They could see how a quarter mile ahead the huge walls of the valley bottlenecked, and the glacier floor, compressed through the narrow, began to split into transverse creva.s.ses. Soon they were zigzagging, paralleling one creva.s.se until they came to a natural snow bridge, then reversing direction to the next crossing. Then they came to a wide chasm with no natural bridge, and here the lead climbers had rigged a ladder span. There were three sections bolted together-24 feet spanning a split in the ice maybe 200 feet deep -and even though there was a handline for balance that supposedly doubled as a safety rope, it was easy to figure that if you slipped and fell, the rope probably wouldn't stay secured with so much weight on it. Even if it held, you'd be hanging over the chasm like laundry on a line strung between high-rise buildings.

The Sherpas who had left camp 1 with d.i.c.k and Frank walked across first with hardly a change in stride. d.i.c.k went next. He had a length of nylon webbing tied to his harness with a carabiner snap link at its end which he clipped into the safety line. Then he stepped carefully, reminding himself to place his crampon spikes properly so they straddled the ladder rungs and he wouldn't skate off into s.p.a.ce.

He moved his next foot, and looked over: about 200 feet down the blue-white ice walls constricted to a black bottomless pit. He made another combination of steps and felt the ladder start to sway and decided he had better keep moving.

"You're halfway," Frank called, trying to sound encouraging despite his growing anxiety about his own attempt.

"This wouldn't be so bad if you didn't have a pack on," d.i.c.k called back.

Frank felt his own pack suddenly gain twenty pounds. d.i.c.k made another two steps and was on the other side.

"Okay, Pancho, your turn."

Frank timidly tested the first rung with his boot. He stepped back, studied the ladder for a moment, then said "This isn't going to look too dignified, but what the h.e.l.l." He then got down on all fours and crawled across.

"You've just got to know how to do these things," Frank said with a sly grin when he reached the other side.

They crossed two more big ladder sections and several smaller ones to gain the top of the bottleneck. The morning had been cool, but now they were in direct sun. "Let's take a break," Frank said. The Sherpas, always courteous, agreed to stop. One of them pointed up the Cwm to a spot on the Lhotse Face and said, "First team maybe two hours from South Col." Frank and d.i.c.k studied the huge ice slope and finally spotted five dots moving in a line.

"Gives you perspective on the size of this mountain," d.i.c.k said.

"And an idea how far we have to go," Frank added, removing his pack and setting it in the snow to use it as a seat. Both of them shed their nylon sh.e.l.l parkas. d.i.c.k smeared sunblock on his arms and face, and pa.s.sed the lotion to Frank. They were both perspiring.

d.i.c.k got out his water bottle to take a drink, and Frank noticed it was doctored with lemonade mix.

"d.i.c.k, how about a packet of lemonade mix for your buddy here?"

"Frank, I swear, all you think I am is a walking grocery shelf where you can get whatever you want, whenever you want."

"I forgot to bring any, d.i.c.k."

Shaking his head, d.i.c.k rummaged in his pack until he found his standby packet. Frank poured it in his bottle. They both sat quietly for a few minutes, feeling the lethargy seep in.

"You sure get lazy fast when you stop moving. Must be the alt.i.tude combined with the heat," Frank mused.

"We wait here any longer, we'll never be able to get up."

d.i.c.k groaned as he hefted his pack to his shoulders; it was turning into a long day since he had left from base camp early that morning, and he was feeling each of those fifty pounds on his back. Frank was feeling his pack too, and with ski poles as walking sticks and a rope between them in case one should fall in a hidden creva.s.se they slowly followed the tracks in the snow toward the back of the Western Cwm.

Now they could see for the first time the huge southwest face of Everest. There were evaporation clouds beginning to form over the summit, but they were too small to shield the sun and in the direct rays sweat dropped from their foreheads. They stripped to their long johns and would have removed these except they didn't dare risk baring skin to the intense ultraviolet rays at high alt.i.tude. They were now close to 21,000 feet.

Their pace slowed.

Small bamboo wands with orange tags marked the trail every 200-odd feet, and Frank played a game of picking a wand as a goal and convincing himself he could keep going until he reached it. When he got to it he would look for the next.

d.i.c.k, too, was reaching into his bag of tricks and he pulled out his favorite-Kipling's poem "If"-and started through the litany that worked so well to get his mind off his aching body.

"Let's take another break," Frank said.

They dropped their packs and pulled out their water bottles; both had only a few sips left. They felt like the caricature of the ragged man crawling through the desert dying of thirst, only this was a desert of ice. The Sherpas, stopped a few yards ahead, were pointing up the valley.

"Camp two tents, sahib."

"Where?"

"On rocks at end of snow."

"I still don't see them. Do you, d.i.c.k? Wait a minute. You mean those tiny colored dots way up there?"

"Lord have mercy," d.i.c.k said.

