Blind Descent Page 20

Then, as we traversed farther, I looked again. It had to be Brian—he was alive![7]

  “So what was it like?” Bill went on. He wanted to hear all the details of my summit and impossible descent.

  I didn’t have the energy to give him the full story at that point, but I managed to say simply, “I soloed Mount Everest and then descended blind.” I swallowed, trying to hide my tears. “I witnessed a miracle up there.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ESCAPING THE DEATH ZONE

  Those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength.

  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary,

  they will walk and not be faint.

  ISAIAH 40:31

  LONG AFTER the sun set, I jerked awake, wracked with claustrophobia. With the oxygen mask strapped to my face and my eyes swollen shut, it felt like the walls of the tent were closing in around me. I tried to pry my eyes open, but the secreted fluids had crusted over, effectively gluing my eyes shut. It felt like grains of sand were stuck under my eyelids, scratching my eyelids with each tiny movement I made.

  Bill sat on the other side of the tent and prepared for his summit attempt. He told me later that I kept waking up, grabbing my camera, forcing my eyes open with my fingers, and making the flash go off to find out if I could see anything. He kept asking if I was okay, but I would just silently take a close-range picture of myself and go back to sleep. I don’t have any recollection of any of this, but it was confirmed a few days later when I downloaded the contents of my camera. The pictures were disturbing—a series of close-ups of my glassed-over, unfocused eyes.

  Bill attempted the summit that night but had to turn back just shy of the Balcony due to equipment issues and high winds. He arrived at the tent around two o’clock in the morning, unzipped the vestibule, and shone his headlamp inside. I woke up immediately, the bright light like fire to my sensitive eyes, even through my closed lids. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut, which caused scratching and more pain. Finally, I covered my eyes with a buff to try to block out the light.

  As Bill removed his climbing gear, I overheard his conversation with Pasang.

  “I’m not worried about turning back on my summit attempt,” Bill said. “All that matters now is getting Brian back down.”

  I was glad he’d made it down safely, but I hoped he wouldn’t be perpetually disappointed about his failed attempt.

  I slept off and on for about 15 hours, and by morning, my face was a train wreck, with both eyes swollen and painfully scratchy. We got moving as soon as the sun lit up the tent so we could descend Lhotse Face all the way down to Camp II. Pasang and Bill helped me get my harness on and packed my sleeping bag for me. I felt around the tent and tried to pack up the rest of my stuff, but I ended up leaving my favorite sunglasses in one of the side pockets. Fortunately Pasang let me use his extra goggles for the descent, and I’d be able to retrieve my backup pair of sunglasses at base camp.

  I found my way out of the tent and stood by myself for a moment. It was cold, with frequent gusts of wind, but the sun was quickly warming up the mountain. I was in physical pain, but I was also at peace somehow. As I stood there trying to regain equilibrium without my vision, I had an underlying certainty that things were going to be okay.

  I heard Lakpa come over. “Congratulations on summit!” he said as he strapped on my crampons. “How are your eyes?”

  “Very painful,” I said. “But I’ll be okay.”

  I fumbled my way to the edge of camp to urinate before our big descent. I tripped over some rocks but eventually managed to find a place away from the tents. It was amazing how difficult even this basic task was without the benefit of being able to see. I probably did more damage to myself than to the mountain, but there are just some things you don’t want to accept help for.

  Before we began our descent, Bill said, “Would you take a picture of me with Everest in the background?”

  Are you serious? I thought. You want a blind guy taking a photo for you? But I aimed and shot, and Bill said the end result wasn’t too shabby, all things considered.

  Pasang, Bill, and I headed down, with Lakpa to follow a little later. I’d become pretty proficient at climbing blind the day before, but I was grateful to have Pasang ahead of me. Through the blinding brightness, I was able to make out his blue down suit and follow it. It also helped to have Bill’s and Pasang’s voice commands to follow. Even so, I held tight to the fixed lines.

