Chapter Six

Into the Death Zone

Even with the bracing wind and freezing cold, the struggling Derek and Team One arrived at Camp Four on the South Col as scheduled. Team Two held back, despite the blistering pace.

The scene upon arrival was not one of harmony. Absent was the usual camaraderie of climbers bonded by their assault on the world’s highest mountain, in the world’s most deadly locale. Instead, Reggie confronted Tarja again—even before she set foot in the camp. He was now enraged that Derek’s wife had disobeyed him and moved up the mountain rather than descending as she’d been told.

“You’re not welcome here,” Reggie said. “Your husband has made that clear enough. You cannot continue without help. You must turn back. You have no choice unless you really intend to die up here.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” she retorted. “I know my husband better than you. He doesn’t mean what he says. It’s important we summit together. He understands that. I’ll talk to him. You’ll see.”

But Derek refused to meet with his wife, though it was a small place and there was really nowhere for him to escape to. He turned his back and pretended that he didn’t hear as she implored him. It was humiliating for both of them. Tarja kept moving around to face him, but Derek moved to keep his back to her. She’d exhaust herself in effort, bend at her waist, cough and hack before starting up again.

Finally, Peer stepped in and led her away, cooing softly into her ear and telling her that there was nothing to be done. The wind was gusting, so no one heard what she said in reply. Given the conditons at that moment, her attempt in the end to stomp off in anger looked childish.

An exhausted Derek was now joined by Rusty, who’d stayed out of the fiasco. He shot a few minutes of scenery, followed by a brief clip of Derek smiling bravely against the backdrop of Everest. Tarja, who had nowhere to go on the small campsite, watched, enraged when Rusty failed to direct the camera toward her. At one point, she approached him, demanding that he film her.

“Listen,” she said, “you’re employed by the Sodoc expedition. Derek is going to change his mind. You’ll see. This is only a tiff. You just need to do what you’re told. Now point the camera at me and let me give you an interview.”

Instead, Rusty directed the camera to the snow at his feet. “Derek’s my boss,” he said, “not you. It’s clear enough you’re not supposed to be here. I have my instructions.”

Tarja said more, but it made no difference. Rusty had seen combat in the first Gulf War and over the years had climbed some of the world’s tallest peaks. He’d faced death any number of times. He was not a man to be intimidated by the likes of the mattress-hopping Tarja—no matter how tough she talked.

Afterward, the teams rested as best they could for what little remained of the day. There was little shelter except in or beside the small tents. Everest loomed above them, drawing them like a magnet. Though unspoken, its commanding presence served as a reminder to every climber of the possibility of death.

By all accounts, the climbers were not in good condition. All of them were coughing badly. During the late afternoon, the freezing breeze turned limbs numb. No one ate. All they could manage was a bit of hot sweet tea.

The still-angry Tarja had crawled into a tent. The others clustered about Reggie as he used a sat telephone to check the weather and announced that the wind was expected to ease overnight. Both teams welcomed the news. Reggie added, “The bad news, unfortunately, is that there is an approaching front. It looks to be a nasty one.”

“When will it reach the summit?” Peer asked. Derek was oddly quiet.

“It’s not anticipated for another seventy-two hours,” Reggie said. “That gives us just enough time to summit and get back down. But these patterns are unpredictable. I’ve seen them slow to a crawl with no force at all by the time they reach the mountain. And I’ve seen them race well ahead of schedule. I believe that nowhere else on earth is the weather less predictable and more deadly than where we are now standing. I want all of you to think about that from this point on. Derek, you should give serious thought to returning to ABC tomorrow to wait this out. I have word that the team climbing above us is turning back, while the one below us plans to retreat tomorrow. They don’t want to take any chances, and I agree with them. We can tackle this in a few days.”

Derek shook his head. “So much the better for us if the route is clear above. We aren’t going back down. That’s final. Everyone needs to accept that we are committed. There’s too much riding on this for me to retreat.”

