Into Thin Air

by Jon Krakauer

  But my people went the other way. They helped outsiders find their way into the sanctuary and violate every limb of her body by standing on top of her, crowing in victory, and dirtying and polluting her bosom. Some of them have had to sacrifice themselves, others escaped through the skin of their teeth, or offered other lives in lieu.…

  So I believe that even the Sherpas are to blame for the tragedy of 1996 on “Sagarmatha.” I have no regrets of not going back, for I know the people of the area are doomed, and so are those rich, arrogant outsiders who feel they can conquer the world. Remember the Titanic. Even the unsinkable sank, and what are foolish mortals like Weathers, Pittman, Fischer, Lopsang, Tenzing, Messner, Bonington in the face of the “Mother Goddess.” As such I have vowed never to return home and be part of that sacrilege.

  Everest seems to have poisoned many lives. Relationships have foundered. The wife of one of the victims has been hospitalized for depression. When I last spoke to a certain teammate, his life had been thrown into turmoil. He reported that the strain of coping with the expedition’s aftereffects was threatening to wreck his marriage. He couldn’t concentrate at work, he said, and he had received taunts and insults from strangers.

  Upon her return to Manhattan, Sandy Pittman found that she’d become a lightning rod for a great deal of public anger over what had happened on Everest. Vanity Fair magazine published a withering article about her in its August 1996 issue. A camera crew from the tabloid television program Hard Copy ambushed her outside her apartment. The writer Christopher Buckley used Pittman’s high-altitude tribulations as the punchline of a joke on the back page of The New Yorker. By autumn, things had gotten so bad that she confessed tearfully to a friend that her son was being ridiculed and ostracized by classmates at his exclusive private school. The blistering intensity of the collective wrath over Everest—and the fact that so much of that wrath was directed at her—took Pittman completely by surprise and left her reeling.

  For Neal Beidleman’s part, he helped save the lives of five clients by guiding them down the mountain, yet he remains haunted by a death he was unable to prevent, of a client who wasn’t on his team and thus wasn’t even officially his responsibility.

  I chatted with Beidleman after we’d both re-acclimated to our home turf, and he recalled what it felt like to be out on the South Col, huddling with his group in the awful wind, trying desperately to keep everyone alive. “As soon as the sky cleared enough to give us an idea where camp was,” he recounted, “it was like, ‘Hey, this break in the storm may not last long, so let’s GO!’ I was screaming at everyone to get moving, but it became clear that some people didn’t have enough strength to walk, or even stand.

  “People were crying. I heard someone yell, ‘Don’t let me die here!’ It was obvious that it was now or never. I tried to get Yasuko on her feet. She grabbed my arm, but she was too weak to get up past her knees. I started walking, and dragged her for a step or two, then her grip loosened and she fell away. I had to keep going. Somebody had to make it to the tents and get help or everybody was going to die.”

  Beidleman paused. “But I can’t help thinking about Yasuko,” he said when he resumed, his voice hushed. “She was so little. I can still feel her fingers sliding across my biceps, and then letting go. I never even turned to look back.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My article in Outside angered several of the people I wrote about, and hurt the friends and relatives of some Everest victims. I sincerely regret this—I did not set out to harm anyone. My intent in the magazine piece, and to an even greater degree in this book, was to tell what happened on the mountain as accurately and honestly as possible, and to do it in a sensitive, respectful manner. I believe quite strongly that this story needed to be told. Obviously, not everyone feels this way, and I apologize to those who feel wounded by my words.

  Additionally, I would like to express my profound condolences to Fiona McPherson, Ron Harris, Mary Harris, David Harris, Jan Arnold, Sarah Arnold, Eddie Hall, Millie Hall, Jaime Hansen, Angie Hansen, Bud Hansen, Tom Hansen, Steve Hansen, Diane Hansen, Karen Marie Rochel, Kenichi Namba, Jean Price, Andy Fischer-Price, Katie Rose Fischer-Price, Gene Fischer, Shirley Fischer, Lisa Fischer-Luckenbach, Rhonda Fischer Salerno, Sue Thompson, and Ngawang Sya Kya Sherpa.

  In assembling this book I received invaluable assistance from many people, but Linda Mariam Moore and David S. Roberts deserve special mention. Not only was their expert advice crucial to this volume, but without their support and encouragement I would never have attempted the dubious business of writing for a living, or stuck with it over the years.