  The initial traverse down to the Geneva Spur was gradual, but I took my time, ensuring that each foot was in front of the other and that I was always attached to the fixed rope. It was rocky, so I made my way cautiously, careful not to twist an ankle. I switched to my figure-eight to rappel down the other side of the spur, which was covered in windswept snow. I knew it would be difficult to gain purchase with crampons in that type of snow, and I hoped the figure-eight would help steady me.

  My eyes were in severe pain, and I struggled to keep them open. I needed some sort of lubricant, but I had nothing other than my constant tears. Blinking was so painful that I tried to prevent my eyelids from closing at all, since each time they did, they scraped hard against my eyes. After a while I wouldn’t be able to hold back any longer, and I’d blink and cry out in pain.

  As we moved toward the Yellow Band, I put my head down and tried to pour all my energy into each step of the long downward stretch. Later I realized that this was the same place where the snow-blind climber was being helped down two days earlier, but at the time, I was so focused I didn’t let myself think about the connection. It took all the discipline I had to concentrate on keeping my balance on the unstable surface.

  It was difficult to rappel over the Yellow Band since the anchor points were scattered in various locations on angled rocks. And since it was a rock rappel, we had to go one at a time—Bill and Pasang couldn’t stay there to help me and make sure I was okay. They rappelled down the other side and waited for me there. I was pretty much all over the place, trying to keep my balance and not slip off the rocks. With clear vision, I wouldn’t have had much trouble, but if I overshot one of the anchors, it would have been impossible to feed the rope back into my figure-eight with my full body weight pulling on it. I rappelled down and stopped a foot above the anchor, finding the appropriate location by sliding my free hand on top of the rope. Then I attached my figure-eight on the line below while remaining attached to the line above with my safety carabiner. I slipped a few times on the uneven surface, but thankfully I avoided getting hurt.

  We descended over a couple of icy areas on 80-degree slopes. I was careful to kick in full crampon purchase, as a slip there could result in broken bones or an uncontrolled fall. After a few hours of careful downhill steps, we arrived at Camp III, where Dawa was gathering supplies to take down to Camp II.

  “Congratulations, Brian!” he exclaimed, giving me a hug.

  “Thanks, Dawa,” I said, turning my head in the direction of his voice.

  At Camp III, we got some water, ate a snack, and reapplied sunscreen. We encountered several climbers who were heading up Lhotse Face. One by one they stopped to congratulate me on my summit. They’d been shocked to find out from Bill what had happened on my descent. I didn’t say much about it, not wanting to scare them about their own summit attempt, but the word had spread quickly.

  We continued the last few miles of our descent to Camp II. A couple of sections were steep slopes covered with solid blue glacial ice that would have been tough to navigate even with full vision. My steel points barely pierced the icy surface, which didn’t give me much confidence, but I made it down without incident.

  At one point when I was struggling with my figure-eight, a European climber who was heading up saw that I was having trouble. She reached down, removed my carabiner from my belaying device, pulled the rope through, and clipped it back on.

  A couple of groups were crossing the bergschrund at the base of Lhotse, and it was tricky to navigate around them with my compromised
vision. In certain spots where I knew it would take me longer, I stood still and had everyone else go by me. They told me to go ahead, but I insisted on waiting. I knew how long the drop was and how narrow the passage ahead would be, so I wanted to go slowly and not take any chances.

  The last obstacle before the Western Cwm was a bent aluminum ladder someone had placed across a widening crevasse. It had a single fixed rope on the left side, so I carefully placed each crampon on the rungs of the ladder and pulled my way across. On the way up, I had high centered my boots between the crampon spikes to cross. Without the advantage of vision, I had to rely almost entirely on touch, so it helped to have full contact with the ladder. Even so, the single rope set me off balance. I bent my knees to steady myself, like I might do while surfing or snowboarding. I took each step very slowly, shifting my weight appropriately whenever I transferred from one foot to the other. I made it across without incident and then forward rappelled, with my safety connected to the fixed rope, until the rope ran out and I was on flatter terrain. I breathed a sigh of exhausted relief. I made it down Lhotse Face! The flat ground of the Western Cwm felt foreign—almost like walking on dry land after being on a boat for an extended time.

