Blind Descent Page 7

  We continued up to the top of the hill, where the famous Everest Memorial is located. The memorial is made up of small stone monuments etched with the names of fallen climbers. It was another grim reminder of the reality that lay ahead. I didn’t count the number of stacked rocks and chiseled memorials, but there were more than I liked to imagine. I walked by Scott Fischer’s stone, recalling the 1996 tragedy. He was one of the guides on that fateful night, and it was sobering to think that 15 years ago he had stood in this very spot. Seeing the memorial didn’t instill fear in me, but it did give me an even stronger resolve to make sure I planned for all the situations that could arise. I wanted to be ready for any worst-case scenarios. As I’d learned in my military training, it’s always better to overprepare—the goal is to make sure your training is more difficult than the actual task.

  Shortly after the memorial, we approached Lobuche. As we got closer to the village, we saw a number of expedition tents at the base of Lobuche mountain, a common place for climbers to acclimatize before heading up Everest. Lobuche is very small, and when we arrived, I could see why. The weather was dry and cold, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of place you’d see in a vacation brochure. The room Bill and I were staying in was tiny and freezing, so we spent most of our time in the dining area. The bathroom was an outhouse just outside our room.

  After unloading my things in the room, I hiked up a small hill in my down booties, trying to see if I could get a phone signal to call home, but with no success. In the fading light, I looked out in the direction of Everest, although I couldn’t see it from there. We’re only one village away from base camp! I thought. After standing there soaking in that reality for a while, I noticed that it had started to snow, so I descended back to the village.

  The next day we set out to tackle the last leg of our trip before base camp. The final village wedged between us and our new home for a month and a half was Gorak Shep, which means “Dead Ravens.” Climbing from Lobuche to Gorak Shep wasn’t too difficult in terms of actual climbing, but I knew we’d start feeling the elevation soon as we moved to 17,000 feet. But for now at least, I wasn’t experiencing any altitude symptoms, so I continued at my own pace ahead of the group until I got into cell phone range. I stopped on the rocky cliffs and called JoAnna.

  “Honey, it’s so beautiful . . . really majestic,” I said. “I wish I could describe it to you, but there aren’t words to do it justice.”

  It was strange to think of her going about her typical day—taking the kids to school, going to work, doing the dishes—while I was spending entire days hiking from one Nepalese village to another.

  “Where are you right now?” she asked me.

  “Well, I’m standing at almost 17,000 feet, but I still have to look up to see the tops of the mountains. If I look to my right, there’s a massive canyon where the Khumbu Glacier used to be.”

  “Is it really cold there?” JoAnna wanted to know.

  “It’s not too bad as long as I’m moving,” I said. “But I think for the Sherpas it feels like spring. They’ve been walking for 30 miles in flip-flops and jeans. They don’t seem fazed by any of this. They’re climbing a mountain and carrying a hundred pounds in a basket strapped to their foreheads, all while talking on a cell phone!”

  As I hung up with JoAnna, it started to snow. Behind me I heard the sound of clanging bells—the telltale sign that a herd of yaks was making its way up the trail.

  •

  When we arrived at the teahouse at Gorak Shep, I realized we had officially reached the point where it was nicer outside than in our indoor accommodations. At such a great distance from civilization, the resources were limited, and we knew we needed to adjust our expectations for room and board.

  Many people were sniffling, coughing, and blowing their noses in the main dining area, so I sat with my buff covering my mouth and nose, only exposing my lips to drink an occasional sip of tea. Our frigid room was basically a prison cell, except that it didn’t have the luxury of a toilet. Everyone shared a hole in the ground down the hallway. It smelled of sulfur, vomit, and other bodily functions, and I dry heaved into my buff as I forced my body to take care of business in the freezing temps. The ground was covered with fluids where people had missed their target, and the surface had frozen into a murky yellow skating rink. I wedged my down booties on each side of the wall, holding my breath and trying to keep my balance. The thought of slipping on the ice and crashing to the disgusting floor was more terrifying to me than the prospect of whatever dangers lay ahead on Everest.