  On Everest I benefited from the companionship of Caroline Mackenzie, Helen Wilton, Mike Groom, Ang Dorje Sherpa, Lhakpa Chhiri Sherpa, Chhongba Sherpa, Ang Tshering Sherpa, Kami Sherpa, Tenzing Sherpa, Arita Sherpa, Chuldum Sherpa, Ngawang Norbu Sherpa, Pemba Sherpa, Tendi Sherpa, Beck Weathers, Stuart Hutchison, Frank Fischbeck, Lou Kasischke, John Taske, Guy Cotter, Nancy Hutchison, Susan Allen, Anatoli Boukreev, Neal Beidleman, Jane Bromet, Ingrid Hunt, Ngima Kale Sherpa, Sandy Hill Pittman, Charlotte Fox, Tim Madsen, Pete Schoening, Klev Schoening, Lene Gammelgaard, Martin Adams, Dale Kruse, David Breashears, Robert Schauer, Ed Viesturs, Paula Viesturs, Liz Cohen, Araceli Segarra, Sumiyo Tsuzuki, Laura Ziemer, Jim Litch, Peter Athans, Todd Burleson, Scott Darsney, Brent Bishop, Andy de Klerk, Ed February, Cathy O’Dowd, Deshun Deysel, Alexandrine Gaudin, Philip Woodall, Makalu Gau, Ken Kamler, Charles Corfield, Becky Johnston, Jim Williams, Mal Duff, Mike Trueman, Michael Burns, Henrik Jessen Hansen, Veikka Gustafsson, Henry Todd, Mark Pfetzer, Ray Door, Göran Kropp, Dave Hiddleston, Chris Jillet, Dan Mazur, Jonathan Pratt, and Chantal Mauduit.

  I am very grateful to my matchless editors at Villard Books/Random House, David Rosenthal and Ruth Fecych. Thanks, as well, to Adam Rothberg, Annik LaFarge, Dan Rembert, Diana Frost, Kirsten Raymond, Jennifer Webb, Melissa Milsten, Dennis Ambrose, Bonnie Thompson, Brian McLendon, Beth Thomas, Caroline Cunningham, Dianne Russell, Katie Mehan, and Suzanne Wickham.

  This book originated as an assignment from Outside magazine. Special gratitude is owed to Mark Bryant, who has edited my work with uncommon intelligence and sensitivity for some fifteen years now, and Larry Burke, who has been publishing my work even longer. Also contributing to my Everest piece were Brad Wetzler, John Alderman, Katie Arnold, John Tayman, Sue Casey, Greg Cliburn, Hampton Sides, Amanda Stuermer, Lorien Warner, Sue Smith, Cricket Lengyel, Lolly Merrell, Stephanie Gregory, Laura Hohnhold, Adam Horowitz, John Galvin, Adam Hicks, Elizabeth Rand, Chris Czmyrid, Scott Parmalee, Kim Gattone, and Scott Mathews.

  I’m indebted to John Ware, my superb agent. Thanks, also, to David Schensted and Peter Bodde of the American Embassy in Kathmandu, Lisa Choegyal of Tiger Mountain, and Deepak Lama of Wilderness Experience Trekking for their assistance in the wake of the tragedy.

  For providing inspiration, hospitality, friendship, information, and sage advice, I’m grateful to Tom Hornbein, Bill Atkinson, Madeleine David, Steve Gipe, Don Peterson, Martha Kongsgaard, Peter Goldman, Rebecca Roe, Keith Mark Johnson, Jim Clash, Muneo Nukita, Helen Trueman, Steve Swenson, Conrad Anker, Alex Lowe, Colin Grissom, Kitty Calhoun, Peter Hackett, David Shlim, Brownie Schoene, Michael Chessler, Marion Boyd, Graem Nelson, Stephen P. Martin, Jane Tranel, Ed Ward, Sharon Roberts, Matt Hale, Roman Dial, Peggy Dial, Steve Rottler, David Trione, Deborah Shaw, Nick Miller, Dan Cauthorn, Greg Collum, Dave Jones, Fran Kaul, Dielle Havlis, Lee Joseph, Pat Joseph, Pierret Vogt, Paul Vogt, David Quammen, Tim Cahill, Paul Theroux, Charles Bowden, Alison Lewis, Barbara Detering, Lisa Anderheggen-Leif, Helen Forbes, and Heidi Baye.

  I was aided by the efforts of fellow writers and journalists Elizabeth Hawley, Michael Kennedy, Walt Unsworth, Sue Park, Dile Seitz, Keith McMillan, Ken Owen, Ken Vernon, Mike Loewe, Keith James, David Beresford, Greg Child, Bruce Barcott, Peter Potter-field, Stan Armington, Jennet Conant, Richard Cowper, Brian Blessed, Jeff Smoot, Patrick Morrow, John Colmey, Meenakshi Ganguly, Jennifer Mattos, Simon Robinson, David Van Biema
, Jerry Adler, Rod Nordland, Tony Clifton, Patricia Roberts, David Gates, Susan Miller, Peter Wilkinson, Claudia Glenn Dowling, Steve Kroft, Joanne Kaufman, Howie Masters, Forrest Sawyer, Tom Brokaw, Audrey Salkeld, Liesl Clark, Jeff Herr, Jim Curran, Alex Heard, and Lisa Chase.

