Dad,
I will miss you so much and I love you too. Come home soon, please. You are so brave, and I want you to come home very, very soon. You are the best!
Love,
Emily
At four, Jordan couldn’t write much, but he signed his name underneath Emily’s.
As much as I missed my family, though, I knew I had to stay focused to keep up my momentum.
Bill and I headed over the pass to Pheriche. When I got to the top of the pass, I climbed a higher peak to see if I could get cell coverage to call JoAnna. I was desperate to give her an update, since the last she’d heard, I was having headaches and feeling miserable at base camp.
But when I reached the top, I was crushed to discover that my phone couldn’t catch a signal. That meant it would be at least a few days until I’d have a chance to reach her.
Bill and I climbed down a slope of scree—a collection of small, loose rocks—into Pheriche and unpacked our gear in the Himalayan Hotel, where we would stay for two days before heading back to Everest base camp. After acclimatizing on Island Peak, we would be ready to go through the Khumbu Icefall to Camp I and possibly Camp II.
I wasn’t counting out any physiological issues such as edema yet, but I’d felt strong all through my Island Peak ascent, and I was hopeful that my earlier issues were a result of a head cold rather than acute mountain sickness. I understood the need to spend a few days in Pheriche to replenish my body before ascending again, but the thought of having to wait any longer was enough to drive me mad.
When I’m climbing—or doing anything, for that matter—I like to be productive, to feel like I’m making forward progress. But I knew that this was a good opportunity to rest, pray, read, and record the highlights of my journey so far. It was also a good chance to discuss the climbing plan with Pasang and prepare for any circumstances we might encounter.
We talked through a lot of what-if scenarios: What if we bypassed Camp I and pushed to Camp II? What if we hit extreme weather? What if we joined up with another team to share loads and alternate the use of tents? This would allow us to cut the number of carries in half, as well as split the task of building the tents and setting up camp. The downside would be that we’d all have to fit in the same weather window and make sure we had access to supplies when we needed them.
And then there was the biggest question of all: What were our potential summit dates? We had a lot to do in the next few weeks to even consider a summit date, but it helped to work toward that end goal so we could build a solid plan—contingencies included.
The next day I decided it was time to do laundry. When your socks and pants aren’t merely standing up on their own but also start running, you know it’s time to take action. A hotel attendant delivered a couple of pans of warm water, and I washed and rinsed my clothes using individual Tide packets. The strong smell of the detergent burned my nostrils, but it was a welcome change in my musky dungeon. As I washed, the water instantly turned into a thick, muddy mess, and I had to change it out several times to ensure I wasn’t transferring the filth and muck from one piece of clothing to the next. I didn’t want to think of the dirt, dead skin, and yak feces particles that had made their home in my clothing. I’m pretty sure my laundry attempt wouldn’t have met my standards for cleanliness back home, but at least my clothes were better than before. And the task kept me busy, distracting me from boredom for a while.
I rigged some climbing cord from one side of my room to the other to let everything hang dry. It looked like a giant spider had created its home in my room, and I had to use caution when entering to avoid getting clotheslined.
That afternoon I wrote in my journal, reflecting on all that had happened in the past couple of weeks. I had made it to Everest base camp, and I had climbed Island Peak—both larger-than-life goals. But the most important thing I’d done was overcome a major mental hurdle. Getting sick had knocked me down, but I’d been able to get up and keep fighting. I felt like myself again—physically and mentally strong, and ready to take on the world. I wasn’t going to let a smackdown like that one take me out. I was ready for Everest!
CHAPTER 5
LIFE AT ALTITUDE
Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.
PROVERBS 3:5-6
ON APRIL 20, after two days of boredom and resting at 14,000 feet, I was eager to head back up to 17,500 feet. Bill and I left Pheriche after eating pancakes and hard-boiled eggs and made our way up the Khumbu Valley. I was focused on keeping a steady pace and moving forward, but at one point I looked back and saw that Bill was losing his breakfast. He kept moving, as if nothing had happened. I was concerned about him, but he was intent on continuing. I just hoped he’d either get better or throw in the towel before he put anyone at risk—himself or the rest of the group.
We spread out as we made our way on the six-mile trek, periodically meeting up for tea at the various villages along the way. I was in my own world as I took in the amazing views and listened to Switchfoot on my headphones.
We were meant to live for so much more. . . .
We want more than this world’s got to offer.
A mile out of Lobuche, I checked my phone and was thrilled to see I had coverage. I made a quick call to JoAnna to bring her up to speed on the past week.
“Hi, honey!” she exclaimed.
I knew she’d been worried about me, but her voice didn’t show it.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “I’m heading back up to base camp. I knocked out Island Peak in a day, and I’m feeling back to my normal self. I’m ready to get started on this climb!”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “It sounds like you have your morale back.” She paused, and I could tell that although she was happy for me, she had some mixed feelings. If I hadn’t been doing better, there was a chance I would have been returning home early.
“I wish I could be there with you,” I told her. “But I need to do this.”
“I know.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but I could hear the underlying strength in it.
I tried to push my emotions aside so I could continue on toward Gorak Shep.
