Blind Descent Read online

  A couple of the other group members managed to make it back down to where Beck remained—suffering from frostbite and hypothermia, but still alive. They short roped him down to the South Col, but the whiteout conditions forced them to stop and hunker down for the night before they reached camp. The temperature dipped below –100 degrees Fahrenheit that night, and without protection against the elements, Beck went into a hypothermic coma. He was presumed dead and left behind. In the morning, a couple of Sherpas found Beck still breathing and put together a massive rescue to get him down the mountain. He ended up losing both hands and needing reconstructive surgery on his severely frostbitten nose. As remarkable as his story was, it wasn’t one I was hoping to re-create.

  It was pretty cold on the Balcony, so I kept pacing to stay warm. I was so tired that I could have closed my eyes and slept right there, but I knew that would be a recipe for disaster. Plus, it was so cold that my eyelids froze shut when I blinked, so I tried not to shut them any more than I had to. I was sure my eyelashes were being ripped off with each blink.

  Finally, after about an hour of waiting, I saw Pasang making his way up to the Balcony.

  “Do you have extra water?” Pasang asked. He took a swig of my water and immediately vomited.

  Wiping his mouth, he said, “I don’t feel good.” He held out the water bottle.

  “Keep it,” I said. “Can you continue? Or do we need to head back down?” I’d never seen him ill before, and I was concerned.

  “No, I’ll be okay,” he insisted. “Let’s go.”

  We rested for a little while on the Balcony, and I was relieved to see that he managed to keep down a CLIF BAR. We both swapped out our oxygen bottles in preparation for the second half of the climb to the summit. I was still concerned about Pasang’s condition, especially since we were alone on the mountain. But he assured me he wanted to keep climbing, so we headed up across the first ridge toward the South Rock Step.

  After about 20 feet, my headlamp went dead. I knew that batteries burn more quickly in high altitudes and cold weather, but I couldn’t believe it had happened already—I’d just put in new ones before our summit push. Changing the battery was no small task in the cold. I tried to pry open the battery area with my gloves on, but I wasn’t able to get it. I had to expose my bare fingers to the air so I could wedge my fingernail into the slot. I put in the new batteries, and the headlamp came to life, lighting up the entire side of the mountain.

  I reached into my down suit to put the old batteries into one of my pockets when Pasang asked for them. I dropped them in his open mitten, and he immediately turned and threw them off the side of the mountain. So much for leaving no trace behind!

  We continued up the snowy ridge to almost 28,000 feet. The ridge was corniced over, and my crampons punched through in a couple of areas. I made sure to stay to the left side, which was more solid. Once we’d made our way across, Pasang put his hand on my arm.

  “Brian, I’m too sick to continue,” he said. “If I go with you, it will be danger for me.”

  I pulled up my oxygen mask so I could talk. “Do you need me to go down with you?”

  “No, I’ll wait for you at the Balcony.” He gave me a serious look. “You summit alone.”

  He rummaged in his pack. “Here is the radio. And extra oxygen.” Pasang placed the orange oxygen cylinder in the snow for me to retrieve on my descent.

  I was disappointed that Pasang wouldn’t be able to summit—both for his sake and for mine—but I knew he was making the smart decision based on his condition. You have to listen to your body as soon as you know you’re not going to make it—the top of the mountain isn’t the time to negotiate.

  Now I had to make a decision: would I make the summit attempt solo? I had to weigh the risk versus the reward. This was a critical moment.

  I had soloed plenty of other mountains in the past, so I wasn’t worried from that perspective. But then again, this was Mount Everest. I ran through a mental checklist, trying to be logical and analytical about my decision. Other than being sleepy, I felt strong and didn’t have any signs of acute mountain sickness. The weather was calm, and although I might face some wind gusts up higher, it didn’t look like there would be anything worth turning back over. I didn’t have any checks inside me indicating it would be unwise to continue on by myself.

