Dead Lucky by Lincoln Hall Page B

caterpillar. The tent was divided into five compartments. Midlength was an entrance into the vestibule, which was about twelve feet square. The sides of the vestibule had door-flaps leading to dining areas about twenty feet long. There were small storage areas at the far ends. When I stepped in, Alex directed me to the right, as this was the zone for the B-Team. The climbers in the A-Team were directed to the left. Although climbers from one team could visit climbers of the other team, they were not allowed to dine with them. I felt like I was in school again.
    Alex and his Russian crew certainly had their own way of doing things, and I was not sure that I was going to like it. If we were to be treated like schoolkids at Base Camp, how tightly would we be reined in when on the dangerous slopes of the mountain? Time would tell. For the moment I would just watch and learn.
    Five collapsible metal card tables ran the length of the B-Team’s section of the mess tent. Each table was set for four people. A mirror image of the layout had been set up across the vestibule for the A-Team. The Russian staff ate with us in the B-Team’s mess tent, their tables at the end of the row. Their conversation, not surprisingly, was in Russian and they kept to themselves, with one exception. A man in his thirties with a young face but a hairline that was starting to recede took a spare seat at a table next to us and introduced himself.
    â€œI am Andrey Selivanov,” he said as he joined Noel, Lorenzo, and Giuseppe. “I am from Siberia. I am doctor, but now I am mountaineer. Welcome to Base Camp.”
    I assumed he was making himself approachable because he was the doctor and wanted everyone to feel comfortable in his presence. He was certainly friendly, but his English came to him slowly.
    The Russians were squeezed between our table and that of four Norwegians. Petter Kragset, Johnny Brevik, Torbjørn Orkelbog, and Frode Høgset all spoke excellent English and shared a sense of humor that translated well. Climbing this mountain would demand a lot of fuel, so we set about sampling the hot drink options and the agreeably large range of biscuits. That first afternoon I concluded that we had landed on our feet. My years as a trekking guide had heightened my sensibility to what I called “the shithead factor.” I judged that, this time around, we had escaped without someone whose unbearable ego might have prevented us from working properly as a team. I had experienced this too many times, not only when in the mountains but also when I took corporate groups into the wilds for a week of team building. On this expedition all of us shared a purpose that would allow us to take strength from one another, and yet no one could guess what events might push us together or pull us apart when we were high on the mountain.
    Certainly the mess tent was a good place to get to know everyone, and there were plenty of good stories to share around. Three of the B-Team climbers had been on Everest the previous season. Petter Kragset had been a member of a Norwegian expedition, and while some of the team had summited, poor health had turned him around at the North Col. At an altitude of 23,200 feet, the col is high by every other standard but is just the real beginning of a climb of Everest.
    Noel Hanna had also been forced to turn back at the North Col when his eyesight was compromised by a retinal hemorrhage. These are not uncommon at altitude, but usually vision is not affected. Noel had become aware of a large dark spot, which he knew was a danger sign. Doctors at Advance Base Camp had agreed that it would be unwise for him to go back up the mountain. Back in Ireland, Noel sought specialist opinions, and some key advice was to take Diamox, a drug used by glaucoma sufferers to reduce fluid buildup around the eye and so lower its internal pressure. Noel immediately realized this was a serendipitous recommendation. He knew that climbers had