In the blustery spring of 2005 I spent two nights with Dave Hahn on Mt Everest’s South Col. On the day in-between those two nights we ascended the summit of Mt. Everest. What follows is the story of that day. It’s ups and downs, it’s drama, it’s incredible beauty and emotion. It’s taken me over three years to fully appreciate the impact of that day and do it justice by putting it into words. So let’s begin the story, which starts and ends at one of the most infamous patches of rocky ground on the planet: the South Col of Mt. Everest.
The previous day, Dave and I had arrived to the South Col around noon. In the time-honored tradition, we spent the afternoon eating, drinking, and resting in the tent…but with a Death Zone twist. We played, at least to our knowledge, the world’s highest game of Scrabble. A rousing game, I wish to point out (to Dave’s chagrin), won on the last play by a triple word score for “uppity.” I know, I know, that’s a pathetic, elderly grandma type of word (with all due apologies to elderly grandmas), but not bad for 8000 meters.
Dave took the game, along with everything else, in stride. He left the tent for about an hour to stroll around the litter-infested South Col looking for climbing artifacts: old oxygen bottles, tents, stoves, whatever. He does that every time he’s up there. While he was gone, I conducted an 8000 meter oxygen-saturation experiment on myself. I started by measuring my tent-air, baseline oxygen saturation with a portable pulse oximeter. It was 78%. At sea level, that reading would normally put you in the intensive care unit. After strapping on an oxygen mask and slowly dialing up the regulator, my oxygen saturation did not increase until I hit 4 liters a minute of flow. Only then did my saturations increase over 90%, which is considered normal at sea level. Wow. How does that explain why I feel so good when I’m climbing, presumably with low oxygen saturations, on the standard 2 liters a minutes? The question was too tough for my oxygen-deprived mind to handle. I briefly dozed waiting for Dave to return to the tent.
As night fell, Dave and I wrapped ourselves in down-filled cocoons and tried to calm our minds. For me, it was surreal. I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, breathing slowly and carefully. An oxygen mask lay next to my face with a trickle of the precious gas delivered to my lungs. I heard coughing and stirring from nearby tents. My mind wandered. Back to home, forward to summit day, back to the climb so far. After a while, I thought of nothing.
At 8PM, after just two hours or so of dozing, we started to stir. Dave stared the stove. We boiled water and made tea and oatmeal. But most importantly, we listened to the wind, or lack of it. Incredibly, after too many days of jet stream gales, the South Col was still. I held my breath for an instant and thought, “We might summit today.”
The last thing we did in the tent, just before getting out, was one of Dave’s many high-altitude tricks: we re-boiled all of our water, four liters, before putting it in bottles and insulating sleeves. That way, hopefully, our water wouldn’t freeze during the day in the sub-zero temperatures. It does no good to carry two liters of frozen water in your pack.
At 9:50 PM I crawled out of our tent to join Dave on the dark, cold moonscape of the South Col. The vast blackness of the night engulfed us. The bitterly cold air was still and penetrating. I was dimly comforted by the light from my headlamp, but even that seemed harsh and bright. Lethargic after only a few hours of fitful rest, I concentrated as hard as I could. In the still air we methodically prepared for our climb: harness on, crampons on, oxygen rigged and on, pack loaded. I looked over at Dave. There was about as much to say as there was gear in our packs. Which was not a lot. There was an oxygen bottle with regulator, emergency high altitude medicine, extra mittens and a couple of liters of water. That was it. Danuru and Mingma Tenzing (our summit sherpas) were likewise rigging their gear and getting ready. I took a moment to reflect on the situation. It seemed that this moment was what I had been waiting for my entire life. Poised at the South Col, in the cold and dark, ready to set off for the summit of Mt. Everest. I was not nervous. I was alive with concentration. It’s funny how a little adrenaline alters your perceptions. I smiled to myself, realizing I was as ready as I would ever be.
And ready I was. After a decade of concentrated effort, including difficult alpine and high-altitude climbs in other parts of the world, I felt I had completed my apprenticeship for an Everest bid. But even though I was a capable climber, I still lacked many things. First off, I was a Himalayan rookie. How can one just walk in, first time off, and plan stand on the highest point on the planet? For me, it just wasn’t going to happen. My dream would remain just that. Aside from that I lacked logistics, communications, supplies and Sherpas. The odds were against me, in a big way. So it was pretty simple decision to ask Dave Hahn to guide me to the summit of Mt. Everest. And supported by International Mountain Guides, my chances of summiting increased considerably. But after all my preparation, I still knew there were no guarantees. A lot can happen in two months on a big mountain. So I took my number and took my chances.
