That morning almost everyone making a summit attempt turned around at the South Summit. When we passed one group on their way down, they stopped briefly to give us a report.
“It’s too windy on the South Col,” they said. “People’s tents are being destroyed.”
We’d heard that the winds were strong, but the predictions were for calmer conditions for the next day, and we hoped it would settle by the time we reached high camp. We decided to press on, using every ounce of stamina and mental focus we had to push against the 70-mile-per-hour winds.
At one point I saw a couple of Sherpas helping a man down the mountain. As they got close enough for me to see his face, I knew immediately what was wrong: he’d gone snow blind.
Snow blindness is damage to the cornea—usually temporary—that comes as a result of exposure to UV rays. In snowy conditions, the risk for this condition is higher, since the sun constantly reflects off the ice. On Everest there’s even greater risk due to the extreme elevation and the lack of ozone protection.
How terrifying, I thought. It was challenging enough to come down the steep Lhotse Face with your vision intact; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to attempt it blind.
Pasang was pretty far ahead of me, but I was able to see his movements by periodically lifting my goggles to get a clearer view. At several points I saw him bend over, and other climbers went over to check on him. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t look like his usual strong self. I hope he’s okay, I thought, wishing I were closer so I could find out more information. I kept my pace of resting three to four seconds between each step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step.
Then all at once I heard a huge gust of wind above me. Instinctively I hunkered down to protect myself against whatever was coming over the rock band. Through my limited vision, I looked up to see a gust of spindrift (snow spray from high winds) kicking off above me near the Yellow Band. I was afraid that the extreme winds would push a loose snow slab down on top of me, but it blew right over before disintegrating into the wind.
With gusts like these, I had to be alert at all times. When I finally made it to the last traverse around the Geneva Spur, I heard a loud cracking sound—almost like a whip. I lifted my goggles in time to see a 100-mile-per-hour mini-tornado circling above me. I’d never witnessed anything like it before. It gained speed and hurled large rocks as if they were mere pebbles. I knelt down and grabbed the fixed line, ducking my head and preparing myself for a ride. But just as quickly as the twister had started, it was over.
I stood there in disbelief, trying to process what had just happened. At such high altitudes, with little to no protection, you simply can’t predict what the weather will do. I had just witnessed a rare anomaly of nature—one that could have had disastrous consequences. I pulled my water bottle from my pack, unclipped my oxygen mask, and took two mouthfuls of water. Then I continued to make my way up.
As I climbed over the Geneva Spur, I tried to take in the views. I had heard it was a beautiful stretch of the journey, but it was difficult to see anything through my frozen goggles. Every once in a while I’d look under my goggles to get a glimpse of the mountainous grandeur surrounding me.
The summit of Everest is intimidating under any circumstances, but now, as I watched 70-mile-per-hour winds tearing up to the top, I could only stand there in awe.
I stopped to get a quick snack and some water, and then I took out my camera, managing to snap a few pictures before it froze and stopped working. I knew I just had to warm up the battery to revive it, but I decided to keep it stashed for now. These weren’t exactly prime conditions for touristy photos.
The Geneva Spur arches in such a way that you can’t see high camp until you’re actually there. It was hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other without being able to tell if I was making progress or how much farther I had to go. Then all at once, I looked up and saw various tents and oxygen bottles scattered around the icy, rocky ground. I exhaled, my relief mixed with joy. I made it to the highest camp in the world!
With the combination of the rough weather conditions and the major elevation gain, from 23,000 feet to 26,000 feet, this climb to the South Col had been one of the hardest days of climbing so far.
But my adrenaline was pumping now. In five hours, we’d be attempting the summit.
I staggered around the windy camp, stumbling on rocks with my crampons, and wondering how I’d find Pasang. From a distance, I saw a Sherpa wearing a down suit that looked like Pasang’s and made my way over to him.
“Hi, Pasang,” I called.
