Blind Descent Read online

  The weather on the mountain can change drastically within seconds, especially inside a tent that served as a sauna. A cloud cover or a setting sun can drop the temperature by 20 degrees. On the flip side, if the sun is high overhead and reflecting off the blinding ice, it can get up to 80 degrees in a flash. While I lay in my tent, waiting for the fever to break, the Sherpa crew brought me food and drinks. Well, it’s not quite like being at home, I thought. But it is nice to have room service at 17,500 feet.

  In the early afternoon, everyone gathered outside the dining tent for another good luck ceremony before our climb. I was still feeling weak, so I tried to stay tucked away in my tent, but Pumba found me and asked me to join them. I stumbled out of my tent and found a spot to sit cross-legged. It wasn’t long before I was shivering outside my sun-warmed tent. I was grateful that one of the Sherpas noticed I was cold and ran to retrieve my down jacket. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, and my head felt ultraheavy—practically impossible to hold up. I escaped back to my tent as soon as I could, hoping I wouldn’t be missed.

  There was only one person I wanted to talk to when I felt like this: JoAnna. I dialed her number and was relieved to hear it was ringing. We had service!

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell her what was happening, but she already sounded anxious.

  “Not that great,” I admitted, filling her in on the past couple of days.

  “I saw the pictures you uploaded to your blog,” she said. “Your forehead looked swollen.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I assured her. This wasn’t something to take lightly, but I didn’t want her to worry when there was nothing she could do.

  After we hung up, I did a self-diagnosis and noticed some possible symptoms of high altitude cerebral edema (HACE), a condition that causes swelling in the brain, weakness, and headaches. If left untreated, you can fall into a coma and die. There is only one cure: to decrease altitude. I was already struggling with a horrible head cold, and I didn’t want to wreak additional havoc on my body with the high altitude.

  I decided I needed to get down to a lower elevation the following day in order to heal. Up to this point, I’d been strong and my morale had been great. This sickness had caused a shift in my mental game, though, and I knew I needed to get well as soon as possible.

  Our group was planning to head down to a lower elevation for a few days and then climb Island Peak, so the timing couldn’t have been better. I was eager to get moving to see if I would rally at a decreased elevation. This was something I’d never experienced before, so I didn’t know what to expect. Will I have to turn around? I wondered. Will I have to admit defeat before I even start?

  As I gathered my gear in preparation for the next day’s descent, there was only one thing left to do—and only one who could help.

  “Lord, please show me if I’m supposed to continue,” I prayed in the silence of my tent. “If you want me to quit now, give me the wisdom to know it and the grace to accept it. And if I’m supposed to continue, then please heal my body and release me from this debilitating pain.”

  CHAPTER 4

  INTO THICK AIR

  Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.

  GALATIANS 6:4

  THE NIGHT of April 13 was one of the longest, coldest, and most miserable nights of my life. I woke up often and felt the intense pressure of a pounding headache closing in. I lay there begging the sun to make its appearance, allowing me to depart my dungeon-like tent. In the morning I hastily packed and began my descent toward Dingboche, at 14,800 feet. At 17,000 feet I stopped at the teahouse in Gorak Shep and waited to have tea with the rest of the trekking team.

  Everyone on the team except Sam and Dawn was heading down to make an attempt on Island Peak. Sam’s goal was simply to trek to Everest base camp, which he’d succeeded in doing, so he would be heading home before the rest of the group. Dawn had bypassed Everest base camp for a few days to trek to the Gokyo Valley, and she was planning to reunite with the rest of the team in Dingboche to make an attempt on Island Peak.

  As I rested in the dining room, I evaluated my body’s systems. The 500-foot drop in elevation from Everest base camp to Gorak Shep hadn’t resolved my problems—but then again, I hadn’t expected it to. I knew I had a long day ahead of me before I’d be able to tell if the lower altitude would improve my condition. We all had tea together, and I said good-bye to Sam as he headed out in a different direction, toward Lukla. Then it was time for me to get moving again.

  I took off toward Lobuche, where the group met for lunch at another teahouse. Because of the quick descent, I still wasn’t feeling normal, but I knew I had to press on. The trail led me up a grassy ridge and over a mountain. As I focused on putting one step in front of the other, MercyMe’s “All of Creation” rang through my headphones:

  All of creation sing with me now

  Lift up your voice and lay your burden down

  I’d been carrying a heavy burden ever since I’d gotten sick. For the first time on this expedition, I’d been weighed down by not knowing whether I’d be able to do this or not. But as I looked at the creation around me, I was filled with unexpected peace. No matter what happened on the expedition, God was still God, and ultimately that was all that mattered.

  I took off from Lobuche ahead of the rest of the group since my head was still being crushed at that altitude. I hoped I would find relief as the elevation decreased. With gravity on my side, I fell into a pleasant pace, taking in the vastness of the surrounding mountain range. It had been one thing to experience these picturesque sights with others, but there was something special about witnessing it all alone.

  Despite my unstable physical condition, I was filled with a kind of joy I’d never experienced before—the kind of joy that made me want to spin around with my arms outstretched while singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music!” But on the off chance that someone was watching me, I managed to maintain my professionalism.

