Bill and I made it from Camp II to the base of Lhotse Face within an hour. At 27,940 feet, Lhotse is the fourth-highest mountain in the world. To climb Mount Everest’s south side, you have to climb halfway up Lhotse before cutting over to the South Col. The entire climb up Lhotse is intense, as it’s essentially a vertical sheet of ice and snow.
After taking a couple of minutes to rest, I connected myself to the fixed lines and headed up the ice wall. I was surprised to see that some of the climbers weren’t connected to the fixed lines, but I didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. The only time I disconnected was when I transitioned between pickets or ice screws, and even then I only disconnected one device at a time so that if I slipped, I wouldn’t fall farther than my other device. If you slip on Lhotse Face, you won’t stop for thousands of feet, which translates into certain death. This is no place for climber’s ego—after all, there’s no shame in surviving!
There were two side-by-side options for fixed lines, and climbers were heading up and down both of them. This created challenges when climbers tried to maneuver around each other on the icy surface. There was also the danger of falling ice or rocks that could descend from above, so we had to be alert at all times.
We were all heading up at our own pace, and at one point I looked around to see where the other climbers in the group were. Bill was a few hundred yards below me, but I had no idea where Veronique and her two Sherpas were. They’d gotten a later start from Camp II and planned to meet us on the ice ledge for a night’s rest. Although Bill had experienced some nausea down below, he was moving strong up the fixed lines. His method of interval bursts was working well for him. Meanwhile, I was continuing my steady three-second cadence: Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step.
This was one of the hardest climbing days I’d had so far. As I made my way up the vertical sheet of ice, I thought about my move to high camp on Mount McKinley several years before. I’d been carrying 70 pounds with me, and I was fighting 60-mile-per-hour winds. Severe wind is one of the biggest mental challenges you can face on a climb. Not only does it cut through your clothes, freezing you to the core, but it also is so loud it can prevent you from communicating with others on your team. Fierce winds tend to kick up violent drifts of snow and ice, making it difficult to see and filling your clothing with ice. And perhaps most of all, windy conditions require you to stay mentally sharp as you strain to keep your balance against the forceful gusts. In those situations, the only thing to do is stay calm and press on, one foot in front of the other, until you reach your destination.
The final hundred yards up to Camp III were slow and painful. By this time I was taking five-second pauses between steps and using more of my upper body to jumar up the line. Each muscle in my body felt like it was being crushed by 100-pound weights. I felt paralyzed as I forced my feet to take each step. And it wasn’t just my muscles that were spent; I was mentally exhausted as well. Everything felt like it was in slow motion—my movements, my thoughts, and my reactions. I had also fueled out and was in desperate need of food, but it was too dangerous to anchor off to find a place to eat, so I had to power through.
Finally, about a mile up Lhotse Face, I got a glimpse of tents anchored to the side of the ice wall. Camp III wasn’t much to speak of—it was basically just a peppering of about 20 tents—but at that moment it was one of the happiest sights I’d ever seen. I was about 30 yards away, which would take about half an hour at this rate, but I knew I was going to make it.
After three hours of climbing, Bill and I finally made it to the tents, where we fell onto our sleeping bags. Eventually I forced myself to do the work—and it was work—of removing my boots and harness. I lay there basking in the satisfaction of another mission accomplished.
That feeling of exhaustion mixed with satisfaction was a little like what I’d felt when I passed the basic requirements of Naval training after an agonizing six months. One of my classmates and I earned our Aircrew wings on the same day—the gold wings we’d wear on our uniforms above the medals and ribbons. But before we were able to get our wings, the other Aircrew members conducted a time-tested hazing ritual. After forcing us to drink a pitcher of beer each, they took off the backings of the pins and pierced the two points straight into our chests. Then each Aircrew member stood in a line and, with all their strength, punched them deeper into our skin until the posts were bent. I still have the scars. As I stood there with my fellow Aircrew men, I was bloody and sore, but also proud. I had earned my “blood wings” and more important, I had accomplished the goal I’d set out to achieve.
I sank into my sleeping bag and relaxed, not thinking about anything. At that altitude, every minor task—even thinking—takes a tremendous amount of energy. My plan for the evening was to eat dinner and then sleep using supplemental oxygen.
Veronique and her climbing Sherpa made it to Camp III an hour after we arrived, and they settled into the tent next to us. I congratulated her through the tent wall but didn’t hear a response. I imagined she was as exhausted as Bill and I were.
As I prepared a dinner (chicken soup and spicy noodle soup, plus a BOUNTY bar for dessert), I looked out of our tent at the view from our little platform. We were on a small ice shelf just large enough for the two-man tents. The shelf was cold and windy, not to mention impossibly steep. It had been cut out of a 55-degree slope that fell straight down for a mile to the Western Cwm. The Sherpas had chosen our tent location carefully and made sure the safety lines were tight to ensure that no mishaps would occur. I was glad we were anchored in, as a fall would mean certain death.
Camp III is a notoriously dangerous area to camp. Many climbers have been lost after going outside their tents to use the bathroom without crampons or some form of safety rope to catch their fall. I looked down from my tent and shook my head. If you slipped, you’d go for a ride for thousands of feet down—no chance of survival.
