Kan runu

Nima Chhiring was on the team of Sherpas hired by an expedition of Chinese mountaineers. On 18 April, he said goodbye to his boss and left Base Camp while it was still dark. He had decided to walk the three and a half kilometres to Camp One to make sure the path was in good enough condition to be climbed by his clients. On any given spring day, three and a half hours will suffice for a well-trained Sherpa to cover such a distance. Nima, with three summits under his belt, wore crampons on his boots and a backpack weighing around forty-five kilograms: his uniform. He walked, climbed slopes, went up aluminium ladders, hooked and unhooked his ropes dozens of times, all of it seeming routine. A few minutes after six in the morning, however, his trajectory was interrupted. In front of him, a traffic jam of Sherpas. Nearly a hundred of his colleagues stuck on a ledge of ice. They were smoking, chatting, some starting to feel the chill of early morning. Employed by different expeditions, they all had one identical mission: to verify the viability of the pathways of ascent and, if necessary, to prepare them. At this particular point, they had all encountered the same problem. A deep gap that yawned between two blocks of ice. The solution: tie two ladders together, secure them to the ledge, and point them to a lower level from where it would be possible to resume the ascent. When Nima arrived at the scene, most of the work had been done. Several Sherpas were already descending the ladders and preparing to resume their climb to Camp One. But all their movements were cautious, slow and frustrating. They dallied, feet suspended rung by aluminium rung, gazing at the ropes with excessive reverence, mistrusting the ice. Nima calculated that he’d have to wait at least half an hour for his turn to go down. He grew exasperated.

And in the midst of that exasperation, his ear started to cry. Kan runu. The mountain’s warning. He began to panic. He tried to communicate with his leader at Base Camp. He wasn’t there. He had gone all the way to Namche to purchase provisions. The expedition’s cook answered the call. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Kan runu. I’m going back to base.’ The Sherpas around him heard the conversation. ‘Kan runu? Are you sure?’ they asked him. ‘My ear is crying. I’m going down; all of you should go down, too,’ he answered and began the descent. Seven Sherpas went with him: five out of respect for the crying ear; two because they were experiencing symptoms of frostbite on their feet. They made their way quickly. By a quarter to seven, they were already on an intermediate plain known as ‘The Football Field’.

From that perspective, facing away from the summit, the phenomenology of an avalanche is registered like this: an abrupt gust, followed by a low, dry, deep noise. Fourteen thousand tons of ice; sixteen dead. All Sherpas.