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  This constant performance loathing could be testing, but then that’s what a team is about. It’s about working with the collective strengths and weaknesses of the whole group.

  Victoria brought far more to the expedition than she ever took away, but I sometimes found her Eeyore-like pessimism a little hard to take.

  But one of the things that I will take away from this expedition was watching Victoria become more confident in the mountains. I loved seeing it. Our friendship was formed through low-impact attrition. Victoria, Kenton and I spent a lot of time together in some pretty testing environments.

  We had been on such an incredible journey together. So, to have seen Victoria suffering as she was at Camp 2, was awful. The severity of the situation was obvious.

  We were all worried about her. We knew that it would be foolish to continue, but who were we to tell her that? As a team of course, we had a responsibility to look out for each other, but to tell another teammate that they couldn’t go on felt wrong. We could advise her and arm her with the information she needed to make her own educated and informed decision, but I didn’t think we had the right to tell her she needed to quit.

  Victoria had confided to us the fact that she was fed up of people telling her she could and couldn’t do something. For so much of her life, she had been told that she would be unable to do things by other people. Indeed, it was her coach who (in my mind, unfairly) told her she wouldn’t have the physical or mental capabilities to compete in a third Olympics and so bypassed her for another cyclist – a decision that had left her so enraged and angered.

  Who can blame her? No one likes to be told what you can and can’t do. The proof is in the pudding. Let the results speak for themselves. Part of the attraction of the expedition for Victoria was that she could sink or swim on her own ability and results. She was beholden to no one. She wasn’t on Everest to win a gold medal but to try and exorcise the demons of those who have always told her what she can’t do rather than what she can do.

  Our whole philosophy revolved around a can-do attitude. My dear friend Haya Bint Al Hussein, who helped enable the expedition, had created a foundation, the Anything is Possible movement, centred entirely on this philosophy. Victoria had more strength and drive than any of us. On the face of it, I always felt she had more of a chance to reach the summit than me, but it was her physiology that was letting her down.

  I lay in my tent, tormented by the complexity of our situation. On the one hand, we were a team driven by our goal to summit together. We wanted to achieve our dreams and inspire others to fulfil their own ambitions. Freed from the shackles of management, expectations, trainers and funding, Victoria was trying to pursue a simpler, unadulterated dream.

  On the other hand, she had just nearly died. Not through an avalanche but through the unstoppable misfortune of altitude sickness which has the ability to strike like lightning. By continuing, we all knew that she would not only be risking her own life, but also those around her who would be more vulnerable if she fell ill again and needed rescuing. Not only would it effectively put lives at risk, but it would jeopardise the chances of a successful summit. Our focus would be on Vic’s welfare more than the overall objective.

  We were stuck almost literally between a rock and a hard place and none of us was sure where to turn.

  It’s incredible how quickly humans can bounce back from the deadly effects of altitude sickness. The only sure way of treating it is to descend until the symptoms desist. At Base Camp, there was an instantaneous recovery. Looking at Victoria, it was hard to believe that just a couple of hours before she had been knocking at death’s door.

  Everest ER was our first port of call. Situated in the middle of Base Camp, the temporary hospital is run on a charitable basis by volunteer doctors from across the world. For 30 minutes, we traversed Base Camp until we reached the large white tent. At the entrance was a large sign advertising various high-altitude medicines for sale. At the top of the list, I was surprised to see Viagra – apparently it has increasingly become the drug of choice for mountaineers because it actually increases blood flow everywhere in the body.

  Victoria disappeared into the consultation room while I paced up and down outside. I felt my Everest dream slipping from my grasp. We had thankfully avoided a greater tragedy but carrying on felt churlish. If Victoria decided to end her bid, then so would I. We were a team. It felt wrong to carry on without her.

  I knew that the doctor would make the decision for her. Her statistics on the mountain had been life threatening. Any medic would realise the risks. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the tent with a couple of Paracetamol and the encouragement to carry on. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was surprised. I was no medic and the mountains were still a new environment to me, but I understood enough of the basics to read the risks. Altitude sickness had nearly killed her the first time. Going up again felt like suicide.

  On the walk back to camp, I voiced my concerns. Victoria still had no comprehension of just how vulnerable she had been. I reiterated to her how worried we had been and stopped short of telling her to quit.

  It was an impossible situation.

  Back in London, we had been working with Sundeep Dhillon, a two-time summiting doctor who had been a part of the Xtreme Everest expedition in which a team of doctors had ascended Everest with a full medical laboratory, taking VO2 max tests, blood and even muscle biopsy along the route.

  Sundeep is an unassuming man of remarkable achievements. He had tested our physiology before we left, and he already knew and understood Victoria’s weaknesses when it came to altitude.

  Victoria decided to call him for a second opinion. She spoke to Sundeep at length before talking to Kenton and as many other referrals as she could. She needed to arm herself with as much information as possible, before she could make her own informed decision.

  A couple of hours later, I joined her on the hill overlooking Base Camp. We sat on a pile of rubble and stared at the Khumbu Icefall ahead of us.

