CHAPTER 5

LIFE AT ALTITUDE

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

PROVERBS 3:5-6

ON APRIL 20, after two days of boredom and resting at 14,000 feet, I was eager to head back up to 17,500 feet. Bill and I left Pheriche after eating pancakes and hard-boiled eggs and made our way up the Khumbu Valley. I was focused on keeping a steady pace and moving forward, but at one point I looked back and saw that Bill was losing his breakfast. He kept moving, as if nothing had happened. I was concerned about him, but he was intent on continuing. I just hoped he’d either get better or throw in the towel before he put anyone at risk  —himself or the rest of the group.

We spread out as we made our way on the six-mile trek, periodically meeting up for tea at the various villages along the way. I was in my own world as I took in the amazing views and listened to Switchfoot on my headphones.

We were meant to live for so much more. . . .

We want more than this world’s got to offer.

A mile out of Lobuche, I checked my phone and was thrilled to see I had coverage. I made a quick call to JoAnna to bring her up to speed on the past week.

“Hi, honey!” she exclaimed.

I knew she’d been worried about me, but her voice didn’t show it.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “I’m heading back up to base camp. I knocked out Island Peak in a day, and I’m feeling back to my normal self. I’m ready to get started on this climb!”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “It sounds like you have your morale back.” She paused, and I could tell that although she was happy for me, she had some mixed feelings. If I hadn’t been doing better, there was a chance I would have been returning home early.

“I wish I could be there with you,” I told her. “But I need to do this.”

“I know.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but I could hear the underlying strength in it.

I tried to push my emotions aside so I could continue on toward Gorak Shep.

When we arrived at the teahouse, Bill, Pasang, and I had some soup, and then I decided to complete the remaining two miles to Everest base camp while Pasang and Bill stayed an additional night in Gorak Shep. It made sense for Bill to remain at a lower elevation since he was still dealing with stomach concerns, but I didn’t want to risk having the germs in the village wreak havoc on my immune system again.

As I gathered my pack and headed out alone on the trackless route, large snowflakes started swirling in the sky. Pasang radioed the base camp Sherpa team to let them know that I’d be arriving later that afternoon. I bundled up with a light down sweater and a GORE-TEX jacket to protect against the elements. I moved efficiently, enjoying the solitude, and it wasn’t long before I entered base camp. Our Sherpa team greeted me when I arrived.

“You are a very fast climber,” Lakpa said with a smile. At just over five feet tall, Lakpa was a workhorse, making extra carries to ensure that the necessary gear was set for the next day’s climbs. He had considerable climbing experience  —including five successful summits of Everest under his belt  —and he would be paired up with Bill for their summit attempt. I was grateful to have him on the team.

I got my gear settled in my tent and then walked over to the dining tent. I shook the newly fallen snow off the sidewalls and then unzipped the front flap. I was looking forward to relaxing and warming up with some tea. I was glad to see Veronique there, looking much better than she had a week earlier at Namche Bazaar.

“Hey, Veronique! Welcome to base camp. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” she said in her deep French accent. “I stayed a couple of extra days in Namche, but now I feel better.” She gave me a thumbs-up.

After lunch I headed back to my tent. At base camp, your tent is your home. My “home away from home” had two extra-large expedition bags, solar panels, my iPod with a portable speaker, my –20-degree sleeping bag, and a mattress, plus my snacks, clothing, and medical gear. Each item was strategically placed so I always knew where everything was, day or night. A pomegranate air freshener hung from the top of the tent in an attempt to mask my not-so-fresh stench. My weekly showers with baby wipe–baths in between weren’t quite as effective as my hygiene regimen back home.

All through the day and night, I heard the thunderous roar of avalanches kicking off from the peaks surrounding base camp. Each one began with an awful cracking sound as an overhanging ice cornice broke loose and sent echoes through the valley. Once this force of nature launches, it’s unstoppable. It hammers the entire area below, dumping clouds of snow on everything within hundreds of yards. After things settle, an eerie silence follows. The only evidence of the havoc on the mountain is a thin “waterfall” of loose snow that pours down until there’s no loose snow left.

At night I was also awakened by the loud snaps and cracks of the glacier below as it shifted and broke apart. As awful as it sounded, though, I knew there was little risk of getting swallowed into the earth, since underneath the moving sea of ice was a solid bed of boulders.

Our camp certainly wasn’t a spa resort, but it was nice to have a central station to call home so we didn’t have to pack up and leave each day. On what amounted to a monthlong camping trip, I was glad to have one place that remained stationary.

In many ways, base camp was actually a step above my final week of SERE training, which was basically land-survival POW camp training. We spent the entire final week in the mountains and desert of Warner Springs in Southern California with no food, no sleeping bag, and no tent to protect us against the elements. The days were extremely hot, averaging above 100 degrees, but at night, the temperatures dropped to below freezing.

In preparation for the long, cold nights I stuffed a parachute with leaves and pine needles to make a makeshift sleeping bag. The instructors told us to spoon with our partners to utilize maximum body heat to survive the night, but I decided I’d rather take my chances with the pine needles.

For the first three days we lived off the land, with very few supplies. We made fires using the natural resources around us, built shelters out of brush, and ate plants and bugs. One day we caught a rabbit, broke its neck, skinned it, and boiled it to make stew to feed more than thirty ravenous SERE candidates. When I looked at things from that perspective, life on the mountain wasn’t so rough. After all, I had a down sleeping bag and a cooking Sherpa who could do all sorts of magic with Spam.

•

Bill and Pasang made it to base camp the following day. That evening we staged our gear for an early morning climb through the icefall up to Camp I. When I woke up at 5 a.m. and exited my tent, Pasang was there waiting for me.

“Bill isn’t feeling so great,” he said. “He’s going to stay in the tent and try to get well.”

The news didn’t surprise me. I knew Bill had been battling nausea for some time, and his cough was becoming a constant companion.

I ate breakfast alone in the dining tent and then geared up for my first climb above base camp. My stomach churned with nerves and excitement. Today I’m going to breach the unknown, I thought. It would be one of many milestones on Everest. As I laced my two-in-one insulated boots, I heard Pasang outside, chanting a blessing in preparation for our climb. I used the time to pray for us and for others on the mountain.