But when he turned, I realized it wasn’t him. The Sherpa pointed me in the other direction, indicating that I might find Pasang on the other side of camp.
I set out in search of a familiar face, and finally Pasang stuck his head out of a tent.
“Hi, Brian,” he said.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
He brushed my question aside, waving me into the tent.
We rested for a while, wearing oxygen at a low rate. The winds raged around us, and I was sure that the flimsy walls of our tent would be shredded at any moment. The wind gusts consistently hammered one side of the tent, compressing the poles, and the sound of the flapping fabric was deafening. With the overwhelming sense that the walls were closing in around me, I was tempted to burst out of the tent and run to safety. But where would I run? I wondered. I had no choice but to sit there and pray that Mountain Hardwear had stitched each seam correctly.
I handed Pasang my goggles and showed him the crack that had appeared when they fell. The goggles still had a frozen layer between the lenses, so I decided to rip out the cracked layer. Both sides of the broken plastic came out clean, leaving a single layer. Perfect! I thought. Now I’ll be able to scrape them off, and I’ll actually be able to see when I make my summit attempt. There was only one problem—and a significant one, although I didn’t realize it at the time: I had just cut my UV protection in half. And I’d done so in a place where the ultraviolet radiation is 100 percent higher than it is at sea level.
•
Pasang radioed base camp to check the weather forecast. Would we be able to make our summit attempt? After a few minutes, we received a Swedish forecast and a Seattle forecast about Everest’s weather, which seemed to agree with each other. I had to smile at the thought that my home city was predicting the forecast for me now that I was halfway around the world. Twenty- to fifty-mile-per-hour winds were expected on the summit, there was no precipitation, and the temperatures were well within our range.
“What do you think?” Pasang asked me.
“Well, it sounds like we won’t have any traffic jams,” I said with a smile. You wouldn’t expect a place like Everest to get congested, but with the fixed lines, you pretty much have to climb single file. And with a short climbing season and limited weather windows, there can be a lot of waiting time, which isn’t good for the toes and fingers.
Pasang agreed and radioed down to the rest of our group that we were going to set out at 7 p.m. Bill was still a day behind, and he and Lakpa would move to high camp while we were heading for the summit. That meant we would be the only two people going for the summit, which is extremely rare. Some people (only a couple of whom were successful) had made attempts the day before during harsher winds, and several other climbers were waiting until the following day for calmer conditions.
Pasang and I were both feeling strong, so we figured we’d take off early, hit the summit, and return before the real winds started. And then if anything went wrong in between, we’d be able to turn back and still get to the South Col before conditions changed.
As I lay there on my sleeping bag that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking, I’m at the highest camp in the world! Inside the bright orange walls of the tent, I could have been any place on earth. I’d been inside countless tents like this in the past. I’d smelled the same stale air mixed with low-flow oxygen. I’d heard the s
ame whipping of wind outside. But this time it was different. This time it was Everest.
I stared up at the ceiling and watched the poles compress with each fierce gust. After a while, the wind started to calm down until it was merely a gentle breeze. Then it became silent, aside from our slow breathing behind oxygen masks.
Pasang was quieter than usual. I noticed that he didn’t quite seem like himself, but I was in my own world, trying to take in this surreal situation. After all the training and preparation, I was about to get out of my tent at 26,000 feet and start walking toward the summit of Mount Everest!
Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, please watch over us as we make this summit attempt. Please guide us and keep us safe. Thank you for your faithfulness and for everything you’ve provided for me. I’m grateful for the abilities you’ve given me, and I’m thankful to have this opportunity. Please take care of my family and give them peace. Amen.
CHAPTER 7
SOLO ASCENT
LORD, you are my strength and my protection, my safe place in times of trouble.
