CHAPTER 7

SOLO ASCENT

LORD, you are my strength and my protection, my safe place in times of trouble.

JEREMIAH 16:19, NCV

ON MAY 14, our summit attempt date, I didn’t sleep a wink. We were scheduled to make the final climb later that evening, and although my main goal for the day was to take it easy, my body and my mind were whirling too rapidly for me to get much rest. After a dinner of soup and noodles, I lay on my sleeping bag, alone with my thoughts. I’m only 3,000 feet and nine hours away from standing on the highest place on earth! I could barely get my mind around the idea.

It was hard not to overthink things, but I tried to control my excitement so I could focus on each task at hand. Pasang and I geared up in silence, putting on our crampons and harnesses and checking our oxygen. The sun was just dipping below the mountains, and the moon was glowing silver on the horizon. The moon was almost full that evening, and the wind had died down significantly over the course of the day, so the conditions would be perfect for a night climb.

As I stood in the fading rays of sunlight on the South Col, I took some pictures to try to capture the moment.

The spell was broken when I heard the crackle of Pasang’s radio.

“We’re heading up the hill,” he reported to the rest of our Sherpa crew down at lower camps. Our summit attempt was on!

Shortly after eight o’clock, we left the safety of our tents and made our way toward our ultimate destination. After crossing the quarter mile of the South Col, we began the steep mile that leads up to the Balcony, which at 27,500 feet is usually considered the halfway mark. Shortly after we started, I felt a dreaded pulsing in my head. Oh no, I thought. Lord, please don’t let this be an altitude problem. After all my preparation, I really wanted to reach the top.

We took a moment to rest, and I told Pasang, “I’m afraid I have the beginnings of a headache.”

“Headache is not good. Go back?”

I was surprised  —it wasn’t like him to want to turn back so quickly. “Let me get some water and a snack first.”

I sat down and took out my thermos, and to my relief, the headache passed within a few minutes.

We made our way up the bulletproof ice and across a bumpy area called “the ice bulge.” I noticed that my headlamp was getting dim, even though I’d just replaced the batteries, so I swapped it out with a spare headlamp I’d brought along. Suddenly the path lit up before us.

That’s about when my second wind kicked in. I started moving efficiently up the mountain, moving ahead of Pasang, who was carrying extra bottles of oxygen. I didn’t know it at the time, but I later found out he vomited most of the way up. As I continued climbing, I noticed the way the moon reflected my shadow against the snow. My silhouette was with me the entire climb, keeping me company.

It’s hard to explain, but even though I was climbing alone, I didn’t feel alone. Researchers have studied this phenomenon, often called the “Third Man Factor,” in which people in survival situations, such as climbing Everest, trekking through Antarctica, or sailing solo around the world, experience a presence by their side, helping them succeed. I’d never experienced anything similar before that night, but I was grateful to have the company. I didn’t really take the time to analyze the phenomenon at the time, but looking back, I now realize how true it was  —I really wasn’t alone. God was present with me every step of the way. The Bible puts it this way: “The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:8).

I hoped that whatever JoAnna was doing right now, she felt that same presence I did. Our faith in Christ was what kept us grounded  —both when we were together, raising our kids and going about our daily lives, and when we were apart, facing the challenges that come with a lifestyle like mine.

I was raised Lutheran, and my family went to church every so often, but it wasn’t much of a personal thing for me when I was growing up. JoAnna, on the other hand, was raised Southern Baptist, and she and her family sat in the front row every Sunday.

When I joined the military, my faith gradually became a central part of my life. It wasn’t like I set out to become spiritual or anything, but at boot camp, you had the choice of working out on Sundays or escaping by attending church. There was never an empty pew. I don’t remember the actual date, but a couple of years after boot camp, after hearing more about who God was at church and reading more about him in the Bible, I asked Jesus Christ into my heart.

JoAnna and I had been dating for almost a year at the time, and we had just gotten into an argument about something. I was really down and decided to go surfing by myself to clear my head. I paddled out into the ocean on my board and floated up and down with the current, waiting for a break to catch. As I sat there floating on my board at Sunset Cliffs, watching the gentle rise and fall of the tide, I wasn’t praying or thinking about God, but out of nowhere, I felt a surge of life enter my body. I looked up as the clouds parted and fingers of light stretched toward the ocean waves, illuminating a pod of dolphins that were catching the surf. I sat there with an overwhelming sense of purpose.