  POSTSCRIPT

  In November 1997 a book titled The Climb arrived in bookstores—Anatoli Boukreev’s account of the 1996 Everest disaster, as told to an American named G. Weston DeWalt. It was fascinating, for me, to read about the events of 1996 from Boukreev’s perspective. Parts of the book were powerfully told, and moved me deeply. Because Boukreev took strong exception to how he was portrayed in Into Thin Air, however, a significant portion of The Climb is devoted to defending Boukreev’s actions on Everest, challenging the accuracy of my account, and calling into question my integrity as a journalist.

  DeWalt—who oversaw the research, wrote The Climb, and has assumed the role of Boukreev’s spokesman—undertook the derogation of Into Thin Air with notable energy and enthusiasm. He has tirelessly expressed his view of my book—and my character—in print and radio interviews, on the Internet, and in personal letters to family members of those who died on the mountain. In the course of this campaign, DeWalt has brandished an article from the July/August 1998 issue of the Columbia Journalism Review with particular relish. Titled “Why Books Err So Often,” and written by a Missouri-based author and instructor of journalism named Steve Weinberg, the article raised doubts about the accuracy of three recent bestsellers. One of the books singled out for criticism was Into Thin Air. DeWalt was delighted with Weinberg’s article, and has cited it frequently.

  When pressed, Weinberg sheepishly admitted to me that he based his criticism of Into Thin Air on nothing more than his reading of DeWalt’s book: Weinberg simply echoed DeWalt’s allegations, without bothering to independently check the accuracy of any of those allegations. After his article was published, Weinberg posted the following clarification in the Columbia Journalism Review:

  My article distinguishes Krakauer’s book from other bestsellers that have been criticized. Though a small portion of the book has been challenged, none of the critics have proved factual errors.

  Into Thin Air was included in my article not to damn it, but rather to question a publishing practice. Book A comes out, Book B challenges it, and the author, editor, and publisher of Book A do nothing to answer, leaving readers confused.

  Upon reading this, I asked Weinberg to elaborate. He explained that he had mistakenly assumed I accepted the validity of DeWalt’s allegations because the first paperback edition of Into Thin Air (which was published five months after The Climb) hadn’t included a rebuttal to those allegations. Weinberg then argued—quite persuasively—that whenever an author believes his credibility has been impugned, the author has a professional obligation to publish a rebuttal in a timely manner, lest readers be misled. After hearing Weinberg out, I reconsidered my earlier reluctance to engage in the hurly-burly of a public debate.

  When The Climb was initially published, I had made a deliberate decision not to rebut DeWalt’s charges in a public forum. Instead, I documented some of the book’s numerous errors in a series of letters to DeWalt and his editors at St. Martin’s. A spokesman for the publisher indicated that corrections would be made in subsequent editions.

  Incredibly, when St. Martin’s released a paperback edition of The Climb in July 1998, most of the errors I’d pointed out seven months earlier were repeated in the new edition. Such apparent disdain for verity on the part of DeWalt and his publisher troubled me. The new edition and its uncorrected errors came to my attention, coincidentally, a few days after Weinberg had lectured me about the duty of journalists to defend their work. This confluence of circumstances convinced me to end my reticence and stand up for the accuracy and integrity of Into Thin Air. The only way to do that, unfortunately, was to point out some of the misrepresentations in The Climb. I broke my self-imposed silence in the summer of 1998 by talking to a reporter from the Internet magazine Salon, and rebutting DeWalt’s charges in an addendum to the illustrated edition of Into Thin Air, which was published in November 1998. In June 1999, St. Martin’s released an expanded, repackaged edition of The Climb that included a lengthy new assault on my credibility. This latest screed from DeWalt inspired me to write the postscript that follows.

  Of the six professional climbing guides who were caught high on Everest when the storm hit on May 10, 1996, only three survived: Boukreev, Michael Groom, and Neal Beidleman. A scrupulous journalist intent on describing the tragedy accurately, in its full complexity, would presumably have interviewed each of the surviving guides (as I did for Into Thin Air). Decisions made by each of the guides, after all, had immense bearing on the outcome of the disaster. Inexplicably, DeWalt interviewed Boukreev but neglected to interview either Groom or Beidleman.