“Heavenly Father, please watch over Pasang and me during our climb,” I whispered. “Please watch over the other climbers, and keep them safe too. Thank you for JoAnna and the kids and all my friends back home who have supported me through this. Give my family peace today, and reassure them of your presence. And please, Lord, let me return home safely to them.”

I stepped through the flap of the dining tent to see Pasang hurling a final handful of rice at the puja idol. We checked our gear and ensured that our harnesses were double backed, with the webbing wrapped securely through the buckles. This was a critical step so the harness wouldn’t accidentally unravel  —an oversight that has resulted in a number of deaths over the years when people have slipped out of their harnesses and plummeted hundreds of feet below.

In the pale moonlight, I looked up the mountain and saw the flickering lights from other climbers moving across the icefall. It was time to make our way through the maze of tents to join them.

Pasang and I headed up the Khumbu Icefall at 6:15 a.m. with our crampons, harnesses, helmets, backpacks, water, and snacks. As we set foot on the two-mile stretch of ice, my mind was filled with stories I’d heard about building-sized blocks of ice falling and crushing climbers and about unforeseen avalanches taking out entire groups.

The icefall is the first obstacle you encounter when you come out of Everest base camp. It’s essentially a series of massive ice blocks, called seracs, which can shift and fall at a moment’s notice. This is arguably the most dangerous area of the mountain. Not only is it unstable, but you also have to traverse this gauntlet of death multiple times. Nepal employs a small group of Sherpas called icefall doctors to map out the route, fix the ropes, and anchor aluminum ladders across crevasses. The route can change daily as a result of seracs collapsing and avalanches kicking off from neighboring peaks. As we made our way through the icy terrain, I found myself extremely grateful for these icefall doctors.

For the first time on the whole trip, I was nervous  —not so much because of the danger, but because of the unknown. I’d based so much of my mental preparation on what I’d experienced in the past, so it was challenging when I had no prior knowledge to build on and had to rely solely on my capabilities and the research I’d completed. In the climbs I’d done in the past, I’d made my way around plenty of seracs, but I’d never gone directly through one before.

Pasang and I moved efficiently toward our destination: Camp I, at 19,700 feet. Once I got over the magnitude of the undertaking, I was able to appreciate the otherworldly beauty of the icefall. With all the crevasses, ice formations, and frozen ponds, it seemed a little like being on another planet.

If it hadn’t been for the high altitude and the ice, the climb wouldn’t have been too challenging. But at that elevation, I had to work for every step. Thirty times, on 30 different ladders, we crossed deep crevasses and straight up-and-down seracs. Some of the chasms were narrow enough for single ladders; other places were so wide that two or three ladders had to be tied together and strung straight across the crevasse.

The ladders are simply lightweight aluminum ladders, battered and bent from being transported along the 38-mile trek and from years of abuse in the elements. They are carried up the mountain by porters, who lay them flat on the snow and then tie them together as needed to cross the crevasse. These ladders are then anchored on each side, along with safety ropes for climbers to clip into and hold on to while crossing.

When I stepped onto the first ladder, I had to decide what my strategy would be. Some climbers use the spikes on their crampons to latch onto the ladder rungs, while others teeter on the rungs with the middle of their feet. There are pros and cons to each method. Latching the crampon points is more stable, but there’s also potential for the spikes to wedge in and get stuck to the rungs, making it difficult to step forward. The teetering method is risky because you aren’t as stable, but if you have good balance, you’ll be able to continue your forward movement and get across more quickly. I tried both methods and eventually decided that teetering was the better approach for me.

I was grateful once again that I didn’t have a fear of heights. I saw the terror on some of my fellow climbers’ faces and knew that each ladder crossing was sheer torture. They got on their hands and knees and crawled across, looking straight ahead the entire way. If they had looked down, they would have seen that a single misstep would send them plummeting down the 100-foot crevasse.

I felt strong as I climbed, and I was grateful my body was acclimatizing well. The route switched left and right to avoid major obstacles or potential hazards. The entire path was equipped with fixed lines, which the icefall doctors set out and adjusted daily depending on the changes in topography.

With the exception of just a few areas between Camps I and II, climbers are attached to fixed ropes at all times throughout the route. This ensures that everyone stays on the path, and it can help prevent injury in the case of a fall. The ropes are important as a safety precaution, especially when climbers are carrying loads and going to higher elevations, but they aren’t meant to be used as a safety blanket for people attempting climbs they aren’t prepared for.

The route seemed to go on forever. In past years, Camp I was lower, but due to the continuous downward movement of the Khumbu Icefall, it had been shifted to a higher elevation. I knew this would be beneficial later, when we were hammering our way toward the summit, but at that point I was starting to wonder if we’d ever make it to Camp I.

And then, at last, with practically no warning, we were there. Camp I is basically a cluster of 20 tents on each side of a large crevassed glacier. It’s located at the bottom of the Western Cwm, also known as “the Valley of Silence.” Cwm (pronounced coom) is a Welsh word that means “bowl-shaped valley,” which is appropriate, since it’s a gently sloping valley basin at the foot of Lhotse Face. The Western Cwm is two miles across, making it the largest crevassed section on the route  —and the only place requiring five tied-together ladders to get across.

I didn’t have any expectations of what this camp would look like, so I wasn’t disappointed to see that it pretty much looked like any other camp I’d been to. If not for the elevation, we could have been on Denali, Elbrus, or Rainier. I looked out over the icefall toward base camp, but with all the steep-angled ice blocks, I could no longer see it. Looking the other direction, I saw a valley surrounded by four looming peaks: Lho La, Nuptse, Lhotse, and of course, Everest, towering over the world.

It was extremely cold and windy up at Camp I, but I barely noticed. I was so excited to be this much closer to my goal. The summit of Everest is visible from only a few locations throughout the Khumbu Valley, but from where I stood in that moment, I had a clear view. After so many years of reading books, hearing stories, and watching movies about Everest, I was finally here, in the shadow of the real thing. It felt surreal  —the mountain was right there, yet it still seemed a universe away.

I saw other climbing teams and Sherpa porters heading up the great valley to Camp II, and I wished I could join them. But I knew my time would come. For now I needed to listen to my body and be patient.

