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"...we realized that Yang would not receive the care he might need here in Camp 1..." |
We continued down the mountain and left the plateau in darkening conditions. Suddenly, the wind was noticeably reduced, and in calm twilight, we reached the top of the icefall, and I gratefully collapsed onto my rucksack, while I watched Yang tie in for the rappel. As he descended over the edge in the dimming light, I snapped a photo, then followed on with heavy pack in a slow descent, gliding rhythmically down the rope, carefully placing each crampon. I saw someone leaving Camp 1, and heading upslope, our way. I could see that a new tent was in place, and assumed it to be the work of John Arnold.
Yang and I continued slowly wending our way down the slope; he resting every 8 or 10 steps, and I following. By this time, I was feeling a bit tired and back-sore, but still able to notice that Yang seemed to be enjoying our descent together, and perhaps even relishing the extra attention he was getting, during our "rescue."
We rounded a set of cliffs, and John Arnold met us, and we all shook hands, embraced, and John took Yang's rucksack, and they zoomed down-slope together. I straggled behind, and after some time, reached the bottom of the slope, and began my hike up the final tiny hill into Camp 1. Upon arrival, John passed me a bottle of hot tea prepared by Durga and Jangbu, and I thirstily quaffed a huge mouthful, then handed it to Yang, who took a small sip.
I began to unpack our two rucksacks, into the wind-maimed equipment tent. Yang sat on the ground next to a sleeping tent that the flysheet had been stripped from, while John Arnold and I decided his fate. After some light banter and sparse conversation with the two Sherpas, we realized that Yang would not receive the care he might need here in Camp 1, unless John Arnold and I stayed here to administer it. It seemed that the two Nepalese gentlemen were not at all interested in assisting their Chinese colleague. Perhaps you can guess why, but I am loathe to conjecture.
In any case, we rousted Yang from his meditative, silent and motionless posture of squatting on the ground beside the destroyed tent. We decided that the only solution was to continue down hill to the cache tent, were Yang could receive assistance from Jon Otto and company. He voiced disappointment at the thought of further effort, but we assured him that he would not have to carry much weight, and that it would be better down below. Yang did not put up such a struggle to stay, as he had done at previous higher altitudes, but once again seemed to be enjoying our attention and pleading.
So the three of us descended in the now darkened night. The moon was full, and the glaciers were bright, and we were like three tiny figures moving through an enormous windless crystal castle of light and dark. Stars burned through the moonlight, onto shimmering white ice and black, shadowless rock. It was a visually stunning and emotionally moving event, after all that had happened, and the night's silent beauty was certainly not lost on us three.
When we reached the bottom of the horrible scree slope, it was gratifying to muse that this would be our last time here, as we sat in the Cache Camp, and sipped the hot drinks which Ian Hatchett and Jon Otto had so considerately prepared for us. Finally, we crashed deeply into our sleeping bags, and woke up the next morning to sun and cloud-free calm. The windstorm had abated, and once again, it looked like the weather on the summit would be perfect for another ascent.
After some debate about whether we should try for the top again, we thought to decline the perceived opportunity, based on two factors: First, we were all tired from the events of the last few days, and second, we were really out of time, as the yaks were due in only two days.
So we leisurely had breakfast, enjoying the fine morning and one another's company, after such a stressful last few days, and walked back up the scree slope to Camp 1, where we carefully packed up all of the equipment (whole or partial), and removed all of the rubbish.
Then we descended back to the Cache Camp, prepared our rucksacks and found our way amongst the moraines and ancient ice flows down to Base Camp. Arriving after dark, and not seeing Yang behind, I gave Jangbu Doctor Rob's headlamp and asked him to go find Yang.
Forty minutes later, the pair arrived, tired, but alive and unscathed. For the remaining members of our team, it was the first time all of us had been able to be together in many weeks, and though we had all been through so much, we celebrated our reunion as a success, and we were just gratified to be healthy and reunited.
Through the next few days, we prepared for our departure, loaded the yaks, and then jeeped out of Tibet. All of this was not without excitement, as we became separated from our gear at the border town of Zhangmu, as our truck was stuck in a massive roadblock and it looked as if we might never be allowed to leave.
Finally, we crossed into Nepal, with an 11th hour effort made by Jon Otto, and Murari Sharma, who convinced the Nepalese border post officials to leave the border open for an extra 30 minutes, to allow our straggling group of 54 porters a chance to cross. And, after so many trials and tribulations, and such struggle, crossing the Friendship Bridge into Nepal felt like a homecoming.