JEREMIAH 16:19, NCV
ON MAY 14, our summit attempt date, I didn’t sleep a wink. We were scheduled to make the final climb later that evening, and although my main goal for the day was to take it easy, my body and my mind were whirling too rapidly for me to get much rest. After a dinner of soup and noodles, I lay on my sleeping bag, alone with my thoughts. I’m only 3,000 feet and nine hours away from standing on the highest place on earth! I could barely get my mind around the idea.
It was hard not to overthink things, but I tried to control my excitement so I could focus on each task at hand. Pasang and I geared up in silence, putting on our crampons and harnesses and checking our oxygen. The sun was just dipping below the mountains, and the moon was glowing silver on the horizon. The moon was almost full that evening, and the wind had died down significantly over the course of the day, so the conditions would be perfect for a night climb.
As I stood in the fading rays of sunlight on the South Col, I took some pictures to try to capture the moment.
The spell was broken when I heard the crackle of Pasang’s radio.
“We’re heading up the hill,” he reported to the rest of our Sherpa crew down at lower camps. Our summit attempt was on!
Shortly after eight o’clock, we left the safety of our tents and made our way toward our ultimate destination. After crossing the quarter mile of the South Col, we began the steep mile that leads up to the Balcony, which at 27,500 feet is usually considered the halfway mark. Shortly after we started, I felt a dreaded pulsing in my head. Oh no, I thought. Lord, please don’t let this be an altitude problem. After all my preparation, I really wanted to reach the top.
We took a moment to rest, and I told Pasang, “I’m afraid I have the beginnings of a headache.”
“Headache is not good. Go back?”
I was surprised—it wasn’t like him to want to turn back so quickly. “Let me get some water and a snack first.”
I sat down and took out my thermos, and to my relief, the headache passed within a few minutes.
We made our way up the bulletproof ice and across a bumpy area called “the ice bulge.” I noticed that my headlamp was getting dim, even though I’d just replaced the batteries, so I swapped it out with a spare headlamp I’d brought along. Suddenly the path lit up before us.
That’s about when my second wind kicked in. I started moving efficiently up the mountain, moving ahead of Pasang, who was carrying extra bottles of oxygen. I didn’t know it at the time, but I later found out he vomited most of the way up. As I continued climbing, I noticed the way the moon reflected my shadow against the snow. My silhouette was with me the entire climb, keeping me company.
It’s hard to explain, but even though I was climbing alone, I didn’t feel alone. Researchers have studied this phenomenon, often called the “Third Man Factor,” in which people in survival situations, such as climbing Everest, trekking through Antarctica, or sailing solo around the world, experience a presence by their side, helping them succeed. I’d never experienced anything similar before that night, but I was grateful to have the company. I didn’t really take the time to analyze the phenomenon at the time, but looking back, I now realize how true it was—I really wasn’t alone. God was present with me every step of the way. The Bible puts it this way: “The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:8).
I hoped that whatever JoAnna was doing right now, she felt that same presence I did. Our faith in Christ was what kept us grounded—both when we were together, raising our kids and going about our daily lives, and when we were apart, facing the challenges that come with a lifestyle like mine.
I was raised Lutheran, and my family went to church every so often, but it wasn’t much of a personal thing for me when I was growing up. JoAnna, on the other hand, was raised Southern Baptist, and she and her family sat in the front row every Sunday.
When I joined the military, my faith gradually became a central part of my life. It wasn’t like I set out to become spiritual or anything, but at boot camp, you had the choice of working out on Sundays or escaping by attending church. There was never an empty pew. I don’t remember the actual date, but a couple of years after boot camp, after hearing more about who God was at church and reading more about him in the Bible, I asked Jesus Christ into my heart.
JoAnna and I had been dating for almost a year at the time, and we had just gotten into an argument about something. I was really down and decided to go surfing by myself to clear my head. I paddled out into the ocean on my board and floated up and down with the current, waiting for a break to catch. As I sat there floating on my board at Sunset Cliffs, watching the gentle rise and fall of the tide, I wasn’t praying or thinking about God, but out of nowhere, I felt a surge of life enter my body. I looked up as the clouds parted and fingers of light stretched toward the ocean waves, illuminating a pod of dolphins that were catching the surf. I sat there with an overwhelming sense of purpose.