Frank looked back over to the Lhotse Face to see how the other dots were doing. The guys were closer to the South Col, and would be there in an hour or less.

"They're really small," Frank marveled, pointing to the Lhotse Face.

Again Frank considered how tiny the dots of the climbers were and how huge the mountain was.

He thought, If I'm having this much trouble down here, how can I ever make it that far? Maybe with oxygen ...

But Frank knew oxygen wasn't a magic elixir; at best it would make an apparent change in the alt.i.tude of a few thousand feet. No, there was no getting around it: if he was slow down here, he would be slow up there. Now he worried that he might hold up d.i.c.k if they were to go on the same summit team.

Frank thought, Maybe I should see if I could set up another team separate from d.i.c.k. That way d.i.c.k and his Sherpas could be the third summit team, and I could follow as a fourth team with my own group of Sherpas. And I wouldn't hold him back.

Frank made a mental note to talk about it with Ershler. But before he could talk to anybody he needed to get to camp.

"Guess we'd better keep moving," he said.

A half-hour later they stopped again and finished their water. It was 2:00, and it felt as though the sun was at maximum strength. If someone had told them in advance they would suffer possible heat prostration at 21,000 feet on Everest they would have laughed. The Sherpas had now gone ahead to dump their loads and get back to camp 1.

d.i.c.k thought, Man alive, this is about as tired as I've ever been on a climb.

It was as though he had been drugged, as though some kind of unnatural lethargy had polluted his body so that it was nearly impossible to take another step.

d.i.c.k knew he had to mine deep into his inner resources. He recited a few more lines from "If," but it was no good. His mind drifted, and he felt his strength start to go. He could see the tents ahead-they weren't really that far-and then he imagined he could see something else, actually not something something but but someone, someone, right in front of him. He smiled: it was Marty Hoey. right in front of him. He smiled: it was Marty Hoey.

This was a game d.i.c.k had learned recently, a game his mind tended to play whenever he really needed to find inner strength, whenever he really needed to get his mind off his aching body. It had happened a few months before on Aconcagua, just below the summit. He had decided it must have been a combination of fatigue and lack of oxygen, but as he neared the top and had to find the strength to keep going Marty had appeared right in front of him, and he just started following her, just like he used to when she was alive. She could goad him by sheer example into pushing himself to the top of anything.

And now that he needed her again, there she was. d.i.c.k just made one step after another, following in her bootmarks, keeping her step-step-step pace. She glanced back at him and smiled. d.i.c.k felt good, almost good enough to keep going indefinitely.

"Thought you two might appreciate someone to carry your packs the last hundred yards."

Startled, d.i.c.k looked up. It was Gary Neptune and Jim States, coming to give them a hand into camp.

"Why howdy to you all, and thanks a million," d.i.c.k said, shaking their hands.

d.i.c.k took off his pack and handed it to Neptune, and Frank gave his to States. In a few minutes they were on the edge of camp 2. And there was that Sherpa cookboy, once again carrying that tray with two cups of steaming tea, and even though Frank and d.i.c.k were still a little overheated they accepted the cup with a smile and a warm regard for the graciousness of this young kid.

9.

EVEREST: LIVE FROM THE TOP.

Asharp crack from somewhere deep in the ice brought me quickly awake. My tent shuddered, and with ear close to the ice I heard the rifle report sound down the deep creva.s.ses, like a hammer blow on a long steel beam, reminding me I was pitched on living ice that was growing, expanding, sometimes cracking.

Then it was quiet. I burrowed in my bag, my eyes open. I could see with gray vagueness the gear around me-boots, climbing equipment, ca.s.sette recorder, journal, notebook. I realized it must be nearing dawn. I looked at my watch: 5:30 A.M., May 7.

I thought, Today's the big day. The summit team should already be on their way, weather permitting.

I unzipped the tent door and peeked out. No wind, clear sky, perfect day for climbing Everest. I found the walkie-talkie, turned it on and placed it in my bag between my legs to warm the batteries. It was probably too early for a call but the previous evening I had told Breashears I would monitor beginning at dawn. At that time Breashears had reported everyone at camp 4, the South Col, was getting to bed early, confident of a predawn start. He added that he was planning to climb with the team a short way above the Col to test the microwave and give final instructions before handing the camera gear off to the others as they continued, we hoped, to the summit.

I dozed again until I heard the Sherpa cookboy outside my tent. "Good morning, sahib. Would you like tea?" I opened the flap and handed out my metal cup and he filled it with steaming milk tea. I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup wondering what those guys up there would give this moment for such luxury.

I dressed and walked to the mess tent. Ershler was there, and Frank came a moment later. "Still no word," I said.

"Let's try to call them," Ershler suggested. I tried the walkie-talkie again but had no luck.

"They're busy climbing," Ershler said. "I'm sure they'll call when they take a rest break."