•

Hoping to get relief from the wind, Pasang and I rested for a few minutes behind a tent, where we ate a quick lunch of bread, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, fruit, and juice boxes. It was the best meal I’d had in a long time. After lunch we decided to head back down to base camp before the sun heated up the path and made things unstable. Despite the assistance of gravity, going downhill wasn’t that easy, since we still had to negotiate our way through the ever-changing icefall. One area had seracs the size of a two-story house leaning against each other. As we made our way between them, it felt like we were walking down a very narrow hallway  —a cold one, at that. I knew the formation wouldn’t stay in place much longer, so I tightened my helmet and hurried through the tunnel to avoid getting crushed.

The next challenge Pasang and I faced was rappelling over an ice cliff with ropes anchored to a pair of aluminum pickets. I made sure to double-check the anchors, locking the carabiners and webbing and checking for any weak or frayed areas. It wasn’t ideal, but with two anchors, I felt confident that even if one broke, the other would catch.

Back home, I led Extreme Adventures rappelling events for my church, but that was much easier since I didn’t have all the gear that was required on Everest. At our church events, I wore shorts and light hiking boots, and I didn’t have a 50-pound pack on my back.

My crampons stuck to the ice, slowing my momentum, and the rope slipped back and forth on the ice-pivot area. Finally I was able to make my way down safely. After crossing several more ladders, this process started to become more comfortable for me, but I knew I needed to guard against becoming complacent. After a long day, it’s easy to get sloppy and make mistakes  —in fact, most accidents occur on the way down.

And even when you’re on high alert, things can still go wrong. Just as I was making my way across a crevasse where three ladders were tied together, I experienced one of a climber’s worst nightmares.

As I carefully placed my crampons on each rung, I kept a firm grasp on a single fixed rope. Then, when I was in the middle of the ladder, the rope suddenly came free of its anchor. I lost my balance but tried to stay calm, kneeling down to lower my center of gravity. I grabbed hold of the rungs with both hands and then carefully inched my way across without a safety line.

“Thank you, God,” I breathed as I reached the other side.

I’d heard stories of climbers who had fallen into crevasses below, and their bodies weren’t found until years later, when they were churned out by the glacier miles from base camp. And during my 2009 Denali expedition, one of our team members in the middle of the rope tripped on some bulletproof glacial ice. He fell straight on his ice axe and ended up breaking several ribs.

I was determined to keep focused on each step. I knew I wouldn’t be safe until I was back in my tent.

I’d learned a lot about the importance of focus during my Navy days. In the second week of AIRR training, we were put through an extensive lifesaving course, where we learned techniques to gain control of active survivors in emergency situations. The first thing we had to do was force the survivor deep underwater, which usually causes panicked survivors to panic more and release control, making it easier for the rescuer to get the upper hand after they surface. But since this was AIRR training, we were learning worst-case scenarios, which meant the instructors who were role-playing the survivors never released control. We dove deep with the latched-on survivor and then applied various pressure points to turn the victim’s back toward us. That would enable us to lock control with a cross-chest carry.

A lot of candidates were weeded out during this portion of the training. They simply weren’t able to stay calm underwater for long periods of time. In one particularly intense training session, I was attacked from behind by a survivor. I brought him deep underwater until he was in a state of panic, and then I turned him around and gained control at the surface. But I’d missed one pressure point  —a specific spot near his elbow.

The instructor, who was underwater evaluating me, took me to the side of the pool and let me know where I’d gone wrong. “Airman Dickinson, you failed the rear head hold release procedure,” he barked. “You have one more chance to pass, or you’re gone!”

I nodded, closed my eyes, and pushed off the side of the pool to tread water. In a split second, I was hit by a force that felt like a refrigerator being dropped on my back. Someone was gripping tightly around my neck, forcing me underwater and making me inhale lungfuls of water. Without panic or hesitation, I pulled three hard strokes, bringing us to the bottom of the pool. I felt a gag reflex coming from my throat as a result of the water I’d breathed in, but I forced myself to remain focused on my task.

I could feel the survivor struggling to get to the surface, so I bent forward, loosening his hold, and grabbed his arm, which was wrapped around my neck. I pulled straight down to break his hold. Meanwhile, I gripped his wrist with my right hand and slid my left hand to his elbow. My fingers landed on the pressure point, and I heard a painful exhalation of bubbles escape from the survivor’s mouth. I rotated his arm over my head, released his elbow, and locked him in a cross-chest carry with his wrist still pinned behind his back. I kicked my fins hard to propel both of us to the surface, where we took in some much-needed air. I kept a strong grip as I forced the water from my lungs in exchange for oxygen. Looking left to right to ensure my path was clear, I saw the instructor slowly nodding his head and giving a thumbs-up. I’d passed lifesaving.

And without realizing it, I’d gotten some invaluable preparation for being on a mountain one day, where focus is a life-or-death issue. Gratefully, I made it down the mountain safely and without incident. I planned to rest at base camp for a few days before heading back up to Camp I.

On Easter, I called JoAnna. I knew that she and the kids would be having dinner with friends back home.

“Hi, honey!” JoAnna said. “Let me put you on speaker so you can talk to everyone.”

I was met with a chorus of greetings from the kids and from our friends. “How are you doing?” they asked.

“Great!” I said. “I’m about to head up to Camp I through the Khumbu Icefall. How’s everybody back home?”

Just as they started to respond, I saw that Pasang was gathering our supplies. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I have to hurry up and get moving. Happy Easter!”

Then I talked directly to JoAnna. “I love you, sweetie. Tell the kids I love them too.”

“Be careful,” she said, as she always does. “We love you!”

•

Before we began our trip, Bill and I had agreed to climb on our own schedules. We would stay together when possible, but neither of us wanted to feel like he was impeding the other person’s success. Since Bill had been sick, he was now one day behind me in the acclimatization process. Pasang was pulling double duty, heading back to Camp I with me and then returning to base camp to help Bill. That meant I’d be spending the night alone at Camp I. I planned to continue up to Camp II with Lakpa the next day, and then we’d descend all the way back to base camp. This would push my body to adapt to higher elevations and then force it to produce more red blood cells when I rested back at base camp.

That morning’s climb through the Khumbu Icefall was uneventful, and I could tell I was stronger than I’d been my first time through. I didn’t get winded throughout the entire trek to Camp I, even though my pack was heavier this time. I was now transporting my high-altitude gear, which consisted of my –40-degree sleeping bag and my down suit. Although the down suit was awkward to carry with me, I knew I’d be grateful to have it once we got nearer to Camp II. The suit covered my entire body and was made of 850-fill down feathers, which made it essentially like walking around in a sleeping bag.

