CHAPTER 6

EYEING THE MOUNTAIN

I lift up my eyes to the mountains  —where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

PSALM 121:1-2

MAY 5, 2011

Since our acclimatization process is complete, we will rest at base camp and wait for a weather window for a summit attempt. Some groups are trying to summit on the seventh, but we’ve had so much snow lately that the fixed lines above the South Col aren’t in place. We don’t want to risk having the Sherpas hurry to set the lines and then have to change them later. On this mountain, patience is necessary for a safe and successful climb.

We were right on schedule to be one of the earlier groups to make an attempt on the summit. But I didn’t want to rush anything, especially with the recent snowfall. As much as I wanted to summit, I was committed to being safe and making wise choices. Climbing Mount Everest isn’t just about skill and strategic planning  —there’s also patience and some luck involved. No amount of preparation can help you if the weather doesn’t cooperate once you’ve acclimatized and are ready to make your final ascent. I was glad that part of my mental preparation for the trip had been focusing on returning home safely, no matter the outcome of the climb.

Pasang, Bill, and I talked through our plan for the final summit push. It would take five days to get into position at high camp from Everest base camp, and we’d have to hope for a weather window shortly after we arrived. We planned out our route, which looked pretty straightforward on paper, but we knew it was possible to run into any number of variables, such as inclement weather, injury, and other unknowns.

I wonder how my body will perform as we head to the top, I thought as I sat at base camp, waiting to head to high camp. Granted, there was something to be said for familiarity. It gave me confidence to know I’d done part of this journey before so I had some idea of what to expect along the way. But there was one key piece I’d never experienced before: the death zone. How will I do in that fierce unknown?

There was only one way to find out.

I called JoAnna every day while we waited to set out for high camp, getting caught up on what she and the kids were doing. When I was back in my tent, I rehearsed every detail of the plan until it felt as familiar as reciting my home address. It wasn’t long before I was tired of thinking about the plan and just wanted to execute it  —ready or not. If I was capable of handling the challenge, I would feel the thrill of success. If not, I would come back and live to climb another day.

During my six years in the military, I learned that it’s up to you to do everything you can do to be prepared, and then at some point you just have to do your best and trust God to handle everything else. This was especially true when our crew did tours in the Persian Gulf, where we flew daily missions. During our six-month tours, I lost an average of two Aircrew buddies a year due to training mishaps.

During one night flight in the middle of the Pacific, while the crew was wearing night-vision goggles, the pilots became disoriented and flew into the ocean during their approach to the carrier. The forward g-force of the impact killed everyone on board instantly, and the helicopter sank to the bottom of the ocean. Another time, during a combat search-and-rescue training flight, the helo crashed into the side of a steep cliff, killing the crew as they rolled into a ravine. Their bodies were burned and charred to the seats, which had to be cut out by fellow Aircrewmen.

I experienced some close calls myself. We were flying a VERTREP (vertical replenishment) mission just outside Japan, with the assignment of off-loading tons of weapons onto a carrier. We had 5,000 pounds hanging from a hook 20 feet below the helicopter when the carrier disappeared into a whiteout fog. We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces, and we quickly lost sight of the carrier. Vertigo set in, but the pilots fell back on their training and used their instruments to ensure that we were level.

I lay on the deck of the helo, watching the heavy load sway beneath us, and called in the status to our pilots as they gained altitude, trying to avoid running into the side of the ship. I was prepared at any moment to release the load into the ocean and set our helo crash procedures in motion. Despite the fact that we were flying blind, we managed to remain calm, until suddenly the carrier deck appeared below us. I called in the altitude as we hovered and lowered the weapons to the deck. The load was gently released on the deck, and we landed safely, but it was a closer call than we would have liked.

The grim reality is that there are dangers in all of life, no matter the profession, but the stakes tend to be higher when you’re talking about high-risk endeavors like military missions or high-altitude climbs.

