No Way Down_ Life And Death On K2 Part 5

One figure in the line was waving especially enthusiastically. He was wearing an oxygen mask and goggles and his face was partly covered by his hood. Hugues d'Aubarede took off his mask and wrapped his arms around Zerain.

"Alberto!"

"Bonjour, Hugues." But Zerain looked at d'Aubarede and thought that he would rather be seeing him in Base Camp already.

"How was it?" said d'Aubarede, speaking in French. He seemed tired, but excited.

"Be careful," Zerain said. "It is very bad."

He wanted to say more. Just a few words might have persuaded d'Aubarede to turn around. But the Frenchman's burly HAP hovered at his shoulder and Zerain did not want to interfere. The HAPs were being paid to get their climbers to the top.

He felt sorry for his friend because going down would be hard.

"Good luck, Hugues!" Zerain said.

"I will see you," said d'Aubarede, smiling.

Zerain pa.s.sed Cecilie Skog, who asked him how far it was to the summit. The first time Zerain had met Skog was three weeks earlier at Camp Two. It was soon after he had arrived on the mountain, while he had barely been able to speak because he was so tired after a day of climbing, Skog had marched into the camp, calling out greetings to her teammates. Her voice had seemed so happy. He had thought, This is a strong woman This is a strong woman.

Skog still looked full of energy, even now. But Zerain knew he had to answer her carefully since he might give her false hope or wrongly discourage her.

"With a good rhythm, it should take you no more than two hours," he said.

She grinned, seeming to take heart. She looked so beautiful in the sunlight.

After saying good-bye, Zerain climbed down in the direction of the Traverse. Up above him, the line of climbers was spreading out, still meandering on toward the summit.

He wanted to shout, "It's okay if you turn around!" He hoped none of them would become the latest name on the Gilkey Memorial, the monument at Base Camp to the people who had lost their lives on K2.

On the Traverse, he found the old rope and the screws that he had punched in still fixed to the ice. No one had replaced them after all.

About two-thirds of the way across toward the Bottleneck, six orange oxygen bottles dangled from one of the screws and Zerain wondered who could have left them there.

At last he reached Camp Four. Outside one of the tents, a single climber was sitting and brewing some tea. One of the Americans, he thought.

Although the tea looked tempting to Zerain, he wanted to push on down. He nodded at the other climber and waited for a moment, still hoping perhaps for an invitation because the tea looked so good. But the climber said nothing, so Zerain left the tents behind. He climbed down the steep ridge to Camp Three, where he had spent the previous night and where he found two of the Pakistani HAPs from the Serbian team and was glad to share their tent.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

5:30 p.m.

A head of Cecilie Skog, one of the South Koreans' Sherpas climbed up the final steep ridge and disappeared over the crest onto the summit. head of Cecilie Skog, one of the South Koreans' Sherpas climbed up the final steep ridge and disappeared over the crest onto the summit.

A few minutes later, Skog's lanky Norwegian colleague, Lars Flato Nessa, overtook four members of the South Korean team and followed the Sherpa onto the top. Alberto Zerain had told Skog the last stretch up the snowfields would take two hours and they had done it in two and a half. She was relieved.

Fifteen minutes later, she joined Nessa on top of the world. She relaxed in the warm sunshine.

"Congratulations, Cecilie," Nessa said. The fair-haired Norwegian was grinning.

"We have done it." Rolf would be pleased.

The day was so hot that Skog had gone without gloves and jacket since the Bottleneck. She was wearing the purple down ski pants that were a gift from Stein Peter Aasheim, a friend who was on the first Norwegian expedition to Everest in 1985.

After the breathless exertions of the ascent, the conditions on the top were perfect. There was no wind. Skog took off her woolen hat and concentrated on the peaks around her. This was the first time she and Nessa had been able to see the Chinese side of the mountain. The ranges of perfectly formed peaks surprised them. They could have been standing in the Alps. Above them, the sky still shone a brilliant blue but the heat of the day was gone and the air was cooling.

The summit ridge was crisscrossed by footprints. Proudly, Skog and Nessa took out the Norwegian flag and posed in front of Nessa's Sony Cyber-shot. Skog also held up an orange banner from her hometown soccer team, Alesund. Skog was a soccer fan and a decent player; she had spent eight months as an au pair in Britain, in Bromley in Kent, and she had played for the Millwall Lionesses, one of the country's women's teams.