“Jesus, I give myself to you,” I prayed. “Please take control of my life. I want to live completely for you.” It was a beautiful entry into the new me, and each day since, it has been a journey of getting to know God better. That day as I sat on the beach, I had no way of knowing that my journey would take me to the top of a mountain one day.

The route was a steep incline made of frozen snow, ice, and rock. I moved consistently, taking frequent rest steps and doing pressure breathing. The only sound I heard was my breath, flowing in and out through my oxygen mask. I started to see remnants of fixed lines from past years scattered on the path.

In the past, climbing expeditions regularly left gear and supplies all over the mountain. The mentality was that if you didn’t need it anymore, there was no reason to lug the extra weight with you. And at that altitude, most people are doing everything they can to survive, so cleaning up on the descent tends to be a low priority in the death zone.

But over the years, as more people have climbed Everest and there’s growing awareness about caring for the environment, climbers tend to be more diligent about cleaning up after themselves. Plus, there have been a number of expeditions sent out in recent years with the sole purpose of cleaning up the gear from previous years. Even so, you can still find tattered tents, old anchors, fixed lines, dead bodies, and empty oxygen canisters strewn on the mountain.

I kept my focus and was diligent about staying attached to the rope at all times. I made sure to remain on the right lines  —yellow with black stripes for this season. I trusted the Sherpas’ diligence in anchoring the route, but each time I approached a new anchor, I still checked to make sure the anchor was fastened securely into the ice. Even if they’d been installed properly, anchors can wobble loose over time  —either from overuse or from the sun melting the snow around the base. If they remain deep in the snow and ice, though, the freezing temps at night will solidify them for the next day’s climbs.

Halfway to the Balcony, I had to negotiate up and around some rocky terrain. I kept looking back for Pasang, but he continued to get farther behind. I wasn’t too concerned since it’s common for climbers to get into different grooves, especially if you aren’t roped to each other. I just figured he was moving at his own pace, so I decided to make my way to the flat Balcony and wait for him there. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but this last section seemed steeper than the rest of the route. I couldn’t see how much farther I had to go, so I continued placing one foot in front of the other. That was the only way I would get there.

By the time I made it to the Balcony, I could barely see Pasang’s headlamp down below. While I waited, I noticed some other headlamps heading up Lhotse directly across from me. Are they looking this way? I wondered. Are they curious about whose single headlamp is moving up Everest?

I also saw an electrical storm in the distance, which looked like an air bombing you might see footage of in a news report about a war-torn country. I took out my video camera and filmed the storm so I could research what I was seeing when I got home. Then I turned off the camera and just took in the moment. The silence was eerie, broken only by periodic wind gusts and my slow breaths through the oxygen mask.

Standing there at the Balcony, I couldn’t help but think about Beck Weathers and his miraculous descent 15 years prior. Beck was a part of the 1996 tragedy that unfolded in Mount Everest’s death zone. A previous eye surgery had made his eyes more sensitive, and he had lost his vision as a result of the high altitude and the exposure to ultraviolet radiation. He became blind at the very spot I was standing.

Beck’s group, led by Rob Hall, had continued up toward the summit while he stayed behind and waited for their return. After an unexpected storm engulfed the mountain, eight people died. Rob Hall, a guide from New Zealand, could have made it down safely but opted to bivouac with another client, Doug Hansen, who ended up dying during the night. Rob perished 30 hours later, but before he passed away, he was patched through via radio and satellite phone to his pregnant wife back home to say some final words. His body still remains on the mountain, although it’s out of view from the normal route. Rob’s wife, Jan, said that’s where he would have wanted to stay, so no one has tried to recover his body.

