeper slope of the North Ridge. This reaches up to join the Northeast Ridge 455 meters below the summit. Convinced I would be forced to abandon my attempt soon if I had to climb in the deep snow, I searched for an alternate route. The vast snow area of the North Face extended to my right. Several avalanches recently had poured down its flank. With the fresh snow swept away, perhaps the surface would be hard. It was my only chance. Climbing gradually with each step, I began the long crossing to the Great Couloir, first reached by British climber E. F. Norton in 1924. Sometimes I broke through the crusty ice. Other times my boots barely gripped the sur face. Concentrating on each step, I failed to notice the weather turning bad. At three in the afternoon I was some 200 meters from the couloir, thinking of nothing beyond this world of white. The world be low seemed a distant planet. I checked my altimeter. Damn! It read only 8,220 meters. I was frustrated at my progress. Worn out. I wanted desperately to find a bivouac site. But I could see none. One hour later, on a snow-covered rock ledge, I managed to pitch my tent. I wanted to photograph myself there. But I hadn't the strength to screw the camera onto the ice ax, put it on automatic, go back ten steps, and wait for the click. Far more important was to prepare something to drink. I kept on my bulky double-layered plastic boots as I lay there in the tent. They were damp from perspiration. If I took them off, they could freeze. I dared not become care less. I measured my pulse while I was melt ing snow; it was racing-far more than a hundred beats a minute. What if the fog did not lift by morning? Should I wait? No, that was senseless. At this height there is no recuperation. By the day after tomorrow I would be so weak that I could never advance toward the peak. To morrow I had either to go up or go down. There was no other choice. The morning of August 20 was clear, but clouds were closing in. I strapped my cram pons to my boots and took my camera over my shoulder and my ice ax in one hand. NationalGeographic, October 1981 564
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