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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...