The Abominable: A Novel

To our left, the east, the ridgeline blocks some of the wind, but there is nothing on that side of the ridge other than very steep and very exposed slopes, snow couloirs that end abruptly in 5,000-foot drops to the main Rongbuk Glacier, the couloirs dappled with a giant jumble-maze of tilted rock in which a climber could quickly get lost, especially in bad conditions.

The Deacon and Mallory in ’22 and Mallory in ’24 had been worried about descending climbers taking a wrong turn into one of these dead-end, sheer-drop couloirs, and for that reason, Reggie and I are carrying more red-flagged bamboo wands this morning, embedding them deep along the main route wherever someone descending in a snowstorm might be tempted to take a wrong turn toward eternity.

We continue climbing toward the sunlight, our Crooke’s glass goggles still up on our leather-covered foreheads. The summit of Everest has been glowing gold since not long after we moved from snow to rock on the North Ridge, and now the tips of Changtse, Makalu, Chomolonzo, and other nearby high peaks blaze with light even while snowy summits far to our north also begin to welcome the morning. I’m eager for the band of morning light to reach our lower altitude along the ridge because it’s just so damned cold; even with all the new down clothing and felt-layered boots, only near-constant motion fights off the body’s insistence on losing core heat at this altitude, and near-constant movement is all but impossible.

The Deacon has demonstrated for all of us his and Mallory’s high-altitude trick of taking a deep breath— inhaling deeper and for a longer time than seems natural—then taking a step, exhaling while you pause, then inhaling deeply for the next step. But since both Reggie and I are using oxygen at the lower flow rate of 1.5 liters per minute, we can’t do this as dramatically as the Deacon has demonstrated for us. The regulators won’t allow it. Still, early on, Reggie and I loosen our masks long enough to try to make a full twenty paces before stopping completely to wheeze and gasp, but the best we’ve been able to do—on snow or these rock slabs—is thirteen short paces. And our pausing-to-breathe stops are growing longer and more frequent with every 100 feet of altitude we gain.

I keep looking down and around, rather than watching my feet as I should. I can’t help it. I’ve always loved the views from anywhere high, and nothing in my experience—nothing in my short life—has come close to this view from the North Shoulder of Everest as we approach 25,000 feet. The East Rongbuk Glacier valley, which holds our Camps I through III behind us, is still filled with heavy gray clouds that broil and roil and tumble over each other in the lower storm’s unsuccessful attempt to haul its heavy moisture-filled mass as high as the North Col. The air is so clear up here above those clouds that peaks 50 miles away look like they’re almost within reaching distance below and behind us. When I lean far over, I can see Camp IV on the North Col through the V of my down-covered and duck-canvased legs, the green tents already mere dark specks on the white snow saddle.

At the Deacon’s and J.C.’s urging, Reggie and I are doing this entire climb—including all the steep hiking up these interminable rock slabs—while wearing our 12-point crampons. At first I felt nervous climbing on rock with crampons rather than having solid boot soles beneath me—and the danger of catching the front points and tripping is always there if you quit thinking about how to lift your feet at each step—but after two or three hours of ascending, I’m clearly seeing the advantage of staying in crampons. There’s as much real contact with the rock as there would be with hobnailed boots, but the transitions to patches of snow and ice are much easier; you can kick your toe points in and keep climbing at the same rate as on bare rocks. Also, few of these rocks are actually bare; despite the high winds, the snows have left a thin glaze of ice on most of them. The crampons cut through and into that ice in a secure way that no hobnails ever could.

We’re using our long ice axes, of course, and every thirteen steps both of us pause and bend almost double, leaning on the axes as we hungrily let the oxygen sets hiss air into our laboring lungs. We’re carrying three O₂ tanks each—planning to use only one each on our way to Camp V—but rather than climbing with the metal oxygen rigs, we’re using the special rucksacks that Jean-Claude has adapted. It took a few more minutes to get ready with the rucksacks—oxygen lines and regulator valves have to be slipped through strategically placed holes that then lace up tightly—but we’re carrying extra food, clothes, and several other items that would have been unwieldy crammed into gas mask holders dangling on our chest or from our shoulders. I certainly feel the weight of the three tanks and their associated valves, hoses, and gear, but the total, thanks to both Mr. Irvine’s and Monsieur Clairoux’s alterations, is still under 30 pounds even with our load of extra items. And that includes another 10-pound Meade two-man tent we’re each carrying segments of.

