After a few hours of hiking, we stopped in a small village called Chukhung for some spicy noodle soup and tea. While we sat at the table, two little boys stared at me from behind the door. Eventually one of them built up the courage to come up to me and touch my arm. I smiled at him, and once the other boy realized I was safe, he joined in the fun. Pretty soon both of them were reaching out to poke me. I thought about how strange I must look to them. Most trekkers stay on the main Everest highway to base camp and don’t venture out to such remote villages, so they weren’t used to seeing anyone who wasn’t a Sherpa.
I guessed that the boys were just a little older than Jordan, and I tried to think of some way to communicate with them even though we didn’t share a language. I found a magazine and folded a paper airplane for each of the boys. After a quick demonstration of how to toss it, they eagerly took the flight controls. As they played with their airplanes, I caught them casting shy smiles in my direction when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Then it was time for Pumba, our porter, and me to set out on the trail again to meet the others on Island Peak. The trail was a gradual series of ups and downs on rocky ridges, and I was grateful that my body was feeling strong and responding well to the increasing altitude. Although I felt back to normal, I was still being cautious, having felt like death only 24 hours earlier.
To the left, we had a spectacular view of Lhotse Shar, and to the far right we could see Ama Dablam. I breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh mountain air. We made the five-and-a-half mile trek to the rest of the group in three-and-a-half hours. I heard a few excited shouts when they spotted me, and a few of them came over to slap me on the back or give me a hug. We were a team, and when one part of the team hurt, we all hurt. When one person celebrated a victory, all of us did.
Climbing the highest mountains in the world is a big commitment, not only in terms of expense, but also in terms of risk, time, and effort. Since this was the first time anyone from the group had been to Everest and the first time anyone except Bill and me had done glacier climbing and fixed-line travel, I wanted to do everything I could to ensure that they had a good climbing experience. Although Bill was the guide for the trip, I also was able to answer people’s questions and give them tips when they asked for advice. I was grateful that my experience was being put to use for the benefit of others.
One afternoon the group was learning ice axe arrest (using an ice axe to stop a fall). As I was helping Carlos and Dawn, Dawn gave me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. “It’s reassuring to see someone who stays so positive, no matter what,” she said. “I appreciate that you’re always trying to help and always speaking so highly of your wife and kids.”
The next skill on the agenda was jumar training. A jumar is a rope ascension device that attaches to your climbing harness. It has metal teeth that catch the rope as you inch up, ensuring that you never slip down the mountain. The ropes are set ahead of time by Sherpas and early climbing groups using periodic anchors—ice screws, webbing, or metal pickets that attach to rock or ice. Although Bill and I were the only ones with experience in using jumars, the rest of the team caught on quickly.
Each rope team consists of three to five people. I prefer to keep my rope teams at three or four, but five is still manageable. The team has to work together closely to manage the rope quickly and safely. A team of three can move efficiently and still be ready to pull off a rescue if someone punches through a hidden snow bridge into an awaiting crevasse. But a team larger than five starts to become unwieldy.
To provide the safest climbing conditions, the most experienced individuals are positioned at the ends, with the most skilled climber in front (also known as the sharp end of the rope). This allows the lead climber to be poised to find the proper route, set the anchors, and manage the team. The less experienced climbers are positioned in the middle of the rope and spread out by about 40 feet each, depending on how many people are on the team.
After the group had gotten down the basics of jumar training, it was time for a lunch of soup and sandwiches in a covered dining tent at base camp. Then we headed a mile up the rocky mountainside to high camp, which was situated at 18,200 feet. The trail switched back and forth up the steep terrain, but I felt strong—like my normal self again.
After setting up camp and preparing our gear for an early morning attack, we ate dinner—Spam sandwiches and fruit—then went to sleep. I slept soundly that night, grateful to be feeling healthy again. The next morning, however, I heard that many of the newer climbers hadn’t slept much. They were either too sick or too anxious to be able to rest.