Such was his state of mind on that second-to-last day of his life. You can be rich, famous, handsome, and have all the breaks in life, but on Everest you’re just another climber. When it’s your time, there’s nothing to be done about it—especially when so-called friends, those sycophants and hangers-on who’ve put you in this predicament, turn their backs and leave you to die.

Reggie appeared to want to say more, but he refrained. Then he addressed the teams. “In that event, a clock must be running in all your thoughts. You have only a limited amount of time, a few short hours on this mountain at this altitude. Pay attention to the weather. Remember, it doesn’t count if you don’t get back alive.”

It is possible to be part of an Everest expedition and never confront the enormity of what lies ahead. Climbers can trek to Base Camp—even encounter obstacles along the way—and still not understand what awaits them. They can struggle with the acclimatization and their own personal medical needs and still not confront honestly why they are there. But they cannot reach Camp Four and spend a miserable night freezing and cold with that ominous, overhanging presence without knowing that they are soon about to step into the abyss.

It was a night of lonely thoughts. Each climber was on the mountain for his or her own reasons, and in those hours each person surely came to terms with them. Derek was there as part of a life plan only he understood, assuming that he even did. Tarja was there to receive the glow from her husband’s fame and move up the international celebrity ladder.

The Sherpa, Reggie, and Peer were there because they were paid and because this is what they did. Without the mountain, they would have been less than they were. Any other life was unthinkable for them.

But why was Scott Devlon in that desolate place? Reportedly it was because his friend Derek asked him, but, unlike the others, Scott was not an adventurer. Until this expedition, he’d never voiced an interest in climbing Everest. He told others on the trek that he only intended to go to Base Camp. Later, he insisted that he would go no higher than Advanced Base Camp. Yet here he was at Camp Four. Since those fateful days, given the opportunity, he has never explained himself. He has never justified his actions.

You can only ask yourself why.

The climbers attempted to sleep in high-altitude jumpsuits inside their sleeping bags. Each of them was cold to their bones. Not far from where they tossed were the bodies of three dead climbers—one of them partially exposed in an abandoned tent not fifteen feet from the center of their small campsite. Only by averting their eyes or under the dark blanket of night could they fail to see the danger they were in.

To allow any sleep at all—any rest that allowed reserves of strength and endurance to remain fixed if not to rebuild—each slept with a bottle of oxygen. Still, sleep largely evaded even the most intrepid.

All of them, even Derek, were at the entry point to the Death Zone. From this spot on, no one climbed without the aid of oxygen. Even the Sherpa, with their enlarged hearts, oversized lungs, and fierce determination, used oxygen. It is true that they can get to the summit without it, but not without enormous effort and—even then—many of them die. The number of Westerners who have reached the summit of Everest without oxygen can be counted on the fingers of two hands. These are extraordinary men.

For the rest of us normal beings, oxygen is essential. Even the great George Mallory took oxygen with him on that final, deadly day. Sir Edmund Hillary also used oxygen. Oxygen is the elixir of life in the Death Zone, but it is no guarantee that a climber will escape death.

Above Camp Four, a climber’s time is measured in hours. The flow of oxygen from the mask does not return him to the amount he is actually adapted to, despite all the acclimatization. It restores his oxygen level only to that of Camp One above Base Camp, which means that he is still receiving just half the amount of oxygen his body demands. Acclimatization, with its increase in corpuscles, compensates for some of the lack. But neither supplemental oxygen nor an increased blood count provides enough oxygen at these altitudes. They make climbing Everest possible—but only barely so.

From Camp Four to the summit, the experience is like being on Mars. It’s bitterly cold, lacking enough oxygen to survive, windswept, and isolated. There is no possibility of outside intervention. No helicopter can fly this high. Even if one could, there’s nowhere to land.

The only help a climber can reasonably expect comes from within. Those reservoirs of strength and courage that have carried him this far can, in extremity, mean the difference between life and death. More than one climber, given up for dead, has risen as if from an icy grave to find his way down the mountain. Far more, however, disappear or turn into those frozen, colorful lumps other climbers pass without comment.

