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EMPIRE  OF  THE  ROCK      -­‐Grant  Maughan  

 If  I  had  wanted  to  be  anywhere  else,  it  was  way  to  late  for  that.  I  resigned  myself  to  it,  the  choice  to  be  there.  The  cold  started  to  penetrate  through  my  mitts,  which  pressed  down  on  slabs  of  ice.  I  could  feel  my  elbows  pushing  into  the  rock  trying  to  get  some  sort  of  purchase.  My  torso  hung  limp  below  me  dangling  from  the  top  of  the  infamous  “Second  Step.”  Somewhere  below  me  was  the  top  rung  of  an  alloy  ladder  bolted  to  the  precipice  in  1975  by  Chinese  mountaineers.  Unfortunately  it  was  about  6  feet  too  short  to  reach  the  apex  of  the  feature,  and  here  I  now  hung  with  a  10,000-­‐foot  void  just  over  my  right  shoulder  and  my  crampons  clawing  for  traction  on  something,  anything.  Sherpa  Geylje  had  reached  down  and  grabbed  the  top  of  my  backpack  when  I  had  uttered  that  I  was  falling.  I  had  tried  to  explain  that  I  was  blind  in  my  left  eye  so  couldn’t  see  where  my  foot  needed  to  be.  It  was  in  vain,  garbling  through  an  oxygen  mask,  fatigued  and  half  out  of  it.  I  remember  looking  up  at  him  and  seeing  a  distorted  vision  of  myself  in  his  snow  goggles,  looking  just  like  I  felt.  I  don’t  remember  clipping  my  safety  line  on  before  shimmying  over  the  edge,  dabbing  with  my  boots  for  the  top  of  the  ladder.  For  someone  who’s  terrified  of  heights,  it  seemed  an  impetuous  thing  to  do,  considering  the  void  below,  but  I  knew  instinctively  that  my  brain  wasn’t  working  to  full  capacity,  thanks  to  all  the  external  factors.  It  didn’t  seem  that  long  ago  that  I  was  standing  on  the  summit  of  Everest,  but  I  couldn’t  be  sure.  Time  seemed  to  be  standing  still  and  elongating  all  at  once.  The  only  thing  I  was  sure  about  is  that  I  wanted  to  go  down.    The  team  was  a  typical  alphabet  soup  of  nationalities,  personalities  and  eccentricities.  Countries  represented  included  the  UK,  USA,  Germany,  Sweden,  Finland,  Paraguay  and  Australia.  Our  affable  expedition  guide  was  David  from  the  UK,  who  summited  Everest  for  the  sixth  time  on  our  trip.  As  he  spoke  at  the  front  of  the  room  in  our  first  crew  meeting  in  Kathmandu,  I  texted  my  girlfriend  and  told  her  our  leader  looked  like  a  hippy  transported  to  us  in  a  time  machine  after  bumming  around  Asia  in  the  1970s.  I  was  cheered  to  learn  it  wasn’t  too  far  from  the  truth.  He  proved  to  be  an  exemplary  logistics  coordinator,  competent  mountaineer  and  all-­‐round  good  guy.  He  threaded  the  complexities  of  climbing  the  biggest  mountain  in  the  world  with  apparent  ease  behind  an  easy  and  approachable  demeanor.    

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The  climbing  team:  *  Martin,  from  Germany.  A  very  experienced  mountaineer,  rock  climber  and  Antarctic  explorer  who  completed  the  storied  Seven  Summits  on  our  trip  when  he  reached  the  top,  and  I  was  very  pleased  to  be  there  for  it.  An  endurance  athlete  like  myself,  he  had  a  big  engine  and  thirst  for  adventure  and  powered  up  everything  in  sight.  *  Dom,  from  the  UK.  A  very  intelligent  pragmatist  whom  I  much  enjoyed  conversation  with.  He  had  climbed  Denali  and  Aconcagua.  His  pragmatism  didn’t  fade  when  he  took  the  decision  to  turn  around  before  the  summit  due  to  concerns  with  his  oxygen  equipment.  We  congratulated  him  for  his  decision.  At  high  altitude,  that  may  save  your  life.  *    Marcus,  from  Sweden.  A  resident  of  Hong  Kong  who  had  already  been  on  Makalu,  another  Himalayan  8,000m  mountain.  Fluent  in  a  number  of  languages,  he  kept  us  entertained  with  many  amusing  stories.  He  also  made  the  decision  to  turn  around  before  summiting  when  realizing  he  may  not  have  the  physical  resources  to  get  down  safely.  It’s  a  decision  some  don’t  make,  and  they  either  pay  the  ultimate  price  or  endanger  others  who  need  to  help  them.  Kudos,  Marcus!  *    Patrick,  from  the  USA.  A  professor  with  unbridled  energy,  he  was  a  very  experienced  rock,  ice  and  mountain  climber  who  also  had  a  long  history  of  backcountry  skiing  and  ski  mountaineering.  His  resumé  included  professional  triathlete  and  long-­‐distance  swimmer.  When  I  seen  him  walking  around  camp  in  shorts  and  flip-­‐flops  while  I  was  wrapped  in  base  layers  and  a  down  jacket,  I  realized  how  he  could  swim  the  English  Channel  without  a  wetsuit.  He  seemed  to  always  have  a  question  to  ask  or  a  story  to  tell,  which  was  fine  by  me,  as  I  prefer  to  listen.  *    Brendan,  from  the  USA,  but  living  and  working  in  China.  A  mellow  kind  of  guy  until  he  became  animated  when  talking  about  punk  rock,  guitars,  drones,  cameras  and  other  mountains  he  had  been  on,  mainly  with  Patrick.  He  always  seemed  to  have  a  smaller  pack  than  me,  but  would  pull  out  an  endless  array  of  camera  gear  and  drones.  He  and  Pat  were  the  first  of  our  team  to  reach  the  summit  in  a  display  of  well-­‐oiled  preparedness  and  patience.  *    Jon,  a  fellow  Australian.  Built  like  a  rugby  player,  he  plowed  up  the  mountain  like  a  bulldozer.  He  was  on  a  mission  to  complete  the  Seven  Summits  after  taking  a  year  off  work  to  go  do  it.  Everest  was  supposed  to  be  the  last  of  the  Seven  Summits  for  him,  but  his  Denali  expedition,  like  mine,  had  been  stymied  by  weather  and  he  needed  to  return  to  Alaska  to  try  again  (which  he  did  mere  weeks  after  climbing  Everest).  *    Franz,  from  Paraguay/Germany.  A  young  diplomat  who  was  attempting  to  be  the  first  Paraguayan  to  summit  Everest,  which  he  did.  He  tended  to  keep  to  himself  quite  a  bit  as  the  long  expedition  wore  us  all  down,  but  seemed  to  know  the  details  of  literally  every  movie  made.  He  was  our  least  experienced  climber  and  appeared  to  struggle  with  the  physical  and  technical  aspects  of  the  climb,  but  made  it  to  the  top.  *    Heike,  from  Finland.  A  robust  construction  worker  and  businessman  who  had  already  climbed  Cho  Oyu,  an  8,000m  Himalayan  peak.  Unfortunately,  on  this  trip  his  fitness  and  acclimation  let  him  down  and  he  made  the  decision  to  abandon  the  expedition  during  our  initial  excursions  to  the  North  Col.  