  That night at dinner, as I scanned the room of sick trekkers, I felt the beginnings of a cold in my nasal cavity. I ate my yak cheese pizza quickly and headed to my isolated room right after sunset. After posting a few photos to my blog, I bundled up and took some cold medicine to try to get ahead of any illness. Throughout the night, I was frequently awakened by the sounds of people vomiting, coughing, and stopping at the hole down the hall. I’d nod off, only to be awakened by the loud scraping noise of people unlocking and locking the old-fashioned padlocks on the doors. Even when I did manage to sleep, it wasn’t necessarily a restful experience. Every time I fell into a deep sleep, my breathing went into autopilot, and the pressure from the high altitude took its toll.

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt a chronic headache coming on. I tried to figure out what was wrong, but at high altitudes it can be difficult to self-diagnose. I might have been fighting the bug I’d been exposed to when I met with the lama a few days earlier, and my immune system may not have been working as efficiently due to the altitude. Or it might have been that my body was simply struggling to acclimate to the higher elevation. Most likely it was a mixture of both, but at that point the cause didn’t really matter: the more significant issue at hand was that I was taking a turn for the worse. It had been more than a year since I’d had any type of sickness, and at that altitude, it felt like a ton of bricks was being pressed onto my head. But I wasn’t about to miss out on the big day ahead of us. I took some medicine, drank a lot of water, and powered through.

  Gorak Shep is the last village before Everest base camp. It’s a common place for trekkers to stop so they can climb up Kala Patthar (18,200 feet), which gives the closest and most scenic views of Everest. Our group started out early and made our way up the mile-long trail to the summit of Kala Patthar. It had snowed a little bit the night before—just enough to cover the trail and make it slippery. This was the first time since we’d started the expedition that I felt the strain of the climb. With my constant headache, the lack of sleep the night before, and the high altitude, I knew I was going to have to be mentally strong to make it through the day. I kept a slow pace and took steady rest steps—a climbing technique where you pause between each step to rest and breathe.

  As I made my way, step by intentional step, I thought back to my days in Air Rescue Swimmer (AIRR) school. It was 1993, and I was stationed at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida. I’d heard that AIRR was one of the toughest schools in the US military, and now I was experiencing that reality firsthand. Our instructors tried to simulate every treacherous condition we might encounter one day. We needed to be prepared to jump out of a helicopter into the middle of the ocean to rescue a drowning person, or provide recovery and relief to people in various life-threatening situations.

  In the middle of the four-week AIRR training, we were given the task of swimming underwater for 25 meters across the pool and sprinting back freestyle for 25 meters. Then we’d repeat the process over and over again. The goal was to sharpen our ability to control our breathing, remain calm, and avoid shallow-water blackout. It quickly became obvious that the candidates who surfaced frequently wouldn’t make it through the program. For some of them, it wasn’t so much an issue of what their bodies were capable of as what their minds could withstand. After a certain number of repetitions, they simply couldn’t sustain the focus they needed to keep going, lap after lap. It was all part of the process of weeding out th
e physically and mentally weak.

  As I focused on keeping my mind and body working together on the side of the mountain, it occurred to me that high-altitude climbing wasn’t so different from AIRR training. Anyone can get into physical shape, but you have to be mentally tough to survive weeks and months in such harsh conditions.

  At high altitudes, your body lets you know what’s going on, and it’s important to listen. In general, your systems tend to slow down at higher elevations. The higher you get, the more effort is required for each movement. It’s common to experience nausea, dizziness, fatigue, and rapid heart rate, and when those symptoms set in, you need to focus on pressure breathing—taking slow, deep breaths in and then expelling air through forceful exhales. It’s better to continue moving and take five-minute breaks every hour rather than breaking often, as doing so will kill your momentum and actually make you more tired. I moved forward, keeping steady with my breathing, climbing, and resting, just as I’d learned in training.