  ‘I’ve decided not to go on,’ she explained calmly.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as she explained her decision to put life ahead of ambition.

  ‘I used to feel like a superhero, but for the first time in my life I feel my body has let me down,’ she sobbed.

  It was heart-breaking. Although I knew it was the correct, sensible decision to make, it was hard to hear its reality. Victoria and I were a team. The team. We had started this together and we would finish this together, or not, as it turned out.

  ‘Then I’m not going to carry on. We’re in this together,’ I added, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  ‘I want you to carry on. This is more your dream than mine. It’s always been your dream, and I want you to continue. Do it for me, Ben,’ she smiled.

  To be honest, I felt a bit of a failure myself. I had wanted us to achieve this together. We had formed an unlikely duo, but this had always been a partnership. We each brought something unique and different to the team dynamic. Victoria had always been there. She was an integral part of the Everest dream. To continue without her felt like losing a limb, an asset, a part of our Everest DNA. To have to go our separate ways now, so early in the expedition, was as painful as it was disappointing.

  Once again, the contradictions were overwhelming. Relief that she and she alone had made the very sensible decision to cut her losses and quit while she was ahead, but the bitter disappointment that we wouldn’t continue this adventure together.

  From the very start, we had always been clear that the journey was the destination. The whole adventure was the adventure. Summiting would be the bonus. We both wanted to enjoy the process. The years of planning, the months of cold and suffering. The deprivations and the rationing, the beauty and the magnificence. The travel, teamwork and the adventure. We had both made a commitment to make the most of this process, irrespective of the outcome. Of course, I’d be lying if I said that the ultimate goal of standing atop the world didn’t hau
nt my thoughts. It taunted me and tantalised me. It was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

  And now, here, on this little pile of rubble at Base Camp, our collective dream had disappeared. Our shattered hopes of standing on the summit together swirled around us as we sat in silence, digesting the magnitude of the decision.

  I felt flat as I walked to my tent.

  Victoria hadn’t decided if she wanted to stay on at Base Camp. Sundeep had warned us to think about such a scenario. ‘Some people choose to stay on,’ he had explained, ‘to support the team effort, while others want to head home.’

  For many, the painful constant reminder of what they had sacrificed becomes too much. In a way, I wanted Victoria to stay. Perhaps it was for selfish reasons. I like consistency and always fear change. I think it’s perhaps a symptom of my nomadic life, that I cling onto anything habitual. I like routine. I like familiarity. When I’m home, which isn’t often, I will often find myself sticking rigidly to a routine each day. It is grounding. I think it’s a symptom of a life of change. I’m a keen advocate that variety is the spice of life, but sometimes routine can be just as effectual.

  After a couple of days back at Base Camp, Victoria decided to leave. As disappointed as I was, I couldn’t blame her. Family matters and the bitter disappointment of her decision didn’t make Base Camp a particularly pleasant place to languish.

  Base Camp is fit for purpose. A perfect place for the dreaming romantics, still hopeful for an ascent, but a pretty bleak, soulless place for those who have stepped back from their summit aspirations. Within a couple of hours of her decision, she was on a helicopter back to Kathmandu. We hugged at the rough heliport built from rubble atop the glacier.

  And with that, she was gone.

  Empty. Listless. Lost.

  Disappointment was tempered by the relief that she was now on her way back to good health and fitness, but also the hollow feeling that I had lost my teammate and friend.

  The climb had been well-documented in the UK and I also knew she was heading back into the media lion’s den. I hoped the press would be kind to her. Hers was not failure. It was just a different ending.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Positivity

  Boom!

  The sonic power from the explosion was louder and more ferocious than any other avalanche I had heard. There followed a panic of torch light that reflected off my tent.

  I lay there frozen in my sleeping bag in the relative security of Base Camp, my mind once again running riot. I wondered where the avalanche had hit and if it had taken out the icefall. This one sounded larger than any other I had heard. My hairs stood on end as goose bumps formed on my arms.

  Slowly, I drifted back to sleep.

  BOOM!

  This one was even louder. My whole body shook. It sounded like it was on top of me. I flinched and prepared myself for impact. Surely this time the avalanche would hit us.

  There followed a light so bright that it lit up my whole tent. Was it a helicopter? The wind was snapping at the tent. I struggled to comprehend what was going on. There must have been at least two violent avalanches and I could see my tent billowing from the weight of snow that had built up.

  I lay there. Heart racing.

  BOOM!! This time it was almost deafening. In my sleepy, oxygen-starved state, I simply couldn’t work out what was happening. Again, a flash of light illuminated the whole tent, but this time it was blindingly bright.

  ‘What the hell?’

  I pulled on my down jacket and crawled towards the door flap of the tent to peer outside. As I unzipped it, I could make out a flurry of snow. Then BOOM!! followed by an almighty flash.

  A violent storm was almost on top of us. I had never heard or experienced thunder and lightning like it. And the wind was howling. Perhaps it was our elevation. Maybe it was the intensity and ferocity of the storm, but it was like stepping inside the storm itself.