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Our  team  was  supported  by  a  crack  crew  of  high  altitude  Sherpa,  who  didn’t  just  haul  supplies  and  establish  camps  but  were  all  experienced  with  the  technicalities  of  climbing  big  mountains.  We  had  a  great  rapport  with  them  and  I’m  sure  we  all  felt  better  knowing  they  were  around  on  summit  day.    For  the  past  six  weeks,  we  had  followed  a  schedule  to  allow  us  to  acclimate  to  higher  altitudes.  Moving  from  BC  (Base  Camp)  at  around  16,500  feet,  we  would  trek  up  the  moraine  fields  of  the  Rongbuk  Glacier  to  IBC  (Interim  Base  Camp)  to  18,000  feet,  spend  the  night  there,  then  continue  upwards  to  ABC  (Advanced  Base  Camp)  at  about  21,000  feet.  At  ABC  we  would  rest,  prepare  gear  and  do  training  before  heading  onto  the  mountain  proper.  It  was  a  couple  of  miles  across  moraine  and  glacier  to  the  foot  of  the  headwall  below  the  North  Col.  It’s  an  imposing  impediment  when  standing  at  the  base  for  the  first  time.  A  rising  colossus  of  a  couple  of  thousand  feet  of  snow  and  ice.  Fixed  ropes  allowed  us  to  connect  jumar  ascending  hardware  to  assist  in  the  climb,  but  it  remained  a  taxing  section  of  the  route  no  matter  how  acclimated  or  fit  we  became.  It  was  always  mind-­‐blowing  to  be  passed  by  a  Sherpa  carrying  a  monstrous  backpack  of  gear  and  supplies  to  restock  camps  higher  up  while  we  struggled  with  just  our  necessary  load.  It  was  on  the  headwall  that  I  really  started  to  feel  the  lack  of  oxygen  when  overworking.  It  was  like  someone  was  holding  a  plastic  bag  over  my  head  and  it  had  me  gasping  after  a  couple  of  steps.  The  top  section  of  the  wall  was  almost  vertical,  and  at  times  I  was  seeing  black  spots  while  heaving  for  air.    The  section  between  the  North  Col  camp  and  Camp  2  is  called  the  snow  ramp.  It’s  very  deceptive  in  length  and  steepness.  It  appears  at  first  to  be  an  easy  access  to  the  rock  bands  further  up  but  proves  to  be  a  long,  physically  taxing  climb,  at  times  hampered  by  frigid  cross  winds  blowing  over  the  saddle  and  other  times  a  baking  sauna  of  snow  reflecting  the  sun.  We  started  breathing  bottled  oxygen  when  we  left  the  Col  at  a  low  rate  of  0.5  litres  a  minute,  which  gave  extra  stamina  but  also  required  more  gear  to  carry  and  a  harder  breathing  intake  with  the  mask.  We  would  mostly  stay  on  O2  for  the  rest  of  the  climb,  including  when  sleeping.  We  would  increase  the  volume  rate  as  we  got  higher  to  offset  the  diminishing  oxygen  at  altitude  and  to  help  with  the  physical  aspect  of  the  climbing.  I  would  use  a  total  of  five  4-­‐litre  bottles  during  the  ascent  and  part  of  the  descent.  Depending  on  how  much  volume  your  regulator  is  set  to  will  determine  how  many  bottles  you  will  need.  Some  clients  have  been  known  to  order  up  to  20  bottles  so  they  can  set  their  volume  flow  very  high  to  simulate  lower  altitude.  The  gear  creates  its  own  problems,  mainly  the  risk  of  malfunctioning  or  icing  up.  One  team  in  2018  saw  the  failure  of  around  a  dozen  regulators  just  below  the  summit,  which  required  them  to  abort  the  climb  without  making  the  top.  Most  of  us  developed  throat  problems  with  deep  coughing  spasms  from  the  dry  O2  in  the  bottle.  All  the  moisture  is  taken  out  when  the  bottle  is  filled  so  it  won’t  freeze.  Also,  the  mask  becomes  a  breeding  ground  of  bacteria  when  worn  for  about  4  days  worth  of  sweat,  spit  and  snot.      We  had  left  our  final  high  camp,  Camp  3,  at  around  11p.m.  the  night  before  without  sleep.  It  had  taken  us  five  days  of  trekking  and  climbing  from  Base  Camp  to  make  