When we arrived at the teahouse, Bill, Pasang, and I had some soup, and then I decided to complete the remaining two miles to Everest base camp while Pasang and Bill stayed an additional night in Gorak Shep. It made sense for Bill to remain at a lower elevation since he was still dealing with stomach concerns, but I didn’t want to risk having the germs in the village wreak havoc on my immune system again.
As I gathered my pack and headed out alone on the trackless route, large snowflakes started swirling in the sky. Pasang radioed the base camp Sherpa team to let them know that I’d be arriving later that afternoon. I bundled up with a light down sweater and a GORE-TEX jacket to protect against the elements. I moved efficiently, enjoying the solitude, and it wasn’t long before I entered base camp. Our Sherpa team greeted me when I arrived.
“You are a very fast climber,” Lakpa said with a smile. At just over five feet tall, Lakpa was a workhorse, making extra carries to ensure that the necessary gear was set for the next day’s climbs. He had considerable climbing experience—including five successful summits of Everest under his belt—and he would be paired up with Bill for their summit attempt. I was grateful to have him on the team.
I got my gear settled in my tent and then walked over to the dining tent. I shook the newly fallen snow off the sidewalls and then unzipped the front flap. I was looking forward to relaxing and warming up with some tea. I was glad to see Veronique there, looking much better than she had a week earlier at Namche Bazaar.
“Hey, Veronique! Welcome to base camp. How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” she said in her deep French accent. “I stayed a couple of extra days in Namche, but now I feel better.” She gave me a thumbs-up.
After lunch I headed back to my tent. At base cam
p, your tent is your home. My “home away from home” had two extra-large expedition bags, solar panels, my iPod with a portable speaker, my –20-degree sleeping bag, and a mattress, plus my snacks, clothing, and medical gear. Each item was strategically placed so I always knew where everything was, day or night. A pomegranate air freshener hung from the top of the tent in an attempt to mask my not-so-fresh stench. My weekly showers with baby wipe–baths in between weren’t quite as effective as my hygiene regimen back home.
All through the day and night, I heard the thunderous roar of avalanches kicking off from the peaks surrounding base camp. Each one began with an awful cracking sound as an overhanging ice cornice broke loose and sent echoes through the valley. Once this force of nature launches, it’s unstoppable. It hammers the entire area below, dumping clouds of snow on everything within hundreds of yards. After things settle, an eerie silence follows. The only evidence of the havoc on the mountain is a thin “waterfall” of loose snow that pours down until there’s no loose snow left.
At night I was also awakened by the loud snaps and cracks of the glacier below as it shifted and broke apart. As awful as it sounded, though, I knew there was little risk of getting swallowed into the earth, since underneath the moving sea of ice was a solid bed of boulders.
Our camp certainly wasn’t a spa resort, but it was nice to have a central station to call home so we didn’t have to pack up and leave each day. On what amounted to a monthlong camping trip, I was glad to have one place that remained stationary.
In many ways, base camp was actually a step above my final week of SERE training, which was basically land-survival POW camp training. We spent the entire final week in the mountains and desert of Warner Springs in Southern California with no food, no sleeping bag, and no tent to protect us against the elements. The days were extremely hot, averaging above 100 degrees, but at night, the temperatures dropped to below freezing.
In preparation for the long, cold nights I stuffed a parachute with leaves and pine needles to make a makeshift sleeping bag. The instructors told us to spoon with our partners to utilize maximum body heat to survive the night, but I decided I’d rather take my chances with the pine needles.
For the first three days we lived off the land, with very few supplies. We made fires using the natural resources around us, built shelters out of brush, and ate plants and bugs. One day we caught a rabbit, broke its neck, skinned it, and boiled it to make stew to feed more than thirty ravenous SERE candidates. When I looked at things from that perspective, life on the mountain wasn’t so rough. After all, I had a down sleeping bag and a cooking Sherpa who could do all sorts of magic with Spam.
•
Bill and Pasang made it to base camp the following day. That evening we staged our gear for an early morning climb through the icefall up to Camp I. When I woke up at 5 a.m. and exited my tent, Pasang was there waiting for me.
“Bill isn’t feeling so great,” he said. “He’s going to stay in the tent and try to get well.”
The news didn’t surprise me. I knew Bill had been battling nausea for some time, and his cough was becoming a constant companion.
I ate breakfast alone in the dining tent and then geared up for my first climb above base camp. My stomach churned with nerves and excitement. Today I’m going to breach the unknown, I thought. It would be one of many milestones on Everest. As I laced my two-in-one insulated boots, I heard Pasang outside, chanting a blessing in preparation for our climb. I used the time to pray for us and for others on the mountain.
“Heavenly Father, please watch over Pasang and me during our climb,” I whispered. “Please watch over the other climbers, and keep them safe too. Thank you for JoAnna and the kids and all my friends back home who have supported me through this. Give my family peace today, and reassure them of your presence. And please, Lord, let me return home safely to them.”
I stepped through the flap of the dining tent to see Pasang hurling a final handful of rice at the puja idol. We checked our gear and ensured that our harnesses were double backed, with the webbing wrapped securely through the buckles. This was a critical step so the harness wouldn’t accidentally unravel—an oversight that has resulted in a number of deaths over the years when people have slipped out of their harnesses and plummeted hundreds of feet below.