As we walked, Pasang monitored my progress. “You are very strong,” he told me. “You should only need to go to Camp II once to sleep. Then you can climb to Camp III.”

My mind was racing: After that, I’ll sleep on supplemental oxygen at Camp III . . . and then I’ll be ready for the summit!

Halfway through the icefall, we crossed paths with Dave Hahn, who was leading a group for a Seattle-based guiding company.

“Hey, Dave, how’s it going?” I shook his hand, both of us still in our climbing gloves. “I’m your Everest base camp neighbor.”

“Hey, man! We’re just coming down from our first rotation at Camp II.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Have a safe trip.” I made my way to the next ladder and clipped into the fixed line.

“See you at camp,” he said as he headed back to check on his clients.

I didn’t mind the quietness of the climb with just Pasang and me, but it was nice to see another friendly face along the way.

With the recent avalanches and the seracs that had collapsed from Lola Peak, the icefall had already changed since I was there just a few days earlier. When I arrived at one of the crevasses, I saw that it had widened, requiring four ladders instead of three. That may not seem like much, but with each additional ladder, the platform becomes increasingly unstable. I started across one of the newly expanded crevasses, and with each step I took, I could feel the ladders dipping down with the weight of my body. I felt the entire temporary bridge swaying slightly, first to the left and then to the right. I was relieved to step off the ladders and onto the slightly more stable ground.

It wasn’t long before we came to a couple of sections where we’d need to do some ice climbing. These spots would have been easier with ladders, but we’d have to make do without. We squeezed through tight ice walls and front pointed our crampons to climb over the looming seracs. I was grateful I had the right gear for this. My crampons had come equipped with steel spikes on the front (front points), which I forced into the ice for stability. Essentially I was relying on my foot protection to hold me as I used anchored ropes to haul myself up a 15-foot wall of ice. I could only imagine the horrific damage that could occur if I was in the wrong place at the wrong time under one of those massive ice blocks.

At one point, when I was crossing a two-section ladder and standing on the third rung, a Sherpa accidentally let go of my fixed rope handle. I lost my balance and stepped backward off the ladder. As I stepped back, my crampons struck the shin of one of the Sherpas who was standing behind me. I felt awful and bent down to look at his leg and make sure he was okay. Thankfully, his skin had barely been punctured.

“I’m fine,” he assured me with a smile. “It wasn’t your fault.”

When we got to Camp I, Pasang boiled water for hot tea, and we ate a boxed lunch of meat, cheese, fruit, and bread. As I was setting up my tent, he dropped off a few propane stoves, fuel, and food for future meals since I’d be cooking on my own after he headed back down the mountain. I was glad to have a handheld radio in case something went wrong, but I wasn’t really concerned about my solo camping adventure.

Before Pasang descended, I had an important question to ask him. “Is there a safe place to use the restroom?”

Everything was pretty exposed at the top of the icefall, with nothing but seracs and open crevasses surrounding the tent.

“Yes.” He pointed toward the icefall. “Be careful!” Then he disappeared into the river of falling ice.

I set up my tripod and filmed myself doing some interior decorating in my tent  —blowing up my inflatable mattress and setting out my sleeping bag. I wanted to document my journey for my family so they would have at least some idea of what this experience was like. I managed to inflate the mattress without passing out or getting light headed, so that seemed like a good sign. However, it did take considerable effort just to set up my tent and get my sleeping area ready  —something I wouldn’t have even noticed at lower altitudes. That’s high altitude for you  —simple tasks take triple the effort.

After I drank a few liters of water, it was time to break the seal and depart from my cozy tent so I could explore the area Pasang had pointed out. Just three steps away from my tent vestibule was a step-over crevasse that was so deep I couldn’t even see the bottom. I could see how someone who fell into that crack in the middle of the night would never be heard from again. To prevent injury, I grabbed a bamboo wand with a piece of red tape on the end  —a makeshift flag  —to mark the danger. I also dropped off an empty Gatorade bottle at my tent so I wouldn’t have to venture out in the darkness if I needed to relieve myself. I walked toward the other tents to find a narrow area to cross and eventually found a spot that functioned as a primitive outhouse.

After returning to my tent, I realized I was ravenous, so I ate some trail mix and a candy bar. I ticked off the most common symptoms of acute mountain sickness in my head: headache, nausea, lack of appetite. I was eating enough food for three people, which I took to be a good sign. My metabolism was burning through food almost as quickly as I could chew it, so I continued indulging in carbs and fats.

Since I had some downtime in the afternoon, I decided to get some film footage for my sponsors. I brought my tripod, camera, and mini-high-definition video recorder and tried to get video with Everest in the background. After I started filming, I noticed that some of the climbers who were camping 30 yards below me had come out of their tents to watch me record myself. I wasn’t expecting an audience, so the attention made me a little nervous. I did a few takes and figured I could edit them later. The wind was picking up, and the temperature was dropping, so I wrapped up and returned to my tent.

I’d brought along a sealed card from JoAnna and the kids to open on Easter. It seemed like so long ago that I’d talked to them, even though it had been earlier that morning. There was something about knowing it was a holiday that made me miss my family even more than usual. I opened the card in the solitude of my tent.

Happy Easter! We are so proud of you. We miss you, and we can’t wait for you to come home. We love you so much!

Love,

JoAnna, Emily, and Jordan

Tears streamed down my face as I sat there alone, wishing with almost every part of my being that I could be home to celebrate with them. But I quickly realized that crying in the high altitude created intense pressure on my head, so I willed my tears to stop.

The wind outside picked up, and I could feel the wind thrashing my tent, so I decided to stay inside and watch The Empire Strikes Back on my mini-laptop. It was a much-needed distraction to lose myself in a story other than my own for a few hours. I bundled up in several warm layers, snuggled into my –40-degree sleeping bag, and finally drifted off to sleep.

•

The higher elevation dramatically affected my body’s chemistry and fluid balance  —a condition called altitude diuresis  —which meant I had to get up four times that night to empty my bladder. The urine in the bottle froze almost immediately, which made for an interesting night. After each use, I had to melt and pour out the contents a few feet from the tent so the bottle would be ready for the next time I woke up.