If a climber is very, very lucky, the other climbers with him are strong enough and motivated enough to help if he’s in trouble. After all, that’s why they are there. You have those you’ve paid, in essence, to save your life. Often you have fellow climbers you trust. Derek had each of these, but he also had men he believed to be friends—men he believed would extend the same last measure of devotion he’d give them if the roles were reversed.

The reality of Everest is that the mountain sucks the vitality from even the healthiest and heartiest of men. It takes extraordinary will to help another when you feel yourself so at risk—friend, client, or not. At least, that’s the excuse.

Regardless, the result is that people die above Camp Four. That’s the consequence of stepping into the Death Zone; it is also the allure. Everest is one of the last places on earth where you cannot be saved from yourself. There is no seatbelt, shoulder strap, or airbag to save you in an accident. There is no parachute when leaping from the burning airplane. There is no bungee connected to this jump. You have stepped into the deadly unknown; you have cast your dice in the world’s most lethal game.

At first light, the climbers stirred in their tents. Each pair lit their own feeble flame to heat water for tea and to brew porridge, if eating was possible. The climbers emerged from their small tents still exhausted from their efforts the previous day and groggy from lack of sleep.

This was the end—one way or the other—for they were all but on summit day. God willing, they’d move up to the bivouac known as Camp Five, where they’d spend a few hours attempting rest, breathing oxygen. At midnight, this same day, they would suit up and set out for the summit. The final day of the climb would end in triumph or tragedy.

As the men buckled themselves into their climbing gear, Reggie, who’d spent the night in the tent with him, took Derek aside for another attempt to turn him back. “I’ve talked to Calvin by sat phone. You need to go back down. We can do this again in a week or ten days. There’s still time.”

Derek smiled wanly. “It’s now or never. They’re depending on me to deliver the goods.”

“I’ve seen how you hold your side. You moved very slowly yesterday. It only gets worse from here.”

“We’re on gas now. It will be better. I had a good night.”

“The hell you did. You were wheezing and coughing all night. I doubt you slept more than five minutes in any one stretch. It’s early in the season yet. There will be other periods of summit weather. You have to listen to me.”

“Father won’t like it,” Derek said. “The network has a schedule, and I’ve got to keep it.”

About then, Tarja emerged from her tent, along with Peer, who’d spent the night with her. Once again she attempted to speak to Derek, but he refused. Finally, Reggie blocked her from him, telling her she had to turn back.

“I will not go back down the mountain!” she shouted.

“You have no choice. We will give you no help from this point on. I have instructed the Sherpa, and none of them will aid you in any way. You cannot be so foolish as to go on alone because alone you will die. That’s simply how it is. Go back!”

“Derek!” she shouted. “Derek!” But her husband ignored her. “Scott! Peer! Do something!”

The men just shook their heads. She’d made no friends with them—even if she had given her body to Peer. Plus, they knew who buttered their bread. As the climbers finished readying themselves, realization and acceptance of her predicament slowly dawned on Tarja. She has had few disappointments in her life. There was an odd moment as Tarja took Peer aside and spoke to him in feverish whispers. No one knows what she said or, to be more exact, no one who knows is saying. At one point, Peer looked up, stared directly at Derek, and slowly nodded his head in apparent comprehension.

Within minutes, Tarja finished preparing her gear. “You’re all bastards!” she shouted at the cluster of men. She paused at the edge of the camp and glared at the climbers as the first of the teams set out for Camp Five. “I hope you all die! You shits!” Then she left, alone, to descend back down the mountain. Rusty never once pointed his camera at her.

The teams left five minutes apart, but they soon formed a single, ragged line, their brightly colored high-altitude jumpsuits stark against the pale white of Everest. Reggie had been right; Derek struggled all day. Peer led the way with Team Two but was forced to stop from time and time to avoid overtaking Team One.