  Days before I had cached my trekking poles at the bottom of Lhotse Face. I found the spot where I’d left them, but only one of the poles remained. I’d have to make do with one. It was disappointing, but I took courage from the fact that the only thing separating me from the safety of my Camp II tent was a downhill mile. My stomach was growling and I felt fatigue settling over my body, and I was grateful that Dawa had gone down before us to start lunch.

  I was off rope now, with no fixed lines, but that didn’t mean I was clear of all dangers. There were plenty of hidden crevasses that would be especially difficult to notice in my present condition. Bill and Pasang had gotten ahead of me, and I started moving even slower. I’d take one step and then bend down to try to focus on the next spot to move my foot. It was midday, and with the sun glaring on the white snow, the landscape was so bright it might as well have been fluorescent. The way the Western Cwm is positioned, with its valley full of snow, there’s nothing to contrast against the white—it’s just pure white on pure white. I tried using my one trekking pole to steady myself. As Bill stepped over a two-foot-wide crevasse, he saw me struggling and waited for me there.

  “Grab my hand,” he said, guiding me over the crevasse. I held his hand the rest of the way across to Camp II, not only to help me walk more efficiently but also to avoid any obstacles in the path. We laughed, talking about how we couldn’t think of any other circumstances in which we’d willingly hold hands with another guy. The unexpected light moment provided some much-needed laughter, releasing the built-up tension I’d been holding in for some time.

  Veronique, the French-Canadian climber from our group, met us a few hundred yards from camp.

  When she saw me, she gave me a big hug. “Congratulations, Brian!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I made it down blind.” I hoped no one could see the tears forming behind my goggles.

  She paused, processing what she’d just heard. “You’re a machine!” She grabbed my pack and carried it the rest of the way to camp for me.

  As I entered Camp II, I could see the blur of several blue and orange tents. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like my right eye was regaining some focus. I navigated across the rocky terrain, finally reaching our cooking tent, where Dawa was preparing lunch. I walked in, using my pole in exaggerated fashion, tapping it from side to side on the snow.

  “Brian, at least you still have your sense of humor,” one of the Sherpas said, laughing.

  The aroma of the warm meal Dawa was preparing made my empty stomach ache. I sat down on one of the rock slabs and came off oxygen for the last time. Now that I was able to let down my guard, the events of the past few days suddenly washed over me, and I wept into my hands.

  I’d been to the edge of death and back, and now I was finally in the safety of our Camp II tent. After wiping my tears, I removed my harness and crampons, untied my boots, and ate a hearty lunch of Spam, sardines, potatoes, and bread.

  Back in 2009, I’d had another experience of staring death in the face. During my expedition to Denali, I’d been pinned down at high camp for a week due to extreme weather. After spending several days carrying 60 pounds in my backpack and towing another 70 pounds in a sled, our group made it to 14,000 feet. We then made multiple carries up the fixed lines and across the steep ridge to high camp, at 17,200 feet. That’s when we were hit with 70-plus-mile-per-hour winds and were forced to stay in the relative safety of our tents.

  It was the coldest place I’d ever been, and it was the first time I’d really had to survive in such harsh weather conditions. It was so cold that I could see my breath freeze into ice crystals at the small opening in my sleeping bag. The temperatures dropped so low during the night that I even heard the metal pots freezing and cracking. Back then I didn’t have the quality of gear I had for Everest, so my body constantly felt like an ice cube, and I was concerned about getting frostbite.

  As physically taxing as the experience was, it was even more intense mentally, because I had to lie still for a week with little movement other than rolling over in my sleeping bag and praying that the weather would calm down. While the rest of our group stayed hunkered down in tents, one climber tried to solo the mountain. We all tried to advise him against it, but he refused to change his mind. His body was never found. Eventually the rest of us made a summit attempt, but we had to turn back 1,000 feet shy of the summit due to high winds. It was disappointing not to complete our goal after working so hard to achieve it, but it was also a good day to live.