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our  way  up  the  Rongbuk  Glacier  and  onto  the  mountain  via  the  headwall  of  the  North  Col.  Once  on  the  Col,  an  endless  climb  up  the  snow  ramp  of  the  North  Ridge  into  the  rock  bands  had  ensued  to  Camp  2,  where  we  spent  a  precarious  night  huddled  in  tents  pitched  off-­‐cambered  on  rocks.  From  there  we  continued  up  to  our  final  camp  at  Camp  3  and  the  Death  Zone  at  26,000’,  hoping  the  weather  would  hold  for  another  couple  of  days  to  allow  us  to  summit  and  return.      On  reaching  the  base  of  the  Northeast  Ridge  above  Camp  3,  there  rises  some  technical  sections  creating  impediments.  The  Exit  Cracks  require  some  difficult  rock  scrambling  and  significant  energy  output  to  literally  haul  yourself  up  to  the  ridgeline.  Once  on  the  ridge  you  are  exposed  to  any  wind  and  the  temperature  drops  accordingly.  A  number  of  airy  traverses  follow  before  reaching  the  three  vertical  rock  walls  known  as  the  “Steps.”  The  Second  Step  is  generally  recognized  as  the  crux  of  the  climb.  The  200-­‐foot  vertical  rock  wall  had  concerned  me  for  weeks  in  the  lead-­‐up.  It  was  still  dark  when  we  reached  the  base,  but  I  had  seen  other  climbers’  headlamps  well  in  advance  as  they  scaled  the  wall.  The  lights  seemed  to  be  hanging  in  the  sky  far  above  me  like  stars,  striking  me  with  fear  as  I  wondered  if  I  would  have  the  guts  to  climb  it.  There  are  two  short  alloy  ladders  precariously  tied  at  the  bottom  that  swing  drunkenly  as  you  set  foot  on  them.  Just  as  I  set  my  boot  onto  the  second  rung  of  the  first  ladder,  I  was  suddenly  sucking  the  oxygen  mask  flat  onto  my  face.  I  couldn’t  believe  the  timing  –  I  was  at  28,250  feet  and  I  was  out  of  oxygen!  The  plan  had  been  to  change  out  the  bottles  at  the  top  of  the  Second  Step,  but  mine  had  not  lasted  until  the  recon  point.  I  needed  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  Step  and  wait  for  the  Sherpa  that  had  my  extra  bottle.  Timidly,  I  took  one  hand  off  the  ladder  and  pulled  the  mask  off  my  face  and  started  to  breathe  as  deep  as  I  could,  trying  to  extract  the  small  amount  of  oxygen  out  of  the  air.  The  bitter  cold  penetrated  down  into  my  lungs  and  I  started  to  move  in  slow  motion,  not  wanting  to  raise  my  heart  beat  and  hence  lose  my  breath  from  exertion.  I  just  looked  at  each  hand  as  it  changed  position  on  the  ladders  and  made  sure  each  boot  step  contacted  on  the  rungs  between  the  crampons  in  a  metallic  clang.  After  the  first  two  ladders,  you  haul  yourself  up  onto  a  small  rock  buttress  covered  in  ice  that  leads  to  the  base  of  the  larger  15-­‐foot  ladder  on  the  main  wall.  I  kicked  my  crampons  hard  into  the  surface,  making  sure  I  had  as  firm  a  grip  as  possible  because  at  this  point  that  gaping  10,000-­‐foot  drop  is  right  next  to  you.  I  looked  at  nothing  but  the  next  ladder  and  made  my  way  across  to  it,  then  hauled  myself  to  the  top  in  slow,  deliberate  steps.  Dragging  myself  bodily  over  the  top,  I  found  a  spot  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  climbers  coming  up  behind  and  sat  for  the  first  time  in  hours,  trying  to  relax  my  breathing  and  checking  my  equipment.  I  have  no  idea  how  long  I  was  there  before  Sherpa  Geylje  appeared  with  my  spare  bottle.  At  some  point  I  noticed  a  climber  in  a  brightly  coloured,  down-­‐filled  summit  suit  sleeping  not  far  behind  me.  He  was  on  his  side  in  a  fetal  position.  I  mentioned  to  the  Sherpa  that  someone  needed  to  wake  that  guy  up.  It  was  incredibly  dangerous  to  fall  asleep  up  high.  The  Sherpa  commented  that  “that  guy”  had  been  asleep  for  about  8  years  and  wasn’t  ever  going  down.  That  is  probably  what  happened  to  him  and  others  that  didn’t  make  it  back  –  worn  down,  out  of  oxygen  and  cold,  they  would  lay  down  to  rest  and  end  up  staying  there.  