  I stared up at the Khumbu Icefall. In the darkness, I could just about make out a couple of headlamps of climbers in the midst of the icefall. Then a sudden burst of lightning illuminated every crag and crevasse as if it was daylight. It was like watching a horror film. I pitied anyone in that terrible place right now. I withdrew back into my tent, pulled my sleeping bag tightly over me and prayed that a stray fork of lightning wouldn’t hit our high, exposed tents.

  In the morning, I emerged to a winter wonderland. Nearly a foot of snow had carpeted Base Camp. It looked like a different world. It was actually a little more inviting. More like a winter ski resort now, only with tents and prayer flags.

  I trudged down to the mess tent. Everyone was talking about the mighty storm. Kenton, in all his years on Everest, had never experienced anything like it. More incredible still was the fact that in the midst of nature’s wrath, Ant and Ed had headed out for their final summit rotation.

  Kenton had been wrestling with dates and scenarios. The mountain was still not completely roped. The sherpas who were up at Camp 4 still had to rope the final 800 metres, a mighty section of mountain that they hoped to have done by the following day if the weather improved.

  The problem was that the weather wasn’t improving and it wasn’t predicted to do so. A quick glance at Camp 1 revealed angry swirls of snow being blown into vast licks by the 100 mph winds. With these conditions at 6,000 metres, the camps higher up would be even more inhospitable. But some good weather was approaching and the key to Kenton’s decision making was ensuring that we were in the right place at the right time. Get it wrong and at best we would fail to summit, and at worst we would die.

  Making a call on the final rotation is what separates the wheat from the chaff and one of the reasons for having Kenton as guide was his ability to call it successfully. We had pushed for an early summit and I had broached the subject of departing the night before, when Ant and Ed had left.

  The presence of another film crew had put pressure on me. I felt an extra burden. There was competition. Although we were all in it together, I felt I needed to keep up with Ant. The humiliation of being out-summited was something I dreaded.

  It wasn’t to do with speed or haste. Funnily enough, it was more like queuing up for the checkout in a supermarket, I wanted to ensure I was in the right queue. I didn’t want to be watching as others advanced more quickly in their line.

  The sherpas implored us to wait for a day. Their colleagues up at Camp 4 were struggling to fix the mountain and that the untimely arrival of Western climbers would add an unnecessary burden to their already hazardous work. Knowing that Ant and Ed were heading off added to my confusion. If they were doing it, then why weren’t we? After all, I was with a master summiteer. But that meant I had to trust him. Kenton explained that the high winds would make Camp 2 and above intolerable. There were already reports of tents being blown away up there.

  It seemed a sensible decision, but still Ant and Ed’s stealing a march on us, troubled me. I looked up at the swirling angry wind that was whipping tails of snow off the higher peaks. I hadn’t seen the mountain like this since we had arrived. She looked angry. Like she was asserting her authority and power.

  I have always had a great respect for nature. The wilderness has a tremendous power that mankind naively thinks it can overcome. You only have to look at the devastation caused by tsunamis, floods, earthquakes and volcanoes to be reminded that we will always be overpowered.

  I spent the day preparing for our departure the following morning, once the winds had died down sufficiently. It would be our summit bid.

  We were coming up to our final summit rotation – and I mean the final rotation. This time we would be leaving Base Camp in a boom or bust attempt on the summit of Mount Everest.

  And our choice of film in camp before our final summit rotation?

  Have you ever rewatched the classic Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, in which Ferris, a high-school senior, fakes being sick one day, in order to skip school with two friends for an adventure in downtown Chicago in his dad’s Ferrari? If n
ot, I implore you to avoid it. It first came out more than 30 years ago, and had once been my favourite movie, but unfortunately it hasn’t dated well.

  I retired to my tent before the film was over and lay there listening to the sounds of the synthesised ‘sick machine’ from the movie floating across from the mess tent. The camp was still being buffeted by the wind that had gripped the mountain. The sherpas had fixed all but the very final section of climb and we were ready for our bid.

  I lay in my tent in a dazed stupor. This was it. My one and only chance. While some people return time and time again, I knew that Marina’s strength and generosity would only stretch to the one attempt.

  If I failed to reach the summit, I had promised myself to come back with a smile on my face and the resolution that I had given it my best and would lay to rest my summit dream. It wasn’t an unreasonable settlement.

  I wanted to summit Everest so badly. It haunted my dreams and dominated my thoughts, and yet I always tried to remind myself that its outcome was fraught with variables, many of which were out of my control. Apart from illness, altitude sickness or an accident, there was the chance of a lost piece of kit. One lost glove, blown away in the wind, can spell disaster. And that’s not just my glove; any one of the team’s gloves going astray and we would all be returning to Base Camp. Environmental and geological disasters were an ever-present risk too, as the previous few days had amply shown: earthquakes, storms, catastrophic ice collapses and avalanches had closed the whole mountain in previous years. Other human factors like strikes by sherpas, and dying climbers, would also put paid to any summit bid. As would bureaucratic problems: revoked licences and even the Nepalese authorities closing the mountain at the eleventh hour could all thwart us.