“Jesus, I give myself to you,” I prayed. “Please take control of my life. I want to live completely for you.” It was a beautiful entry into the new me, and each day since, it has been a journey of getting to know God better. That day as I sat on the beach, I had no way of knowing that my journey would take me to the top of a mountain one day.
The route was a steep incline made of frozen snow, ice, and rock. I moved consistently, taking frequent rest steps and doing pressure breathing. The only sound I heard was my breath, flowing in and out through my oxygen mask. I started to see remnants of fixed lines from past years scattered on the path.
In the past, climbing expeditions regularly left gear and supplies all over the mountain. The mentality was that if you didn’t need it anymore, there was no reason to lug the extra weight with you. And at that altitude, most people are doing everything they can to survive, so cleaning up on the descent tends to be a low priority in the death zone.
But over the years, as more people have climbed Everest and there’s growing awareness about caring for the environment, climbers tend to be more diligent about cleaning up after themselves. Plus, there have been a number of expeditions sent out in recent years with the sole purpose of cleaning up the gear from previous years. Even so, you can still find tattered tents, old anchors, fixed lines, dead bodies, and empty oxygen canisters strewn on the mountain.
I kept my focus and was diligent about staying attached to the rope at all times. I made sure to remain on the right lines—yellow with black stripes for this season. I trusted the Sherpas’ diligence in anchoring the route, but each time I approached a new anchor, I still checked to make sure the anchor was fastened securely into the ice. Even if they’d been installed properly, anchors can wobble loose over time—either from overuse or from the sun melting the snow around the base. If they remain deep in the snow and ice, though, the freezing temps at night will solidify them for the next day’s climbs.
Halfway to the Balcony, I had to negotiate up and around some rocky terrain. I kept looking back for Pasang, but he continued to get farther behind. I wasn’t too concerned since it’s common for climbers to get into different grooves, especially if you aren’t roped to each other. I just figured he was moving at his own pace, so I decided to make my way to the flat Balcony and wait for him there. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but this last section seemed steeper than the rest of the route. I couldn’t see how much farther I had to go, so I continued placing one foot in front of the other. That was the only way I would get there.
By the time I made it to the Balcony, I could barely see Pasang’s headlamp down below. While I waited, I noticed some other headlamps heading up Lhotse directly across from me. Are they looking this way? I wondered. Are they curious about whose single headlamp is moving up Everest?
I also saw an electrical storm in the distance, which looked like an air bombing you might see footage of in a news report about a war-torn country. I took out my video camera and filmed the storm so I could research what I was seeing when I got home. Then I turned off the camera and just took in the moment. The silence was eerie, broken only by periodic wind gusts and my slow breaths through the oxygen mask.
Standing there at the Balcony, I couldn’t help but think about Beck Weathers and his miraculous descent 15 years prior. Beck was a part of the 1996 tragedy that unfolded in Mount Everest’s death zone. A previous eye surgery had made his eyes more sensitive, and he had lost his vision as a result of the high altitude and the exposure to ultraviolet radiation. He became blind at the very spot I was standing.
Beck’s group, led by Rob Hall, had continued up toward the summit while he stayed behind and waited for their return. After an unexpected storm engulfed the mountain, eight people died. Rob Hall, a guide from New Zealand, could have made it down safely but opted to bivouac with another client, Doug Hansen, who ended up dying during the night. Rob perished 30 hours later, but before he passed away, he was patched through via radio and satellite phone to his pregnant wife back home to say some final words. His body still remains on the mountain, although it’s out of view from the normal route. Rob’s wife, Jan, said that’s where he would have wanted to stay, so no one has tried to recover his body.
Blind Descent Page 15