In those intense situations, when lives are on the line, your mission is to enhance your skills to the elite level and prepare for every possible scenario that’s within your control. And once you’re confident you’ve done all you can, the only thing left to do is put your faith in God, believing that he’ll deliver you from the things outside of your control.

•

On May 8, a Sunday, I called my mom.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” I said.

“Oh, thank you!” I could hear the excitement rippling through her words. “I’m so glad you called.” She hadn’t been counting on a call from Everest base camp on Mother’s Day.

“How is your climb going?” she asked.

“I went up to Camp III already, and now I’m just waiting for a weather window to make a summit attempt.”

“Your dad and I are so proud of you,” she said. I could tell she was crying. “You’re in our prayers, and we love you.”

“I love you too, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.”

After I hung up, I sat there in silence for a moment, thanking God for my supportive family.

The day before we headed up for our summit attempt, we heard about an 82-year-old Nepalese man who had died in the icefall. Shailendra Kumar Upadhyay was trying to become the oldest man to summit Everest, but tragically, he didn’t make it.

I was in my tent preparing my gear when I heard some commotion along the main path through camp. I unzipped the tent door and saw several Sherpas and Nepalese climbers with a body bag. They took turns carrying the climber’s stiff body until they reached the helicopter pad, where they waited for the evacuation flight.

Nobody was sure of the exact cause of his death, but most people were leaning toward cardiac arrest. I could feel a sense of uneasiness settle over the group. What was he like? I wondered. Did he have a family? Why was he climbing? What was his story?

“Heavenly Father, please be with this man’s family,” I prayed. “I don’t know much about him, but please comfort those who loved him. They must be dealing with great loss right now, and they need your strength to get through this.”

On May 11 we decided to push all the way from base camp to Camp II in one day, and it would be a long one. The plan was to stay an extra day at Camp II, head up to Camp III, hit high camp, and then attempt the summit. If all went well, we’d return to Camp II after the summit and then go back to base camp the following day.

I gave JoAnna and the kids a call.

“I wanted to fill you in on the plans,” I told JoAnna. “I’m heading up tomorrow morning. We are hoping for a May 14 summit date.”

“Really?” I could hear the slight trepidation in her voice. “How does the weather look?”

“We have a great window,” I said. “And I promise I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I’ll be out of contact for a few days, but don’t worry about me.”

“Hi, Daddy!” Emily and Jordan yelled into the phone. “Thank you for the toys!”

I was glad they were enjoying their daily scavenger hunt. “Hi, guys! I miss you both so much. Are you being good and listening to Mommy?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Are you still climbing the tallest mountain?”

“Yep, I should be done in another week or so.”

“How many sleeps is that?” Jordan asked.

“About seven to ten sleeps,” I replied. “I’ll have to see how the weather is.”

All too soon, it was time for me to go. “I’ll talk to you when I get down from the mountain,” I said, my voice cracking. “I love you all so much!”

“I love you too, Daddy!” Emily and Jordan said in unison.

Then it was just JoAnna on the line. “So you’ll be back down in five days?” she asked. “Will I hear anything before then?”

“I’ll try to borrow a satellite phone up higher, but I can’t promise anything,” I said. “Keep up the prayers.”

When I hung up, I buried my face in my hands and cried. It’s not like I think this will be the last time I talk to them, I thought. But there’s so much unknown ahead.

At around 4 o’clock in the morning on May 11, Bill and I got ready in silence and then headed to the dining tent. Before leaving, I logged into Facebook and updated my status:

Heading to the summit of Mount Everest. BRB!

BRB  —be right back. I certainly hoped it was true.

“How are you feeling?” I asked Bill over breakfast.

“Okay, but not perfect,” he said. But he kept down his breakfast of instant coffee and oatmeal, so I took that as a good sign.

We put on our boots and jackets and then stepped out onto a thin layer of snow that had dusted the ground during the night. We lit our headlamps, donned our packs, and started out.