When I awoke at 5 a.m., it took me a moment to remember where I was. Then reality came charging into my consciousness: I was at Camp I on Mount Everest!

I packed my gear, lit the stove, and boiled some melted snow for coffee (I was careful to make sure it was the nonyellow variety). Then it was time to prepare my freeze-dried breakfast: two bags of seafood noodles and one kimchi noodle package. As I forced down the last few bites, Lakpa showed up with supplies for Camp II. He had a cast-iron cooking stove and a couple of oxygen bottles strapped to his back, which likely totaled more than 100 pounds. I had been expecting him to arrive at eight o’clock, and it was only seven. How does he do it? I marveled. I quickly got my things together, and five minutes later we were on the trail.

The route to Camp II wasn’t too difficult, as it followed the Western Cwm for a couple of miles, up to 21,300 feet. We negotiated across a handful of ladders, most of which we crossed uneventfully. We did encounter one crevasse that was so wide it required five ladders tied together, end to end. There was, however, an optional 15-minute walk-around, and I usually took that route. I crossed the five-ladder crevasse only once to get a picture. The moment I stepped on the first ladder, it dropped about a foot and started swinging from side to side. With each shaky step, I had to balance by gripping the safety lines and taking slow, deliberate steps while keeping my eyes fixed on each rung. Beneath me I saw hundreds of feet of glacial blue ice that disappeared into a deep, black abyss.

Through the rest of the Western Cwm, Lakpa and I moved efficiently, which is the term for “fast” in mountaineering, but for the last half hour of our journey to Camp II, it felt like we were in slow motion. I felt fine physically and wasn’t having trouble breathing, but even so, at that altitude, your pack feels heavier and your body moves more slowly.

For the first time the whole trip, I saw Sherpas stopping to catch their breath. They’re human after all, I thought. It felt frustrating not to keep up a fast, long stride and a steady pace, but it was a good opportunity to practice my rest step  —not to mention patience.

The rest step feels unnatural, and it requires a conscious effort to take a step, shift your weight, and pause for three seconds before taking another step. But I knew it was the wise thing to do if I was going to reach my destination. Instead of counting to three during the pause, I silently recited the names of my family: Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. This mantra gave me a constant reminder of my priorities, and in some small way, it felt like they were there with me, cheering me on.

One of the things that often surprises people about climbing is how intense the solitude can be. That’s one of the draws for me, because in the mountains, the constant chaos and distractions of life are stripped away. The silence at high altitudes is so profound it can seem almost deafening at times. The quiet is broken only by the occasional gust of wind or the sound of distant avalanches and falling ice. It’s a powerful way to reset the mind, but it can also push climbers to the tipping point between sanity and insanity.

The positive side of being away from family is that it helps you appreciate them more  —but that can also be the negative side. Some climbers abandon their goal partway through out of intense homesickness, and then after returning home, they wish they’d stuck it out and taken the opportunity they’d been saving for and training for.

I could feel myself teetering on that brink as I climbed, torn between missing my family and wanting to accomplish this goal I’d been striving toward. I thought about the six-month deployments I’d endured in the Navy. I’d done two stints in the Persian Gulf  —one in 1995 and the second in 1997. Those six-month deployments felt long, crammed onto a carrier with 5,000 other people. The only things that got me through were faith and focus. Each day was different based on the missions we were assigned, but I tried to stick to a routine as much as I could: workouts, meals, training, college courses (which I took on the ship), and prayer. It also helped to dream about the future and plan things JoAnna and I would do together once I returned to the States. I tried to use those same strategies now  —keeping a consistent routine and remembering who was waiting for me back home.

Camp II is located at the base of Lhotse Face. From camp you can look straight up and see Camp III, the Yellow Band, the South Col, the South Summit, and the true summit. It didn’t look like any of the pictures I’d seen because I was at such close range. From this vantage point, the peak looked deceptively attainable. But then I took a slow walk across camp, and I was brought back to reality. I realized that I still had about two miles of vertical feet to go, and at this slow-motion rate, that sounded like a long distance.

As I made my way into our cooking tent, Lakpa smiled and said, “Brian, you are strong. Like a Sherpa without a client!” I was flattered  —not just because of his words but because of the source. This was coming from someone whose people were the strongest climbers in the world.

After tea, spicy noodles, and a short rest, we packed up to head down again. The descent through the Western Cwm was similar to the Muir snowfield on Mount Rainier, which I’d climbed countless times back home. The terrain was flat and descended gradually, so I was able to step up my pace. I almost wished I’d brought my snowboard along so I could bomb my way down in a few minutes flat!

Back at Camp I, I stuffed my remaining gear into my backpack and rehydrated. I chatted with Bill and Pasang for a few minutes while Lakpa and another Sherpa continued ahead of me. Then I carefully moved out of Camp I across the multiple crevasses. I caught up with both Sherpas and started walking with them. They picked up the pace, and I did my best to keep up. We ended up making record time through the icefall, returning to base camp in just two hours.

I had to stay at Everest base camp for the next four days to acclimatize, and I knew that being inactive for so long could be one of the most maddening parts of the trip for me. After so many days of intense physical activity, my efforts came screeching to a halt.

I thought back to my days of SERE training. As challenging as the physical tests were, the mental drills were even more intense. One of the segments of our training was sustaining enemy torture. We spent two days in a mock POW camp, where physical and mental interrogation tactics were used on us, including waterboarding. We were marched for more than a mile to the “prisoner camp” and placed in individual boxes with dank-smelling canvas sacks over our heads. We had to sit in a specific upright position  —with our legs crossed and our arms extended, and with our elbows resting on our knees. It was an incredibly uncomfortable position that caused almost immediate cramping. All through the day and night, we were accosted by the blaring sounds of repetitive music, dripping water, and the crying of babies. The intention was to break us down mentally.

We were brought into interrogation rooms and tortured to find out how far we would go before we broke and gave up classified information. Then we were tempted with a softer approach  —in a comfortable room with attractive female interrogators. Our mission was to resist and stick to the code of conduct, no matter the approach  —even and especially when the enemy wasn’t adhering to the rules.