  On a hill outside the village, I called JoAnna, knowing that my cell reception might be spotty once I made my final descent. I wanted to get her take on whether I should continue and push toward a summit attempt, even though I already had a good idea of what she’d say. We’d talked about issues like this plenty of times in the past, and I’d always said that if there was a life-threatening situation and the choice was life or death, I would always choose life.

  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “I prefer life!” she said.

  As always, she was honest and encouraging. “It seems like you have two options,” she told me. “If it’s time to summit and you feel healthy enough, I support you in that decision. If you feel like it would be safer not to risk it, you can do this another time.”

  I tried to say something, but my words got stuck before they made their way out of my mouth.

  After a pause, JoAnna said, “I’m okay with either option as long as the decision is made based on the better outcome.”

  I hung up the cheap local cell phone and stashed it in my pocket, trying not to let the tears fall. “Thank you, God, for the wife you gave me,” I whispered.

  I wasn’t ready to check out—not by any means. But I was weighing all options and taking an analytical approach. I wasn’t going to back down from the chance of a lifetime if I didn’t have to, but I also wasn’t going to put myself in unnecessary jeopardy.

  After our phone call, I got an e-mail from JoAnna:

  I want to encourage you to stay to climb if you are healthy enough to do so without any unneeded risks, because that’s what you’re there for. I know you are homesick and we miss you greatly, but you have to focus on your task at hand. This climb is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we will always be here waiting for you! Remember that I support whatever you decide. Your health comes first; if that’s clear, then go for the summit. Even Emily said, “I want Da
ddy to come home, but I also want him to climb the mountain, because that’s what he wanted to do.” We are all supporting you!

  The final descent into the village consisted of a series of dusty switchback trails. I finally reached Dingboche, where I could instantly tell a difference in the way my body felt. It was crazy to think that a place the altitude of Mount Rainier’s summit (around 14,000 feet) now seemed like sea level. I could actually feel the difference in the thickness of the air as each breath pumped life into my body. It was almost like getting an IV filled with strength, energy, and motivation.

  Naga was waiting in Dingboche with Dawn. They had successfully trekked to the Gokyo Valley, and now they were heading out to meet up with the rest of the group. Naga greeted me with a big hug and led me inside the teahouse.

  The setup of this teahouse was a little different from others we’d stayed in. The rooms circled around the perimeter, with a common dining area in the center. In the middle of the dining room there was a wood-burning stove fueled by yak dung. One wall was covered with windows that offered a stunning view of Ama Dablam.

  Naga could tell right away that I wasn’t as strong as I usually was. “Are you sick?” he asked. “I know the perfect thing for you. Come with me.”

  He took me to the dining area, where he encouraged me to eat some garlic soup to combat my illness.

  Sherpas swear by pure garlic soup as a way to stay healthy at high altitudes. Well, what do I have to lose? I thought. He’d been living this way for his whole life, and it seemed to be working.

  I downed the entire bowl. My breath must have been downright awful, but with JoAnna on the other side of the world, it wasn’t like I was going to be kissing anyone anytime soon.

  As I waited for the rest of the group, I felt my frustration starting to grow. Did I really train for all these months, carrying 50 pounds of weight up and down local peaks during the early morning hours, just to be taken down by a head cold? I had prepared so hard for this moment and had taken every possible precaution, but here I was, nursing a swollen head. From a physiological standpoint, there was nothing I could do to combat the symptoms of HACE or chronic altitude headaches. At this point the only thing left to do was wait and think through my options.

  I decided to stay an extra day in Dingboche while the rest of the group trekked ahead toward Island Peak base camp. Even though I felt great compared to how I’d been doing at Everest base camp, I knew it was important to allow my body to rest rather than to jump right back to the altitude I’d struggled in the day before. I reminded myself that this was part of the challenge of climbing in the Himalayas—it’s a mental game as well as a physical one. This wasn’t like the peaks back home, where I could climb any of the Cascade peaks in a day if the weather permitted.

  I had to be patient—something that didn’t come naturally for me. But I was trying to make sure logic won out over my drive to push forward. If I did have some form of acute mountain sickness (AMS), I knew it could be fatal for me to risk heading out with the team. I’d been on climbs before with people who had AMS and wouldn’t admit it, and it forced the entire group to turn around partway through the climb. I didn’t want to be that guy.

  I thought back to my days in Aircrew school, when we had to learn water and land survival skills. The instructors knew that in an emergency situation, if someone wasn’t tough enough—mentally or physically—he or she would put the entire team in jeopardy. As a result, the training was intense.

  We went through repeated training evolutions in aircraft crash and egress activities. The first one involved egressing from a helicopter that had rolled over underwater. For the second evolution, we wore full flight gear (including boots, a survival vest unit, and a helmet) and were tossed into the middle of a pool. The instructors hooked us up to an automatic pulley system and dragged us across the pool with a parachute that was attached to our harnesses. We had to right ourselves and then use quick-release mechanisms to get away from the hazard. For the third evolution, we were wrapped in a parachute and tossed into the water. We had to stay calm and just barely wave our fingers to create an air pocket that would separate us from the parachute and allow us to glide out. If we panicked, we would get more tangled, use up our oxygen, and drown. The task was basic survival: get untangled before you drown.