The sun reaches us. I realize that the Michelin Man figure next to me is gesturing for me to put on my goggles; hers are already in place. I hate to do it because the special glass distorts colors and makes me feel— along with the damned oxygen mask—locked away in a different world, like a man in a heavy, metal-helmeted diving suit. But she’s right. We’re on a long stretch of rising slabs and low rock pinnacles now, not a snowfield around, but that won’t save us from snow blindness at this altitude. The ultraviolet rays alone will blind you if you climb too long, even on dark rock. Under our top layer of Shackleton anoraks, Reggie and I are carrying undersized military binoculars. These aren’t usually necessary for climbing on Everest, but they may help in the search for her cousin Percival. She hasn’t brought her glasses out yet, and I’ve seen nothing on the North Face to my right to make me reach for mine. Once when we pause to break a piece of chocolate and try to melt it in our mouths, I ask her if she’s been looking.

“Both sides of the ridge,” she gasps around the chocolate. “But…remember…Pasang and I looked… carefully…up to…Camp Five…last August. No sign…then…either.”

I’d almost forgotten that this climb to Camp V, so novel for me, was old territory for Lady Bromley- Montfort.

When we’d asked the Deacon how long it would take us to reach Camp V from the North Col, he’d given us the almost laughably precise number of five hours and ten minutes. But as with all things Deaconish, he’s actually gone through the records of the men in ’22 and ’24, including himself, climbing between Camp IV and Camp V while using oxygen, and come up with that exact figure.

After five hours and twelve minutes of climbing, we see the two small tents of the Deacon-established new Camp V just a few dozen yards above us.

My first thought is You must be kidding.

This is the worst campsite I’ve ever seen. In truth, there’s no campsite here. There’s a slight broadening of the slope, and in an area partially protected from rockfall and the wind by a high rock ridge, the Deacon and Tenzing Bothia and Tejbir Norgay have moved a few rocks to create two absurdly tilted platforms smaller than the tents that are set on them.

And the two small Meade tents aren’t even at the same level. One is off to the right of our line of ascent, tilting on the edge of nothing, and the other is in an even more precarious position 30 or so feet higher and to the left. This second tent literally hangs out over nothing—5,000 feet of open air to the main Rongbuk Glacier. For a moment I think this is some sort of sick joke prepared by the Deacon and his two Sherpas. We can’t spend a night here, I think. This is fucking impossible.

But then I see why the Deacon’s chosen the places he did; the rock ridge is good protection for the lower tent, while the more exposed-looking higher one has a web of heavy rope lines wrapped around three large boulders set next to it. There is new snow piled up on the windward side of each green tent, but neither one has collapsed or blown away.

Still, I can’t believe that we’re going to trust our lives to, much less actually close our eyes for a moment of sleep on, the slab slope of either of these insanely positioned sites.

But scan the ridge and mountain face as I may through my thick goggles, I can find no other possible tent sites.

Reggie turns around and sits on one of the large down-tilting slabs next to the lower tent. She turns off her oxygen flow and pulls down her mask. I do the same. The effect of drowning—of not getting enough oxygen to draw a full breath—is immediate and panic inducing. But it passes.

In slow motion, like one of the undersea divers I’d been imagining earlier, Reggie unlaces the tent’s door— the opening is toward the rock wall and away from the steep drop—and bends over to peer in.

“Sleeping…bags…and…everything’s here just where…the Deacon…and the porters…left it,” she says between audible pants. “Unna cooker and…Meta bricks, too. But…lots of…spindrift. Inside the…sleeping bags…we may be wet.”

Shit. Well, we’ve brought our own bags. The sun is so bright now that, out of the