I didn’t really think of myself as a typical Everest client. But seen from the outside, I guess I was typical in some ways. I had a stash of money and a dream. But rather signing up and being part of a large climbing group, sheparded to the top and corralled back to Base Camp, I envisioned Everest climbing as freedom. I dreamt of moving as part of a small, independent team, quickly and efficiently. Naïve, perhaps, but with the right person, I thought I could do it. When I met Dave at a Vietnamese restaurant in Salt Lake City a year before the climb, I knew I had my man. A veteran of multiple Everest expeditions, a guide of small and large groups, I knew Dave could take that experience and craft it into a one-of-a-kind climbing trip. Yes, I knew we would be part of a larger group, but when we were climbing together, we would be independent and inseparable.
As part of this trip, I knew Dave was in charge and had his responsibilities. First and foremost was my well-being. And his well-being, too. But I also knew that I would have some input along the way. We would take care of each other. We would inquire and respond to how the other was doing. And we would support each other through the long waits that inevitably (I was told) took place in 8000 meter climbing.
So far, 2005 had been a tough year for Everest climbers. High winds had kept all teams from summiting during the traditional early-to mid-May climbing season. Eventually, summits from the North side began to occur in late May, but it was a different matter from the South side. As of May 28, a full two weeks after the traditional “summit window”, no one had been up Everest’s southeast flank. In the entire history of Everest climbing, this could be the latest first summit date ever. Some people, including many Sherpas, thought that no one would summit this year. They said, “Perhaps the mountain needs a rest. Perhaps next year.” And many climbers, either impatient or tired, heeded that advice and started to go back down the Khumbu valley toward Khatmandu.
I didn’t really think of myself as a typical Everest client. But seen from the outside, I guess I was typical in some ways. I had a stash of money and a dream. But rather signing up and being part of a large climbing group, sheparded to the top and corralled back to Base Camp, I envisioned Everest climbing as freedom. I dreamt of moving as part of a small, independent team, quickly and efficiently. Naïve, perhaps, but with the right person, I thought I could do it. When I met Dave at a Vietnamese restaurant in Salt Lake City a year before the climb, I knew I had my man. A veteran of multiple Everest expeditions, a guide of small and large groups, I knew Dave could take that experience and craft it into a one-of-a-kind climbing trip. Yes, I knew we would be part of a larger group, but when we were climbing together, we would be independent and inseparable.
As part of this trip, I knew Dave was in charge and had his responsibilities. First and foremost was my well-being. And his well-being, too. But I also knew that I would have some input along the way. We would take care of each other. We would inquire and respond to how the other was doing. And we would support each other through the long waits that inevitably (I was told) took place in 8000 meter climbing.
So far, 2005 had been a tough year for Everest climbers. High winds had kept all teams from summiting during the traditional early-to mid-May climbing season. Eventually, summits from the North side began to occur in late May, but it was a different matter from the South side. As of May 28, a full two weeks after the traditional “summit window”, no one had been up Everest’s southeast flank. In the entire history of Everest climbing, this could be the latest first summit date ever. Some people, including many Sherpas, thought that no one would summit this year. They said, “Perhaps the mountain needs a rest. Perhaps next year.” And many climbers, either impatient or tired, heeded that advice and started to go back down the Khumbu valley toward Khatmandu.
But our team had something else in mind. Dave and Danuru had ten Everest summits split equally between them. This was Mingma Tenzing’s first try. Even though we had all been waiting with everybody else, we were still keen to make a go of it, even if it didn’t work out. We all understood how the Everest game is played: the mountain is in charge. You are a speck of dust in a windstorm, a grain of sand on the beach. Your presence on the flank of the mountain is insignificant to the world. Your ego just tells you this is important. The mountain knows otherwise.
As the expedition wore on, and the time for summiting came closer, it became clear to me that our chances to summit rested squarely on my shoulders. If I couldn’t do it, we, meaning Dave, Danuru, Mingma Tenzing and myself, would all turn around. If I gave out, if I had a bad day, if I didn’t take care of myself , then all four of us would descend. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to disappoint such talented and capable partners. So when the time came, I got myself together, put my ice axe leash on my wrist and walked out of our Camp Four toward the summit of Mt. Everest.