  The biggest question was whether Pasang could descend alone. If he needed help, there was no question about whether I would continue.

  “Are you sure you can make it down alone?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he assured me again. I could tell he was a little worried to leave me alone, but he knew that I was capable. “You’re a strong climber. You’ll make it.”

  Then, before I could say anything else, he started descending.

  I breathed a prayer as I continued up on my own: “Lord, go with me.” I didn’t look back.

  •

  This wasn’t the first time I’d had to make a tough decision about whether I’d keep pressing on in the face of adversity. During my third week of AIRR training, I made a call home one evening to check in with my family. I knew something was wrong the moment I heard my mom’s shaky voice.

  She kept fumbling over her words like she had something to tell me, but she couldn’t seem to choke it out. She knew how tough my training was and didn’t want to upset me with bad news, but eventually I managed to get the truth out.

  “It’s your grandpa,” she said. I was really close to my grandfather, and my stomach knotted, wondering what bad news she bore.

  “He was diagnosed with cancer.” She took a breath, and I could tell there was more. Apparently he’d seen how much my grandmother had suffered for two miserable years before the cancer took her life. He didn’t want to endure all that himself, so he’d decided to end things quickly. One night, when he was at home alone, he’d stuck a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  My mom just happened to show up minutes later to find him on the floor drowning in his own blood. She called 911, and emergency responders came quickly and were able to revive him.

  “The bullet missed his vital organs,” she told me. I could hear the tears in her voice. “They transferred him to the hospital. He’s on life support.”

  I faced a major decision in the middle of some of the toughest training the military has to offer. Would I go home to be with my family and see my grandfather? Or would I continue with my training?

  Each morning the instructors lined us up in our freshly pressed uniforms for inspection and had us report about anything they needed to know.

  The day after I heard the news about my grandpa, the question was the same as every morning: “Do you have any issues to inform us of?”

  I stood silent.

  I decided to compartmentalize this tragedy—and my emotions—and go on with my training.

  I made it halfway through the week without telling anyone the news. I poured even more energy into my workouts and passed all the required physical training, but I ended up failing a simple academic exam covering helicopter search-and-rescue equipment. My mind was too distracted to focus on anything else.

  One of the instructors screamed into my face, “How could you be so stupid? You’ll never amount to anything.”

  I wanted to retaliate in anger, but instead I took a deep breath and shared about my grandpa’s situation. Much to my surprise, he continued yelling at me for not telling him earlier.

  But before I knew it, I was on an emergency flight home to visit my grandpa in the Rogue Valley Medical Center. It was heartbreaking to see him lying helpless on the hospital bed, attached to tubes and surrounded by all sorts of beeping monitors. When I was a kid, I’d always thought of him as the strongest person in the world. He’d been a US Navy sailor during World War II and had manned the guns on the front of the ship. I grew up hearing stories about how he’d shot down enemy planes as they approached. He was a tough guy, but he had a soft side too, and when he came back from the war, he
swept my grandma off her feet. Now, as he lay there looking like a shell of the man he’d once been, he told me something I’ll never forget.

  “I’m proud of you, Brian,” he said. “I know your training is difficult, but do what you have to do, and be the best at what you do.” It was the last time I saw him, but those words sank deep. I flew back to Pensacola with a renewed commitment to finish my training well. It’s what Grandpa would have wanted.

  And now, as I set off to finish my Everest climb solo, Grandpa’s words echoed in my ears. I wanted to complete what I’d committed to, and I wanted to do it the very best I could.

  Although summiting alone wasn’t the scenario I’d planned out, I felt confident and comfortable as I set out solo around three o’clock in the morning. Back home I usually trained alone, so the motions felt familiar. When I wasn’t thinking about being on Mount Everest, it seemed like I could have been on any of the Washington peaks near my home. And even more than before, I had the strong feeling that I was definitely not alone. That assurance gave me a sense of comfort, encouragement, and safety.

