foot-high spur to where it meets the North East Ridge—what the Deacon still calls the North East
Without fumbling for binoculars, J.C. and I can clearly see about two-thirds of the way up the North Ridge in front of us to a weakly pronounced recline, the point where the Deacon has been planning to set our Camp V. Below that area, the North Ridge is composed of an irregularly rounded rock buttress that soon blends into the humpbacked extension of snow and ice that connects to our low, snowy saddle here on the North Col.
It’s weird. We can easily see the spindrift blowing off the summit like a 20-mile-long white scarf set against the brilliantly blue sky, and more spindrift being lifted off the North East and upper North ridges as if by hurricane winds, but there’s hardly a breath of wind down here on the North Col. I remember the Deacon saying that when he, Mallory, and the others had first reached this spot in their 1921 reconnaissance mission, the winds everywhere atop the Col, except on the ice shelf behind us that’s now dwindled so much, had been too strong for a man to stand in for more than a few seconds. To stand where Jean-Claude and I were walking now would have been certain death. This, I thought, is the difference between climbing to the North Col in that narrow window of time between winter and the onset of the monsoon, and climbing
The cramponed boot prints of the Deacon and his two Sherpas are quite clear in the snow, and we follow them up and further west beyond the ice shelf. Behind us, Reggie has got Babu Rita and the three other Sherpas in motion, although they are plodding slowly under their loads here at 23,000 feet. Should any of the Sherpas get ill at this altitude, the plan is to give them oxygen; otherwise, only the four of us high-climbers are to use oxygen at North Col altitudes.
For some reason, I’m not prepared for all the yawning crevasses up here on the North Col. It makes perfect sense that they should be here; the ice of the North Col keeps breaking off and dropping onto the East Rongbuk Glacier proper far below. But I guess—despite reading and rereading all the earlier expeditions’ accounts and listening to the Deacon talk about how we’d have to pick our way through crevasses atop the North Col—for some reason I’d expected the Col to be more of a smooth surface.
It’s not. I realize that we’re climbing again as I follow the three men’s boot prints along narrow ridges between deep crevasses, up and over one massive ice bridge that the Deacon’s just marked minutes before with red-flagged bamboo wands, around and through a series of giant tumbled seracs leading out to a broader, more crevasse-riddled rising slope, and finally to where we can see the Deacon, Nyima Tsering, and Tenzing Bothia setting up tents in the lee of some giant drifts and seracs near the south edge of the North Col, right below where the Col meets the rising ice and snow of the North Ridge spur.
My gaze keeps rising to the North Ridge and North Face of the mountain. I can clearly see the downward- tilting black granite slabs on both the ridge and face, some partially snow-covered, others glistening as if covered with ice. Most alpine climbers—myself included—dislike climbing on such downward-tilting rock slabs; it’s too much like attempting to climb slick, slippery, treacherous tiles on the steep roof slope of some Gothic church. Sometimes the slab tiles themselves will give way beneath you.
Because of the maze of crevasses, the route through them marked only with the few red-flagged bamboo wands, J.C. and I rope up with the three Sherpas and Reggie on a single line as we continue to plod uphill toward this new site for Camp IV.
When we come up to the Deacon and his two Sherpas, our guys dump their loads and collapse in the snow while those who’ve come before us finish their job of erecting one heavy Whymper tent and two lighter Meade tents. Still staying on the last of my oxygen, I empty my own rucksack of the one 10-pound Meade tent and three sleeping bags I’ve hauled up with me today.
We’ve brought lots of water, thermoses with warm drinks, and some light food stocks with us—mostly chocolate, raisins, and other high-energy snacks—but most of our load carrying today has centered on bringing the tents and sleeping bags needed for Camp IV and, with luck, Camp V. One of the Sherpas has brought up a Primus stove—for serious cooking—but each campsite has been under orders, after J.C.’s and my near debacle at Camp III, also to have at least two spirit stoves and, more important, multiple Unna cookers with their Meta solid fuel to burn. The Deacon isn’t taking the chance of other advanced camps not being able to melt snow for drinking water, tea (however tepid at these altitudes), and soup.
Reggie, after telling her Sherpas what to set up where, is standing next to the Deacon and looking rather dubiously at the giant seracs that hide the view of the North Ridge from us here. “Are you sure that this will block the worst of the wind?” she asks.
The Deacon shrugs. There’s a glint of real joy in his eyes that I’ve noticed on the Matterhorn and elsewhere when he’s enjoying climbing to a soul-deep extent. “In ’twenty-one and ’twenty-two, we always noticed less wind in the lee of large seracs here on the west end of the North Col,” he says. His oxygen mask is dangling unused on his chest. “And Teddy Norton told me that other than the ice shelf, this would have been his choice as a site for Camp Four last year.”
Reggie does not look totally convinced. I remind myself that she and Pasang were kept prisoner here on the North Col for a miserable, windy week, waiting at every moment for their tent—the green canvas rags and broken poles I’d noticed back on the shelf—to blow over the edge of the Col. The North Col has to be a source of anxiety to her.
“It will be convenient for climbing to the North Ridge,” she says at last. “And better for anyone descending late from Camp Five or higher than the old ice shelf camp was…too many crevasses to avoid in the dark.”
The Deacon nods. Reggie gives more instructions to the Sherpas in both English and Nepalese. She wants the openings of the tents to face toward the great sunrise-reflecting bulk of Changtse to the north.
As the Sherpas finish their work, the four of us find something to sit on. J.C. and the Deacon are sitting on rolled-up sleeping bags, eating chocolate and staring westward above the seracs to the visible sections of the North Ridge. I join them.
“Any further today?” I ask.
The Deacon shakes his head. “This is a good day’s work. We’ll go back to Camp Two, get a good night’s sleep, and try to get at least three ropes of Sherpas up here tomorrow with food and other supplies, including for the high camps. Hope the weather holds for the next three days.”
“You’re thinking of a summit bid for day after tomorrow?” Jean-Claude says to the Deacon. This would be four days earlier than our original May 17 goal.
He smiles but does not reply.
It is Reggie who speaks. Her voice is determined. “You forget, we have to look for Bromley.”
“I did not forget,
Into the moment of somewhat awkward silence that follows, I say, “What about the crevasses up here on the North Col? Shouldn’t we check them out for…for…Bromley?”
“Kami Chiring reported seeing three figures far up on the North East Ridge,” says Reggie. “Then only one figure. I suspect we shall have to go that far before seeing any possible sign of my lost cousin. I know that there was no sign of anything between here and Mallory’s Camp Five last August. Also, Pasang and I lowered lanterns into all the crevasses that were here last summer. Nothing. Obviously we do not need to search new crevasses.”
“So all we have to do today,” I say, “is finish our lunch, finish setting up Camp Four, and head downhill for a good night’s sleep at Camp Two.”
“That’s all,” says the Deacon, and I’m not surprised at the slight tone of irony in his voice.
The Deacon leads us down. The descent takes less than an hour and would have been even faster than that if the Sherpas could have rappelled down the way J.C. and I did for entire sections, testing the Miracle Rope. Above us at the westernmost reach of the North Col, we’d left six heavily anchored tents—two Whympers and four Meade tents—buttoned up and provisioned with sleeping bags, blankets, various types of cookers, Meta solid fuel, and kerosene cached outside.
Jean-Claude and I had volunteered to come down last so that we could test the rappel strength of the fixed