At one point I was pulled into a room, slapped, and slammed against the wall. Then I was locked in a small box, which was barely large enough for me to fit in. Later, when the door was opened, they found me fast asleep  —utterly unfazed. I was yanked out and given another round of beatings and then brought back to my main box with the others.

After a week of misery, an American flag was raised and the national anthem was played, indicating that we had been rescued and were heading home. We stood at attention, many of us with tears streaming down our cheeks. I’d lost about 15 pounds in a matter of days due to lack of food and the stress of the interrogations.

If I could survive a week of hearing the constant sound of dripping water in my cell, I told myself, I can handle a few days of rest at base camp.

On the first rest day, I decided to do some much-needed laundry. A base camp Sherpa brought out two bowls of hot water  —one large and one small. As soon as I doused my soiled clothing, it began to snow. I quickly washed, rinsed, and repeated until the water was a disgusting shade of brown. I rigged a line between the tents with some climbing cord so I could hang my clothes.

After eating lunch in our dining tent, I returned to find my clothes frozen solid, with 6- to 10-inch icicles hanging from them. I had to be careful since the clothes would easily snap if I mishandled them  —I didn’t have much in the way of wardrobe options. I brought my clothes inside the tent and allowed them to slowly thaw out for the next two days. Even after my clothes were washed and dried, they didn’t feel clean or comfortable like they would back home after cycling through my indoor front-load washer and dryer.

The next day the weather turned relatively warm, so after two weeks of not showering, I decided to use the opportunity to get clean (or at least cleaner). It took four Sherpas to haul barrels of water and pound on the electrical heating device, but they finally got it working. It felt like heaven! After so many days of baby-wipe baths, my greasy hair had reached a point where it could stand up in any direction with a gentle comb of my hand. After a couple of shampoo treatments and a good rinse, I might as well have been Fabio, whipping my tender, brown locks in slow motion from side to side in the shower tent. Who would have ever guessed that being clean would be such a major morale boost?

•

I used the rest days to catch up my blog entries. I wrote them in the warmth of my tent and then hiked 30 minutes outside of camp to my “Internet cafe” to post them. There was a lot of press that year about how there would be 3G Internet coverage at Everest base camp for the first time, but when I arrived, I found that that assessment wasn’t entirely accurate. It was true that Nepal’s 3G service provided coverage from Gorak Shep, a village a few miles down the Khumbu Valley. The 3G towers were powered by walls of solar panels, but they were spotty in bad weather, and at night they were shut down to conserve power. We could have worked around those limitations, but the worst part was that the towers weren’t strong enough to send a 3G signal into base camp. We received EDGE coverage, which was sufficient for cell phone calls, but it was unreliable for Internet access.

To upload blog entries, send e-mails, add pictures to social media sites, or make video calls, I had to hike 30 minutes out of base camp and climb out onto a ridge. I would sit on a large, flat boulder, which was the only place I’d found where I could get fairly consistent coverage. The view from the rock was breathtaking. From that vantage point, I could see the icefall crawling down the mountain, the summit of Mount Everest, and the surrounding Himalayan peaks.

I tried to schedule my calls for times when JoAnna and the kids were awake, which ended up being the start of my day and the end of theirs. I was 12 hours and 45 minutes ahead of the time zone back home in Washington, and I was glad to have my time conversion spreadsheet. Prior to my trip, I’d mapped out the time differences between home and Everest, and it was handy not to have to recalculate each time I called.

One morning as I sat on the rock trying to get the Internet to load up, I thought, I’ve been away from my family for a whole month now. That caused a lump to form in my throat, but it was motivating to think about how close I was to reaching my goal. It won’t be long before I’m home again, I coached myself.

Not only was I eager to see my family, but I was also ready to eat some real food again. At first the food had been interesting and part of the adventure, and I’d tried to make the most of it. But by now, I dreaded each mealtime. It wasn’t our cook’s fault  —I was eating plenty, and he was doing a good job considering the limited access he had to fresh food, refrigeration, and cooking appliances. But after so many consecutive days of eating Spam and dal bhat (a Nepalese curry dish consisting of rice and lentils), I was ready for a nice big cheeseburger, a steak, a Starbucks Caramel Macchiato  —anything, really. I was even looking forward to the flight food we’d get from Thai Airways on the way home. It wasn’t even the food itself that I craved; it was the freedom to be able to get whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. I had to force myself not to lie in my tent and dream of food back home, since I knew that would only depress me more.

While I didn’t want to dwell on food, I couldn’t resist posting this entry on Climbing magazine’s blog.

April 28, 2011

If someone could please drop ship a carne asada burrito from Roberto’s in San Diego or a Double-Double Animal Style from In-n-Out Burger, I sure would appreciate it![6]

Almost daily I heard the thump of helicopter blades as another person was evacuated from base camp. Some climbers were facing life-threatening high-altitude problems, such as excess fluids in the lungs or cerebral edema. In other cases, clients paid a cool $5,000 to get a quick ride out of a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

Finally, after four days at base camp, it was time to head up to Camp III to finalize our acclimatization process. On April 30, Bill, Veronique, her two Sherpas, Pasang, and I climbed up the Khumbu Icefall to Camp I, where we would spend the night. Our little group spread out as we climbed at our own pace. My pace was getting faster, since the terrain was now a lot more familiar to me. Although the mountain was constantly changing, I knew where certain hazards were and recognized various crevasses. One area had been wiped out by a falling serac, and now instead of having horizontal ladder crossings, there were vertical ladders we used to climb down into the crevasse, hike across the bottom, and then go back up the ladders to get out.

I made my way up through the icefall and turned the corner above the mass of ice sculptures to see a cluster of yellow and orange tents. I’d made it to Camp I. While I waited for the others, I fired up the stoves to melt snow, which we’d use to replenish our water bottles. Then I set up the tent Bill and I would share at the top of Camp I and got to work stowing all my sharp items (crampons, ice axe, poles, and pickets) outside the tent. Once everyone else added their gear to the cache with mine, we’d mark it with a bamboo wand and a flag. That way if a snowfall came overnight and our gear got buried, we’d be able to find it quickly.

I woke up early the next morning, eager to get moving. The rest of the group wasn’t ready yet, and my toes were getting cold, so I set out for Camp II a little earlier than the others. I listened to my headphones and kept my head up, taking in the beautiful 360-degree views. The climb felt smooth, and before I knew it I was at Camp II.