The Sherpa crew woke us at 2 a.m. with a delivery of hot tea, hard-boiled eggs, and biscuits. It was a beautiful night, with an almost-full moon surrounded by glittering stars, which seemed to glow brighter when reflected off the encompassing peaks. It was early, but that’s the best time to start a climb on highly glaciated mountains. You want the ground to be cold and solid so the climbing gear will work properly. Later in the day, the sun turns some of the ice into slush and warms the glaciers, making them unstable. Plus, warming temperatures can result in avalanches kicking off and crevasses opening up.
After everyone packed their gear, Bill, two Sherpas, and I turned on our headlamps and led the way up two miles through the rocky terrain. Piercing winds sliced through my jacket as we slowly increased our elevation. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about climbing at night. We had to focus on the placement of each step forward on the dimly lit path, and there was a cloak of isolation that fell over the group in the darkness.
As the sun peeked over the purple mountains, we reached a pinnacle structure, which required a great deal of effort to negotiate. A single slip would result in a 1,000-foot drop to the glaciers below, where you’d become a permanent fixture of the Himalayas. Chris hesitated on the other side of the obstacle but eventually made his way across to the platform. Once there, he sat down, his breaths choking into a sob. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I told him with a small smile. “I won’t tell anyone you cried.”
He looked at me and let out a surprised laugh, which was exactly my intention.
Just above 19,500 feet we reached the Imja Tse glacier. We put our crampons on our feet, cached our poles, and switched to ice axes. Roped up in teams of four, we traversed major crevasses and seracs. At one point we got to a narrow passage that was impossible to get around. We’d have to go through it.
“It looks like we’re going to need a fixed line for this,” I called to Bill.
Fixed lines are ropes attached to the ice with ice screws or long metal bars called pickets. The safety line is connected from your harness to the fixed line using a locking carabiner. This ensures that if you fall, you won’t fall too far. (Unless, of course, the anchor doesn’t hold, in which case you fall very far.)
We were now at 19,500 feet—more than 1,000 feet higher than the night before—and I was starting to feel the effects of the altitude. And we still had another 1,000 feet to go. Breathing the thin air feels a lot like swimming underwater for a distance, but in this case there’s no fully oxygenated air to replenish your lungs. It feels like you’re suffocating, and if you allow yourself to think about it too much, it’s easy to have a panic attack and pass out. Fortunately my time as a rescue swimmer in the Navy had taught me to stay calm in oxygen-deprived, panic-inducing situations.
I couldn’t help but smile to myself, even as I focused on putting one foot in front of the other. There’s no way I could have known 15 years ago that my experiences with the dreaded helo dunker would come in handy right now, I thought.
As part of our training, we crashed into the water in a helicopter simulator, also known as a helo dunker, which is essentially a large canister that’s suspended over a deep swimming pool. The instructors would load it with Aircrew, Marines, and pilots in full flight gear and then strap us all into our five-point harnesses. As the finishing tou
ch, they’d blindfold us with blackened swim goggles. As the dunker dropped, the instructor would yell, “Brace for impact!” We’d slam into the water and flip upside down. Since a helicopter is top heavy, with its jet engines and propellers overhead, it typically rolls over once it hits the water. As it tips, the rotors break off and the helicopter turns upside down, sinking almost immediately. That’s when it’s best to safely egress the cabin.
Completely immersed, upside down, unable to see, oxygen deprived, and disoriented, we would wait for the commotion to stop and then calmly pull ourselves through the helicopter cabin along a designated route. We’d been given orders to exit in an organized fashion, careful not to kick the person behind us. It was common for some of the crew members to panic and bail out of an open door. Others would prematurely unbuckle their harnesses and get sucked through an open window.
I knew from my training days that it never helped to panic. As much as you might be tempted to flail and fight in the face of limited oxygen, the best thing for you and for the rest of the group is to remain calm.