A couple of the other group members managed to make it back down to where Beck remained  —suffering from frostbite and hypothermia, but still alive. They short roped him down to the South Col, but the whiteout conditions forced them to stop and hunker down for the night before they reached camp. The temperature dipped below –100 degrees Fahrenheit that night, and without protection against the elements, Beck went into a hypothermic coma. He was presumed dead and left behind. In the morning, a couple of Sherpas found Beck still breathing and put together a massive rescue to get him down the mountain. He ended up losing both hands and needing reconstructive surgery on his severely frostbitten nose. As remarkable as his story was, it wasn’t one I was hoping to re-create.

It was pretty cold on the Balcony, so I kept pacing to stay warm. I was so tired that I could have closed my eyes and slept right there, but I knew that would be a recipe for disaster. Plus, it was so cold that my eyelids froze shut when I blinked, so I tried not to shut them any more than I had to. I was sure my eyelashes were being ripped off with each blink.

Finally, after about an hour of waiting, I saw Pasang making his way up to the Balcony.

“Do you have extra water?” Pasang asked. He took a swig of my water and immediately vomited.

Wiping his mouth, he said, “I don’t feel good.” He held out the water bottle.

“Keep it,” I said. “Can you continue? Or do we need to head back down?” I’d never seen him ill before, and I was concerned.

“No, I’ll be okay,” he insisted. “Let’s go.”

We rested for a little while on the Balcony, and I was relieved to see that he managed to keep down a CLIF BAR. We both swapped out our oxygen bottles in preparation for the second half of the climb to the summit. I was still concerned about Pasang’s condition, especially since we were alone on the mountain. But he assured me he wanted to keep climbing, so we headed up across the first ridge toward the South Rock Step.

After about 20 feet, my headlamp went dead. I knew that batteries burn more quickly in high altitudes and cold weather, but I couldn’t believe it had happened already  —I’d just put in new ones before our summit push. Changing the battery was no small task in the cold. I tried to pry open the battery area with my gloves on, but I wasn’t able to get it. I had to expose my bare fingers to the air so I could wedge my fingernail into the slot. I put in the new batteries, and the headlamp came to life, lighting up the entire side of the mountain.

I reached into my down suit to put the old batteries into one of my pockets when Pasang asked for them. I dropped them in his open mitten, and he immediately turned and threw them off the side of the mountain. So much for leaving no trace behind!

We continued up the snowy ridge to almost 28,000 feet. The ridge was corniced over, and my crampons punched through in a couple of areas. I made sure to stay to the left side, which was more solid. Once we’d made our way across, Pasang put his hand on my arm.

“Brian, I’m too sick to continue,” he said. “If I go with you, it will be danger for me.”

I pulled up my oxygen mask so I could talk. “Do you need me to go down with you?”

“No, I’ll wait for you at the Balcony.” He gave me a serious look. “You summit alone.”

He rummaged in his pack. “Here is the radio. And extra oxygen.” Pasang placed the orange oxygen cylinder in the snow for me to retrieve on my descent.

I was disappointed that Pasang wouldn’t be able to summit  —both for his sake and for mine  —but I knew he was making the smart decision based on his condition. You have to listen to your body as soon as you know you’re not going to make it  —the top of the mountain isn’t the time to negotiate.

Now I had to make a decision: would I make the summit attempt solo? I had to weigh the risk versus the reward. This was a critical moment.

I had soloed plenty of other mountains in the past, so I wasn’t worried from that perspective. But then again, this was Mount Everest. I ran through a mental checklist, trying to be logical and analytical about my decision. Other than being sleepy, I felt strong and didn’t have any signs of acute mountain sickness. The weather was calm, and although I might face some wind gusts up higher, it didn’t look like there would be anything worth turning back over. I didn’t have any checks inside me indicating it would be unwise to continue on by myself.

The biggest question was whether Pasang could descend alone. If he needed help, there was no question about whether I would continue.

“Are you sure you can make it down alone?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he assured me again. I could tell he was a little worried to leave me alone, but he knew that I was capable. “You’re a strong climber. You’ll make it.”

Then, before I could say anything else, he started descending.

I breathed a prayer as I continued up on my own: “Lord, go with me.” I didn’t look back.

•

This wasn’t the first time I’d had to make a tough decision about whether I’d keep pressing on in the face of adversity. During my third week of AIRR training, I made a call home one evening to check in with my family. I knew something was wrong the moment I heard my mom’s shaky voice.