We spent two nights at Camp II, also known as advance base camp (ABC). The setup at Camp II was similar to Everest base camp, with individual tents, a bathroom tent, and a dining tent staffed by our amazing cook, Dawa, who always served us with a smile. He made great fried potatoes and pancakes; plus, he usually had a can of Pringles, which always hit the spot! Like most of the other Sherpas, he had a family back home that worried about his high-altitude job.

“Dawa, you are a very good cook,” I told him. “But does your wife wish you’d do something else that’s less dangerous?” I asked.

Dawa’s face broke into a contagious smile. “I want to climb Mount Everest someday.”

•

Later that evening, Mount Everest claimed its first victim of the year on the south side. One of the climbers had experienced a severe case of edema a few days prior, shortly after his summit attempt. He had collapsed when he was nearing Camp III and died almost instantly. News travels quickly through the Sherpa community, but at this point we didn’t have any way to verify what we’d heard. I later learned that this climber’s name was Rick Hitch, and he was from California. It was strange to be cut off from media access, knowing that people back home likely had more information than we did about something that had happened just a few hundred yards away from us.

We were taking the south route up Everest, through Nepal  —the same route Rick had taken. It’s probably a pretty even split between climbers who take the south route and those who take the north route. More deaths have occurred on the north side, but there are many different variables that have contributed to those fatalities, and the risks run about equal on both sides. The north route is easier at the lower sections but slightly more dangerous higher up due to the extreme winds and colder temperatures, plus the technically difficult Second Step, which is a straight-up ladder climb at 28,000 feet. There’s also no chance of helicopter rescue on the north route. The south route is difficult since you have to traverse the Khumbu Icefall, which is arguably the most dangerous area on either side due to the constant falling hazards. Plus, there’s the long summit night and the Cornice Traverse, with its nearly two-mile drop on each side.

The next day we walked by a tent just 200 yards from our camp. The tent was windblown and eerily lifeless, and it took a moment for it to dawn on me that it had belonged to Rick. They had temporarily stashed his body there until the rest of the group descended. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have been able to help him survive if I’d been closer, but I suppose that was all the search-and-rescue training in me.

Training to become an air rescue swimmer is intense  —approximately 60 percent of candidates drop out or are asked to leave. But for me the challenges were worth it. There’s something compelling about the duty of risking your own life to save someone else. The AIRR motto is simply, “So others may live.” As rescuers, we didn’t really think about the sacrifice involved  —we just took off in search of people in need. Now we were in the mountains, not over the ocean, but the same sobering truth remained: life is fragile.

The following day we watched a couple of climbers being taken on a helicopter recovery mission from the base of Lhotse Face. We heard that several other climbers were evacuated down the mountain with oxygen, while another client fell on the bergschrund  —a massive ice formation that separates from the mountain  —and reportedly broke his wrists.

That’s not the kind of news you like to hear at 21,000 feet above the ground.

“Lord, please bring healing and peace to those who are leaving today,” I prayed. “And please comfort Rick’s family, wherever they are.”

I knew JoAnna would worry if she heard the news about the fatality and wonder if I’d been hurt. I didn’t have cell coverage at higher elevations, so I borrowed Veronique’s satellite phone.

“Hi, honey!” JoAnna said when she heard my voice. Her voice echoed with the time delay.

“Hey, sweetie. I’m borrowing a satellite phone, so I need to be quick. There was a reported death, but I wanted to let you know that my whole team is fine. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I miss you. The kids miss you. But we’re staying busy. Yesterday  —”

“Honey, I’m sorry, but it’s not my phone. I have to go, but I’ll call you in a few days. I’m heading up to Camp III and then I’ll be back at base camp. Don’t worry  —I’ll be safe.”

I hated to cut her off and not hear about what she and the kids were doing, but I knew how expensive satellite minutes were, and I didn’t want to abuse the favor. After all, I might need to ask again.

“I love you,” JoAnna said. “Please be safe.”

As I hung up, I thought about the anxiety JoAnna had experienced when I was preparing to climb Denali. Our church was doing the Soul Revolution challenge at the time  —a 60-day challenge to help us align our thinking with Christ. We both had little timers that went off each hour throughout the day as a simple reminder to pause and connect with Christ.

The challenge just happened to fall during my two-and-a-half-week expedition on Denali, and it helped to know we were both going through the same thing even though we were so far apart physically. We felt connected to one another through Christ, and it helped JoAnna get over her anxiety to remember that God was watching over both of us. It helped me, too, reminding me that no matter how many miles away I was, God was protecting my family. I hoped that same sense of closeness with Christ was sustaining her now.

•

The following day we packed up and began our climb to Camp III. The weather fluctuated from cold to colder, and then, out of nowhere, we’d hit pockets of air that were insanely hot. But by the time I’d strip down a layer, it was freezing again. I had my full down suit on at Camp II, and then when the sun hit the ice, I started overheating, so I dropped the suit down halfway, tying the arms around my waist. I wanted to be careful not to overheat, as I knew that would drain my energy quickly. And if I was sweating and it suddenly got cold, I could put myself at risk for hypothermia. I was glad to have layers and clothing with side zippers for ventilation.

Bill and I made it from Camp II to the base of Lhotse Face within an hour. At 27,940 feet, Lhotse is the fourth-highest mountain in the world. To climb Mount Everest’s south side, you have to climb halfway up Lhotse before cutting over to the South Col. The entire climb up Lhotse is intense, as it’s essentially a vertical sheet of ice and snow.

After taking a couple of minutes to rest, I connected myself to the fixed lines and headed up the ice wall. I was surprised to see that some of the climbers weren’t connected to the fixed lines, but I didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. The only time I disconnected was when I transitioned between pickets or ice screws, and even then I only disconnected one device at a time so that if I slipped, I wouldn’t fall farther than my other device. If you slip on Lhotse Face, you won’t stop for thousands of feet, which translates into certain death. This is no place for climber’s ego  —after all, there’s no shame in surviving!

There were two side-by-side options for fixed lines, and climbers were heading up and down both of them. This created challenges when climbers tried to maneuver around each other on the icy surface. There was also the danger of falling ice or rocks that could descend from above, so we had to be alert at all times.