In the distance I could see Cho Oyu, the sixth-highest mountain in the world. Camp II was straight below, with Camp I so far in the distance that it was hard to see. Behind us was Lhotse Face, and off to the left was the South Summit of Everest.
Just before dinner, Pasang came in to inform us that one of the oxygen regulators was broken. Since I felt the best altitude-wise, I volunteered to go without oxygen for the night, but Bill wouldn’t hear of it. Pasang suggested we open a bottle of oxygen in the tent without a regulator or mask. That didn’t seem like the best solution, though, since the tent walls were thin and anything we pumped in would easily escape. I insisted that I was fine and told Pasang to get some food for himself. After about an hour Pasang returned to our tent with a borrowed regulator from another climbing team’s staged gear, which he would replace at Camp II. He configured my mask for a one-liter-per-minute flow. Although I felt confident I would have been fine without oxygen, I was relieved to have it just in case. I wore my mask at a low-flow rate all through the night.
I felt the effects of supplemental oxygen almost immediately. It filled my body with warmth and gave me energy and life. It was almost like going down in elevation for the night. But as good as the oxygen felt, it was awkward to sleep with something attached to my face. While I slept, everything around me became frozen and frost covered except me. Inside my face mask, condensation formed, meaning that water dripped on my face every few seconds during the night. Even so, it was worth the price to be able to breathe easily.
Bill and I woke at 5 a.m. and started preparing for our descent back to Everest base camp. I had a high-definition video camera mounted to my helmet to try to get some descent footage, but it froze immediately due to the cold temperatures and wind. It didn’t thaw out until the next day when we reached a lower elevation.
I alternated rappelling Australian style (head first) and backward down Lhotse Face, and I reached Camp II in about 45 minutes. We had a breakfast of potatoes and pancakes prepared by Dawa, and I then set out on my own all the way to base camp. I was eager to breathe in the thick air
again and complete my acclimatization process.
We were almost there. It was hard to wrap my mind around how much our bodies had adjusted to the elevation, but it put things in perspective when I realized that if our plane lost cabin pressure on the way home and the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling, we wouldn’t need to put them on.
The next stop was the death zone, where the body can’t acclimate and starts to wither away and die, even with supplemental oxygen. But I was ready. The next move up the mountain would be for the summit attempt!
CHAPTER 6
EYEING THE MOUNTAIN
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.
PSALM 121:1-2
MAY 5, 2011
Since our acclimatization process is complete, we will rest at base camp and wait for a weather window for a summit attempt. Some groups are trying to summit on the seventh, but we’ve had so much snow lately that the fixed lines above the South Col aren’t in place. We don’t want to risk having the Sherpas hurry to set the lines and then have to change them later. On this mountain, patience is necessary for a safe and successful climb.
We were right on schedule to be one of the earlier groups to make an attempt on the summit. But I didn’t want to rush anything, especially with the recent snowfall. As much as I wanted to summit, I was committed to being safe and making wise choices. Climbing Mount Everest isn’t just about skill and strategic planning—there’s also patience and some luck involved. No amount of preparation can help you if the weather doesn’t cooperate once you’ve acclimatized and are ready to make your final ascent. I was glad that part of my mental preparation for the trip had been focusing on returning home safely, no matter the outcome of the climb.
Pasang, Bill, and I talked through our plan for the final summit push. It would take five days to get into position at high camp from Everest base camp, and we’d have to hope for a weather window shortly after we arrived. We planned out our route, which looked pretty straightforward on paper, but we knew it was possible to run into any number of variables, such as inclement weather, injury, and other unknowns.
I wonder how my body will perform as we head to the top, I thought as I sat at base camp, waiting to head to high camp. Granted, there was something to be said for familiarity. It gave me confidence to know I’d done part of this journey before so I had some idea of what to expect along the way. But there was one key piece I’d never experienced before: the death zone. How will I do in that fierce unknown?
There was only one way to find out.
I called JoAnna every day while we waited to set out for high camp, getting caught up on what she and the kids were doing. When I was back in my tent, I rehearsed every detail of the plan until it felt as familiar as reciting my home address. It wasn’t long before I was tired of thinking about the plan and just wanted to execute it—ready or not. If I was capable of handling the challenge, I would feel the thrill of success. If not, I would come back and live to climb another day.
During my six years in the military, I learned that it’s up to you to do everything you can do to be prepared, and then at some point you just have to do your best and trust God to handle everything else. This was especially true when our crew did tours in the Persian Gulf, where we flew daily missions. During our six-month tours, I lost an average of two Aircrew buddies a year due to training mishaps.
During one night flight in the middle of the Pacific, while the crew was wearing night-vision goggles, the pilots became disoriented and flew into the ocean during their approach to the carrier. The forward g-force of the impact killed everyone on board instantly, and the helicopter sank to the bottom of the ocean. Another time, during a combat search-and-rescue training flight, the helo crashed into the side of a steep cliff, killing the crew as they rolled into a ravine. Their bodies were burned and charred to the seats, which had to be cut out by fellow Aircrewmen.
