Free Bear Grylls by Bear Grylls Page B

scrambling over these vast boulders the size of trucks soon left us both anxious and tired. We knew this was how that porter had got lost only a week earlier.
    There was an entrancing quality to the surface of the glacier. Much of it was covered in loose snow and rocks, but in parts we could see far down into the depths – beneath us were hundreds
of feet of shimmering, glassy ice. On occasions the ground would groan as the glacier shifted below.
    At this stage in the season we expected to find Base Camp empty, save for a small group of our Sherpas sent by Kami, who were starting to prepare the ropes and other equipment. It was them that
we were hoping to meet. The majority of what we required for the climb, along with more clothing, would arrive by yak in ten days’ time. So at the moment we had nothing more than just basic
trekking equipment. I tucked my old chef’s trousers into my socks to keep the draught out, and pulled my tweed cap down tight to avoid losing it to Tibet.
    Everyone should permit themselves certain luxuries in life. Stan, for example, a very old friend, consistently made a point of stowing his pyjamas in his bergan on field exercises – to the
bewilderment of his sergeants. But for me, my pair of tatty old chef’s trousers and ultra-hairy Richard Hannay tweed cap filled my needs nicely. I think certain other climbers in due course
showed a slight distress at the British attire around Base Camp, but as I’d once heard said: ‘Beware: strength is often hidden in absurdity’; although in our case I’m not
sure that was entirely true, but it was worth a try!
    The wind began to get up over the glacier, and it got considerably colder. I wished now that I had some of my proper climbing clothes with me. I just wanted to reach the tents; it had been a
long few weeks for the two of us out here, and we were both desperate to get there and start settling in. An hour later, though, we were still floundering around in the glacier, and not appearing
to get much closer. We didn’t talk, but rather just numbly dreamt of the sanctuary we hoped Base Camp would offer.
    By the time we reached the tents it was blowing hard, and we were both cold and tired; but at last we had arrived. We went round to the flap of one of the tents, undid the zip, and peered in.
The dirty faces of four Sherpas broke into welcoming grins. They were sitting round a tiny stove, clutching steaming mugs of hot tea.
    ‘Why so late? We worried much. Come drink.’
    We looked at each other and smiled.
    We were now at 17,450 feet.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
LAST CALL

    ‘Well here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into.’
    Oliver Hardy to Stan Laurel
    DIARY, 12 MARCH:
    Mick has a throbbing headache, and I can hear him throwing up outside his tent. He has hardly spoken a word in the last twenty-four hours since arriving here, and seems to
     be suffering quite a bit from the altitude at Base Camp. I’m putting on a semi-brave face, but feel pretty crap myself. It’s all a bit worrying sitting here, and already feeling
     like this.
    Early reactions of the body of not having enough oxygen in the blood are headaches and lethargy. The latter is never normally a problem; but when I’ve got to be helped in just getting
     a simple tent erected, it makes me feel pretty pathetic. Especially as I collapse in it afterwards and then look out of the flap, up to the vast mountain of Nuptse above, knowing that she hides
     the monster of Everest behind her.
    I put down my diary, and thought that I would try to sleep a bit. Night had already come, and it was only 6.30 p.m. It felt bitterly cold – colder than I’d ever
known. I saw on my temperature gauge that it was — 20°C.
    It was still winter time at the moment, and I knew that it would slowly begin to get warmer as the weeks went by, and spring arrived in the mountains.
    I snuggled down into my sleeping bag, and closed my eyes. A bit of sleep should sort my headache out, I hoped.
    Thoughts