Chapter 17: High And Low

Close to hypothermia

We crawled inside as soon as it was dark and froze. Not a millimetre of insulating air lay between our two bodies and the thin walls. It was only possible to lie on our sides facing the same way, one arm deadened against the lumpy rock. From outside we must have looked like a tightly swollen maggot impaled on a spike. From inside it looked worse. To retain all possible heat the door was zipped completely shut, only the 'breathable' Gore-Tex allowing in a fresh supply of oxygen. I was amazed to find that the fabric could cope with two pairs of lungs, especially at almost five thousand metres but it swiftly became apparent that it could only do so when we were breathing deep and slow. Even the effort of a few spoken words sent oxygen levels plummeting. Changing position brought us near to unconsciousness. After each movement we struggled to control our breathing in the thin air, growing rapidly more hypoxic until one of us wrenched open the zip and sucked in gasping lungfuls. The space-blanket stayed on only long enough to produce little puddles of condensation. It ended up wrapped damply around our feet where we could not reach it. Our teeth chattered.

'I think I'm getting hypothermic,' said Bruce.

'So am I. I can't f-f-feel my feet.'

'Th-th-there's only one thing for it - we're g-g-g-going to have to share bodily warmth.'

I remembered dreading this survival technique throughout the recruit-training period of my military career. The idea of stripping off and climbing into a sleeping-bag with another man who'd been running around the hills in the same clothes for over a week had been repellent, an absolute last resort. But now, I had to concede, we were already half-way there: the atmosphere inside the bivi-bag was hardly less than rancid. And Bruce was right - we were shivering uncontrollably.

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