Bill and I carried our crampons and planned to put them on before we started climbing over the fallen seracs. As I walked through base camp, I slipped on the snowy rocks but quickly caught myself. I was grateful for the quick recovery; I would have hated to have to abort my summit attempt mere feet from my tent.

When we got to the edge of base camp, I looked over at Bill in time to see that he was vomiting again.

I was getting more concerned. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“I don’t feel sick,” Bill responded, wiping his mouth. “I just needed to throw up.”

We put on our crampons and climbed through the icefall for the seventh time of our expedition. We agreed to go at our own pace and meet up at Camp II. Lakpa and Pasang would meet us there the following day since they wanted an additional day of rest down at base camp.

When I arrived at Camp I for a break, I sat in one of the shared tents we used for acclimatization, careful to not puncture the vestibule with my crampons. I opened a cattle feed bag, which the Sherpas had used to cache our food and supplies. To my surprise, the Sherpas had left a few Mars bars in the bag for me, and I stashed them in my pack for later use.

Then I decided to melt some snow for drinking water. It was difficult to keep the stove lit at such a high altitude with strong winds, so I had to use my body to protect the cooking area. I filled a cooking pot with snow and then placed it on the flame. Since snow is made mostly of air, it took several pots of snow to fill up my canister.

After getting enough water for Bill and me, I left Bill’s portion in the pots. Then I wrote a note in the snow by the tent so he’d know where to find the water. I put my pack on again, reapplied sunscreen, and continued my journey toward Camp II.

When I approached the first major crevasse in the Western Cwm, I passed a man who was missing a leg and was wearing a modified crampon on his prosthetic foot. He was alone and moving slowly, but the look of determination on his face was unmistakable. I didn’t know if he was going to Camp II or whether he planned to continue higher, but I was confident he’d reach his goal. I was inspired by his drive and his desire to overcome significant challenges. Even without a disability, climbing a mountain is a daunting task. I couldn’t even imagine attempting it without the use of all of my limbs.

As he and I prepared to cross one of the ladders, we exchanged greetings.

“Beautiful morning!” I said.

“Yep.” He didn’t have much to say, and I could tell he was focused on the task at hand.

“See you up there,” I said. “Be safe.”

The sun was scorching, so I stripped down a few layers and applied additional sunscreen. At this point in the expedition, my skin was the darkest it had ever been, despite my constant reapplication of sunblock. At this high altitude, there were a lot more direct rays that came into contact with my skin. And since the sun reflected off of the snow and ice, it was easy to get burned in places that didn’t usually see the sun  —like the underside of my arms, the bottom and inside of my nose, and the inside of my ears.

In addition to the sunscreen, I wore a buff to protect my vulnerable face. The downside to the buff is that it filtered the air, and at that elevation, you need as much air as possible. I had little choice, however, because without it, the sunscreen wiped off every time my nose ran.

I was also careful to keep my goggles on. Not only did they protect my eyes from the blinding sun reflecting off the snow, but they also helped guard against UV rays. Since the atmosphere is thinner at higher elevations, it absorbs less ultraviolet radiation. In fact, ultraviolet radiation levels increase by 10 to 12 percent with every 3,000-foot increase in altitude.

In true Everest form, it went from being blazing hot one minute to whiteout blizzard conditions the next. Fortunately, another group that had gone before me had marked the route with wands, so I was able to find my way. Even though the snow was coming down in furious gusts, I was still hot from the penetrating sun. I continued to hike in a short-sleeved shirt, and I unzipped the side vents of my pants.

Halfway through the Western Cwm, I passed Dawa, our Camp II cook. He said Bill had radioed him, asking him to descend to Camp I to help carry his pack. Dawa was all smiles and offered me juice and chocolate. I thanked him but declined, since I still had my own arsenal of snacks and water.

I was less than a mile from our camp, which according to reports we’d heard from other climbers, had been destroyed days earlier due to high winds. Our Sherpa team had been able to salvage our tents and supplies, but it would take some time to rebuild camp.