  •

  After lunch, there was one thing I was desperate to do: call JoAnna. I wasn’t sure what she’d heard—if she knew I’d summited or if she’d found out anything about my snow blindness—and I was anxious to fill her in. Veronique let me use her satellite phone, and I stumbled across the snow, halfway between the cooking tent and my personal tent, so I could have a little privacy. I had no idea what I would say to JoAnna. So much had taken place since I’d talked to her last, and I was still a wreck—physically and emotionally. It was late back in Seattle, but she answered almost immediately.

  The moment I heard the sound of her voice, I broke into tears.

  “Hi, honey!” I could hear the relief in her voice. “Can you hear me? Are you there?”

  I tried to respond, but I was so choked up I couldn’t get a word out. I swallowed a lump so big my throat ached. “I soloed the summit,” I said. “And I’m blind. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  The phone went silent for a few seconds.

  “Is the phone cutting out?” she asked.

  “No, I just can’t stop crying,” I said. “I’ll call tomorrow. I love you!”

  I hung up, and then the tears really started. JoAnna had sounded strong on the phone, but she and I both knew that I still had to get through the Khumbu Icefall.

  As I replayed our conversation in my mind, it hit me: she didn’t know I was temporarily blind. She probably thought I was permanently blind. I wished I could have a do over of the phone call so I could say something to calm her and put her mind at ease.

  After returning the phone to Veronique, I made my way to my tent. The tent was hot now, with the midday sun shining on it, so I fell into the vestibule and removed my sweaty down suit for the last time. I felt my way through the tent toward my air mattress and sleeping bag. After blowing up the mattress and uncompressing my bag from the stuff sack, I lay down to relax. If it hadn’t been for the extreme pain in my eyes, it would have felt like heaven to be able to rest like this.

  All at once I sat up, remembering the photos of my family that I’d stashed in the side pockets of the tent. I found one of Emily and Jordan and held it inches from my face. I tried hard to focus, but I couldn’t see anything beyond a couple of blurry images. Even so, I knew from memory the exact details of the p
icture. With tears streaming down my face, I held the picture to my chest, which was the closest I could get at the moment to hugging my precious kids. Even though they were halfway around the world, my family felt so close to me in that moment.

  I thanked God for delivering me from death so I’d be able to hug JoAnna and the kids in the flesh again. “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed. “Thank you for sparing my life. Thank you for giving me another chance. Thank you for this gift of life. Please help me to get down the mountain safely so I can return to my family. Thank you, thank you.”

  I lay down and dozed off for about an hour. When I awoke, I fumbled around to repack my gear so I’d be ready to leave early the next morning. We were planning to leave in the dark to reduce the pain the bright sun inflicted on my damaged eyes. I packed my gear into a stuff sack and gathered all my loose items into my pack.

  Bill and I sat in the dining tent waiting to eat our last dinner above base camp. We planned to go to sleep early and wake up before sunrise. He offered me some ointment, but since it wasn’t specifically intended for eyes, I decided not to risk it. Other than that, we didn’t talk much. I was reliving my summit and my dramatic descent, which still seemed somewhat surreal to me. Bill didn’t say anything, but as his mood grew more and more regretful, I wondered if he was reliving his failed summit attempt with a bunch of what-ifs.

  “Bill, this may not be any of my business,” I said, “but if you feel like you’re going to regret not making another attempt on Mount Everest, you should consider staying.”

  He looked at me without responding, so I continued.

  “You could always rest a week at base camp and then head up for another attempt.”

  Not everyone has to make it to the top, but I didn’t want him to wish one day that he’d stayed longer and made a second attempt. He’d come so far already.

  He thanked me, but he just wasn’t in the right place mentally to consider another attempt.