  Thankfully, the weather was perfect that morning, and we made it to the top in time to embrace the blinding sunrise over the summit of Mount Everest. The wind was calm at the top, and I couldn’t help thinking that it would have been a great day to make a summit bid. I had to be patient though—I still had a month to go!

  We spent about an hour on the summit drinking tea from our canisters and taking photos. Climbers from another group were there taking pictures too, stepping out on the exposed rocks and smoking cigarettes. Back in the early days of mountaineering, cigarettes were considered one of the most essential tools for a trek. Climbers brought cases of cigarettes and lugged them up the mountain, believing smoking helped them breathe at high altitudes. Now we know better about the dangerous effects of smoking on the lungs, which need to be functioning at the highest possible capacity in oxygen-deprived areas.

  We climbed up to the small pinnacle summit to take pictures. The surrounding peaks looked deceptively easy to climb, and I could see how they might entice even the most novice climber to stick around and explore. As I made my way down to the safer platform, I noticed a couple of European climbers wearing crampons, harnesses, and about 50 pounds of climbing gear. Without using ropes, they grabbed handholds and swung over the exposed rocky cliffs below. I made eye contact with Bill, and we both stared in disbelief. Do they have a death wish? I wondered. I considered saying something, but I didn’t cause a confrontation.

  Here’s the thing about a mountain: it won’t set limits on you. You have to set the limits for yourself.

  We descended back to Gorak Shep without finding out what happened to the European climbers. After eating breakfast at the teahouse, we went outside in the sunshine to pack our gear. I heard something on the roof and looked up to see a local Sherpa on the metal rooftop, sweeping excrement to the ground, which another worker had shoveled out of the small bathroom window. I moved my gear as far away from the projection area as possible, saying a silent prayer for health and protection as I did so.

  And then finally, after weeks of travel and hiking from village to village, it was time to head to base camp. The route there was relatively flat for a couple of miles, with just 500 feet of gain. We had to weave around some large boulder areas that had fallen from high canyon walls. An icefall now hugged the right side of the wall, and the last mile of the trail was actually on top of the glacier. We took it nice and slow, since we’d already had our morning climb up Kala Patthar and there was no reason to exert additional energy.

  As we hiked, our group spread out a bit. At one point I heard people yelling frantically about 200 yards in front of me. I looked up and immediately saw what the commotion was about. A massive rockfall had started on the hills above, and a bunch of boulders were toppling straight down in my direction. I ran ahead as quickly as I could, praying my legs would move faster than the avalanche. When it was finally safe, I looked back, my heart pounding. If I’d stayed on the path, it would have been all over.

  I took several breaths to calm myself, shaken by the reminder that you never know when things are going to become unstable in the mountains. That rockfall could have started from the smallest of rocks getting dislodged and releasing bigger rocks, which then started a snowball effect. I thanked the people who had alerted me of the danger and whispered a prayer of thanks to God for protecting me, and then I continued to the edge of base camp.

  Everest base camp stands at an elevation of 17,598 feet at the bottom of the Khumbu Glacier. The only way to get there is on foot. It’s possible to pay a lot of money for a helicopter flight in, but people who do so face a significant risk of acute mountain sickness (AMS) due to the sudden change in altitude. Besides, the experience of trekking to base camp is amazing in itself, as it allows you to traverse through multiple climate zones, visit fascinating villages, cross massive suspension bridges, and see breathtaking terrain.

  Our group’s camp was on the opposite side of base camp, close to the Khumbu Icefall. This meant we’d have a longer trek on the way in, but we’d be closer when it was time to attack the mountain. The path leading into base camp is a rugged mix of rock, glaciated ice, mud, and yak dung. I’d always imagined base camp as something of a refuge—a place perched on a safe hill, away from the glacier. But in reality, camp is located directly on top of the glacier. As much as you prepare, there are always surprises—things you can’t imagine until you arrive in person.