She kept fumbling over her words like she had something to tell me, but she couldn’t seem to choke it out. She knew how tough my training was and didn’t want to upset me with bad news, but eventually I managed to get the truth out.

“It’s your grandpa,” she said. I was really close to my grandfather, and my stomach knotted, wondering what bad news she bore.

“He was diagnosed with cancer.” She took a breath, and I could tell there was more. Apparently he’d seen how much my grandmother had suffered for two miserable years before the cancer took her life. He didn’t want to endure all that himself, so he’d decided to end things quickly. One night, when he was at home alone, he’d stuck a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

My mom just happened to show up minutes later to find him on the floor drowning in his own blood. She called 911, and emergency responders came quickly and were able to revive him.

“The bullet missed his vital organs,” she told me. I could hear the tears in her voice. “They transferred him to the hospital. He’s on life support.”

I faced a major decision in the middle of some of the toughest training the military has to offer. Would I go home to be with my family and see my grandfather? Or would I continue with my training?

Each morning the instructors lined us up in our freshly pressed uniforms for inspection and had us report about anything they needed to know.

The day after I heard the news about my grandpa, the question was the same as every morning: “Do you have any issues to inform us of?”

I stood silent.

I decided to compartmentalize this tragedy  —and my emotions  —and go on with my training.

I made it halfway through the week without telling anyone the news. I poured even more energy into my workouts and passed all the required physical training, but I ended up failing a simple academic exam covering helicopter search-and-rescue equipment. My mind was too distracted to focus on anything else.

One of the instructors screamed into my face, “How could you be so stupid? You’ll never amount to anything.”

I wanted to retaliate in anger, but instead I took a deep breath and shared about my grandpa’s situation. Much to my surprise, he continued yelling at me for not telling him earlier.

But before I knew it, I was on an emergency flight home to visit my grandpa in the Rogue Valley Medical Center. It was heartbreaking to see him lying helpless on the hospital bed, attached to tubes and surrounded by all sorts of beeping monitors. When I was a kid, I’d always thought of him as the strongest person in the world. He’d been a US Navy sailor during World War II and had manned the guns on the front of the ship. I grew up hearing stories about how he’d shot down enemy planes as they approached. He was a tough guy, but he had a soft side too, and when he came back from the war, he swept my grandma off her feet. Now, as he lay there looking like a shell of the man he’d once been, he told me something I’ll never forget.

“I’m proud of you, Brian,” he said. “I know your training is difficult, but do what you have to do, and be the best at what you do.” It was the last time I saw him, but those words sank deep. I flew back to Pensacola with a renewed commitment to finish my training well. It’s what Grandpa would have wanted.

And now, as I set off to finish my Everest climb solo, Grandpa’s words echoed in my ears. I wanted to complete what I’d committed to, and I wanted to do it the very best I could.

Although summiting alone wasn’t the scenario I’d planned out, I felt confident and comfortable as I set out solo around three o’clock in the morning. Back home I usually trained alone, so the motions felt familiar. When I wasn’t thinking about being on Mount Everest, it seemed like I could have been on any of the Washington peaks near my home. And even more than before, I had the strong feeling that I was definitely not alone. That assurance gave me a sense of comfort, encouragement, and safety.

And in a way, the fixed lines up to the summit were a guide for me. I kept my grip on them, and they led me up the mountain one step at a time.

Without having to consider anyone else’s schedule, I was able to move at my own comfortable pace. Just past 28,000 feet I reached the South Rock Step, which was strewn with fixed lines. I was surprised to discover how difficult this portion of the climb was. I hadn’t read much about the area in my research since it tends to get overshadowed by the Hillary Step in books and movies.

I’d painted a mental picture of this spot based on the little I had read, but in this case the reality didn’t look anything like what I’d imagined. The South Rock Step was a mid-fifth-class rock. I’d climbed rocks in tougher classes back home, but not at this altitude. If I’d been in Washington, a rock like this would be something I’d free-climb, with little or no protection. But above 28,000 feet, each step was an effort  —and each rock scramble was triple the effort.