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Strangely,  I  myself  did  this  many  times  on  the  way  down  when  fatigued.  Unable  to  take  another  step  my  body  would  unconsciously  plonk  down  on  a  rock  or  in  the  snow,  sucking  the  last  of  my  oxygen  down  in  great  heaving  gulps,  always  trying  to  get  my  breath  back  but  never  quite  managing.  I  always  tried  to  keep  my  brain  active  though,  and  kept  thinking  that  I  needed  to  get  up  and  move  a  little  further  down  so  I  didn’t  drift  off.  I  kept  drilling  myself  about  the  possible  outcome  being  death.  It  seemed  to  work,  as  I  always  got  up  and  stumbled  on,  but  at  times  I  really  had  to  persuade  myself  to  get  moving  –  it  was  way  too  easy  to  just  stay  put  and  rest.        Just  before  daylight  I  came  upon  a  Sherpa  “short-­‐roping”  his  client  (a  short  rope  is  attached  from  the  Sherpa’s  back  to  the  front  of  the  client,  so  the  Sherpa  can  literally  drag  the  client  up  the  mountain).  There  was  a  Russian  guide  with  them  who,  at  that  time,  was  stopped  and  searching  in  his  backpack.  I  passed  him  and  followed  the  Sherpa  and  client  for  a  little  ways  before  I  heard  a  noise  beside  me  and  saw  the  Russian  guide  step  into  deep  snow  while  trying  to  overtake  me  and  fall  face  down.  He  gave  me  no  indication  he  was  there  and  wanted  to  pass.  He  got  up  and  yelled  at  me,  waving  his  hands  frantically  before  chasing  his  client.  I  politely  told  him  to  fuck  off,  which  probably  came  out  as  a  muffled  garble  through  my  oxygen  mask.    I  reached  the  Third  Step  alone,  but  came  up  behind  a  number  of  Russian  climbers  who  were  yelling  at  a  woman  further  up  on  a  slippery  part  of  the  Step  who  couldn’t  seem  to  get  higher  on  the  section.  Eventually,  I  saw  one  climber  come  back  down  to  her,  grab  the  top  of  her  backpack  and  bodily  drag  her  higher  while  two  other  climbers  had  impatiently  climbed  up  to  her  and  were  pushing  on  her  butt.  They  left  her  on  a  small  projection  of  rock  to  make  the  rest  of  the  climb  herself  and  ascended  out  of  sight.  I  followed  her  route  up  into  a  cleft  and  also  had  a  tough  time  getting  my  crampons  to  grip  on  the  face  or  to  find  any  holds.  I  reverted  to  hauling  myself  up  while  double  handing  on  my  jumar  device,  which  left  me  gasping  uncontrollably.  I  looked  around,  as  it  was  getting  light  now,  and  couldn’t  see  another  soul.  I  felt  more  alone  than  I  felt  comfortable  with,  considering  the  location.  I  finally  caught  up  with  others  at  the  end  of  the  Northeast  ridge  where  the  snow  triangle  starts  at  the  base  of  the  summit  pyramid.  The  drop  to  my  left  through  a  large  scalloped  out  section  of  ice  was  a  giddy  void  down  the  massive  Kanshung  Face  into  neighboring  Nepal.  At  first  I  could  only  glance  at  the  drop,  but  then  I  stopped  and  made  myself  have  a  good  long  look.  Its  something  I  have  used  before  to  try  to  dilute  my  fear  of  heights.  The  jury  is  still  out  if  it  works  or  not  though  the  lack  of  oxygen  seemed  to  make  my  senses  more  blunt  to  the  anxiety.  I  took  one  last  look  before  connecting  to  the  next  rope  and  starting  the  steep  climb  up  the  snowfield.      On  reaching  the  top,  the  route  led  back  around  to  the  North  Face  and  along  another  sketchy  traverse  of  rock  and  ice  before  a  physically  demanding  climb  up  off-­‐camber  slabs  on  what’s  known  as  the  Dihedral.  A  climber  behind  me  kept  coming  up  very  close  to  my  boots  and  jerking  the  rope  from  different  angles,  which  at  times  felt  like  it  was  pulling  me  off  the  face.  I  lost  my  temper  with  him  and  told  him  to  have  some  patience  and  stop  crowding  me.  He  took  no  notice  as  I  labored  to  the  top.  In  the  last  

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number  of  hours,  I  had  seen  the  dog-­‐eat-­‐dog  mentality  of  the  Everest  climber,  driven  on  by  the  wish  of  standing  on  top  of  the  world  or  getting  a  high-­‐paying  client  there  by  whatever  means.  In  the  preceding  weeks,  most  people  you  met  on  the  trail  or  in  the  camps  were  friendly,  each  dealing  with  the  toll  of  acclimating  and  the  hard  work  in  their  own  way  and  hanging  onto  hopes  of  making  it  to  the  summit  and  back.  There  were  others,  though,  who  would  never  acknowledge  you  when  you  said  hello  or  never  considered  saying  thanks  when  you  moved  off  the  trail  to  let  them  pass.  It  was  almost  like  they  considered  you  competition  and  intended  to  keep  you  at  arm’s  length.  I  even  got  the  sense  that  some  of  the  Sherpa  were  sick  of  being  polite  to  the  Westerners  who  flocked  to  their  mountains.      Finally,  I  could  look  up  and  see  the  actual  summit.  It  was  still  a  few  hundred  feet  away,  but  it  was  all  snow  and  a  boot  track  led  the  way.  I  got  to  the  top  with  our  expedition  leader,  David  (who  was  making  his  sixth  summit  of  Everest  –  on  his  birthday,  no  less!),  our  experienced  German  climber,  Martin,  and  the  other  Aussie  in  the  team,  Jon.  I  immediately  clipped  my  safety  onto  a  rope  and  said  to  myself,  “That’s  it.  You’re  here.”  The  wind  pelted  us  with  snow  and  icicles  at  a  steady  30-­‐40  knots  in  an  open  roar,  making  it  bitterly  cold.  The  sky  at  that  altitude  was  a  very  deep  azure  blue  and  the  horizon  bent  in  an  arc  as  if  I  was  looking  through  a  fish-­‐eye  lens.  Peering  over  the  South  Face  into  Nepal,  I  could  see  a  number  of  climbers  on  the  final  ascent  from  the  Hillary  Step  after  climbing  the  South  Col  route.  I  pulled  my  cameras  out  one  by  one,  and  all  three  refused  to  operate  –  like  all  my  water  bottles  they  were  frozen,  even  though  I  had  them  in  a  bag  next  to  my  stomach,  stuffed  deep  inside  my  down-­‐filled  suit  the  whole  way.  I  turned  around  and  looked  down  the  jagged  Northeast  ridge.  I  could  see  how  far  we  had  come  since  the  night  before  and  it  left  me  scared,  thinking  of  how  far  I  had  to  go  back  to  make  it  to  any  sort  of  appreciable  safety.  There  was  no  ecstatic  feeling  that  I  had  made  it,  only  one  of  dread  knowing  I  would  still  be  a  long  time  in  the  Death  Zone  and  that  most  accidents  happened  on  the  descent.  Soon  after,  a  number  of  Russians  arrived  and  literally  walked  over  us  to  get  their  summit  photos.  I  wondered  why  they  were  always  angry  and  yelling  at  others?  A  Sherpa  dragged  a  client  on  a  short-­‐rope  past  us  and  carried  a  large  backpack  full  of  oxygen  bottles.  I  sent  out  a  GPS  position  from  my  Garmin  Inreach,  which  is  a  satellite  tracker  with  texting  capabilities,  then  took  a  long  look  around  before  unclipping  and  starting  the  long  descent.  I  stayed  for  14  minutes  at  the  top,  and  most  of  that  time  I  was  thinking  about  the  descent.    Soon  after  leaving  the  top,  I  came  up  behind  one  of  our  team  who  was  sitting  blocking  the  way  down.  Our  expedition  leader  was  instructing  him  to  put  on  dark  glasses  or  goggles  to  stop  the  intense  UV  rays  from  sending  him  snow  blind.  He  didn’t  seem  to  want  to  do  this  and  dragged  out  the  heated  discussion  more  than  once  while  holding  a  number  of  climbers  up  at  the  junction  of  the  dihedral  base  and  the  sketchy  traverse  back  to  the  snow  triangle.  He  stopped  a  number  of  times  along  the  traverse  as  well,  to  the  complaints  of  climbers  behind  as  well  as  myself,  who  was  scared  shitless  to  be  standing  on  an  icy  boot-­‐wide  platform  that  sloped  out  towards  a  dizzy  drop  to  the  valley  below.  Once  we  reached  the  top  of  the  snow  triangle,  he  dropped  into  the  snow,  announced  he  was  snow  blind  and  refused  to  move.  This  is  