Now d.i.c.k and the others arrived, and we waited. By 9:00 clouds rose in scattered puffs around the Lhotse Face, and we crossed our fingers the weather would hold long enough for them to reach the top and get back down. About 9:30 the radio crackled.

"Breashears calling camp two. Does anybody copy?"

"Dave, this is camp two. Where are you?"

"About 27,000," Breashears said, breathing hard.

"Where are the others?"

"Right here. We're taking a break. Everything's fine. We're making good progress. It's a nice day although some clouds are starting to build below. I've got the microwave transmitter and camera."

"Are you going higher?"

"I hope all the way. The camera's too heavy for Gerry and Peter, and Larry is going without oxygen. So the Sherpa and I are lugging it up. We've got to go now. I'll call from our next rest, and try to send some pictures."

A half hour later Larry Nielson called down, and I handed the walkie-talkie to Ershler.

"How you doing, Larry?"

"A little slow, but still keeping up. We're at a rest break, maybe 27,400. Dave's got his camera out to try this microwave thing. I need to reach the engineers at Everest View. h.e.l.lo Everest View. Anybody copy?"

"Got you loud and clear." It was the voice of the engineer at the receiving dish twenty miles away.

"The camera's on. See anything?"

"Point the microwave toward us. Yeah, there. It's coming in. Move it just a hair. Hold it. There. Incredible. You guys look great! Perfect pictures."

"There's the top of Lhotse," Nielson continued. "See it?"

"Yeah, perfect."

Breashears completed a panoramic shot, and turned the camera off. Nielson said they had to keep moving, and would call next stop. Down at camp 2 we waited patiently, watching the growing clouds obscure the South Col and the lower flanks of Everest. We estimated it would take them another three hours to reach the top. Would the weather hold? In a half hour the first snow flakes dusted our tents; soon they were falling thickly. We only hoped that the bad weather was local, that at higher elevations the sky was still clear. Another half hour and Breashears called.

"What's the weather at camp two?" he asked.

"Socked in," I said, "and snowing. What's it like up there?"

"Snowing. Not blowing hard, but we're concerned about visibility. We're going to sit here and think about it. We've got about three hours left on the route. Wouldn't want to be up here if things get real bad."

"We've got our fingers crossed. Camp two standing by."

In five minutes Breashears came back on. "Due to a downgrading of conditions, I'm turning back. The other four are continuing up. They're not taking the camera. I've got to go. Over and out."

The morning's elation suddenly drained, replaced by doubt and concern. We knew it was a tough decision for all of them: Breashears turning his back on a chance to reach the top, to make his microwave transmission, but deciding the weather wasn't worth the risk; the others deciding to take the risk, knowing there was a chance visibility would drop, possibly trapping them near the summit, where their chances of surviving a storm would be close to zero.

I knew why the summit climbers hadn't taken the camera with them. In questionable conditions, they didn't want to be slowed by any extra weight. To all of us on the film crew, it was a bitter disappointment. Without the summit footage, the show would be emasculated. I thought too of the ABC producer, John Wilc.o.x, sitting in Katmandu. He had $750,000 squeezed from his annual budget riding on that summit shot, and if he returned home without it he might as well go straight to the unemployment office.

Ershler had other things on his mind. He paced in the snow next to the mess tent. "Larry's really sticking his neck out," he said. "Without oxygen, he'll be much more susceptible to cold."

The snow continued at camp 2, sticking to the tent flies, sticking to our hair and jackets, seeming to weight us with a growing depression. Then the radio crackled.

"Breashears calling. Do you read?" His voice was excited.

"Yes, Dave. What's happening?"

"I was ... going down when ... weather improved." He was out of breath. "So I turned around ... I'm going back up ... heavy pack, all camera equipment ... going fast to catch up."

Everyone cheered. It was now 11:30, still early in the day. Another half hour and Breashears was on again. "We've reached the South Summit. The weather is still okay. Larry is a little behind, without oxygen. So is the Sherpa Ang Rita, also without oxygen. We have maybe one hour more to the summit. Call you from there."

At camp 2 the clouds began to break, and we could see the upper mountain. Although the climbers had been hidden from our view all morning behind the bulk of Everest, I knew that just beyond the South Summit was a short section where we might glimpse them, so we trained our camera with a 1,000-mm lens on the spot.

"I've got one! Just below the Hillary Step. There's another, and a third ... and the fourth."

Even through the telescope they were small figures, shimmering as they slowly climbed through the field of the lens. A minute later they disappeared, and we knew we wouldn't see them again until they were descending. But where was the fifth? Perhaps Nielson was still behind, going slowly without oxygen.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed, fifteen. We took turns on the telescope.

"I've got him. A blue parka-that's Nielson. Moving very, very slowly."

In a few minutes he too disappeared. A half hour pa.s.sed, then forty-five minutes. We knew they should be close.

"Calling camp two. Breashears here."

"Got you loud and clear, Dave."