I wedged my crampon in the crack of a rock and then hoisted myself up with my jumar, which was attached to the fixed rope. Then I forced myself to rest for a moment, giving my heart rate a chance to return to normal. As I took three or four deep breaths, I looked up to negotiate my next move. I inched my way up the line, finding footholds to wedge my crampon points into and other areas to grip with my hands. The distance was short  —only about 150 feet  —but at a 60-degree angle and with the slippery rock conditions, I was surprised how quickly it drained my energy.

At about four-thirty in the morning, a halo of light hugged the horizon, indicating the sun was about to make its appearance. I was exactly where Pasang and I had planned we’d be at sunrise. Seeing the edge of sunlight gave me a new boost of energy. After a long night of climbing, this was a visible sign that I was making progress and nearing my goal. I paused for a moment to take it all in. Everest was casting its famous pyramid shadow over the Himalayas, and the valley was lighting up with a cascade of colors. I’d seen plenty of pictures of this scene, but none could come close to witnessing it firsthand.

I pulled out my video camera from one of my many pockets. I’d preset all the pockets with which items went where so I’d know exactly where everything was. This had saved me from a lot of fumbling around in the dark, trying to find sunblock, snacks, lip balm, and batteries. A familiar chime entered the air as I powered up the device, trying to capture this majestic moment. Seconds later the chime rang again, indicating that the camera had shut off. It had already frozen solid. It wouldn’t be usable again until days later, when I would be able to let it thaw out and recharge on my laptop. I hoped I wouldn’t lose the footage I’d gotten so far.

I put the video camera back into my pocket and continued my steady pace toward the South Summit, urged forward by the rising sun. The last snow hill leading up to the South Summit was fairly steep, and each step winded me. I was eager to reach the top, but I patiently took five seconds between each step. And then, finally, I breached the summit, where I sat to rest for a few minutes. As I paused to reflect on how far I’d come, my eyes started welling with tears, but I kept them in check. This wasn’t the true summit  —I still had another couple of hundred vertical feet to complete before I could truly celebrate. I pressed on.

I walked across a major ridge called the Cornice Traverse. It’s only a few feet wide, and according to Everest lore, it’s a two-mile drop into Nepal on the left and a two-mile drop into Tibet on the right. It’s always good to have options, I suppose. Earlier in the trip, one of the Sherpas had told me a story about his cousin, who had fallen off the cornice into Tibet a few years back.

I wonder what it would be like to fall that far, I thought. Would you pass out and die before impact?

I kept moving, taking small, careful steps and gripping the fixed rope tightly with my jumar. I made it safely past the exposed ridge and then looked to my left. I stopped in my tracks at the sight before me: unclaimed gear that had been recently abandoned.

Pasang and I had heard through the Sherpa grapevine that the Japanese climber Takashi Ozaki had passed away a couple of nights ago, and I figured this gear must have belonged to him. Takashi was legendary in the climbing world, having made the first full ascent of Everest’s North Face. He’d also done winter climbs on six of the world’s 8,000-meter peaks. But despite being in great shape, he’d started showing signs of pulmonary edema when nearing Everest’s summit. He collapsed just a few hundred feet from the top and died later that afternoon.

They must have placed his body somewhere more discreet, I thought. But no one had taken care of his belongings. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, my heart heavy, “please bless this climber’s family. And keep me in your care too.”

It was eerie being the only person on the highest point in the world, thinking of all the other climbers who had died trying to reach this very location. And at that elevation, in the death zone, it’s virtually impossible to carry the dead bodies down since you’re using all the strength and energy you have to survive yourself. Since teams don’t want to put their climbers at risk, they usually leave the bodies where they are or stash them behind surrounding rocks. At this altitude, it’s too high for helicopter access, which means that many of the bodies of dead climbers remain frozen near the summit.

I later found out that Takashi had died below the South Summit, so it wasn’t his gear after all  —it must have been left behind by a previous expedition. But it remained a sobering reminder of the seriousness of what I was undertaking. I wasn’t out of danger yet.