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how  people  die  at  high  altitude,  as  well  as  endanger  many  others  who  feel  obligated  to  help  them  down  to  safety.  The  lack  of  oxygen  and  deep  fatigue  also  make  reasoning  skills  low  and  denial  high.  Climbing  at  high  altitude  is  a  bit  like  free  diving  –  you  have  to  make  sure  you  have  enough  resources  left  to  make  it  back.  Many  climbers  forget  that  getting  to  the  summit  is  only  halfway,  and  that  the  most  difficult  and  definitely  the  most  dangerous  part  is  getting  back  down.  On  Everest,  after  Camp  3,  you  are  climbing  in  the  Death  Zone  above  26,000  feet,  which  means  your  body  is  literally  dying  and  consuming  itself.  The  expedition  leader,  David  and  head  Sherpa,  Jambu,  spent  considerable  time  trying  to  convince  him  he  would  certainly  die  at  some  point  if  he  didn’t  get  moving  to  lower  altitude  and  he  shouldn’t  expect  others  to  put  themselves  into  danger  to  help  him  if  he  wouldn’t  help  himself.  That’s  the  sobering,  unwritten  rule  up  high  that’s  hard  to  understand  unless  you  have  been  up  there  –  that  it’s  virtually  impossible  to  carry  an  injured  or  unconscious  climber  down  from  there.  There  are  many  instances  when  the  unfortunate  soul  has  to  be  left  where  they  fall,  to  die  alone  while  the  others  descend  or  risk  dying  with  them.  The  discussion  became  quite  heated  before  I  decided  to  risk  unclipping  my  safety  line  and  making  my  way  past  them.  I  felt  like  I  was  getting  close  to  my  own  limits  and  suffering  from  fatigue,  dehydration,  caloric  deficit  and  oxygen  deprivation.  I  didn’t  want  to  also  become  a  burden  to  anyone  else.  It  eventually  took  over  12  hours  to  get  the  climber  back  to  Camp  3,  and  not  without  considerable  danger  to  the  rescuers.  All  made  it  down  safely  but  it  could  easily  have  had  a  much  different  outcome.      They  say  that  most  mountaineering  accidents  happen  on  the  descent,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  why.  Coming  down  the  North  side  of  Everest,  there  are  many  sketchy  sections  that  require  brute  strength  on  the  ropes,  and  airy  traverses  covered  in  ice  and  slippery  pebbles  that  are  sometimes  only  a  boot-­‐width  wide.  Places  that  you  need  to  dolly-­‐step  along,  one  boot  in  front  of  the  other.  At  times  I  would  move  my  rear  boot  up,  only  to  catch  the  protruding  front  crampons  of  that  boot  onto  the  back  of  my  front  boot,  forcing  me  to  move  the  rear  boot  backwards  again  to  reposition  it,  then  move  the  front  boot  forward  to  make  any  progress,  all  the  while  trying  not  to  look  over  my  shoulder  at  the  precipice  falling  away  to  the  glacier  thousands  of  feet  below.  If  you  meet  another  climber  coming  the  other  way,  it  can  be  a  tedious  and  precarious  passing.  One  person  needs  to  disconnect  their  safety  line  and  step  around  the  other  climber,  who  is  now  squeezed  against  the  rock  trying  to  make  as  much  room  as  possible.  The  outside  climber  reaches  around  the  inside  climber’s  waist  in  a  hug  and  tries  to  find  the  fixed  rope  to  reconnect  his  safety  line  before  swinging  his  legs  over  the  void  and  back  onto  the  ledge.    After  reaching  the  ridgeline  I  came  up  behind  two  more  of  our  team  at  the  top  of  the  Third  Step,  but  dropped  behind  when  I  had  trouble  unraveling  some  old  ropes  from  the  new  ropes  and  couldn’t  get  my  rappelling  hardware  connected  satisfactorily  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  feature.  Standing  on  a  steep  ice  section  and  using  both  hands  while  trying  to  get  this  all  sorted  out  made  me  realize  my  balance  was  even  iffy.  I  was  getting  frustrated  and  confused  and  felt  light-­‐headed,  stopping  for  many  minutes  to  try  get  my  head  together.  I  had  to  talk  to  myself  about  where  I  was  and  