By the time I arrived at Camp II, I was exhausted and eager for a break, so I went into the cooking tent to have a snack. After resting for a while, I walked out to where our tents lay collapsed in the snow. I put the tent poles together one at a time and stacked them on the canopy of the tent. I threaded each pole through, taking frequent breaks to make sure I didn’t overexert myself.

I erected the tent, placed the protective fly over it, and anchored all the corners with deadman anchors. For the deadman anchors, I dug four holes, buried snow stakes in each, and then packed snow on top. This was critical for creating a firm hold when the snow froze.

Bill, Veronique, and her climbing Sherpas arrived an hour or so later, and we ate a lunch of hot soup, tea, and Spam sandwiches. The dining tent was a large eight-person tent with a couple of poles in the middle to keep it upright. The seats were made of flat rocks, which we lined with Therm-a-Rest pads for comfort. In the center of the tent there was a stack of rocks, which we used for a table, and the perimeter was lined with additional rocks for the stoves and our cooking supplies.

It had been a big day, so we took it easy the rest of the afternoon. Our personal tents had all been spared from the strong winds, but some of the shared tents were shredded, and our bathroom tent was gone. Thankfully, Dawa rebuilt it later in the day.

I post-holed over to my tent, creating fresh tracks in the deep snow. As soon as I unzipped the door flap, I fell onto the unrolled pad. With my feet still poking out of my vestibule, I removed my crampons and boots and then placed them inside, where I’d have easy access to them. Then, to ensure that no snow or ice would get inside, I stuffed my gaiters inside the boots.

After blowing up my air mattress, I set my –40-degree sleeping bag over the pad. As my last step in setting up house, I placed a picture of JoAnna and the kids in a transparent mesh pocket on the ceiling of the tent. As I lay on my makeshift bed staring up at their photo, I thought about how much I missed them. I knew it was impossible, but I wished they could experience some of this with me.

Our two rest days at Camp II were pretty low key, and we basically just went through our normal routine of relaxing in our tents and eating regularly scheduled meals. I also took advantage of the downtime to analyze my pack. I was using my heavy 95-cubic-liter pack, and I was concerned it would be too heavy at higher elevations. At such high altitudes, every ounce matters. I decided to do some investigative surgery, and when I opened up the lining of the pack, I found metal plates inside for back support. Since I would only be carrying a couple of oxygen bottles, I decided to remove the plates. I tried the pack on again, and I could tell a difference in the weight immediately. I only wished I’d thought of this weeks ago.

I spent most of my time in my tent listening to music, reading, and looking at pictures of my family. It seemed like an eternity ago that I’d been hugging them and listening to my kids’ stories about their day at school. Now I was as far away as possible  —on the other side of the earth, and higher up than most people could even imagine. Still, I was excited to finally be making my summit push.

As I thought through each scenario for the days ahead, the eagerness I felt was tinged with a sense of caution. I was about to climb into an unknown world, and I had no prior experience climbing above 23,000 feet. Those realities weighed on me. The only thing I could do was rest in the confidence that I’d prepared for this. I had to trust that my body would respond the way I hoped it would.

Back in AIRR training, the instructors’ goal was to wreck us completely in simulation exercises so that the emergency situations themselves would seem easy by comparison. After doing full-body conditioning all morning until we could barely stand up, we’d head to the ocean or the pool for mile-long swims or other intense conditioning. Then we’d swim sprints and perform buddy tows, all while wearing full rescue gear (a harness packed with rescue devices such as knives, flares, and strobe lights), a rescue vest, fins, a mask, and a snorkel. We’d also have to tread water while holding bricks and simulate every worst-case scenario imaginable. Each day we asked ourselves why we were doing this, but after it was all over, we knew we’d be ready for anything.

