A Day to Die For: 1996: Everest's Worst Disaster - One Survivor's Personal Journey to Uncover the Truth by Graham Ratcliffe Read Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Ratcliffe
Gauri Shankar Hotel in Kathmandu in one week’s time, on Saturday, 27 May.’
‘What about work?’ Catherine asked.
She must have sensed how I felt about that because she paused.
‘Who gives a stuff about what work thinks? This is once in a lifetime. This is not up for negotiation,’ were my instant thoughts. Luckily I didn’t have to spell it out.
‘OK, I’ll sort that out,’ was the next thing Catherine said. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’
‘Remember, Biman Airlines. They’ll do you the best deal on a flight and will almost certainly have spare seats at short notice. Look forward to seeing you on Saturday,’ were my parting words.
The gentleman in the communications tent exuded a glorious smile. These were the calls that made his position worthwhile: the pleasure of witnessing people break such unique news to their families.
Calls from satellite telephones in those days were expensive, as was the equipment. The briefest of conversations had cost me $45. It was worth every penny, and a lot more.
Henry’s philosophy with regard to his climbers once they’d either summited or had decided to make no further attempt was that from then on they became little more than a drain on resources. This was not an uncaring attitude, rather a practical one. Henry was not there to hold people’s hands; he found those who expected constant attention irritating. He preferred those with a degree of independence. My equipment would be taken back to Kathmandu for me when the expedition finally broke camp. Meanwhile, it was up to me to sort out my personal transport arrangements.
I rose early the next day to find the American expedition pulling down the remainder of their tents. They were preparing for an imminent departure. Pre-arranged trucks and Land Cruisers had gathered nearby. These were being loaded with several tons of equipment. Spotting an opportunity for a lift across the Tibetan Plateau into Nepal and on to Kathmandu, I approached Paul Pfau. I enquired if there might be any chance of hitching a ride. I was told to pack my things and stand by. He wasn’t sure but was hopeful that there might be space. One by one, these four-wheel-drive vehicles departed. Each of their available seats was filled by an awaiting climber. Then came the call: ‘OK, Graham, we can fit you in.’
All I had time for was a hurried goodbye to our Base Camp Sherpas. Eagerly I dragged my rucksack and holdall across to the nearby truck to be loaded. With a renewed liveliness, I clambered into the rear of their last Land Cruiser to begin my journey home.
Soon Base Camp began to fade into the distance. Clouds of dust were thrown up in our wake as the convoy made its way along the dirt road. Laughter, the talk of modern comforts and our recent climbs occupied the conversation.
I was fascinated to find out that amongst their number was the grandson of George Leigh Mallory of 1924 fame. He’d also been named George Mallory and had reached the summit of Everest three days before me. His family had long since moved from his grandfather’s beloved England and now resided in the southern hemisphere. He’d signed up with this American expedition to enable him to tread in his grandfather’s footsteps.
It was not lost on me, this bizarre situation. There I was being transported across Tibet, the landscape looking more or less the same as it did in 1924, save a few minor additions such as the dirt road. Sitting next to me was a pleasant young gentleman by the name of George Mallory. I was discussing with him the condition of the route we’d both climbed and our respective times from the top camp to the summit. The latter I found particularly amusing. George had been half an hour quicker than me. Particularly apt, I thought, given his lineage and the legendary name he bore.
Reaching the top of the Pang La Pass, we stopped to look back. The view of Everest dominated the skyline. Swathes of Himalayan summits occupied the entire length of the
‘What about work?’ Catherine asked.
She must have sensed how I felt about that because she paused.
‘Who gives a stuff about what work thinks? This is once in a lifetime. This is not up for negotiation,’ were my instant thoughts. Luckily I didn’t have to spell it out.
‘OK, I’ll sort that out,’ was the next thing Catherine said. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’
‘Remember, Biman Airlines. They’ll do you the best deal on a flight and will almost certainly have spare seats at short notice. Look forward to seeing you on Saturday,’ were my parting words.
The gentleman in the communications tent exuded a glorious smile. These were the calls that made his position worthwhile: the pleasure of witnessing people break such unique news to their families.
Calls from satellite telephones in those days were expensive, as was the equipment. The briefest of conversations had cost me $45. It was worth every penny, and a lot more.
Henry’s philosophy with regard to his climbers once they’d either summited or had decided to make no further attempt was that from then on they became little more than a drain on resources. This was not an uncaring attitude, rather a practical one. Henry was not there to hold people’s hands; he found those who expected constant attention irritating. He preferred those with a degree of independence. My equipment would be taken back to Kathmandu for me when the expedition finally broke camp. Meanwhile, it was up to me to sort out my personal transport arrangements.
I rose early the next day to find the American expedition pulling down the remainder of their tents. They were preparing for an imminent departure. Pre-arranged trucks and Land Cruisers had gathered nearby. These were being loaded with several tons of equipment. Spotting an opportunity for a lift across the Tibetan Plateau into Nepal and on to Kathmandu, I approached Paul Pfau. I enquired if there might be any chance of hitching a ride. I was told to pack my things and stand by. He wasn’t sure but was hopeful that there might be space. One by one, these four-wheel-drive vehicles departed. Each of their available seats was filled by an awaiting climber. Then came the call: ‘OK, Graham, we can fit you in.’
All I had time for was a hurried goodbye to our Base Camp Sherpas. Eagerly I dragged my rucksack and holdall across to the nearby truck to be loaded. With a renewed liveliness, I clambered into the rear of their last Land Cruiser to begin my journey home.
Soon Base Camp began to fade into the distance. Clouds of dust were thrown up in our wake as the convoy made its way along the dirt road. Laughter, the talk of modern comforts and our recent climbs occupied the conversation.
I was fascinated to find out that amongst their number was the grandson of George Leigh Mallory of 1924 fame. He’d also been named George Mallory and had reached the summit of Everest three days before me. His family had long since moved from his grandfather’s beloved England and now resided in the southern hemisphere. He’d signed up with this American expedition to enable him to tread in his grandfather’s footsteps.
It was not lost on me, this bizarre situation. There I was being transported across Tibet, the landscape looking more or less the same as it did in 1924, save a few minor additions such as the dirt road. Sitting next to me was a pleasant young gentleman by the name of George Mallory. I was discussing with him the condition of the route we’d both climbed and our respective times from the top camp to the summit. The latter I found particularly amusing. George had been half an hour quicker than me. Particularly apt, I thought, given his lineage and the legendary name he bore.
Reaching the top of the Pang La Pass, we stopped to look back. The view of Everest dominated the skyline. Swathes of Himalayan summits occupied the entire length of the
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