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that  I  was  suffering  from  deficiencies  of  oxygen  and  fatigue  so  I  needed  to  focus  and  not  do  anything  rash.  I  watched  my  two  teammates  disappear  along  the  Northeast  Ridge  and  felt  very  alone.  I  eventually  lost  patience  and  grabbed  a  bunch  of  the  ropes  and  stumbled  and  slid  down  backwards,  hand-­‐over-­‐hand.  The  effort  to  hold  my  body  weight  with  large  mitts  on  left  me  gasping  in  the  snow  at  the  bottom.  Talk  about  not  doing  anything  rash!  I  don’t  recall  anything  from  the  next  section.  I  have  blanks  from  my  memory  on  summit  day,  but  I  do  remember  seeing  someone  come  up  over  a  ridge  towards  me,  and  when  that  person  arrived  I  realized  it  was  Geylje  Sherpa  from  our  team.  He  asked  how  my  oxygen  was.  I  had  no  idea  but  figured  it  was  still  flowing,  as  I  had  the  mask  on.  He  checked  the  bottle  in  my  backpack  and  decided  to  change  it  for  one  of  the  spares  they  had  stockpiled  nearby,  above  the  Second  Step.  The  plan  had  always  been  to  change  bottles  at  this  spot  going  up  and  again  on  the  way  back.  It  seemed  no  time  before  it  was  done,  and  he  said  he  was  coming  back  with  me.  I  had  no  idea  where  he  had  just  come  from.  I  was  getting  very  foggy  and  seemed  incredibly  tired  all  of  a  sudden.  His  presence  was  much  welcomed.    I  remember  getting  going  again  and  thinking  about  the  Second  Step:  where  was  it,  had  I  gone  down  it  yet,  or  could  I  get  down  it?  Soon  enough  I  was  standing  at  the  top  of  it,  looking  down  that  endless  drop  to  the  glacier.  I’m  terrified  of  heights  but  must  have  been  out  of  it  enough  to  not  be  frightened  much  while  standing  there.  That  soon  changed  when  I  swung  around  without  much  thought,  slid  on  my  stomach  over  the  lip  and  found  I  couldn’t  feel  anything  below  with  my  boot  when  I  expected  to  touch  the  ladder.  It’s  then  that  I  started  to  slide  off  the  top  and  told  Geylje  I  was  falling.  I  had  a  terror-­‐filled  moment  when  I  thought  I  was  past  the  point  of  no  return  before  he  quietly  told  me  to  just  move  my  left  foot  down  a  little  more  and  I  would  be  on  a  rock  platform  and  find  the  ladder.  He  was  holding  the  top  of  my  backpack;  anything  I  was  holding  onto  was  sliding.  The  rest  of  the  descent  of  the  Second  Step  seems  like  a  dream.  I  focused  so  hard  on  getting  down,  checking  every  footstep  and  handhold  twice  before  committing,  that  I  blanked  everything  else  out.  At  one  point,  I  realized  I  couldn’t  move  my  right  boot  and  found  the  crampons  were  wrapped  in  fine  fibres  from  the  core  of  old  ropes  that  had  been  shredded  over  the  years.  I  eventually  had  to  hang  on  with  one  hand  and  crouch  down  to  tear  them  off.  At  the  bottom,  I  forgot  all  about  it  and  continued  on  along  more  scary  traverses  and  demanding  sections  that  I  didn’t  recall  on  the  way  up  in  the  dark.  At  each  anchor  point,  I  carefully  detached  my  safety  and  reattached  it  onto  the  next  pitch,  removing  a  heavy  mitten  each  time  to  make  operating  the  carabiner  easier  with  my  thin  liner  gloves.  I  was  surprised  my  fingers  had  never  been  cold  since  leaving  Camp  3,  even  though  I  had  suffered  frostbite  the  year  before  during  the  Iditarod  ultra  marathon  in  Alaska.  Others  in  our  team  had  a  lot  of  problems  with  cold  hands  and  feet,  but  I  should  have  been  the  first  to  have  cold  fingers  since  you  become  more  susceptible  to  the  cold  after  having  frostbite.    At  some  point  after  the  Second  Step,  without  realizing  it,  I  was  sitting  in  the  snow.  My  body  had  just  decided  to  stop  and  rest.  I  heaved  for  air  but  never  seemed  to  feel  like  I  had  caught  my  breath.  I  felt  very  weak  and  sleepy  tired.  My  brain  kept  