  And in a way, the fixed lines up to the summit were a guide for me. I kept my grip on them, and they led me up the mountain one step at a time.

  Without having to consider anyone else’s schedule, I was able to move at my own comfortable pace. Just past 28,000 feet I reached the South Rock Step, which was strewn with fixed lines. I was surprised to discover how difficult this portion of the climb was. I hadn’t read much about the area in my research since it tends to get overshadowed by the Hillary Step in books and movies.

  I’d painted a mental picture of this spot based on the little I had read, but in this case the reality didn’t look anything like what I’d imagined. The South Rock Step was a mid-fifth-class rock. I’d climbed rocks in tougher classes back home, but not at this altitude. If I’d been in Washington, a rock like this would be something I’d free-climb, with little or no protection. But above 28,000 feet, each step was an effort—and each rock scramble was triple the effort.

  I wedged my crampon in the crack of a rock and then hoisted myself up with my jumar, which was attached to the fixed rope. Then I forced myself to rest for a moment, giving my heart rate a chance to return to normal. As I took three or four deep breaths, I looked up to negotiate my next move. I inched my way up the line, finding footholds to wedge my crampon points into and other areas to grip with my hands. The distance was short—only about 150 feet—but at a 60-degree angle and with the slippery rock conditions, I was surprised how quickly it drained my energy.

  At about four-thirty in the morning, a halo of light hugged the horizon, indicating the sun was about to make its appearance. I was exactly where Pasang and I had planned we’d be at sunrise. Seeing the edge of sunlight gave me a new boost of energy. After a long night of climbing, this was a visible sign that I was making progress and nearing my goal. I paused for a moment to take it all in. Everest was casting its famous pyramid shadow over the Himalayas, and the valley was lighting up with a cascade of colors. I’d seen plenty of pictures of this scene, but none could come close to witnessing it firsthand.

  I pulled out my video camera from one of my many pockets. I’d preset all the pockets with which items went where so I’d know exactly where everything was. This had saved me from a lot of fumbling around in the dark, trying to find sunblock, snacks, lip balm, and batteries. A familiar chime entered the air as I powered up the device, trying to capture this majestic moment. Seconds later the chime rang again, indicating that the camera had shut off. It had already frozen solid. It wouldn’t be usable again until days later, when I would be able to let it thaw out and recharge on my laptop. I hoped I wouldn’t lose the footage I’d gotten so far.

  I put the video camera back into my pocket and continued my steady pace toward the South Summit, urged forward by the rising sun. The last snow hill leading up to the South Summit was fairly steep, and each step winded me. I was eager to reach the top, but I patiently took five seconds between each step. And then, finally, I breached the summit, where I sat to rest for a few minutes. As I paused to reflect on how far I’d come, my eyes started welling with tears, but I kept them in check. This wasn’t the true summit—I still had another couple of hundred vertical feet to complete before I could truly celebrate. I pressed on.

  I walked across a major ridge called the Cornice Traverse. It’s only a few feet wide, and according to Everest lore, it’s a two-mile drop into Nepal on the left and a two-mile drop into Tibet on the right. It’s always good to have options, I suppose. Earlier in the trip, one of the Sherpas had told me a story about his cousin, who had fallen off the cornice into Tibet a few years back.

  I wonder what it would be like to fall that far, I thought. Would you pass out and die before impact?

  I kept moving, taking small, careful steps and gripping the fixed rope tightly with my jumar. I made it safely past the exposed ridge and then looked to my left. I stopped in my tracks at the sight before me: unclaimed gear that had been recently abandoned.

  Pasang and I had heard through the Sherpa grapevine that the Japanese climber Takashi Ozaki had passed away a couple of nights ago, and I figured this gear must have belonged to him. Takashi was legendary in the climbing world, having made the first full ascent of Everest’s North Face. He’d also done winter climbs on six of the world’s 8,000-meter peaks. But despite being in great shape, he’d started showing signs of pulmonary edema when nearing Everest’s summit. He collapsed just a few hundred feet from the top and died later that afternoon.