I reached inside my down suit and pulled out my camera. With the arctic temperatures and the fierce winds, I managed to get only one picture before it froze. I was able to put the camera back in my suit for a minute in between shots, allowing the battery to thaw enough to work temporarily. This was a time-consuming process, but eventually I was able to get a handful of pictures. As I snapped the panoramic view before me  —Makalu, Lhotse, Kanchenjunga, Cho Oyu, and the other surrounding Himalayan peaks  —I knew my camera would never capture the vastness of the scene. But I had to try.

The wind was picking up a bit as I reached the famous Hillary Step  —a 40-foot rock climb and the last obstacle before I’d reach the true summit of Mount Everest. The Hillary Step got its name from Sir Edmund Hillary, the first person to successfully summit Mount Everest in 1953 with Tenzing Norgay. There weren’t fixed lines then, so they had to free-climb up the rock obstacle. One wrong move, and they would have fallen for more than two miles to certain death.

At the Hillary Step, I saw dreadlocks of rope hanging all over from years of past climbing. On most of the route, the ropes were well tended by the Sherpas. But above the South Rock Step, there were ropes from the past several decades scattered around. Fortunately, though, the ropes for each year were color coded. I searched around until I found the yellow rope with black stripes and then connected my jumar and safety carabiner to the line.

The Hillary Step is one of the places that can get pretty congested since climbers have to go up one at a time and it can be a time-consuming process to traverse the Step. Since I was the only one summiting that day, I was fortunate to have no wait.

I climbed over the boulders and made my way to the left side, avoiding any potentially hazardous areas. As I was climbing up one of the sections, I saw that there was a deep hole between two boulders. I wonder if there are any bodies stashed inside, I couldn’t help thinking. I forced myself not to look, deciding it was better not to know. Besides, I wanted to show respect to those who had passed away on the great mountain.

I inched my jumar up the thin lines and found placement for my crampons. Then I grabbed the rock with my free hand for balance. Perched high on the vertical rock face, I took a moment to pause and look out at the mountains. I’m really here! I thought. I’m climbing the famous Hillary Step. And then, as I made my way to the top, I saw my ultimate destination. The summit jutted out toward Tibet, with a windswept cornice at the top. It was plastered with prayer flags, white silk scarves, and a couple of bags containing extra fixed-line gear. I was temporarily paralyzed as I stood there, trying to take it all in. My eyes filled with tears, which quickly froze to my goggles. “Thank you, Lord,” I whispered. I felt so much emotion welling up inside that I thought I might burst.

Then all at once I felt a rumble in my stomach alerting me that I had about a two-minute window before I needed to relieve myself. It had been a few days since I had gone, and the body’s clock doesn’t seem to operate based on the location of the most convenient restroom. It took me a while to shed my layers, and as I unzipped the back flap of my down suit, I had to laugh a little at the situation. I’m at the summit of Mount Everest and about to add inches to its elevation, I thought.

I tried to make it quick, as there were tender parts of my skin exposed to the freezing air. A gust of wind came as I was finishing, ripping the toilet paper from my hand and sending it sailing over the summit into China. I guess I just did my business in Nepal and wiped in China, I thought.

I pulled up my layers quickly to prevent frostbite. I’d have hated to explain that injury to people when I got home! I ran into trouble when I tried to zip my back flap, only to discover the zipper was frozen. No matter how hard I pulled, I couldn’t get it to budge. By now my fingers were freezing in the elements. I alternated hands and kept working on the zipper until finally, after a few long minutes, it worked its way up.

I restrapped my back harness straps and took some deep pressure breaths, as the whole incident had taken a lot out of me. In keeping with my desire to leave no trace behind, I decided to kick my handiwork over the cliff into Nepal. Besides, I’m pretty sure future climbers didn’t want that to show up in the background of their summit pictures.

As I approached the summit, the fixed lines turned into thin red ropes, which were tied together with fisherman knots. I had serious doubts that the lines would prevent a major fall, but I tried not to overthink it. Sometimes you just have to trust the equipment and lean on God for the rest. I slowly made my way across the final traverse, hunkering down every few seconds as strong gusts of wind threatened to knock me down.