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operating,  though,  and  I  kept  telling  myself  this  is  what  happens  and  why  climbers  get  into  trouble  and  that  I  must  get  up  and  keep  moving.  It  was  ok  to  take  a  break,  but  focus  should  be  on  getting  to  lower  altitude,  or  at  least  getting  below  26,000  feet  and  out  of  the  Death  Zone.  Sherpa  Geylje  came  up  behind  me  and  urged  me  on,  no  doubt  concerned  to  find  me  on  the  ground.  I  got  going,  but  the  next  number  of  hours  –  I  have  no  idea  how  long  –  I  continued  to  literally  fall  down  and  take  breaks.  At  one  point,  I  remember  lying  on  a  rock.  The  sun  felt  wonderful  and  resting  even  better.  Geylje  told  me  to  get  moving,  but  I  told  him  I  just  needed  a  few  more  minutes.  I  was  gasping.  All  of  sudden,  I  needed  to  pee.  My  water  bottles  had  frozen  and  I  hadn’t  drank  any  fluids  since  leaving  Camp  3  at  11  p.m.  the  night  before,  but  here  I  was,  dying  to  pee.  The  down-­‐filled  summit  suit  is  difficult  to  get  open  in  a  hurry.  Zips  and  Velcro  are  designed  to  stop  the  elements  getting  in,  but  they  also  make  opening  it  a  long  affair.  I  began  ripping  at  the  zippers,  still  lying  on  the  rock.  Then  I  had  to  navigate  the  climbing  harness  around  my  waist  that  holds  your  climbing  hardware.  It  has  to  be  firmly  attached  and  the  buckle  double  wrapped  which  means  it  is  not  coming  off  in  a  hurry,  so  you  just  try  to  move  it  aside.  I  was  busting  at  this  stage  and  started  pissing  without  knowing  if  it  was  going  out  or  into  my  suit.  I  had  no  more  energy  to  worry  about  it.  It  must  have  been  ok  because  I  recall  seeing  Geylje  grabbing  loose  straps  on  my  backpack  that  were  blowing  in  the  wind  and  holding  them  out  of  the  way  of  my  spray  so  they  didn’t  become  litmus  test  strips.  The  Sherpa  will  do  almost  anything  for  you.  Their  loyalty  and  hard  work  are  legendary.  I  can’t  say  I  was  proud  to  have  to  put  my  friend  through  this,  but  he  had  seen  that  I  needed  a  little  help  and  stepped  in.  Not  long  after  he  shoved  a  frozen  chocolate  bar  into  my  mouth.  I  also  hadn’t  eaten  anything  since  the  night  before  and  was  bonking  badly  from  caloric  deficit,  but  didn’t  feel  like  eating  at  all.  I  gnawed  off  a  frozen,  rock-­‐hard  piece  and  put  some  snow  into  my  mouth  as  well  to  help  it  slide  down  my  parched  throat  before  dragging  myself  to  my  feet  and  stumbling  on.      The  steeper  sections  were  the  hardest.  Not  steep  enough  to  rappel  down,  I  would  either  walk  backwards,  hand-­‐over-­‐hand,  or  go  forwards  using  the  arm  wrap  technique.  Both  required  a  lot  of  energy  and  upper-­‐body  strength,  which  continually  left  me  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  section  for  many  minutes  like  I  was  choking.  At  the  end  of  the  Northeast  Ridge,  you  descend  down  the  Exit  Cracks  before  some  steep  snowfields  above  Camp  3.  It  seemed  to  take  me  hours  to  get  down  there,  moving  a  short  way  before  collapsing  on  the  ground  again  for  a  rest.  The  tents  never  seemed  to  get  any  closer.  When  I  finally  made  it  there,  I  just  sat  for  a  long  while,  not  even  knowing  where  to  go  until  Geylje  came  over  and  led  me  to  a  tent.  I  removed  my  pack  and,  using  it  as  a  pillow,  fell  on  the  ground  outside  and  lay  there  for  a  long  time  in  the  sun.  I  didn’t  recognize  the  area  and  couldn’t  work  out  where  the  tent  was  that  I  had  been  in  the  night  before.  I  had  left  my  sleeping  bag,  insulated  sleeping  mat  and  other  gear  there.  Originally,  I  had  plans  to  try  to  make  it  down  to  the  North  Col  at  Camp  1,  picking  this  gear  up  on  the  way  down,  but  at  that  point  I  knew  I  had  to  stop  at  Camp  3  for  the  night.  In  a  number  of  confusing  conversations  in  the  next  couple  of  hours  I  found  out  that  my  gear  was  no  longer  there  and  nobody  knew  anything  about  it.  It  came  to  light  later,  after  we  had  descended,  that  a  number  of  us  had  had  our  gear  stolen  by  porters  from  another  climbing  company  who  had  ransacked  the  

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tents  and  systematically  gone  through  our  stuff  and  taken  anything  of  value.  The  highest  value  items  were  the  sleeping  bags,  and  that  value  is  compounded  when  considering  it  might  cost  your  life  to  try  to  sleep  at  around  26,000  feet  without  one.  I  had  no  idea  what  to  do,  but  knew  that  even  going  further  down  would  not  help  me,  as  my  other  sleeping  bag  was  all  the  way  down  at  Base  Camp,  over  9,000  feet  below.  I  crawled  into  the  tent  beside  me  and  one  of  our  Sherpa  brought  me  a  sleeping  bag  from  somewhere  to  use.  There  is  a  lot  of  discarded  stuff  at  Camp  3  and  I  have  no  idea  where  this  bag  came  from,  but  I  crawled  into  it  with  my  summit  suit  still  on  and  waited  for  the  morning  to  get  off  the  mountain.    I  slept  fitfully  with  an  empty  stomach  and  crawled  out  the  next  morning  stiff  and  groggy.  After  a  cup  of  tea  with  Geylje,  we  left  the  high  camp  and  focused  on  getting  down  to  the  North  Col.  I  was  surprised  to  see  Martin  behind  us,  and  that  he  had  also  stayed  at  Camp  3  after  his  descent  the  night  before.  He  was  a  great  asset  on  the  descent  with  his  positive  comments  that  helped  me  keep  focused  on  the  task.  The  going  didn’t  seem  to  be  any  easier,  even  though  we  were  losing  altitude.  I  was  so  tired  and  lacked  any  energy.  Above  Camp  2,  there  is  a  long  downhill  traverse  and  a  lot  of  loose  shale  and  rock,  which  is  difficult  to  negotiate  while  wearing  crampons.  Camp  2  is  perched  on  the  rock  bands  above  the  North  Ridge,  and  there  are  a  number  of  steep  sections  that  required  all  my  energy  to  lower  myself  down  through.  Again,  I  was  stopping  regularly  to  sit  and  rest.  The  tents  on  the  North  Col  were  very  visible  and  appeared  to  be  only  half  an  hour  away,  but  it  took  many  hours  to  get  down  there.  Once  off  the  rock  bands,  the  snow  ramp  was  an  endless  steep  downhill  plod.  My  knees  ached  and  my  feet  were  in  agony  as  they  were  pushed  up  into  the  toe  box  of  my  alpine  boots.  I  felt  more  upbeat  though.  The  oxygen  tasted  sweet  and  I  knew,  all  going  well,  I  would  be  at  Advanced  Base  Camp  before  the  end  of  the  day.  After  a  brief  stop  at  Camp  1  on  the  North  Col,  we  descended  down  the  icy  headwall,  crossed  the  glacier  and  threaded  our  way  down  through  the  tricky  moraine  to  ABC.  It  was  done.  I  was  stoked  to  now  be  an  Everest  summiteer  but  the  over  riding  feeling  was  a  heavy  sense  of  relief  to  be  safe.    On  reflection  after  the  whole  experience  I  was  taken  aback  by  the  deep  fatigue  I  suffered.  A  finisher  of  dozens  of  the  worlds  toughest  ultra  marathons  I  have  plenty  of  experience  of  what  it  feels  like  to  be  beaten  down  and  worn  out  but  I  don’t  think  I  have  ever  felt  such  an  overpowering  feeling  of  malaise  before.  I’m  sure  the  physical  part  of  the  expedition  had  the  most  to  do  with  this  followed  by  2  days  of  over  landing  back  to  Kathmandu  then  3  days  of  flying  and  being  a  vagrant  at  many  airports,  but  I  also  feel  that  the  time  and  exertion  in  the  Death  Zone  and  operating  on  reduced  oxygen  played  a  part  in  my  transformation  to  a  sloth.  Another  thing  I  noticed  was  that  my  fingernails  and  my  hair  didn’t  seem  to  grow  at  the  normal  rate  during  the  two  months  I  was  away.  I  put  this  down  to  reduced  diet  nutrients,  exertion,  fatigue  and,  again,  lower  oxygen  content.    I  had  no  doubts  before  arriving  in  the  Himalayas  that  this  climb  would  be  demanding,  however,  I  found  the  upper  sections  of  the  mountain  pushed  me  to  absolute  limits.  It  was  awesome!    