In the pale moonlight, I looked up the mountain and saw the flickering lights from other climbers moving across the icefall. It was time to make our way through the maze of tents to join them.
Pasang and I headed up the Khumbu Icefall at 6:15 a.m. with our crampons, harnesses, helmets, backpacks, water, and snacks. As we set foot on the two-mile stretch of ice, my mind was filled with stories I’d heard about building-sized blocks of ice falling and crushing climbers and about unforeseen avalanches taking out entire groups.
The icefall is the first obstacle you encounter when you come out of Everest base camp. It’s essentially a series of massive ice blocks, called seracs, which can shift and fall at a moment’s notice. This is arguably the most dangerous area of the mountain. Not only is it unstable, but you also have to traverse this gauntlet of death multiple times. Nepal employs a small group of Sherpas called icefall doctors to map out the route, fix the ropes, and anchor aluminum ladders across crevasses. The route can change daily as a result of seracs collapsing and avalanches kicking off from neighboring peaks. As we made our way through the icy terrain, I found myself extremely grateful for these icefall doctors.
For the first time on the whole trip, I was nervous—not so much because of the danger, but because of the unknown. I’d based so much of my mental preparation on what I’d experienced in the past, so it was challenging when I had no prior knowledge to build on and had to rely solely on my capabilities and the research I’d completed. In the climbs I’d done in the past, I’d made my way around plenty of seracs, but I’d never gone directly through one before.
Pasang and I moved efficiently toward our destination: Camp I, at 19,700 feet. Once I got over the magnitude of the undertaking, I was able to appreciate the otherworldly beauty of the icefall. With all the crevasses, ice formations, and frozen ponds, it seemed a little like being on another planet.
If it hadn’t been for the high altitude and the ice, the climb wouldn’t have been too challenging. But at that elevation, I had to work for every step. Thirty times, on 30 different ladders, we crossed deep crevasses and straight up-and-down seracs. Some of the chasms were narrow enough for single ladders; other places were so wide that two or three ladders had to be tied together and strung straight across the crevasse.
The ladders are simply lightweight aluminum ladders, battered and bent from being transported along the 38-mile trek and from years of abuse in the elements. They are carried up the mountain by porters, who lay them flat on the snow and then tie them together as needed to cross the crevasse. These ladders are then anchored on each side, along with safety ropes for climbers to clip into and hold on to while crossing.
When I stepped onto the first ladder, I had to decide what my strategy would be. Some climbers use the spikes on their crampons to latch onto the ladder rungs, while others teeter on the rungs with the middle of their feet. There are pros and cons to each method. Latching the crampon points is more stable, but there’s also potential for the spikes to wedge in and get stuck to the rungs, making it difficult to step forward. The teetering method is risky because you aren’t as stable, but if you have good balance, you’ll be able to continue your forward movement and get across more quickly. I tried both methods and eventually decided that teetering was the better approach for me.
I was grateful once again that I didn’t have a fear of heights. I saw the terror on some of my fellow climbers’ faces and knew that each ladder crossing was sheer torture. They got on their hands and knees and crawled across, looking straight ahead the entire way. If they had looked down, they would have seen that a single misstep would send them plummeting down the 100-foot crevasse.
I felt strong as
I climbed, and I was grateful my body was acclimatizing well. The route switched left and right to avoid major obstacles or potential hazards. The entire path was equipped with fixed lines, which the icefall doctors set out and adjusted daily depending on the changes in topography.
With the exception of just a few areas between Camps I and II, climbers are attached to fixed ropes at all times throughout the route. This ensures that everyone stays on the path, and it can help prevent injury in the case of a fall. The ropes are important as a safety precaution, especially when climbers are carrying loads and going to higher elevations, but they aren’t meant to be used as a safety blanket for people attempting climbs they aren’t prepared for.
The route seemed to go on forever. In past years, Camp I was lower, but due to the continuous downward movement of the Khumbu Icefall, it had been shifted to a higher elevation. I knew this would be beneficial later, when we were hammering our way toward the summit, but at that point I was starting to wonder if we’d ever make it to Camp I.
And then, at last, with practically no warning, we were there. Camp I is basically a cluster of 20 tents on each side of a large crevassed glacier. It’s located at the bottom of the Western Cwm, also known as “the Valley of Silence.” Cwm (pronounced coom) is a Welsh word that means “bowl-shaped valley,” which is appropriate, since it’s a gently sloping valley basin at the foot of Lhotse Face. The Western Cwm is two miles across, making it the largest crevassed section on the route—and the only place requiring five tied-together ladders to get across.
I didn’t have any expectations of what this camp would look like, so I wasn’t disappointed to see that it pretty much looked like any other camp I’d been to. If not for the elevation, we could have been on Denali, Elbrus, or Rainier. I looked out over the icefall toward base camp, but with all the steep-angled ice blocks, I could no longer see it. Looking the other direction, I saw a valley surrounded by four looming peaks: Lho La, Nuptse, Lhotse, and of course, Everest, towering over the world.
Blind Descent Page 10
