The Edge Of Existence

Oxygen deprivation, exhaustion, tragedy, and a Spanish guitar. ERIK F. PETERSEN, stem cell scientist and founder of the Singapore-based Equator Adventure Company, recounts the joys and perils of a Himalayan expedition.

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Do you guys have a knife?” the expedition leader shouted over loud blasts of wind.
Looking into my rucksack I found only a lightweight, two-inch blade.

“Yes, I have one, do you want it now?” I yelled back.

“No, but keep it close, you may have to cut us out of these tents tonight,” he responded cheekily.

“Yeah, right,” I said, dangling the tiny knife in front of the laughing but nervous eyes of my two climbing partners.

Our camp was situated at the foot of the massive northwest slope of Cho Oyu, the sixth-highest mountain the world, and had been destroyed by an avalanche once before. Now as darkness fell it was again snowing heavily, creating an ominous slab just above us. Despite the looming danger, there was nowhere else to go, so all we could do was hope for the best and try to get some rest. I slipped the knife into the breast pocket of my down suit, making sure my buddies knew exactly where it was.


Music in the Wind, 7,000 Metres

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Challenges had frequently arrived after dark on this trip. As I readied myself for sleep, they played out in my memory. Weeks before, after our first trek above the great Tibetan plateau, the team had arrived at Cho Oyu’s Advanced Base Camp ( ABC) at 5,600 metres, only to learn that the Chinese Army had refused passage for the yak train carrying our equipment, leaving us to pass the night, quite unexpectedly, with only the gear on our backs.

Coincidently, all I had in my rucksack at the time was a Spanish guitar. This fact was not lost on expedition members, who were looking to me, an apprentice guide and the only leader in ABC, to help them through this rather awkward first night at high altitude. The mood got tense, and for a moment I feared they would mutiny and burn my beloved instrument for a bit of warmth. Instead, they huddled together as a team and listened as I struggled to play with semi-frozen fingers, until our gear arrived miraculously during the night.

On another occasion, many team members had to endure a harrowing escape at 3am from Camp 1, at an elevation of 6,400 metres, as tents disintegrated under hurricane-force winds. While no one in this brave group sustained any perceptible injuries, whole bags of gear were blown down a huge glacier, nearly disappearing into a deep crevasse.

Severe wind struck again in a rebuilt Camp 1, and we had to fight all night to prevent another rout. Although no tents were destroyed this time, several team members were forced back to ABC, too traumatised ever to return.

The windstorms had eventually paused, allowing remaining members to climb to 7,000 metres, through the most technically challenging portion of the expedition. Fortunately, my two excellent partners and I had managed this section without incident, and were now spending our second night in Camp 2. We had a common goal to summit without the use of supplemental oxygen and were watching each other carefully for signs of altitude sickness. Pulmonary edema (an accumulation of fluid in the lungs) had already struck one team member in ABC. Two others had been evacuated from Camp 2 after exhibiting signs of cerebral edema (fluid in the brain).

To prevent such problems, we descended to ABC for two additional nights of acclimatisation, prior to a summit bid. In the meantime we took nothing for granted, continuously monitoring each other for signs of trouble, such as incoherent speech or difficulty melting snow. Eventually, despite fears of another avalanche, plus the nerve-wracking commotion of yet another windstorm, I succumbed to the fatigue of high altitude as if drawn down an enormous waterfall.

 

 

Toilet Training, 5,600 Metres

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The slab above Camp 2 held fast, allowing me and my partners to dash safely down to ABC. Once there we lived it up with pizza, beer and hot showers. It had seemed from the moment I first arrived, with only the guitar on my back, that every action had been laboured. Over a period of four weeks, we had climbed the mountain multiple times, returning after each foray to higher altitudes to recover at ABC. While even rudimentary tasks can be challenging at high altitude, it was particularly humbling to gasp for breath while simply trying answer nature’s call. I had slept well throughout the trip, and never lost my ravenous appetite, but it wasn’t until I effortlessly conquered the scramble up to the toilet above ABC that I knew I was ready for a summit bid.


Halfway Home, 8,200 Metres

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Leaving ABC, we drifted among gigantic frozen stalagmites pushing up towards the Nangpa La, a treacherous pass into Nepal, and ascended “Horrible Hill”, a wickedly steep talus slope. Rather than wind, vicious solar radiation threatened us on the icy, lens-shaped plateau of Camp 1.

Escaping the inferno, we climbed on fixed ropes up ice cliffs to Camp 2, where we resumed the never-ending task of melting snow. While we rested, climbers appeared like phantoms out of the dark and collapsed into our tents, too exhausted to find their own camp. Our own teammates arrived as well, dangerously dehydrated after reaching the summit, then stopping to rescue a stricken climber on their descent.

We awoke to the disturbing news that a Canadian gentleman had fallen from Camp 3 and died tragically near our tent. Despite this sobering fact, and with only one day left on the expedition, we set out to climb the avalanche slab. I was brought to clear focus soon after, when an orange oxygen cylinder, dropped from high above, accelerated like a missile past my head. Once within Camp 3, an airy nest at 7,500 metres, we navigated past piles of trash and settled in to watch the sun drop into the clouds.

At 4am, we donned headlamps and raced the sun towards the summit. During our charge, we overcame a strangely illuminated vertical chimney of rock, crested innumerable false summits and stopped only to warm ourselves in the morning light.

In reaching the top, it felt like I was approaching the very edge of my existence. And while gazing at the top of Mount Everest, glistening 600 metres above, I was reminded that we were really only halfway home. Many climbers have been lost descending from the highest point on earth, and I vowed to take heed on my descent from the sixth-highest.

After safely down-climbing to Camp 3, we received news that a talented young Slovenian climber, and a generous friend to our expedition, had suffered a fatal fall while descending the ice cliffs below Camp 2. Only one day before, I had congratulated him for reaching the summit without supplemental oxygen. I was deeply saddened by the news.


The Hangover, 0 Metres

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Although I could hear waves crashing on the beach, my mind held a crystal clear vision of ABC. Where was I? It finally dawned on me that rather than waking in a frozen tent, this was instead a rather sweaty mosquito net – in Bali, Indonesia, a world away from the mountain. Although I had returned safely to sea level, several climbers had become critically ill on Cho Oyu, two others had suffered fatal falls, and two more had disappeared near the summit. I missed my teammates badly and held a tragic sense of loss for those who would never make it back home. Grabbing my board, I paddled into the surf, squinting humbly into the morning light.

 

 

Eric is hosting a “Himalaya night” at The Pantry on 29 August. He will be showing Thick ’n Thin, the video of his adventure. There will also be a lamb on the spit. Tickets: $40. Drinks available. A portion of the proceeds from the event will benefit the Mount Everest Foundation for Sustainable Development (MEF/NEPAL). Visit www.mountainfund.org/online.

 

For bookings, send email to erik@equatoradventures.com or call The Pantry at (+65) 6474 0441.