We were all heading up at our own pace, and at one point I looked around to see where the other climbers in the group were. Bill was a few hundred yards below me, but I had no idea where Veronique and her two Sherpas were. They’d gotten a later start from Camp II and planned to meet us on the ice ledge for a night’s rest. Although Bill had experienced some nausea down below, he was moving strong up the fixed lines. His method of interval bursts was working well for him. Meanwhile, I was continuing my steady three-second cadence: Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step.

This was one of the hardest climbing days I’d had so far. As I made my way up the vertical sheet of ice, I thought about my move to high camp on Mount McKinley several years before. I’d been carrying 70 pounds with me, and I was fighting 60-mile-per-hour winds. Severe wind is one of the biggest mental challenges you can face on a climb. Not only does it cut through your clothes, freezing you to the core, but it also is so loud it can prevent you from communicating with others on your team. Fierce winds tend to kick up violent drifts of snow and ice, making it difficult to see and filling your clothing with ice. And perhaps most of all, windy conditions require you to stay mentally sharp as you strain to keep your balance against the forceful gusts. In those situations, the only thing to do is stay calm and press on, one foot in front of the other, until you reach your destination.

The final hundred yards up to Camp III were slow and painful. By this time I was taking five-second pauses between steps and using more of my upper body to jumar up the line. Each muscle in my body felt like it was being crushed by 100-pound weights. I felt paralyzed as I forced my feet to take each step. And it wasn’t just my muscles that were spent; I was mentally exhausted as well. Everything felt like it was in slow motion  —my movements, my thoughts, and my reactions. I had also fueled out and was in desperate need of food, but it was too dangerous to anchor off to find a place to eat, so I had to power through.

Finally, about a mile up Lhotse Face, I got a glimpse of tents anchored to the side of the ice wall. Camp III wasn’t much to speak of  —it was basically just a peppering of about 20 tents  —but at that moment it was one of the happiest sights I’d ever seen. I was about 30 yards away, which would take about half an hour at this rate, but I knew I was going to make it.

After three hours of climbing, Bill and I finally made it to the tents, where we fell onto our sleeping bags. Eventually I forced myself to do the work  —and it was work  —of removing my boots and harness. I lay there basking in the satisfaction of another mission accomplished.

That feeling of exhaustion mixed with satisfaction was a little like what I’d felt when I passed the basic requirements of Naval training after an agonizing six months. One of my classmates and I earned our Aircrew wings on the same day  —the gold wings we’d wear on our uniforms above the medals and ribbons. But before we were able to get our wings, the other Aircrew members conducted a time-tested hazing ritual. After forcing us to drink a pitcher of beer each, they took off the backings of the pins and pierced the two points straight into our chests. Then each Aircrew member stood in a line and, with all their strength, punched them deeper into our skin until the posts were bent. I still have the scars. As I stood there with my fellow Aircrew men, I was bloody and sore, but also proud. I had earned my “blood wings” and more important, I had accomplished the goal I’d set out to achieve.

I sank into my sleeping bag and relaxed, not thinking about anything. At that altitude, every minor task  —even thinking  —takes a tremendous amount of energy. My plan for the evening was to eat dinner and then sleep using supplemental oxygen.

Veronique and her climbing Sherpa made it to Camp III an hour after we arrived, and they settled into the tent next to us. I congratulated her through the tent wall but didn’t hear a response. I imagined she was as exhausted as Bill and I were.

As I prepared a dinner (chicken soup and spicy noodle soup, plus a BOUNTY bar for dessert), I looked out of our tent at the view from our little platform. We were on a small ice shelf just large enough for the two-man tents. The shelf was cold and windy, not to mention impossibly steep. It had been cut out of a 55-degree slope that fell straight down for a mile to the Western Cwm. The Sherpas had chosen our tent location carefully and made sure the safety lines were tight to ensure that no mishaps would occur. I was glad we were anchored in, as a fall would mean certain death.

Camp III is a notoriously dangerous area to camp. Many climbers have been lost after going outside their tents to use the bathroom without crampons or some form of safety rope to catch their fall. I looked down from my tent and shook my head. If you slipped, you’d go for a ride for thousands of feet down  —no chance of survival.

In the distance I could see Cho Oyu, the sixth-highest mountain in the world. Camp II was straight below, with Camp I so far in the distance that it was hard to see. Behind us was Lhotse Face, and off to the left was the South Summit of Everest.

Just before dinner, Pasang came in to inform us that one of the oxygen regulators was broken. Since I felt the best altitude-wise, I volunteered to go without oxygen for the night, but Bill wouldn’t hear of it. Pasang suggested we open a bottle of oxygen in the tent without a regulator or mask. That didn’t seem like the best solution, though, since the tent walls were thin and anything we pumped in would easily escape. I insisted that I was fine and told Pasang to get some food for himself. After about an hour Pasang returned to our tent with a borrowed regulator from another climbing team’s staged gear, which he would replace at Camp II. He configured my mask for a one-liter-per-minute flow. Although I felt confident I would have been fine without oxygen, I was relieved to have it just in case. I wore my mask at a low-flow rate all through the night.

I felt the effects of supplemental oxygen almost immediately. It filled my body with warmth and gave me energy and life. It was almost like going down in elevation for the night. But as good as the oxygen felt, it was awkward to sleep with something attached to my face. While I slept, everything around me became frozen and frost covered except me. Inside my face mask, condensation formed, meaning that water dripped on my face every few seconds during the night. Even so, it was worth the price to be able to breathe easily.

Bill and I woke at 5 a.m. and started preparing for our descent back to Everest base camp. I had a high-definition video camera mounted to my helmet to try to get some descent footage, but it froze immediately due to the cold temperatures and wind. It didn’t thaw out until the next day when we reached a lower elevation.

I alternated rappelling Australian style (head first) and backward down Lhotse Face, and I reached Camp II in about 45 minutes. We had a breakfast of potatoes and pancakes prepared by Dawa, and I then set out on my own all the way to base camp. I was eager to breathe in the thick air again and complete my acclimatization process.

We were almost there. It was hard to wrap my mind around how much our bodies had adjusted to the elevation, but it put things in perspective when I realized that if our plane lost cabin pressure on the way home and the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling, we wouldn’t need to put them on.

The next stop was the death zone, where the body can’t acclimate and starts to wither away and die, even with supplemental oxygen. But I was ready. The next move up the mountain would be for the summit attempt!