  They must have placed his body somewhere more discreet, I thought. But no one had taken care of his belongings. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, my heart heavy, “please bless this climber’s family. And keep me in your care too.”

  It was eerie being the only person on the highest point in the world, thinking of all the other climbers who had died trying to reach this very location. And at that elevation, in the death zone, it’s virtually impossible to carry the dead bodies down since you’re using all the strength and energy you have to survive yourself. Since teams don’t want to put their climbers at risk, they usually leave the bodies where they are or stash them behind surrounding rocks. At this altitude, it’s too high for helicopter access, which means that many of the bodies of dead climbers remain frozen near the summit.

  I later found out that Takashi had died below the South Summit, so it wasn’t his gear after all—it must have been left behind by a previous expedition. But it remained a sobering reminder of the seriousness of what I was undertaking. I wasn’t out of danger yet.

  I reached inside my down suit and pulled out my camera. With the arctic temperatures and the fierce winds, I managed to get only one picture before it froze. I was able to put the camera back in my suit for a minute in between shots, allowing the battery to thaw enough to work temporarily. This was a time-consuming process, but eventually I was able to get a handful of pictures. As I snapped the panoramic view before me—Makalu, Lhotse, Kanchenjunga, Cho Oyu, and the other surrounding Himalayan peaks—I knew my camera would never capture the vastness of the scene. But I had to try.

  The wind was picking up a bit as I reached the famous Hillary Step—a 40-foot rock climb and the last obstacle before I’d reach the true summit of Mount Everest. The Hillary Step got its name from Sir Edmund Hillary, the first person to successfully summit Mount Everest in 1953 with Tenzing Norgay. There weren’t fixed lines then, so they had to free-climb up the rock obstacle. One wrong move, and they would have fallen for more than two miles to certain death.

  At the Hillary Step, I saw dreadlocks of rope hanging all over from years of past climbing. On most of the route, the ropes were well tended by the Sherpas. But above the South Rock Step, there were ropes from the past several decades scattered around. Fortunately, though, the ropes for each year were color coded. I searched around until I found the yellow rope with black stripes and then connected my jumar and safety carabiner to the line.

  T
he Hillary Step is one of the places that can get pretty congested since climbers have to go up one at a time and it can be a time-consuming process to traverse the Step. Since I was the only one summiting that day, I was fortunate to have no wait.

  I climbed over the boulders and made my way to the left side, avoiding any potentially hazardous areas. As I was climbing up one of the sections, I saw that there was a deep hole between two boulders. I wonder if there are any bodies stashed inside, I couldn’t help thinking. I forced myself not to look, deciding it was better not to know. Besides, I wanted to show respect to those who had passed away on the great mountain.

  I inched my jumar up the thin lines and found placement for my crampons. Then I grabbed the rock with my free hand for balance. Perched high on the vertical rock face, I took a moment to pause and look out at the mountains. I’m really here! I thought. I’m climbing the famous Hillary Step. And then, as I made my way to the top, I saw my ultimate destination. The summit jutted out toward Tibet, with a windswept cornice at the top. It was plastered with prayer flags, white silk scarves, and a couple of bags containing extra fixed-line gear. I was temporarily paralyzed as I stood there, trying to take it all in. My eyes filled with tears, which quickly froze to my goggles. “Thank you, Lord,” I whispered. I felt so much emotion welling up inside that I thought I might burst.

  Then all at once I felt a rumble in my stomach alerting me that I had about a two-minute window before I needed to relieve myself. It had been a few days since I had gone, and the body’s clock doesn’t seem to operate based on the location of the most convenient restroom. It took me a while to shed my layers, and as I unzipped the back flap of my down suit, I had to laugh a little at the situation. I’m at the summit of Mount Everest and about to add inches to its elevation, I thought.