Because of the slow pace, Rusty was able to move slightly ahead of the climbers and film them making their laborious way up the mountain. Any shots of the struggling Derek were meant to be cut later. Instead, we would all see the tragedy after word of his death swept across the world.

Though they were on oxygen, the climb to Camp Five was scarcely better than the climb had been the day before. All of them were coughing; all of them were exhausted. Sources say that there was little talk among themselves and almost no communication with the camp below.

Crystal was filming with a telephoto lens from ABC; Derek’s struggle was clearly apparent, even at that distance. Communication on the radio was not secure, so the climbers had agreed to a form of code. She called repeatedly to ask Derek how he was. He answered that he was fine only the first time. After that, Reggie responded, since Derek was too exhausted and out of breath to speak.

Three hours into the ascent, the teams encountered the Nepalese expedition retreating down the mountain. The teams paused to exchange thoughts. “Too risky,” Girija told them. “It’s unhealthy up there, and the weather’s turning nasty. Bad weather is on the way. Don’t be foolish.”

In his BBC interview, Girija described the scene. “Mr. Sodoc looked very ill. Many of us were quite sick, as well. There had been an unusual amount of illness that year. Who can say why? But what we told them was the truth. The weather was closing in very fast. No man should have continued that day.”

Asked about reports that his team had tampered with the lines: “Slander is what it is.”

At four o’clock that afternoon, the two teams of the Sodoc expedition reached Camp Five and took possession of the tents that had been erected by their Sherpa. Reggie used the sat phone to check the weather and then called a meeting. The climbers clustered together on the leeward side of one of the tents. Every man looked exhausted.

“I’m glad to say that the front is moving as predicted,” Reggie said. “It’s due tomorrow night. Everyone needs to be back to Camp Four before nightfall tomorrow. Plan your turnaround point accordingly. Do you understand?”

The climbers all acknowledged him.

“The schedule is still going according to plan. If all goes well, you should summit around noon tomorrow. You can expect to pass through Camp Five between two and three in the afternoon and be at Camp Four before dark. If you must, stay here—though I much prefer you make Camp Four. Just don’t get caught any higher up.”

Such was the plan.

It was early afternoon as the climbers brewed tea. Peer managed to eat a PowerBar, but no one else consumed food. Afterward, though it was still light, everyone settled in for the night.

By now Tarja had reached Advanced Base Camp, bitching to anyone who would listen about being forced to descend alone and how no one would help her. She was an object of amusement—especially for the Sherpa, who had always found her behavior bizarre and disliked having women so far up the mountain.

“They drain the life force from a man,” a Sherpa told me. “They are weak and take what power they have from men. On the mountain, a man only has so much power. He has none to give a woman. They are demons that high up and can only cause death.”

Tarja snatched a satellite phone from Crystal and called her agent in New York. It was, by all accounts, an unpleasant telephone call. Just what Tarja thought her agent could do from half the planet away she has never explained.

To say the whole world knew about the summit attempt is an exaggeration. But in the United States and Europe, the coverage reached saturation as the media campaign reached fever pitch. It was impossible to be near a television set or radio or to browse the Internet and not know that Derek was about to climb Mt. Everest. Every aspect of the expedition had been lavishly covered, and this final act was no exception.

Except it was all a lie.

There was no happily married couple about to climb the highest point on earth—and Derek was not making good progress up the mountain. He was sick and injured. He was not surrounded by faithful companions. But the public knew none of this.

Derek’s friends should have insisted that he turn back. There are times to intervene with those you care about—and this was one of them. But no one did. No one cared, not really.

Peer and Scott were skilled Alpinists who had never climbed Everest and were determined to summit. Doc Cal was too far down the mountain to use his influence effectively. Reggie was too weak-willed to tell a paying client that he was in no shape to continue.

It was a perfect storm of human indifference and selfishness.

The world watched a sanitized version of events. Instead, Derek tried to rest—sleep even—in his cold sleeping bag. He lay in pain, shivering and miserable, driven by a desire to please his father—and whatever personal demons we can only imagine.