•

On May 13 I awoke to hear Bill and Dawa talking in the cooking tent. I crawled out from the comfort of my warm sleeping bag and put on my layers, ready to climb to 23,700 feet. I deflated my air mattress and stuffed my sleeping bag into its compression sack. Then I checked my pack to ensure that there were no air pockets and that the weight distribution was balanced. If something was off kilter even a little bit, I would feel one side of my body aching partway through the climb.

When I walked into the cooking tent, I saw Bill hunched over on one of the rock slabs we used for seats. He informed me that he’d vomited during the night and still felt queasy. After a short discussion, we decided it was better for him to take an extra day at this altitude to let his body heal.

After breakfast, I headed up toward Camp III; Pasang would follow me up about an hour later. It was cold as I made my way through Camp II and onto the upper half of the Western Cwm. I pulled out my handheld video camera and recorded my ascent through camp. I couldn’t stop smiling  —and it wasn’t just for the camera. I was finally making my way into position for a summit attempt! The reality was starting to hit me, and I couldn’t hide my excitement.

I made it to the base of Lhotse Face relatively quickly and cached my trekking poles to the side of the main route. When I arrived at the bergschrund, I connected my safety devices to the fixed lines and started making my way up the ladder. A couple of Sherpas were coming down the ropes on the right side, so I connected to the left side, which was essentially a steep overhang of ice. It took a lot of effort to inch my way over the first obstacle, and I had to kick hard to gain solid purchase into the rock-hard ice. Once I made it to the top, I rewarded myself with a quick rest and a drink of water, and then it was time to continue my steady pace toward my destination for the day.

When I first arrived at Camp III, I had no idea which tent was ours. Pasang told me it was on the opposite side of the fixed lines from where we’d camped on our previous acclimatization climb, but that didn’t narrow it down much. I made my way around a couple of tents, being careful to remain clipped into the safety lines that wove around the icy ledge. A group of Sherpas was watching me, and I realized I must have looked hopelessly lost. How does someone get lost at 23,000 feet in the air? I wondered with a wry smile.

I finally came across a tent that looked similar to the ones we’d been using, so I unzipped it. To my surprise, I found some climbers I didn’t know sleeping inside. Not wanting to feel like a burglar sneaking around in pure daylight, I decided to find a flat platform on the side of the icy face and wait for Pasang.

While I waited, I fumbled through my backpack, looking for some water. I glanced down just in time to see a lone Sherpa making his way up the mountain and figured it must be Pasang. Then I looked to my left and saw a pile of oxygen bottles, a bundled tent, and my ice axe. Sure enough, I was sitting on the platform where we would set up camp.

When Pasang reached my location, he sat down and took a brief rest before we worked as a team to erect our four-season tent. At this elevation, building a tent took a great deal of energy. Just putting the poles together required us to do pressure breathing, where you purse your lips and force the carbon monoxide out of your lungs to make them more ready for an exchange of oxygen.

Once the tent was built, we cooked dinner: tomato soup and ramen noodles. We then watched as a group of guys attempted to ski down Lhotse Face. They appeared to be roped up, and they had their ski poles fitted with ice axe picks. They took the descent really slowly, knowing that one slip could result in an uncontrolled fall and almost certain death. Since the weather was fluctuating rapidly, they would ski for a bit, stop, and then start up again. It was taking them a long time to get anywhere, and I grew tired of lying there with my head poking out of the vestibule, so I burrowed into my sleeping bag and drifted off to sleep.

There’s something about sleeping with oxygen that provokes extremely vivid dreams. All through the night I was transported to my childhood, reliving adventures and camping trips with my family. In one dream, I was in Mammoth, California, with my older brother, Rob, and my sister, Lisa, and we were all climbing rocks and fishing. I heard my dad playing “Barracuda” by Heart at an obnoxious volume, and I could even smell the clean scent of the pine forest. I was young and didn’t have a care or worry in the world. Then I woke up and remembered where I was. I was climbing to the summit of Mount Everest!