And then it was the moment I’d been planning for, training for, dreaming about, and praying about for months  —years, even. As I took my final step to the top, I saw my entire journey flash through my mind. All the climbs I’d made back home, before everyone else woke up. The countless conversations I’d had with JoAnna leading up to the decision to go. Saying good-bye to Emily and Jordan and then sitting on the stairs crying so hard it hurt. Watching JoAnna running through the airport to give me one last kiss before I departed. The weeks of travel to get to Nepal and then through countless villages on my way to Everest. Visiting the orphanage and giving gifts to the underserved children there. My headaches and swelling when I first arrived at base camp, leading me to wonder if I would even make it above 17,500 feet. The pivotal moment when I successfully climbed Island Peak. The many trips through the Khumbu Icefall, risking danger to create the blood cells I needed so I could make it at higher altitudes. The closeness with God I’d felt as I took in the striking views of the Himalayas. And of course the homesickness and isolation I’d endured as a result of being separated from my family for so long.

And then my crampon spikes pierced the windblown ice just below the bundle of prayer flags. I had soloed the summit of Mount Everest. I had the top of the world to myself! At this moment I am physically higher than any person on earth. I could hardly believe it was true.

“Thank you, Lord,” I said, kneeling down. “Thank you.” The tears flowed as a jumble of emotions coursed through my body. I felt everything from exhaustion to dehydration to pride to joy to gratitude to disbelief. Is this really happening? I wondered. In some ways the moment seemed utterly surreal.

And then, all too soon, it was time to think about turning back. I’d spent more than a month trying to reach this point, and now I could only stay for a short time.

I thought about the quote given to me by Chuck Thuot, an early climbing pioneer and a family friend. In his seven decades of life, Chuck has traveled all over the world and has climbed many impressive peaks, including Mount Logan (the highest peak in Canada), Denali, and Kilimanjaro, and he was one of the first people to climb Vinson Massif in Antarctica. He had his sights on Everest but was forced to reconsider when he was diagnosed with heart issues.

He had this quote by writer and poet René Daumal framed for me, and it perfectly captures the why of mountain climbing:

You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again, so why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art in conducting oneself in the lower region by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.

The true summit is a small point that can fit only a few people. I’d heard that the north side, toward the Tibetan route, has a gorgeous view, but with the high winds and the 10,000-foot drop to the east, I decided not to risk peering over in that direction. I pulled out my camera and took a couple of self-portraits with the summit and prayer flags behind me. If I’d been up there with other people, we would have high fived, hugged, relived the highlights, and taken each other’s pictures, but I was on my own. I savored my greatest mountain-climbing accomplishment alone, knowing I wasn’t planning to return.

I had hoped to make a modified tripod so I could get banner pictures for my sponsors, but it was too cold and windy. I figured my sponsors would rather have me return in one piece than have a great photo anyway.

I sat down to gain my composure so I could make a radio call to the rest of the group. I was so choked up that I had to make a couple of run-throughs with the radio off. I didn’t want them to hear my voice cracking. After three practice runs, I came off my oxygen and placed the call: “Calling all camps, this is Brian, checking in from the summit of Mount Everest!”

Almost immediately, I heard a roar of congratulatory remarks from all the camps manned by our Sherpa crew. Once the cheering died down, Bill came through from Camp III. He was excited to hear that his company had successfully put a person on the summit of the highest mountain on earth. And he was also happy for me.

“Congratulations, Brian!” he said. “Enjoy the top, and be sure that you and Pasang give us a radio call once you make it down from the South Summit.”

That’s right, I thought. No one knows I’m alone up here!

“Sounds good,” I responded. “But Pasang felt sick and went back down a few hours ago.”

Bill took a moment to absorb that information and then came back on the radio. “Okay,” he said. “Be safe, and call us on the way down. Over.”

“Roger that!” I replied. Then I turned down the volume a bit.

What I didn’t realize until later was that I’d turned not the volume knob but rather the digital frequency knob. That changed the preset channel I was using.

After the radio call, Bill asked Lakpa, one of the climbing Sherpas, how long it would take someone like me to descend from the summit.

“Someone like Brian?” Lakpa said. “Two to three hours.”

They didn’t hear from me again for seven hours.