  As I looked around base camp, I found it hard to tell who was there to climb the mountain and who was just part of a base camp trekking group. Most trekkers go in for the day and then head back down to other villages to avoid base camp fees, so I assumed the majority of the tents were for climbers and their Sherpa support groups who would be making summit attempts—either for Everest or for other surrounding peaks, like Lhotse or Nuptse.

  I explored camp a bit before the rest of the group arrived and discovered that the camps were grouped according to climbing team or guiding company. There was also a medical tent in the middle of camp near the helicopter landing area. The Everest base camp medical clinic was established in 2003 during the 50-year anniversary celebration. I was grateful for its presence, but I hoped I’d never need to go there.

  When the rest of the group arrived, we met our extended Sherpa crew, which consisted of porters, our base camp cooks, and our Camp II cooks. We also met Lakpa, our other climbing Sherpa, who would work with Pasang. Lakpa had gone ahead to help bring gear to base camp and establish our camping area. He led us to our communal dining tent, which was set up with a variety of hot drinks, snacks, and a propane heater.

  As we took off our packs and got comfortable, our cooking Sherpas delivered a lunch of hot soup, something made of mushy bread that resembled grilled cheese, and sugar cookies for dessert. We enjoyed the moment, taking pictures, laughing, and reflecting on how much better life looked after getting food in our bellies and a little warmth in our fingers. We had an outdoor toilet and an outdoor shower, which were set up in tents propped over flat rocks. The toilet was essentially a bucket with rocks around it. You had to be careful not to sit on the frozen stones since they might rip off your skin in the cold. The shower had a solar-powered heating box that would provide about 15 minutes of warm water. Each of us had our own two-person tent with a foam mattress inside. Now that’s what I call camping!

  As a rule, the Sherpa are superstitious about taking showers the first day in a new camp. They’re afraid that the combination of the climate change and the exposure to water will make you sick. But it had been days since I’d showered, so I decided to try out the shower anyway. There were some technical difficulties with the solar heater, so a few of the Sherpas on our team brought me buckets of hot water. I used a big cup to pour water out of the buckets and over my head and body. I was grateful for the warm water, and it felt nice to remove a few layers of filth, but I couldn’t scrub enough to get any part of my body even remotely clean. And the longer I stood there in the cold, with my body and my immune system exposed, I wondered if
there was something to the Sherpas’ warnings after all.

  Later that night I felt the wrath of a massive high-altitude head cold encase my brain. I was up all night coughing and blowing my nose, and I had a headache that surpassed anything I’d experienced before. Between the headache and the small tent, I felt claustrophobia setting in, and with the pressure from the high altitude, it felt like my brain was in a vice. I had a live sponsorship video feed at five o’clock the next morning, and I was worried I would oversleep and miss it. I got five-minute intervals of sleep and kept waking up to check my watch and make sure it wasn’t 5 a.m. yet.

  “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “Don’t let these tent walls close in on me.”

  I pictured JoAnna and the kids back home, wondering what they were doing right then. As fever raged in my body and my hair matted with sweat, I imagined myself giving Emily and Jordan a hug. In that moment, I would have done anything to be transported back home with my family.

  Finally morning came. I’d made it through the night. Although I was still weak and sick, I didn’t want to miss my event, so I slowly made my way to the dining tent, where we’d be doing the video feed.

  Since 3G coverage was spotty in base camp, I ended up having only EDGE coverage, which allowed me to dial in to the Cisco WebEx video feed. I spent the next few minutes talking with partners and customers of Presidio, the sponsor company. Mike French, the chief marketing officer, did a great job facilitating the event. That was a relief, since I felt like I’d been run over by a locomotive. Toward the end of the question-and-answer time, I was cut off when I lost audio connectivity from the local 3G tower, but by technology standards in a developing country, I counted the event as a success.

  I stumbled back to my tent, drank some hot tea, and then quarantined myself for the rest of the day. It went from freezing during the night to about 80 degrees in the afternoon, so I forced myself to stay in the tent, drinking lots of fluids and sweating it out. Even though I’d read about the weather in the Himalayas before my trip, it still surprised me to experience the severe temperature fluctuations firsthand.