Free Dead Lucky by Lincoln Hall Page A

climbers have not lost as many fingers or toes.”
    For me, successful climbing is not a Faustian pact with the devil of cold. The two toes trimmed for me by frostbite twenty-eight years ago were badge of honor enough for me, and I had no desire to buy success with more amputations.
    Toughness was not yet apparent among the Russians, but they were proving to be pragmatic. Their approach to the language barrier was to ignore it. A week passed before I realized that one of our two Sergeys spoke good English (Sergey Kofanov had excellent English; Sergey Chistyakov had none), and that Maxim Onipchenko, our Base Camp manager, was also fluent. Igor Svergun was more forthcoming. I felt a bit foolish when I realized that not all the Russians were 7Summits-Club staff—five were mountaineers who were paying clients. Alex had introduced everyone to everyone back in Kathmandu, but with several dozen people in the one place it had been impossible to remember more than a few names.
    For the entire trip from Kathmandu to Base Camp, Alex and Ludmila (also known as Luda) sat in the seat in front of me, which gave us the opportunity to get to know each other.
    Early in the journey Alex turned to me and said, “I heard from Harry your experiences. You climbed to twenty-seven thousand feet the North Face?”
    â€œYes, in 1984, as part of an Australian team. We climbed a new route without oxygen.”
    â€œBut you turned back . . .”
    â€œI did. I wanted to stay alive. With only five hours to sunset, I was still above twenty-seven thousand feet. I calculated we would get to the summit at dark. That was just too risky for me, so I turned back.”
    â€œBecause of frostbite?”
    â€œIt’s so much colder without oxygen to warm you. I had frostbite before. My fingers recovered, my toes didn’t. But it was too easy for me to get frostbite again. Frostbite could kill me up there, if my hands could no longer hold my ice axe.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    I nodded. Twenty-eight years ago during my first Himalayan climb, the frostbite to my hands had made me so clumsy that the 2,500-foot descent to camp in the dark had put me an extra four hours behind my partner.
    â€œFor sure,” I replied. “Two of my friends reached the summit at sunset. Andy Henderson stopped one hundred and fifty feet short, already with frostbite. All three got to the tent at half past three in the morning. Andy’s hands were like claws. We had no rope. We had to send him down alone with nothing in his pack so he wouldn’t overbalance.
    â€œIf I was frostbitten as well, God knows what would have happened. Greg might have died because he had pushed himself too far. We were still above twenty-six and a half thousand feet, and I had to climb with him—right next to him—to keep him moving; otherwise he would have gone to sleep in the snow. I may not have been able to help him effectively if I’d had frostbite. It took the two of us an extra day to descend.”
    There was a pause as Alex constructed the scene in his mind. Then he summed up his thoughts and said, “It’s an honor to have you with us.”
    I laughed. “I don’t know about that. It was a long time ago.”
    WHEN WE ARRIVED at Tingri, there was a mood of anticipation, as the small settlement was famous for its view of both Mount Everest and Cho Oyu, the world’s sixth-highest peak. However, while Cho Oyu was obvious, Everest was forty miles to the southeast, with only its summit pyramid visible behind the foreground ranges. The sun was also against us, shining into our eyes and letting us see only Everest’s silhouette.
    Two days later, after acclimatizing near the small regional center of Shegar, everyone was expecting a much better view of the great peak from the crest of the Pang La pass. However, as our convoy headed south toward the ranges, the weather worsened. The final 3,000 feet of height was gained by almost