They followed a few more rituals planned for this special moment. The Norwegians had left their clunky satellite phone behind in one of the lower camps-they joked it was the size of a shoe box; it was like something out of the 1980s-so they had no way to call to tell anyone of their triumph even if they had wanted to. They took out three plastic red roses that they had kept around Base Camp to make the tent look pretty. They also unpacked a special hat that Bae had given them to carry to the summit-a pink rabbit hat with long, floppy ears. Bae had carried it with him on his expeditions to the North and South Poles, and when he stopped after the Traverse he had asked Skog to take it with her. Now, Nessa pulled it over his head with a big smile as Skog took a picture.

This one is for Rolf.

They shot some video. Skog said she was glad to reach the summit but she felt exhausted and was eager to start the descent. She was not celebrating yet.

By now, the other members of the South Korean team were arriving and spreading across the summit. Earlier, while he had been waiting for Skog, Nessa had spoken to the South Koreans' Sherpa. The Sherpa introduced himself as Pasang; he looked like he was in his early twenties. There was another Pasang in the South Korean expedition so he was called Little Pasang.

Even though they had been on the mountain together for weeks, Nessa had never spoken to him before. They talked about the peaks around them and Little Pasang described the countryside in Nepal, and his family. They took photographs and Nessa shared some water with him.

Now, Skog and Go Mi-sun posed for a few shots side by side, two women together on the peak of K2, a mountain that at times in its history had been unkind to women. Of the first five women who had climbed K2, three had died on the descent, and the remaining two had died on other mountains shortly afterward. This was a moment Skog and Go wanted to celebrate.

The Koreans took photographs of themselves with their sponsor flags. They called their sponsor, Kolon Sport, in Korea and a press release was sent out to announce that Flying Jump had successfully made it to the top. They were going to wait for the slower climbers in their team, who were still coming up the summit snowfield; Skog said good-bye. The heat of the day was ending and the air was cooling. She wanted to get down to her husband.

On the way up the long snowfield from the Traverse, Wilco van Rooijen hadn't been sure he was going to make it. He was not using supplementary oxygen like the Koreans or Norwegians, so it was hard going at twenty-eight thousand feet. He felt emptied. Everything he had was gone.

All he could do was focus on the tracks in the deep snow in front of him and on going forward. Somewhere nearby he heard the high-pitched voice of the Sherpa from the American expedition, Chhiring Dorje, shouting out that they should hurry. Unless they wanted to be buried in a sea of snow.

"There is avalanches here sometimes," Dorje shouted.

Van Rooijen tried to speed up but it was hard. The route seemed to take them up one hill of deep snow after another. It wound to the left up a steep ridge. Almost there Almost there, he thought.

He leaned forward to see if any of the specks up ahead had reached the summit yet. The top, still hours away, was rounded against the deep blue sky.

After the ridge, he arrived at a steep climb, so steep he could no longer see the top of the mountain. As he got closer, he heard a voice encouraging him from somewhere out of his range of vision. He recognized it: Cecilie Skog. "Keep going."

His Dutch team members were spread out up the slope. He summoned what strength he had and followed behind them, taking ten steps, then resting, leaning on the shaft of his ice axe or on his knee in the snow, then starting again. Finally he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled.

And then at last he came over the top onto the summit and he staggered to his feet.

It was wonderful. Gazing around him, he could hardly believe it. Years of frustration had come to an end. Seven-thirty p.m. After seventeen hours of climbing.

"K2!"

Letting go of his backpack, he raised his arms in victory. Then he started to cry.

The whole Dutch team was standing in front of him. They rushed together in a group hug, dancing, a jumble of snowsuits and ski poles, framed by the white churned-up ridge of the summit and the blue dome of the sky. Van Rooijen, Van de Gevel, Gerard McDonnell, Pemba Gyalje.

It was late, but the joy of reaching the summit was on everyone's face. They had joined an elite club, the nearly three hundred mountaineers in the world who had now scaled K2. He and Van de Gevel were only the third and fourth Dutchmen to reach the top. Gerard McDonnell was the first Irishman. Pemba Gyalje and Chhiring Dorje were among the first Sherpas to have done it without the help of extra oxygen.

