are spread out between Camps I and IV, with the carefully planned schedule of alternating Sherpa carries now shot to hell.
I know that every Everest expedition so far—all three of them—has run into this same problem, no matter how careful the planning or how large the number of porters, but that’s little solace to us now as we huddle in this flapping Whymper tent at 23,500 feet.
“I’ll take Tenzing down,” says Jean-Claude. “And I’ll take Tejbir Norgay with me.”
“Tejbir’s feeling all right,” says Reggie. “Just tired.”
“But he can help me with Tenzing on the ropes,” says J.C. “And the two of us can help him down to Camp Two or One if we have to go that far.”
The Deacon thinks a moment and nods. “If we all go down now, we’ll be bumping six Sherpas out of the tents at Camp Three.”
“We’ll only have three of your jumars left for descending or ascending fixed ropes if we have to follow you or fix ropes higher,” I say. My mind feels like it’s been wrapped in fuzzy wool.
“I still know how to rig a friction knot,” says Reggie.
I want to slap my forehead. How quickly we get addicted to new devices. A friction knot on the fixed ropes is probably safer during descent than the mechanical doohickey that J.C. has built. Not as convenient, but surefire.
“Well, the three of us—Jake, Lady Bromley-Montfort, and I—still have to decide how long we should stay up here,” says the Deacon through iced whiskers. “We’re using the oxygen tanks for sleep and to help us when we feel seedy at night, but it’s a losing game just to stay here using up the English air. It’ll just mean more O-two rigs will have to be portered up for our real work at Camps Five and Six…not to mention any chance at a summit bid or for a sustained search for Lord Percival and Meyer…and we have only so many in reserve. Any thoughts about what we three do next?”
I’m actively surprised that the Deacon is putting this to a vote, or seeming to. Both his military background and personality usually lead him to take charge in any situation. And in Darjeeling we’d all agreed—even Reggie— that he’d be in charge when it came to the climbing part of the expedition.
Into the brief silence Jean-Claude says, “I think I can get Tenzing as low as he needs to be today and still climb back up here to Camp Four before nightfall. I can also relay orders to Pasang and everyone else as to who carries what up in relays as soon as the weather clears a little.”
“You can do all that descending and re-climbing,” says Reggie, “in this blizzard? In this wind? In this cold?”
Jean-Claude shrugs. “I believe so. I’ve done similar trips in similar weather in the Alps…and without the fixed ropes that we have in place now on both the ice wall and glacier. I’ll get new batteries for my Welsh miner’s lamp for the last part up here in the dark.”
“All right,” says the Deacon. “I suggest we follow Jean-Claude’s plan, get Tenzing as low as he needs to be today, move Tejbir down so we have some extra space for the next group of Sherpas carrying from here to Camp Five. But only for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours—the four of us shouldn’t stay here longer than that. What do you all think?”
Again I’m surprised he’s putting it to a vote. I tell myself that it shows how much the Deacon respects our opinion.
“I agree,” says Reggie. “It’s Saturday morning. If this wind and snow haven’t disappeared or died down sufficiently by Monday morning, I vote we all go down—at least as low as Camp Two. The Sherpas can just damned well make room for us or go down to Base Camp.”
“Tomorrow, Sunday, is the seventeenth of May,” Jean-Claude says in a small voice.
The Deacon only stares at him.
“The day you designated as our summit day,
The Deacon’s only response is to run his bare hand through his wet beard. Much of the ice has remained there, but some has melted.
J.C. begins pulling on his outer layers. “I’ll go get Tenzing and Tejbir and start down now. Reggie, it’s your choice, but I suggest that you move into the Whymper here until we get more people back up the mountain to the Col. Every little bit of body heat helps the cause. When I get back, it will be four of us here. The Sherpas I bring can have the other tent.”
“I agree,” she says. “I’ll go get my things and let Tenzing and Tejbir know they’re going with you, Jean- Claude. I’ll be back in a minute and…oh…I’m bringing a book to read…Dickens’s
The Deacon only smiles ruefully and scratches at his wet beard.
I awaken the next morning at 3:30 a.m. to the tripping of the little brass watch hammer vibrating over my heart. Immediately I become aware that there’s something missing…something wrong.
The wind has died away. Not a sound except the rasp of the others breathing. The tent walls are lined with the frost from our breath, but those walls aren’t moving. The air is very, very cold. I listen harder but can hear neither wind nor the previously constant background noise of blowing snow hitting canvas.
I pull on my boots and down jacket as quietly as I can, slither out of my bag, and try to slip out the door without waking anyone. Jean-Claude had returned after dark, at almost ten p.m. He reported that he’d delivered Tenzing to four Sherpas at Camp II to be brought down to Base Camp with no difficulty, and then he drank nearly two full thermoses of water we’d set aside for him and fell asleep almost before he was in his bag.
Outside, I stretch and take a few careful steps away from the snow-heaped tents. Too many steps and I’ll be in crevasse territory or near the edge of the Col. When I’m sure I’m on safe ground, I pause and look down and up and around.
What an incredible sight.
The moon is waning somewhere between half and quarter full, but there’s enough light from that bright sliver and from the full sky of stars to make the snow slopes and summit of Changtse behind me and Everest above me glow white and bright as if generating their own cold lunar radiance. To the north, below the Col, heavy moonlit cloud masses churn in the milky light, surging as thick as overflowing cream to within 200 or 300 feet of the top of the North Col. Camp III and everything below is socked in—as I would later hear my biplane-pilot friends use the term—but the sky up here is bright with stars and the moon. Farther to the north, rising out of the clouds like the finned spine of some great glowing saurian thing, I can see a procession of snow-topped 8,000-meter peaks marching deep into Tibet, perhaps into China.
“An impressive view, isn’t it?”
I just about jump off the Col at the sound of the soft voice behind me. The Deacon’s been standing there all this time.
“How long have you been up?” I whisper.
“A while.”
“Is that the monsoon piling up down there?”
The Deacon-shadow shakes its head. “Remember, the monsoon comes from the west and south. That’s just the storm from the north that’s been bothering us. There’s a lot of weather from the north until about ten days to a week before the monsoon arrives from the west. That week or so is the best climbing weather of the year for Everest.”
He pours something from a thermos and hands me the cup. I drink it greedily: tepid Ovaltine.
“Do you think we’re in that window of good weather?” I whisper.
“Hard to tell, Jake. But I think we should push on to Camp Five today.”
I sip my drink and nod. “Shall I wake the others?”
“No, let them sleep,” whispers the Deacon. “Jean-Claude’s worn out. I notice that Reggie’s not sleeping well…had to use the oxygen repeatedly. I’ll make breakfast for you climbers starting in an hour. You can sleep until five or so.”
“‘You climbers’?” I repeat. “Aren’t you climbing to Camp Five today?”
“I don’t think so.” He’s speaking to me, but his eyes are constantly scanning the moonlit North Ridge, the North East Ridge, and the summit of Everest. “With luck, the two Meade tents that we positioned there will still be up there waiting for you. You and Reggie and Jean-Claude can settle in and prepare for the search for Bromley. I think to do a search in the right way, we’ll also have to have a Camp Six as close to twenty-seven thousand feet as