We traversed a long snowfield to the head wall, which was 400 feet straight up, and then dismantled the rope team so we could individually attach to the fixed line. I tugged on the fixed-line rope and shook my head. This flimsy thing looks like something you’d purchase at a hardware store to tie down a tarp, I thought.
But we didn’t have a choice—we had to trust this rope with our lives. But that wasn’t the whole picture. I knew that ultimately I was entrusting my life into God’s hands. Lord, please keep this rope strong, I prayed silently.
•
Island Peak is typically marketed as a trekking peak, meaning it’s supposed to be a moderate climb. But it’s by no means easy—especially at the time we were there. Our Sherpas told us that you can usually walk up the fixed lines with little effort. But at the time of our trip, the route was a sheer blanket of ice from top to bottom, so we had to rely on willpower, stamina, and upper-body strength.
We attached to the fixed lines, inching up with our jumars. It was an agonizingly slow process: gliding the ascender up to grab the rope, then front pointing our crampons into the ice, and finally lifting ourselves up a foot or two. We used the rest step method to ensure a gradual, consistent pace and slowly made our way up the peak. My pack, which was stuffed with additional layers of clothing I thought I might need, was weighing me down. So when I got to one of the transition locations, I ditched my down jacket, strapping it to a carabiner on an ice screw.
About halfway up the steep pitch, Carlos twisted his knee and decided he needed to head back. We asked if he needed help, but he was confident he could rappel down and make it to safe ground on his own. To my amazement, even when he was hurt, he didn’t stop smiling and cracking jokes.
Bill and I continued our excruciating fall-and-die journey toward the top. I tried to keep a consistent pace, while Bill attempted rapid bursts with longer rests in between. Finally, we made it to the top of the fixed ropes.
From there, we just had the summit ridge ahead of us, which was a narrow, knife-edge cliff with more than a mile of exposure on either side. I dropped my pack, secured it to a picket, and clipped into the fixed lines. Bill was debating about whether he should go up with me or stay behind.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him. He didn’t look like he was doing very well, and although it hadn’t slowed him down, I knew that he was still vomiting after almost every meal.
“I’m feeling a little sluggish,” he admitted. “But I want to go on.”
We quickly climbed the remaining 300 feet to the top. I was pretty excited to be above 20,000 feet, especially considering I’d felt like death just two days prior. The summit was barely large enough for two people, so we briefly enjoyed the view, took some pictures, and then headed back down. As we were descending, we passed Dawn and saw her reach the top. It was her highest summit, and I was proud of her accomplishment. Chris made it to the top of the fixed lines, which was the high point for him. It’s an incredible thing to witness people overcoming adversity—both external obstacles and obstacles within themselves—to accomplish something they’d only dreamed possible.
Our descent wasn’t much easier than the ascent, since we had to rappel down the uneven surface of the ice wall. Some of the Sherpa crew tried tying the climbers off and lowering them down the face, but I didn’t like the lack of control with that method. There were just too many risks involved—one false move could mean disaster. I decided to rappel down on my own, so I wrapped the rope around my figure-eight—a rappelling tool with two loops. The figure-eight locked onto a carabiner attached to my harness, which created friction against the rope, allowing me to descend rapidly while retaining some amount of control.
Bill and I waited for an hour on the Imja Tse glacier until the rest of the group made it down. We roped off in our original teams and navigated back to the pinnacle rock area, where we removed and stowed our crampons, harnesses, and ice axes in our packs. Once we were off the rope, we were able to move at our own pace, and I was glad to get moving. When I was halfway down the rocky trail, I saw Pumba waiting for us.
“Brian, congratulations on summit,” he hollered. “May I carry your pack?”
Before he’d even finished asking, I was hurling my pack through the air toward his waiting arms.
“Absolutely!” I said. “Thank you, Pumba!”
