Yours ever,
George
Odell smiled, and once he’d double-checked that everything was in place for the returning heroes, he crawled out of the tent backward, then stood and stretched his arms above his head as he looked up at the highest peak in the world. The weather was so perfect that for a moment he was even tempted to follow them, as he couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his two colleagues who must by now be approaching the summit.
And then suddenly he spotted two figures silhouetted against the skyline. As he watched, the taller of the two walked across to join the other. He could see that they were standing on the Second Step, about 600 feet from the summit. He checked his watch: 12:50. They still had more than enough time to reach the top and be back in their little tent before the last rays of sunlight disappeared.
He couldn’t stop himself from leaping up and down with joy as he watched them stride into a cloud of mist, and disappear from sight.
Once Irvine had reached the top of the Second Step, he clambered over a jagged piece of rock and joined George.
“We’ve got about another 600 feet to go,” said George, checking his altimeter. “But remember, that’s equivalent to at least a mile, and without oxygen Norton could only manage about 125 feet an hour. So it could take us another three hours,” he added between breaths, “which means we can’t afford to waste any time, because when we start back down that rock face later this afternoon,” he said, pointing upward, “I want to be sure I can still see several feet in front of me.”
As George replaced his mouthpiece, Irvine gave him the thumbs-up sign. Then they began the slow trek along a ridgeline no man had ever trodden before.
CHAPTER SIXTY
2:07 P.M., SUNDAY, JUNE 8TH, 1924
WHEN GEORGE LOOKED up again, it appeared as if the peak was within touching distance, despite the altimeter warning him that they still had over 300 feet to climb. So breathtakingly close, even if it had taken far longer than he had bargained for.
Once they had conquered the Second Step, the two of them chipped, pushed and pulled their way slowly up the narrow northeast ridgeline, aware that the snow on either side of them was like the eaves of a roof, with nothing below but air. They would only have to stray a few feet either way, and…
The inviting-looking fresh, untrodden snow had turned out to be two feet deep, making it almost impossible to take a step forward, and when they did, their feet only advanced a few inches before sinking once again into the snow.
Two hundred and eleven steps later—George counted every one of them—and they were finally released from the snowdrift, only to be confronted by a sheer rock face that would have been a challenge for him on a warm summer’s morning at 3,000 feet, let alone when his body was soaked with sweat, his limbs almost frozen, and he was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, even though he knew that at minus forty degrees, if he was to stay still for more than a few moments, he would freeze to death.
George even considered turning back while there was still a good chance that they would be safely under canvas before sunset. But then he would have had to spend the rest of his life explaining why he’d let the prize slip from his grasp at the last moment and, worse, when he fell asleep, each night he would dream of climbing those last 300 feet, only to wake from the nightmare in a cold sweat.
He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine pulling his foot out of the snow, only to stare in disbelief at the rock face that stood in front of them. For a moment George hesitated. Did he have the right to risk Irvine’s life as well as his own? Should he, even now, suggest that the young man turn back while he went on alone, or rest and wait for him to return? He banished the thought from his mind. After all, Irvine had surely earned the right to share the spoils of triumph with him. George removed his mouthpiece and said, “We’re nearly there, old chap. This rock will be the last obstacle before we reach the top.” Irvine gave him a thin smile.
George turned around to face a vertical rock, covered with ice that never melted from one year to the next. He searched for somewhere he could gain a toehold. Normally, he would place his first step at about eighteen inches, perhaps even two feet, but not today, when a few inches would prove a mountain in itself. With a trembling hand he grasped a ledge inches above his head and pulled himself slowly up. He lifted a boot and searched for a foothold so he could raise his other arm and progress a few more inches on the vertical journey to the top of the rock. He tried not to think what it was going to be like on the way down. His brain screamed turn back, but the heart whispered carry on.
Forty minutes later, he heaved himself up onto the top of the rock and pulled the rope taut to make his colleague’s task a little easier. Once Irvine had clambered up to join him, George checked the altimeter: 112 feet left to climb. He looked up, this time to be faced with a sheet of ice that had built up over the years into a cornice overhanging the East Face, which would have prevented even a four-legged animal with spiked hooves from progressing any further.
George was trying to secure a foothold when a flash of lightning struck the mountain below him, followed moments later by a clap of thunder. He assumed they were about to be engulfed by a storm, but as he looked down, he realized that they were far above the tempest, must have been venting its fury on his colleagues some 2,000 feet below them. It was the first time George had viewed a storm from above, and he could only hope that by the time they descended it would have moved on, leaving in its wake the still, clear air that so often follows such anger.
Once again, George lifted his boot and tried to gain some purchase on the ice. The surface immediately cracked, and his heel skidded back down the slope. He almost laughed. Could things get any worse? He thrust his axe into the ice in front of him. This time it didn’t crack quite so easily, but when it did, he placed a foot in the hole. It still slithered back a few inches. He didn’t laugh when he recalled the saying, two paces forward, one pace back. He was now having to satisfy himself with one foot forward, six inches back. After a dozen such steps, the narrow ridge became even thinner until he had to fall on all fours and begin crawling. He didn’t look to his left or right, because he knew that on both sides of him was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. Look up, ignore everything around you, and battle on. Another yard forward, another half yard back. Just how much could the body endure? Then, suddenly, he felt solid rock below him, and was able to climb out of the bed of ice and stand
on rough, stony ground only 50, perhaps 60 feet from the summit. He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine still on his hands and knees.
“Only 50 feet to go!” he shouted, as he untied the rope so that both men could continue at their own pace.
It was another twenty minutes before George Leigh Mallory placed a hand, his right hand, on the summit of Everest. He pulled himself slowly up onto the top and lay flat on his stomach. “Hardly a moment of triumph,” was his first thought. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and then, with a supreme effort, he somehow managed to stand up. The first man to stand on top of the earth.
He looked across the Himalaya, admiring a view no man had ever seen before. He wanted to leap up and down with joy and shout triumphantly at the top of his voice, but he had neither the energy nor the breath to do so. Instead he turned a slow circle; the biting wind, which seemed to come at him from every direction did not allow him to move any faster. A myriad of unconquered mountains stood proudly around him, heads bowed in the presence of their monarch.
A strange thought crossed his mind. He must remember to tell Clare that the top of Everest was about the same size as their dining-room table.
George checked his watch: 3:36 P.M. He tried to convince himself that they had more than enough time to return to the safety of their little tent at Camp VI, especially if it turned out to be a clear night with no wind.
He looked back down to see Irvine moving ever closer, even if it was at a snail’s pace. Would he falter at the last step? Then, like a child who couldn’t yet walk, Irvine crawled up onto the summit.
Once George had helped him to his feet, he fumbled around in the pocket of his Shackleton smock, only hoping that he hadn’t forgotten what he was looking for. His fingers were so numb with cold that he nearly dropped his Vest Pocket camera over the side. Once he’d steadied himself, he took a photograph of Irvine, arms held high above his head as if he’d just won the boat race. He passed the Kodak to his companion, who took a photo of him trying to look as if he’d been for a bracing walk in the Welsh hills.
George checked his watch again, and frowned. He pointed firmly down the mountain. Irvine placed the camera in a trouser pocket and buttoned up the proof of what they had achieved.
George was about to take the first step back down, when he recalled his promise to Ruth. With heavy, ice-covered fingers, he clumsily pulled out his wallet and extracted the sepia photograph that he always took with him on every trip. He gave his wife one last look and smiled, before placing her image on the highest point on earth. He put his hand back in his pocket and began rummaging around.