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Following  are  a  selection  of  social  media  posts  with  more  information  about  the  climb.  Pics  by  team  members:      

   Climbing the headwall to the North Col was always a day of hard work and gasping for breath. Moving up to 23,000' is when your body really starts to feel the lack of oxygen. Every movement is deliberately done in slow motion otherwise it will be one step for ten breaths. We are using fixed lines that we connect a short safety line to called a cow's tail. The ropes are anchored to the face using pickets or an ice screw. We also connect an ascending device called a Jumar, which is like a handle you affix to the rope. You can slide it up and it bites on so you can haul up on it but requires a lot of energy to pull your body and gear weight up so it's better to use your legs and crampons as the main propulsion power. At every anchor point you have to disconnect your safety and Jumar and reconnect to the next rope. With heavy gloves or mitts this can be tricky. I drop one mitt off (it's tied to my

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sleeve) and operate the hardware with thinner liner gloves though you have to be careful not to get wet gloves which can lead to frostbite. You always have a spare, dry set of liner gloves stuffed down your suit or jacket to keep warm and dry. Self management on a big mountain is extremely important...bit like when you're running an ultra marathon...

 Whatever you want out of life it's gonna be hard work. Just accept that fact and get on with it. Heading up the deceptive snow ramp from the North Col to Camp #2 on the North side of Everest at around 25,000'. At this point we are still two nights away from the top. The anxiety factor is high. Will the weather hold? Can I make it through the Death Zone and back above 26,000'? Can my physiology deal with the lack of oxygen at extreme altitude? Will the fear beat me? Only one way to deal with these atypical questions. The hard way...

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"Don't climb the mountain so the world can see you...climb so you can see the world" At Camp 3 on the North side of Everest before heading to the summit... feeling small.    

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 The infamous "Second Step" is renowned as the Crux point on the North side of Everest. Located at 28,250' (8610 metres) it creates a disconcerting impediment to even the most hardened climber. This is the top section that thankfully has an alloy ladder placed by a Chinese team back in 1975. For people like me this doesn't retract the terror of the 10,000' drop to the Rongbuk glacier just to the right. One must first make their way up the lower vertical sections and then onto a slippery, off-cambered rock prow overlooking the void to the lower right of the picture before tackling this ladder. I ran out of oxygen while starting this climb and considered turning back. Most climbers manage to get through this section in the dark on the way up. It's on the return when daylight reveals the true exposure you have subjected yourself to. It's lucky the fatigue and oxygen depravation dull your fear some because at the top you literally have to turn around, lay on your stomach and shimmy over the top until your boot reaches the ladder. On the way down the fine fibres of old shredded ropes get tangled in your crampons requiring you to hang on with one tired hand and reach down with the other. I'm amazed I made it up AND down here. I'm not ashamed to say I was terrified...

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The "Third Step" at 28,580' (8710') looks relatively benign compared to the Second Step but at this height the difficulties are compounded ten-fold. The main section proved to be a slippery rock cleft that has no obvious handholds or cracks even to twist a crampon tine into. To flail around trying to scramble up here takes more energy than you have at this point and when I arrived at the bottom there was a woman stuck here unable to get any further up. With other climbers unable to pass it finally took a couple of angry Russians pulling and pushing to get her out of the fix. Coming back down proved to be another problem when I couldn't unravel a tangle of old ropes to attach my rappel hardware to and ended up going down backwards hand by hand hanging on the ropes. The North East Ridge snakes out into the distance. The Kanshung face on the right about a 10,000' drop into Nepal and the northern side about the same into Tibet...

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At the end of the North East ridge after climbing the Third Step. The Snow Triangle on the summit pyramid is obvious though the actual summit is still not visible. At the top of the Triangle one moves to the right onto an airy and scary traverse above the North Face before tackling the climb up the rocky slabs of the Dihedral where you see the summit proper for the first time. It's so close but to human physiology, so so far... The climbers in the foreground are next to a scalloped section of the ridge that drops 10,000' down the Kanshung face to Nepal.                                    

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   The necessary summit photo to prove I made it to the top of Everest. No, that's not me in classic pose. That's our fearless expedition leader, David O'Brien on his 6th time to the top of the world. On his birthday no less. I'm in the background tooling with my Garmin Inreach and trying to send a text out with my GPS position on it. I've taken my big down mitts off to manipulate small buttons. It's blowing 40 knots and it's about 40 below but the view is worth the pain. I stayed 14 minutes. When I looked back at how far we had come and how high we were I was filled with dread that I might not get down. At 29,035' altitude you have to respect where you are. We might be at the top but the mountain is always King...