Cas van de Gevel spoke on the radio to Base Camp to let the rest of the team know the good news. They heard whoops and handclapping.

On the way up, Van Rooijen had kept his satellite phone switched off in the folds of his jacket to keep it warm and to preserve its charge. He knelt down now and took it out, and he called Maarten van Eck at the Dutch team's home base in Utrecht.

"Maarten, we are standing on Kaay Tooo!" he shouted. The news would be immediately relayed to the world via the Dutch team's website.

Van de Gevel filmed his friend and they panned the scenery with their HD camera. Talking to Base Camp, they learned that Dren Mandic had died. It was sad but they didn't let his death dull the mood for long. They couldn't get over how beautiful it was up on the summit.

Gerard McDonnell was especially fired up. He had removed his helmet and was also crying. The air was colder now but he took off his big climbing gloves and pulled an Irish flag from the pocket of his coat. He arched his back and unfurled the flag with two hands above his head.

He tried to call his family in Kilcornan but for some reason the satellite phone wouldn't work and he couldn't get through. But he spoke to his girlfriend, Annie, in Alaska. They talked just for a few moments. "I'm feeling great," he said. He was elated.

While McDonnell was celebrating, Van de Gevel strode across to congratulate Hugues d'Aubarede. "Very good that you did this at your age!" the Dutchman said to d'Aubarede. Despite running out of oxygen, the Frenchman had made it to the top and was taking photographs of the spectacular scenery.

He looked tired but he was happy.

"Yes, but I was using oxygen," said d'Aubarede. "So not so good as you, Cas."

After talking to Van de Gevel, d'Aubarede walked across the little ridge to greet Pemba Gyalje from the Dutch team. The two men had met at Base Camp when Gyalje helped him arrange some prayer flags around his tent. They had talked about Buddhism, and the political situations in Nepal and Tibet.

The Sherpa was well-traveled and knew the world; he had spent time in France, the Netherlands, Britain.

Before they had set off from Base Camp for the main summit ascent, Gyalje had warned d'Aubarede to take four oxygen bottles with him. But d'Aubarede had insisted two would be enough. The Sherpa didn't say anything now about the oxygen though he could see that d'Aubarede's tanks were empty.

Instead, the Frenchman handed the Sherpa his video camera. "Will you take a picture of me talking to my family?" he said.

While Gyalje filmed him, d'Aubarede took out his satellite phone and called his partner, Mine Dumas, in Lyon.

D'Aubarede had come to climbing relatively late in life. His infatuation had begun in 1972 when he glimpsed the summit of beautiful Kilimanjaro from an airplane window as he returned from Madagascar on military service. He had never forgotten it. Back in Lyon, he had gotten on with his life, marriage, two lovely daughters, and his job at the Audiens insurance company. His wife didn't really approve of climbing, so he rarely went to the mountains, even though Mont Blanc loomed just over the horizon. But in 1993, they divorced; a year later, at the age of forty-seven, he had traveled with Mine back to Kilimanjaro.

"The summit is so beautiful," he said now, shaking his head at the beauty of it all. "The scenery. I am so happy."

D'Aubarede had discovered he had an exceptional ability for high-alt.i.tude climbing. On May 17, 2004, he became only the fifty-sixth Frenchman to climb Everest. But his family didn't climb with him in the really tall mountains of the world, and Mine and his daughters worried about him during the time he spent away. One day, he might not return.

With the satellite phone pressed to his lips, he promised Mine this would be his last climb. "Next time, I will be near the sea with the family!"

He said he kissed her over the phone but she told him to save his breath and to return home to France quickly. His daughter, Constance, was getting married in September in Chamonix.

"I will call you when I get down," he said.

The sun's light was fading and the temperature was dropping. They spoke for a couple more minutes and then d'Aubarede telephoned the director of Audiens in Lyon, Patrick Bezier. In recent years, d'Aubarede's work had become a sideline, compared to his climbing, but he was featured in the company newsletter and his adventures were a favorite talking point among the clients. The company gave him time off from work for his mountaineering and helped sponsor his expeditions.