The next morning we heard rumors about a Japanese man who had died near the South Summit. Although there were a lot of speculations, we weren’t sure of the exact cause of death. As I always tried to do, I prayed for the victim’s family  —that they’d come to a place of understanding despite the pain. I didn’t know this man’s specific circumstances, but it was a sobering reminder about the need to be humble in the shadow of this mountain.

I never wanted to have a “summit or die” attitude; in the end, it’s a mountain, and no mountain is worth dying for.

•

On May 14 we headed up to the South Col, where the highest camp in the world is located. We were entering the death zone. To get there, we had to climb straight up Lhotse Face for about a mile and then cut over at the Yellow Band, a section of layered marble, phyllite, and semischist that looks yellow against the stark whites and grays of the rest of the mountain. Then we had to traverse up and over the Geneva Spur  —a rib of black rock that requires an angled climb.

The entire route was equipped with fixed lines, which made it safer but also meant that each step required significant effort, due to the constant steep angle of the climb. All your movements feel like they’re in slow motion, and you have to preserve your energy as much as possible. I tried to find a steady pace and then stick with it. It’s like running a marathon at that point  —you don’t worry about if other people are ahead of you or behind you; you just keep plodding along.

About 1,000 feet above Camp III, I stopped to get some water. I anchored myself to an ice screw with some cordelette and a carabiner attached to my harness. As soon as I set my anchor and tested its integrity, I pulled off my goggles, which I looped through my arm, and then removed my oxygen mask. Right at that moment, my crampon slipped on the unstable ice. To break my fall, I automatically reached for the fixed line with the hand that was holding my goggles. In a flash, my goggles slid off my arm and fell down the steep face. I watched in horror as my eye protection escaped into the abyss of ice.

It seemed the goggles were sliding down the mountain in slow motion. And I didn’t have a backup pair. If you’re doing an intense climb like Everest, you simply don’t have room in your pack to bring extras of anything  —and whatever additional gear you take means extra weight you have to carry with you.

Down the mountain to the right, there was a vertical field of ice with several open crevasses, and my goggles were heading straight toward it. Then, miraculously, they curved back to the left and were stopped by the Sherpas going up the fixed line. I let out a breath, not even realizing I’d been holding it in.

A group of Sherpas who were heading up to Camp III grabbed the goggles. They motioned to me that they had them and that I could come down and get them. I was so relieved that they’d been able to stop them from descending farther, but that meant I’d have to retrace my steps and hike back down 500 feet. Still, it was worth it to have something to cover my vulnerable eyes.

Pasang was a little ahead of me, so I shouted up to him, “Pasang, I dropped my goggles. I’m going to rappel down to get them.”

“That’s not good,” he said. “Be careful. I’ll go to the South Col and make tents.” Pasang continued his slow ascent up the hill.

I secured my pack, including my oxygen bottle and my mask, to the anchored ice screw, took a couple of breaths of oxygen, and rappelled down the face to retrieve the goggles. It was easy going down since gravity was on my side, but I knew going up would be more of a challenge. As I got close to the rope where the Sherpas had attached the goggles, I slowed down to make sure I didn’t accidentally dislodge them from the fixed rope. When I reached out to untie the knot, I noticed that the goggles were cracked right through the middle of the inside lens. The outer lens was still intact, leaving only one layer for protection against ultraviolet rays. I didn’t have too much time to think about the implications, though, so I put them on, connected my jumar and safety line, and headed back up without the use of supplemental oxygen. When I arrived at my backpack, I took a couple of hits of oxygen and then donned my full gear again.

At that moment I knew I was up against a challenge. The instant I turned on the regulator on my oxygen mask, my goggles fogged up. Goggles tend to get a little foggy at such low temperatures under normal circumstances, but usually you can use your gloves to scrape away the fog or ice. Now, with a crack through the center of the goggles, they were freezing between the layers. That meant I couldn’t see out of them, and there was no way to clear them. I tried wearing my sunglasses instead, but with the oxygen mask strapped across my forehead, I couldn’t keep the glasses close enough to my face to stay on. During the rest of my journey to the South Col, they were so iced over that I could only see through a dime-sized circle on the left side of my goggles. I focused all my attention on the fixed lines, knowing how critical each step was for my safety.