  AIRR training, which followed directly on the heels of Aircrew training, was even more intense than the five weeks we’d just completed. The whole system was built around weeding out the weak or timid. The instructors wanted to identify those who would give up when conditions weren’t favorable or when they got tired or scared, and then make sure they didn’t graduate and become part of the fleet. Out there, it wasn’t just your own life at risk but also your entire helicopter crew and the survivors in the water.

  In the morning we’d work out in the sand, doing pull-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups “forever”—meaning we had to stay locked in the up position waiting for the instructor to yell, “Down!” Then we’d all go to the down position until he gave the command to go up again. Our arms grew weak and we wobbled frantically, but we didn’t want to be the person to fall and let the group down. Eventually someone wouldn’t be able to hold his or her weight any longer and would collapse face-first in the sand. Then the instructor would yell, “Zero, zero! Start over!” We’d do that for about an hour for each exercise until our muscles were like Jell-O. Then, after a five-mile run in the sand, we’d head down to the ocean or the pool, sweaty and covered with grit, to do intense conditioning swims.

  I didn’t know exactly how my body would respond to the high altitude, and I didn’t want to let my teammates down. Better to wait it out, I told myself.

  The next day I planned to climb five or six miles to Island Peak high camp at 18,200 feet with Pumba. I’d bypass base camp and meet up with the group for a summit push later that night. That would be a good test to see if my rest day in the thicker air was effective. If so, I could continue up to the summit for an acclimatization climb. And if I still wasn’t feeling strong enough, I could always descend to lower elevations to get more rest. Either way, Bill and I would be heading back to Pheriche for a few days of rest before our ascension back to Everest base camp.

  That night I settled in and wrote this blog entry:

  April 14, 2011

  In the end, I can only do what I can do. If after a week at lower altitude I’m still a risk to myself and others higher on the mountain, then I’ll be ending my expedition early. I know God has a plan, and it may not be what I envisioned, but I’ll trust his judgment and direction. Stay tuned . . .[5]

  Sitting all day in my prison cell, also known as my room in the teahouse, was torture, especially knowing that the other members of the group were making progress toward their goals. After breakfast, I set up solar charger panels in the window of my room and lay on the bed, where I wrote in my journal, read a book, and listened to music, willing the hours to tick by so the next day would arrive and I could actually do something.

  The worst part was that I didn’t have a cell phone signal, so I couldn’t talk to my family. I sat on my cot and looked through pictures of Emily and Jordan, wishing I were home wrestling with them on the living room floor. What are they doing right now? I wondered. How are they coping with me being gone? When I was climbing, I was distracted from the sadness of being separated, but that day I had too much time on my hands to think.

  For about an hour, I stared out the window and watched a cow chew grass. Although at first this sight was a reminder of how trapped and bored I felt, her circular chewing motion was quite peaceful. It helped remind me that it was okay to take it easy and just be that day.

  I thought back to my Navy days, when my group was designated for combat search and rescue (CSAR) missions. In addition to our primary overwater missions, we also trained to become aerial gunner qualified. We flew with night-vision goggles, worked with special forces, and prepped for overland missions. One of the places we conducted training missions was Kuwait, wher
e we targeted the miles of destroyed tanks from the Gulf War for aerial gunner practice before flying into Camp Doha to refuel and get a warm meal. We also flew missions near the Iraqi border, heading out in the middle of the night with a cabin full of Navy SEALs or other special forces. We never knew what the full mission was; we only knew we were flying near enemy territory and were armed for war, if necessary.

  But in between those adrenaline-pumping excursions, there was a lot of downtime where we just sat and waited for our next set of orders. We were on a constant emotional roller coaster, fluctuating between boredom and adrenaline, adrenaline and boredom. After a while, I became numb to fear and flew my missions with confidence, knowing that my training was all I needed to succeed.

  There was no way I could have known at the time how that training would help me survive on the highest mountain in the world—going from moments of pulse-pounding intensity to long stretches of boredom in the span of a heartbeat.

  •

  The following morning I was up and ready to go by the time the roosters crowed. I packed my expedition bag, ate some porridge, and was on the trail with Pumba and my porter by 7:30 a.m.

  With high peaks engulfing us, we wound our way down the trail toward the south side of Lhotse Shar. Since it was just the three of us, we were able to make good time. But even so, I was aware that there is continual risk in such areas. I really needed to understand my body and respond appropriately if something felt off, because the nearest doctor was miles away. And although Sherpas are well equipped for the mountaineering aspects of the journey, they aren’t trained for medical emergencies, and the methods they use for treating injuries don’t necessarily align with Western standards of medicine. In a worst-case scenario, I’d heard it was possible to call in an emergency helicopter to the tune of $5,000, but that was assuming there was phone coverage at that point. I needed to be on high alert at all times, aware of risks and staying attuned to my body’s feedback.