Just after 10 PM, I followed Dave’s businesslike strides out of the South Col toward the Triangular Face. Danuru and Mingma Tenzing were behind us. About eight people were ahead of us. Nobody spoke. Our world was a 10 by 10 foot spot from our headlamps. Our mouths and noses were covered in oxygen masks. We passed other climbers. Other climbers passed us. Although I was a veteran of dozens of pre-dawn starts and approaches in the dark, climbing in the pitch black with an oxygen mask and headlamp felt claustrophobic and awkward. But I felt reassured that Dave was close by. That’s exactly why I decided to go with him in the first place, in a one on one situation rather than with a large group. I felt we were well matched. We formed a good team. He gave me confidence in an alien, hostile environment. And I know if he could do it, so could I. But I also knew that bad things can happen on Everest trip, summit day in particular. I had to hold up my end of the bargain by taking care of myself and making good decisions. And I also knew that although I might be surrounded by incredible Everest horsepower, with Dave in front and two strong summit sherpas behind, I had to get to the top and down on my own.
As the expedition wore on, and the time for summiting came closer, it became clear to me that our chances to summit rested squarely on my shoulders. If I couldn’t do it, we, meaning Dave, Danuru, Mingma Tenzing and myself, would all turn around. If I gave out, if I had a bad day, if I didn’t take care of myself , then all four of us would descend. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to disappoint such talented and capable partners. So when the time came, I got myself together, put my ice axe leash on my wrist and walked out of our Camp Four toward the summit of Mt. Everest.
Just after 10 PM, I followed Dave’s businesslike strides out of the South Col toward the Triangular Face. Danuru and Mingma Tenzing were behind us. About eight people were ahead of us. Nobody spoke. Our world was a 10 by 10 foot spot from our headlamps. Our mouths and noses were covered in oxygen masks. We passed other climbers. Other climbers passed us. Although I was a veteran of dozens of pre-dawn starts and approaches in the dark, climbing in the pitch black with an oxygen mask and headlamp felt claustrophobic and awkward. But I felt reassured that Dave was close by. That’s exactly why I decided to go with him in the first place, in a one on one situation rather than with a large group. I felt we were well matched. We formed a good team. He gave me confidence in an alien, hostile environment. And I know if he could do it, so could I. But I also knew that bad things can happen on Everest trip, summit day in particular. I had to hold up my end of the bargain by taking care of myself and making good decisions. And I also knew that although I might be surrounded by incredible Everest horsepower, with Dave in front and two strong summit sherpas behind, I had to get to the top and down on my own.
The slope steepened and the fixed ropes came. I silently clipped in my ascender. I used gloves, not mittens, because of the manual dexterity required to handle the ascender’s release. I focused on the climbing, kept monitoring my hands and feet for frostbite and hoped Dave’s steady pace would allow us to generate enough body heat to keep going.
At about 2 AM, after ascending a moderate snow gully, we reached the Balcony at 27,500’. It was bitterly cold, with a stiff wind coming from the left. As per our pre-arraigned plan, Danuru and Mingma Tenzing took out fresh oxygen bottles for Dave and I. Danuru changed the regulators quickly and efficiently. I noted that Danuru had on thin gloves allowing him to handle the metal oxygen tanks while minimizing the risk of frostbite. Another example of attention to detail that kept problems from happening.
After getting re-settled, we trudged on up the dark ridge toward the South Summit. After about 10 minutes, the vision out of my left eye became blurry. I yelled to Dave. When I looked at him, the light from his headlamp was a blurry halo. “What’s going on? You OK?,” he said.
“I think I froze my left cornea,” I replied.
“Do you have any clear lenses to put on? Can you keep going?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, I have some clear glasses here in my pocket. I’ll keep checking my vision and tell you if it gets worse.” As a doctor, I knew my cornea, if flash-frozen, will recover in a couple of hours. It just needed to be protected. But I also knew that if the vision in my right eye also went blurry, or the left eye worsened I, along with our team, would have to turn back. I had to be honest to myself. I didn’t want to put the group in jeopardy. But I also desperately wanted to summit. It would have been terrible for a preventable problem like a frozen cornea to turn us back. But for then, I was OK, so up we went.
We heard Willie Benegas’s rope-fixing party up ahead of us in the dark. They were approaching the South Summit. Willie kept calling for slack in the rope and then yelling, “Ropes’s fixed!” We gradually caught them, and then begin a long ordeal of waiting while Willie fixed rope. Then we slowly climbed the face once the rope was secure. Most of the climbing was on steep snow, but an occasional awkward rocky patch required care.