He reached an answering machine. "This is Hugues d'Aubarede," he said, speaking quietly into his phone. "It's minus twenty. I am at eight thousand, six hundred and eleven meters. I am very cold. I am very happy. Thank you."

When he had finished talking, he offered the phone to Gyalje, who was still standing beside him.

"Did you contact your wife from up here?" d'Aubarede said. "You have to do this, Pemba. Please. You can use my satphone."

But the Sherpa was serious and said they were already late. "It's time we climb down," he said.

"Yes, I agree, but we have reached the summit!"

When Gyalje still refused, d'Aubarede took back the camera and spent a few more minutes snapping more photographs.

One of the Sherpas did call home, however. Jumik Bhote, the lead Sherpa in the South Korean team, had left his cell phone with his partner in Kathmandu. He borrowed the Koreans' satellite phone to call her. When he got through, Dawa Sangmu told him she had had the baby, a boy.

Bhote closed his eyes and thanked her. I love you! Say h.e.l.lo to everyone. I will be back soon. I love you! Say h.e.l.lo to everyone. I will be back soon.

He was so happy. He was going to name his son after his own late father, Jen Jen.

After the celebrations, the expeditions packed up their gear for the descent-cameras, telephones, water bottles, flags. The radios and the satellite phones each weighed about a pound. Gerard McDonnell handed his phone to Pemba Gyalje to lighten his load.

Some of the teams had arrived later than the rest and some chose to spend longer than the others on the summit. By now there was a haze in the air, and it was clear evening was coming on. The sky was a deeper blue. In the valleys, some of the distant craggy peaks stuck up through mist like sharks' fins. c.u.mulus clouds lined up like trains on the horizon.

The teams gazed down toward Camp Four. It was a distant, alluring pinpoint, beyond the summit plateau, beyond the serac and the Bottleneck.

The two Norwegian climbers were the first to descend. Skog knew that Bae was waiting for her somewhere on the snowfield. She was impatient to share the good news with him. He had insisted on setting a deadline of being back at the Traverse and clipped onto the fixed ropes before nightfall. Once they were on the ropes, they would be fine. It was easy-they could just follow the lines back to Camp Four.

Since leaving the Traverse, Skog had been climbing without the aid of extra oxygen but she felt she needed some now. Nessa was carrying their only remaining cylinder, and he pulled the two pipes from his nose and pa.s.sed them back over his shoulder to her. In that fashion, one closely following behind the other, they climbed down over the eastern side of the summit ridge.

Directly in front of them, the late afternoon sun cast the shadow of the mountain over hundreds of miles of land. The shadow was stark and huge, a perfect triangle, and so long that it rose above the horizon.

The sight made them suddenly realize the size of the mountain. The second-tallest mountain on earth. The second-tallest mountain on earth. And they were at its very pinnacle. They waited for a moment and Nessa took a picture. And they were at its very pinnacle. They waited for a moment and Nessa took a picture.

At nearly 8 p.m., the Dutch team quit the summit. Everyone else had already left and it was empty.

They began what everyone knew would be one of the most dangerous parts of the climb-the descent. This was true on any mountain-the climbers were exhausted and the light was failing. On K2, this fact was ill.u.s.trated by a telling statistic: of the sixty-six people killed on K2 in the past seven decades, twenty-four died on the way down after having successfully reached the summit.

Now, it was late and the sun was already sinking fast below the horizon. Just as the Dutch team was leaving, however, they met Marco Confortola, the Italian, who was still on his way up. Confortola said he needed someone to take a few photographs of him on the top and he asked Cas van de Gevel to wait.

"You take my camera?" he said.

Urging Confortola to be quick, the Dutchman agreed to stay behind. Confortola removed his hat and goggles and knelt in the twilight in his black and green suit. He held his ski pole aloft above his head with two flags tied to it, the Italian and Pakistani. The evening was so dark that Van de Gevel had to use a flash to take the picture.

They took five photographs, and then Confortola switched on his satellite phone to call his main sponsor, Miro Fiordi, the president of Credito Valtellinese, a local Italian bank.

"I am at the top," he said. He couldn't say much more. "I have to go," he said. "It's late."