I experienced some close calls myself. We were flying a VERTREP (vertical replenishment) mission just outside Japan, with the assignment of off-loading tons of weapons onto a carrier. We had 5,000 pounds hanging from a hook 20 feet below the helicopter when the carrier disappeared into a whiteout fog. We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces, and we quickly lost sight of the carrier. Vertigo set in, but the pilots fell back on their training and used their instruments to ensure that we were level.
I lay on the deck of the helo, watching the heavy load sway beneath us, and called in the status to our pilots as they gained altitude, trying to avoid running into the side of the ship. I was prepared at any moment to release the load into the ocean and set our helo crash procedures in motion. Despite the fact that we were flying blind, we managed to remain calm, until suddenly the carrier deck appeared below us. I called in the altitude as we hovered and lowered the weapons to the deck. The load was gently released on the deck, and we landed safely, but it was a closer call than we would have liked.
The grim reality is that there are dangers in all of life, no matter the profession, but the stakes tend to be higher when you’re talking about high-risk endeavors like military missions or high-altitude climbs.
In those intense situations, when lives are on the line, your mission is to enhance your skills to the elite level and prepare for every possible scenario that’s within your control. And once you’re confident you’ve done all you can, the only thing left to do is put your faith in God, believing that he’ll deliver you from the things outside of your control.
•
On May 8, a Sunday, I called my mom.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” I said.
“Oh, thank you!” I could hear the excitement rippling through her words. “I’m so glad you called.” She hadn’t been counting on a call from Everest base camp on Mother’s Day.
“How is your climb going?” she asked.
“I went up to Camp III already, and now I’m just waiting for a weather window to make a summit attempt.”
“Your dad and I are so proud of you,” she said. I could tell she was crying. “You’re in our prayers, and we love you.”
“I love you too, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.”
After I hung up, I sat there in silence for a moment, thanking God for my supportive family.
The day before we headed up for our summit attempt, we heard about an 82-year-old Nepalese man who had died in the icefall. Shailendra Kumar Upadhyay was trying to become the oldest man to summit Everest, but tragically, he didn’t make it.
I was in my tent preparing my gear when I heard some commotion along the main path through camp. I unzipped the tent door and saw several Sherpas and Nepalese climbers with a body bag. They took turns carrying the climber’s stiff body until they reached the helicopter pad, where they waited for the evacuation flight.
Nobody was sure of the exact cause of his death, but most people were leaning toward cardiac arrest. I could feel a sense of uneasiness settle over the group. What was he like? I wondered. Did he have a family? Why was he climbing? What was his story?
“Heavenly Father, please be with this man’s family,” I prayed. “I don’t know much about him, but please comfort those who loved him. They must be dealing with great loss right now, and they need your strength to get through this.”
On May 11 we decided to push all the way from base camp to Camp II in one day, and it would be a long one. The plan was to stay an extra day at Camp II, head up to Camp III, hit high camp, and then attempt the summit. If all went well, we’d return to Camp II after the summit and then go back to base camp the following day.
I gave JoAnna and the kids a call.
“I wanted to fill you in on the plans,” I told JoAnna. “I’m heading up tomorrow morning. We are hoping for a May 14 summit date.”
“Really?” I could hear the slight trepidation in her voice. “How does the weather look?”
“We have a great window,” I said. “And I promise I won’t take any unnece
ssary risks. I’ll be out of contact for a few days, but don’t worry about me.”
“Hi, Daddy!” Emily and Jordan yelled into the phone. “Thank you for the toys!”
I was glad they were enjoying their daily scavenger hunt. “Hi, guys! I miss you both so much. Are you being good and listening to Mommy?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Are you still climbing the tallest mountain?”
“Yep, I should be done in another week or so.”
“How many sleeps is that?” Jordan asked.
“About seven to ten sleeps,” I replied. “I’ll have to see how the weather is.”
All too soon, it was time for me to go. “I’ll talk to you when I get down from the mountain,” I said, my voice cracking. “I love you all so much!”
“I love you too, Daddy!” Emily and Jordan said in unison.
Then it was just JoAnna on the line. “So you’ll be back down in five days?” she asked. “Will I hear anything before then?”
“I’ll try to borrow a satellite phone up higher, but I can’t promise anything,” I said. “Keep up the prayers.”
When I hung up, I buried my face in my hands and cried. It’s not like I think this will be the last time I talk to them, I thought. But there’s so much unknown ahead.
At around 4 o’clock in the morning on May 11, Bill and I got ready in silence and then headed to the dining tent. Before leaving, I logged into Facebook and updated my status:
Heading to the summit of Mount Everest. BRB!
BRB—be right back. I certainly hoped it was true.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Bill over breakfast.
“Okay, but not perfect,” he said. But he kept down his breakfast of instant coffee and oatmeal, so I took that as a good sign.
We put on our boots and jackets and then stepped out onto a thin layer of snow that had dusted the ground during the night. We lit our headlamps, donned our packs, and started out.
Blind Descent Page 13