I made it to high camp, took off my steaming boots, and collapsed on top of my –40-degree down sleeping bag. There’s nothing like the comfort of collapsing onto a puffy sleeping bag after a big climb, I thought.
As I lay there, I tried to take in the significance of what I’d just accomplished. In climbing, you usually move on to the next thing so quickly that the moments of soaking it in are few and far between. They quickly become little more than blurred memories. Island Peak wasn’t Everest, but it was no small feat. Thank you, God, I prayed silently, for protecting me. For letting me be here right now. For this beautiful world you’ve made. In no time, I’d drifted into a sleep so deep I might as well have been unconscious.
Suddenly I was awakened by severe spasms throughout my body. Although it startled me, these involuntary myoclonic twitches were something I’d experienced before, typically as REM kicks in. I hadn’t been asleep long, but I felt rested and ready for the next leg of the journey.
Bill made his way down a little later, looking even more nauseous than he had before. After vomiting into one of the mesh pockets of our tent, he collapsed into his sleeping bag and fell asleep.
A little while later, our Sherpa cook came over with a tray of lunch items. I had a sandwich, fruit, and boxed juice, while Bill played it safe and just ate a few bites of an apple, which he wasn’t able to keep down. After lunch I made my way around to congratulate the others on their successful climbs and descents. I especially wanted to check in on Carlos and make sure he was okay.
“How’s your knee doing?” I asked.
“I’m ready to roll!” he replied with a grin. “Pumba will carry most of my gear, and I’ll take it easy on the trek out.”
It’s a good thing Carlos was in high spirits, because we didn’t have much wiggle room in the schedule. It was time to stuff our climbing gear into our packs in preparation for the remainder of our descent.
Bill and I led the rest of the group on the five-mile descent to Chukhung, where we’d stay one night before moving down to Pheriche. It was a big day of climbing, but we knew we had a lot of ground to cover. The trail was a gradual slope downward, which meant gravity didn’t work much to our advantage. Not long after we set out, it started snowing pretty hard, covering the path as we made our way down.
I arrived in Chukhung before the rest of the group but waited in the falling snow to ensure that nobody accidentally passed the teahouse, since all the buildings looked so similar. Once everyone made it inside, we settled into the dining area for dinner.
It was the end of the expedition for the Everest base camp trekkers
and the Island Peak trekkers. So while Bill and I would head up for the challenge of our lives, they would descend to Lukla and fly home in time to celebrate Easter with their families. Part of me envied their position, knowing they’d be home in less than a week, but I had no regrets. Sure, I wished I could hug my family, eat normal food, sleep on a comfortable bed, and enjoy the luxury of indoor plumbing, but I knew I was here to climb Mount Everest.
The trekkers ordered celebratory “Everest brand” beers, which exploded all over the table once the metal tabs popped due to the high elevation. Meanwhile, Bill and I stuck with our milk tea, and I ate my standard fare of soup and Himalayan pizza.
It was extremely cold in the teahouse, and the furnishings were primitive. The door locked with an ancient metal key, and the facilities consisted of nothing more than a squatter hole in the floor. I stumbled through the dark hallway and found the room where Bill and I were staying. As soon as I unrolled my sleeping bag, I got in bed and was asleep almost immediately.
The next morning I woke to see my windows frosted over from our breath. I dressed quickly and then went to the dining area to eat pancakes. After breakfast, Bill and I set off for a short hike down to Dingboche, where we said good-bye to Chris, Carlos, and Dawn. The Sherpa trekking team was joining them, but we’d meet up with the Sherpas again when they led another group into Everest base camp. We took a group picture, and then I hugged each team member. I was sad to see them go, but I was excited about what this meant: the next stop was Everest.
As I watched the group head out on their journey home, I felt a pang of homesickness. I’d been away from my family for two weeks, and I missed them more than I’d imagined possible.
I pulled out my journal and read the words Emily had written on one of the pages before I left:
Blind Descent Page 9