At 4 AM we saw a slight hint of light coming up in the east over Tibet. The landscape stretched on and on into the distance. The yawning expanse of Everest’s east face pulled at us. The early dawn is always a mysterious and wonderful time to be high in the mountains, and this time was no exception. By 4:30 AM, it was light enough to put goggles on. The vision in my left eye gradually returned to normal.
At that point, I was thoroughly enjoying our day of climbing. The pull of gravity, the physical exertion, the scenery and the camaraderie filled me with joy. At about 6:30 or so, just below the South Summit, I knew we had it in the bag. The weather was fantastic, with no wind or snow. It was really going to happen. I was going to summit Mt. Everest. I felt a wave of emotion, of sheer love, knowing that a lifelong dream would soon come true. But I also know that I had to control that feeling and focus. No slip-ups here. Those could be fatal. Dave stopped just below the South Summit. We ate, drank and chatted a while. “We’ll arrive at the top of the South Summit, go down about 30 feet, and start the traverse to the Hillary Step. It’s easy, just be careful,” he said. I trusted him.
At the South Summit, I took in the whole scene. Willie was climbing the Hillary Step and fixing rope. Twenty people or so were spread out along the traverse. A moderate-angled gully slanted to the left before it plunged 9000 feet down to Camp 2. Dave and I scampered down and started the traverse toward the Hillary Step. Pretty casual, I thougt. I poked my ice axe through the knife-edge ridge and said to Dave, “Hey, there’s the Kangshung face!” It was 10,000 feet below us. Dave was mildly amused. “Just don’t check it out in person,” he said.
The Hillary Step was something any competent mountaineer can handle. But throw in the fact that you are sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and hypoxic and it becomes a bit more serious. We turned our oxygen flow up to 4 liters a minute took turns climbing Sir Edmund’s 30 feet of glory. With one hand full old rope and the other clutching the ascender, I yarded up the thing and soon, with hands on knees, was panting at the top. Dave was standing there, offering encouragement. Just then, I could see the summit, only a few minutes walk away. There was a huge Sherpa party going on there, on a space about the size of a parking stall. Everyone was shouting and hugging each other. I cinched up my axe and slowly, carefully walked up to join them.
From the top, the world seemed to go on and on. Cloudy and green, Nepal was vibrant to the south. Clear and brown, Tibet yawned to the north. I felt I could stay there forever, talking to Dave, taking in the view, trying to absorb what this meant to me. But great moments are always fleeting, and this was one of them. With my oxygen mask off for 20 minutes, I began to get lightheaded. I walked over to Dave to have him help me put it back on. We said our final goodbyes and took our final pictures, and began to descend.Just below the top, I turned to Danuru, our climbing Sherpa, and told him, “Danuru, please keep an eye on me. Go just ahead of me and make sure all of my clips are OK. We’ll look after each other on the way down.” And that was that. Danunu was never more than 10 or so feet away from me on the decent, double-checking that I was doing everything safely. No screw-ups now.
We waited about 45 minutes above the Hillary Step for ascending climbers to clear the path. After it was obvious no clearing was about to occur, Willie Benagas called down to a team of Koreans to stop so we could rappel the step. They obliged, and we quickly moved past them. Danuru and I sped off to the South summit and waited for Dave. When he got to us, he told us he needed to get something to eat and drink because he was feeling poorly. So we all took the chance to get some fluid and calories in our own bodies as well.
The trip down to the Balcony was remarkable for two things: rising winds and the slow steady feeling that something was pulling the plug on me. By the time I got to the Balcony ridge, I was spent. We had already passed several people just lying in the snow. I wondered, would I become one of them? Out of my down suit I pulled two energy gels and sucked them down, followed by a swig of water. I resumed my slow descent, with Danuru just ahead. But after a few minutes of plodding my energy suddenly returned and we rapidly plunge-stepped our way down to flatter terrain and the South Col.
And then we were back at our tent. Safety. Or at least relative safety. The air seemed luxuriously thick, although I knew that was an illusion. It was about 2:30 PM. We had a big lunch of whatever we could get our hands on. We lounged like tourists on the beach. We laughed and told stupid jokes. We accepted congratulations from other IMG team members and the assembled Sherpas. And then soon it was dark. And windy and omninous. We lay there and struggled to find peace and rest. Once it finally came, we slept like sailors drunk on furlough, with nothing to stop us from resting until eternity. There was no tomorrow. In fact, there was no yesterday. Just two tired, satisfied climbers breathing high in the thin, cold air.
