Dead Lucky by Lincoln Hall Page A

to worry about what punishment might be meted out to us. Some of our team had walked a few hundred feet beyond the limits of our extensive camp back toward the road-head to a point where they could see the great peak. I thought it more useful, in terms of fitness and acclimatization, to clamber up the steep moraine wall directly above our camp.
    Climbers from other teams were tackling the slope as well, so I followed what was already a well-trodden trail in the snow. I quickly realized the trail had been established by Sherpas, as there were several cables, one of them thicker than my thumb, lying beside the track in the snow. I presumed these were for radio-phone communications.
    When I reached what proved to be a false crest, there was still no view of Everest. However, I was startled to see a small but deep lake of perfectly clear water. I was even more surprised when I realized that what I had taken to be a thick cable running to Base Camp was, in fact, a hose that supplied it with water. I wondered what other creature comforts this huge Russian expedition might be holding in store.
    Beyond the spot where the hose had been placed in the lake, I followed fresh tracks that led to the true crest of the moraine wall. As I approached, half a dozen figures were silhouetted against the majestic backdrop of Everest. After two days of gloomy skies, the colors and the clarity seemed surreal. I snapped a few photos, then plodded up to where everyone stood. Someone was hunched over a substantial tripod, and I realized immediately who it was.
    â€œFantastic view, Mike.”
    â€œHi, Lincoln,” Mike said as he turned and beamed up at me. “It’s looking better all the time.”
    â€œWhere are Richard and Christopher?” I asked.
    â€œThey came up as soon as the skies cleared,” he said, “but they didn’t put on much in the way of extra clothes, so they went down as soon as they’d taken some photos. I got some footage of them as well.”
    â€œThere’ll be plenty of other times to look at the mountain.”
    Mike nodded but said nothing.
    I stood staring at the mountainscape. I had spent countless hours staring at Everest during our expedition in 1984—it is a sight that has no see-by date.
    â€œBloody cold,” I muttered. “Makes you wonder why we even think about going up there, where it’s going to be twice as cold.”
    I looked away from Everest and down at the many expedition camps that took what shelter they could from the low moraine humps that formed the perimeter of the glacial flat. From where I stood, the effect was of a snow-covered sports ground surrounded by different teams with color-coded encampments. The flat expanse of snow was now dotted with people looking up toward me and beyond to the mountain, some of them walking away, having had their fill of Everest. Others walked in pairs, their random tracks telling me they were going nowhere in particular but just enjoying a late-afternoon stroll.
    My back was not only to the mountain but also to the wind. I felt warm and secure in my down jacket and thick fleece bib-and-brace. I was at peace among the mountains again, not looking out through fogged-up windows but standing shin-deep in snow with my hands thrust deep in my pockets. There was no sense of the hugeness of the task that faced us all—its discomforts, dangers, and uncertainties—though the fact that we were here implied all these things. Instead, as I slowly adopted the sharpening of focus and the concern with what really matters, I felt myself letting go of my questioning. The time had come for me to begin to listen to the environment and to renew my understanding of the parameters.
    THE NEXT MORNING there was not a cloud in the sky. Everything was covered in snow, and although the air was cold, it melted quickly. Reflections from the intense white snow dazzled us and multiplied the melting power of the sun. Now that we were no longer