That morning almost everyone making a summit attempt turned around at the South Summit. When we passed one group on their way down, they stopped briefly to give us a report.

“It’s too windy on the South Col,” they said. “People’s tents are being destroyed.”

We’d heard that the winds were strong, but the predictions were for calmer conditions for the next day, and we hoped it would settle by the time we reached high camp. We decided to press on, using every ounce of stamina and mental focus we had to push against the 70-mile-per-hour winds.

At one point I saw a couple of Sherpas helping a man down the mountain. As they got close enough for me to see his face, I knew immediately what was wrong: he’d gone snow blind.

Snow blindness is damage to the cornea  —usually temporary  —that comes as a result of exposure to UV rays. In snowy conditions, the risk for this condition is higher, since the sun constantly reflects off the ice. On Everest there’s even greater risk due to the extreme elevation and the lack of ozone protection.

How terrifying, I thought. It was challenging enough to come down the steep Lhotse Face with your vision intact; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to attempt it blind.

Pasang was pretty far ahead of me, but I was able to see his movements by periodically lifting my goggles to get a clearer view. At several points I saw him bend over, and other climbers went over to check on him. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t look like his usual strong self. I hope he’s okay, I thought, wishing I were closer so I could find out more information. I kept my pace of resting three to four seconds between each step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step.

Then all at once I heard a huge gust of wind above me. Instinctively I hunkered down to protect myself against whatever was coming over the rock band. Through my limited vision, I looked up to see a gust of spindrift (snow spray from high winds) kicking off above me near the Yellow Band. I was afraid that the extreme winds would push a loose snow slab down on top of me, but it blew right over before disintegrating into the wind.

With gusts like these, I had to be alert at all times. When I finally made it to the last traverse around the Geneva Spur, I heard a loud cracking sound  —almost like a whip. I lifted my goggles in time to see a 100-mile-per-hour mini-tornado circling above me. I’d never witnessed anything like it before. It gained speed and hurled large rocks as if they were mere pebbles. I knelt down and grabbed the fixed line, ducking my head and preparing myself for a ride. But just as quickly as the twister had started, it was over.

I stood there in disbelief, trying to process what had just happened. At such high altitudes, with little to no protection, you simply can’t predict what the weather will do. I had just witnessed a rare anomaly of nature  —one that could have had disastrous consequences. I pulled my water bottle from my pack, unclipped my oxygen mask, and took two mouthfuls of water. Then I continued to make my way up.

As I climbed over the Geneva Spur, I tried to take in the views. I had heard it was a beautiful stretch of the journey, but it was difficult to see anything through my frozen goggles. Every once in a while I’d look under my goggles to get a glimpse of the mountainous grandeur surrounding me.

The summit of Everest is intimidating under any circumstances, but now, as I watched 70-mile-per-hour winds tearing up to the top, I could only stand there in awe.

I stopped to get a quick snack and some water, and then I took out my camera, managing to snap a few pictures before it froze and stopped working. I knew I just had to warm up the battery to revive it, but I decided to keep it stashed for now. These weren’t exactly prime conditions for touristy photos.

The Geneva Spur arches in such a way that you can’t see high camp until you’re actually there. It was hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other without being able to tell if I was making progress or how much farther I had to go. Then all at once, I looked up and saw various tents and oxygen bottles scattered around the icy, rocky ground. I exhaled, my relief mixed with joy. I made it to the highest camp in the world!

With the combination of the rough weather conditions and the major elevation gain, from 23,000 feet to 26,000 feet, this climb to the South Col had been one of the hardest days of climbing so far.

