The Everest Story by Tim Vicary. Part 11.
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By 9 a.m. Messner was at 7,360 metres. He was tired, and had to rest every thirty steps. Up here, the thin dry air had only one third as much oxygen as at sea level. His throat hurt, and for long moments he could think of nothing but breathing.
‘Still a bit more, you can do it,’ he told himself. ‘What you climb today, you won’t have to climb tomorrow.’
At last, at 7,800 metres, high up on the North Ridge, he decided to stop. The view from here was wonderful. Some of the highest mountains in the Himalayas were below him. And 1,300 metres below, he could see the tiny red dot of Nena’s tent.
He took a long, long time to put up his tent. Again and again, the wind almost blew it away. He held it down with his ski sticks and ice axe. Then he pushed his rucksack inside and crawled in after it. But he could not rest. To get water, he had to melt snow with his small stove. His throat hurt, but he had to make himself drink. He was not hungry, but he had to cook and make himself eat. And that night, a storm came up. The temperature fell to -20 degrees. Winds of over 80 kilometres per hour tried to blow the tent off the mountain.
Next morning the wind had fallen, but Messner felt terribly tired. For an hour he lay in his tent, half asleep, unable to move. Every small thing – making a drink, eating, putting on his boots – was hard work. He had to argue with himself.
‘You must go on,’ he told himself. Then, a minute later: ‘Why don’t I go down?’ But he knew the answer to that. ‘I wanted to make the climb. I still want to.’
He took the tent down and packed his rucksack. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. But as he set out, the clouds and wind came back. His legs were tired, and his 18 kilogram rucksack seemed heavier than before. Every fifteen steps now, he stopped to rest.
There was too much new snow on the ridge, so he moved down onto the rocky north face – the same way that Norton had gone, also without oxygen. The rocks sloped steeply like the roof on a church. It was very quiet, but Messner began to hear voices. ‘Is that somebody talking nearby?’ he wondered. ‘Is somebody there?… I believe I hear voices. Perhaps it is Mallory and Irvine!’
By 3 o’clock in the afternoon he was at 8,220 metres. He was too tired to go on any more. He could only take ten steps now before resting. He found a flat piece of snow above a large rock, and put up his tent there. He took a picture of the tent, then got inside his sleeping bag. Again, he had to melt snow to get water. And it was difficult to sleep. Even when he was resting in the tent, his heart was beating 100 times a minute.
Next morning he could see little – he was in the clouds. Should he go on, or wait, he wondered. No, he thought, he couldn’t wait. ‘It’s now or never. Either-or. I must either go up or go down. There is no other choice.’
He decided to leave the tent and rucksack behind. He put the camera in his pocket, picked up his ice axe, and set out. It was harder to climb without the ski sticks. He was afraid that he would fall, so he often climbed on hands and knees. As he climbed up to the ridge, it became steeper. Often, he dug his ice axe into the snow above his head, and lay on his face, resting.
For three hours he crawled slowly along the ridge. His dry throat felt like wood. ‘Where is the summit?’ he wondered. He could see almost nothing. Then, suddenly, the cloud cleared, and he could see right down to the glacier in the valley. He took a few photos, then the cloud came back.
‘Where is the summit?’ he wondered. ‘At most it can only be another ten metres up to the top!’ He crawled on, always upwards. Then, suddenly, there it was. The metal tripod, which the Chinese had fixed to the summit in 1975 – it was there in front of him! Messner had seen it before, in 1978; now he took hold of it, like an old friend.
He had done it! He was on top of the world, with nothing above him but sky. He sat down, like a stone. All he wanted to do was rest. But it was after 3 o’clock. He could not stay here in the dark. Slowly, he got up. He took a few photos. Then, at 4 o’clock, he turned to go.
‘I must get back down,’ he thought. ‘Half an hour too late means the end of me.’
On the way down he started coughing badly. When he reached the tent he lay in his sleeping bag like a dead man. But he could not sleep. He melted a little snow to drink, but ate nothing. Next morning, he left the tent where it was. Carrying the ski sticks and rucksack, he came down the mountain like a man walking in his sleep. Twice he slipped and fell. Each time, he turned on his face and dug his ice axe into the snow.
Then suddenly, on the glacier, he saw Nena standing in front of him. Resting on his ski sticks, he looked at her. Was she really there? Yes, she was.
‘Reinhold, how are you?’ she said. She ran towards him.
Messner fell to his knees. He was crying. Nena held him in her arms. ‘Everything’s OK, Reinhold,’ she said. ‘You are all right. The camp is over there.’
‘Where are all my friends?’ he asked.
‘I’m your friend. I’m here, Reinhold. Don’t worry, we’re going to our camp now.’
‘Yes, where is the camp actually?’ he asked.
‘Over there.’ She took his rucksack, and led him to the camp. Here, she gave him food and drink and let him sleep. All next day he lay in his sleeping bag without moving, while Nena watched over him.
Reinhold Messner had climbed the highest mountain in the world, all alone, with no oxygen. But the mountain had beaten him too. They both won this fight, the mountain and the man.