  No less baffling was DeWalt’s failure to contact Lopsang Jangbu, Scott Fischer’s head climbing Sherpa. Lopsang had one of the most pivotal and controversial roles in the disaster. It was he who short-roped Sandy Hill Pittman. He was with Fischer when the Mountain Madness leader collapsed during the descent; Lopsang was the last person to talk to Fischer before he died. Lopsang was also the last person to see Rob Hall, Andy Harris, or Doug Hansen before they died. Yet DeWalt never made any attempt to contact Lopsang, even though the Sherpa spent much of the summer of 1996 in Seattle, and was easy to reach by phone.

  Lopsang Jangbu Sherpa perished in an avalanche on Everest in September 1996. DeWalt has insisted that he intended to interview Lopsang, but the Sherpa died before he got around to it. This is a convenient explanation (and perhaps true), but it nevertheless fails to explain why he didn’t interview any of the other Sherpas who played important roles in the disaster. It also fails to explain why he didn’t interview three of the eight clients on Boukreev’s own team, and several other climbers who played crucial roles in the tragedy and/or ensuing rescue. Perhaps it’s merely coincidence, but most of the people DeWalt chose not to contact have been critical of Boukreev’s actions on Everest.*

  DeWalt has argued that he tried to interview two of the aforementioned principals, but was rebuffed. In the case of Klev Schoening, at least, this is accurate. But DeWalt has taken pains not to mention that he didn’t ask Schoening for an interview until after The Climb had been published. “I find it puzzling that you should contact me now,” Schoening wrote to DeWalt upon receiving a request for an interview after the book was already on the shelves of his local bookstore. “You were obviously pursuing your own objectives, which from my perspective did not make a priority of the truth, the facts, acknowledgment or reconciliation.”

  Whatever the reason for DeWalt’s reportorial lapses, the result is a badly compromised document. Perhaps it is related to the fact that DeWalt—an amateur filmmaker who first made Boukreev’s acquaintance immediately after the Everest disaster—had no prior knowledge of mountaineering, and has never visited the mountains of Nepal. In any case, Beidleman was sufficiently disenchanted with the book that in December 1997 he wrote a letter to DeWalt stating, “I think that The Climb is a dishonest account of the May tragedy.… [N]either you nor your associates once called to fact-check a single detail with me.”

  Owing to DeWalt’s haphazard research, errors abound in The Climb. To cite but one example: Andy Harris’s ice ax—the location of which provides an important clue about how Harris might have died—was not found where DeWalt reported that it was found. This was one of the many errors I pointed out to DeWalt and his editors upon publication of the first edition of The Climb in November 1997, yet it was still incorrect in the paperback edition published some seven months later. Astoundingly, this error remains uncorrected in the extensively revised paper back edition published in July 1999—despite DeWalt’s printed assurances to the contrary.* Such indifference is vexing to those of us who were transformed by the disaster, and are still consumed with trying to sort out what really happened up there. Andy Harris’s family certainly does n
ot consider the matter of where his ice ax was found to be an inconsequential detail.

  Sadly, some of the errors in The Climb do not appear to be the product of mere carelessness, but rather to be deliberate distortions of the truth intended to discredit my reporting in Into Thin Air. For instance, DeWalt reports in The Climb that important details in my Outside magazine article weren’t fact-checked, even though he was aware that an Outside editor named John Alderman met with Boukreev at length and in person at the magazine’s offices in Santa Fe specifically to confirm the accuracy of my entire manuscript before publication of the magazine. Additionally, I, personally, had several conversations over a period of two months with Boukreev in which I made every effort to discern the truth.

  The Boukreev/DeWalt version of events does indeed differ from the version that I found to be true, but Outside published what the editors and I believed to be the factual version, rather than Boukreev’s version. Over the course of my numerous interviews with Anatoli, I discovered that his account of important events changed significantly from one telling to the next, forcing me to doubt the accuracy of his memory. And Anatoli’s versions of certain events were subsequently proven to be untrue by other witnesses, most notably Dale Kruse, Klev Schoening, Lopsang Jangbu, Martin Adams, and Neal Beidleman (of whom DeWalt interviewed only Adams). In short, I found many of Anatoli’s recollections to be singularly unreliable.

  In The Climb and elsewhere, DeWalt has suggested that in writing Into Thin Air my intent was to destroy Anatoli Boukreev’s good name. To support this despicable imputation, DeWalt relies on two complaints: 1) I didn’t mention a purported conversation above the Hillary Step between Boukreev and Scott Fischer in which Fischer allegedly gave Boukreev permission to descend ahead of his clients; and 2) I refused to acknowledge that Fischer supposedly had a predetermined plan in place for Boukreev to descend ahead of his clients.