But my adrenaline was pumping now. In five hours, we’d be attempting the summit.

I staggered around the windy camp, stumbling on rocks with my crampons, and wondering how I’d find Pasang. From a distance, I saw a Sherpa wearing a down suit that looked like Pasang’s and made my way over to him.

“Hi, Pasang,” I called.

But when he turned, I realized it wasn’t him. The Sherpa pointed me in the other direction, indicating that I might find Pasang on the other side of camp.

I set out in search of a familiar face, and finally Pasang stuck his head out of a tent.

“Hi, Brian,” he said.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

He brushed my question aside, waving me into the tent.

We rested for a while, wearing oxygen at a low rate. The winds raged around us, and I was sure that the flimsy walls of our tent would be shredded at any moment. The wind gusts consistently hammered one side of the tent, compressing the poles, and the sound of the flapping fabric was deafening. With the overwhelming sense that the walls were closing in around me, I was tempted to burst out of the tent and run to safety. But where would I run? I wondered. I had no choice but to sit there and pray that Mountain Hardwear had stitched each seam correctly.

I handed Pasang my goggles and showed him the crack that had appeared when they fell. The goggles still had a frozen layer between the lenses, so I decided to rip out the cracked layer. Both sides of the broken plastic came out clean, leaving a single layer. Perfect! I thought. Now I’ll be able to scrape them off, and I’ll actually be able to see when I make my summit attempt. There was only one problem  —and a significant one, although I didn’t realize it at the time: I had just cut my UV protection in half. And I’d done so in a place where the ultraviolet radiation is 100 percent higher than it is at sea level.

•

Pasang radioed base camp to check the weather forecast. Would we be able to make our summit attempt? After a few minutes, we received a Swedish forecast and a Seattle forecast about Everest’s weather, which seemed to agree with each other. I had to smile at the thought that my home city was predicting the forecast for me now that I was halfway around the world. Twenty- to fifty-mile-per-hour winds were expected on the summit, there was no precipitation, and the temperatures were well within our range.

“What do you think?” Pasang asked me.

“Well, it sounds like we won’t have any traffic jams,” I said with a smile. You wouldn’t expect a place like Everest to get congested, but with the fixed lines, you pretty much have to climb single file. And with a short climbing season and limited weather windows, there can be a lot of waiting time, which isn’t good for the toes and fingers.

Pasang agreed and radioed down to the rest of our group that we were going to set out at 7 p.m. Bill was still a day behind, and he and Lakpa would move to high camp while we were heading for the summit. That meant we would be the only two people going for the summit, which is extremely rare. Some people (only a couple of whom were successful) had made attempts the day before during harsher winds, and several other climbers were waiting until the following day for calmer conditions.

Pasang and I were both feeling strong, so we figured we’d take off early, hit the summit, and return before the real winds started. And then if anything went wrong in between, we’d be able to turn back and still get to the South Col before conditions changed.

As I lay there on my sleeping bag that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking, I’m at the highest camp in the world! Inside the bright orange walls of the tent, I could have been any place on earth. I’d been inside countless tents like this in the past. I’d smelled the same stale air mixed with low-flow oxygen. I’d heard the same whipping of wind outside. But this time it was different. This time it was Everest.

I stared up at the ceiling and watched the poles compress with each fierce gust. After a while, the wind started to calm down until it was merely a gentle breeze. Then it became silent, aside from our slow breathing behind oxygen masks.

Pasang was quieter than usual. I noticed that he didn’t quite seem like himself, but I was in my own world, trying to take in this surreal situation. After all the training and preparation, I was about to get out of my tent at 26,000 feet and start walking toward the summit of Mount Everest!

Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, please watch over us as we make this summit attempt. Please guide us and keep us safe. Thank you for your faithfulness and for everything you’ve provided for me. I’m grateful for the abilities you’ve given me, and I’m thankful to have this opportunity. Please take care of my family and give them peace. Amen.