The Mountain

by Ed Viesturs

  Yet having made that decision, I approached the challenge with a lot of trepidation and self-doubt. As early as March 28, I wrote in my diary, “I still wonder what it’s like up there without oxygen—have to see how I do as we go higher. It’d be great to do it without O2—gotta be strong though ’cuz the summit day is gonna be an ass buster, especially coming down wasted. Hope I at least get a chance for the top.”

  Today, a truck road leads through Tibet from Nepal, and a spur leads straight to base camp on the north side of Everest. It’s become a milk run—albeit a bureaucratically tangled one—for trekkers and climbers alike. But in 1987, the north side felt so isolated that Eric claimed it was “like going off to the Moon!” The Great Couloir route that we were going to attack is not the easiest or safest way to climb Everest from the north. In 1924, the third British expedition to the mountain reached the North Col at 23,000 feet via the East Rongbuk Glacier, a hidden tributary that the reconnaissance expedition of 1921 had completely overlooked. From the North Col, a shallow spur leads up to the high crest of the northeast ridge. It was on this route that George Leigh Mallory and Andrew Irvine went for the summit on June 8, 1924, and never returned, launching one of the great mysteries in mountaineering history.

  Our team, however, made no use of the East Rongbuk approach. Instead, we established an advance base camp (ABC) at only 18,300 feet at the head of the Rongbuk Glacier proper. From there, the face sweeps up in a daunting rise of more than 10,000 feet to the distant summit. The face is also far more threatened by falling rocks and avalanches than the North Col/northeast ridge route pioneered in 1924. Although Greg Wilson, George Dunn, and Eric Simonson had all tried Everest before without success, and all three desperately wanted to get to the top, Eric chose the harder north face route because he wanted to finish the line that he and George had attempted in 1982.

  On a three-month expedition, there are bound to be tensions among the climbers. We had a cordial but ambivalent relationship with the Swedish team. Although we shared some meals with them at base camp and benefited greatly from weather forecasts their team received from back home, we had an uneasy truce about the route itself. The Swedes planned to go up the East Rongbuk to the North Col and follow the Mallory-Irvine route along the northeast ridge. It was only late in the expedition that they changed their plans and decided to go diagonally across the north face and go for the top via the Great Couloir, thereby overlapping with our line on the upper half of the mountain. This worried us, because it meant the Swedes would depend on our fixed ropes, and their presence in the Great Couloir might create additional hazards by virtue of having too many climbers on the same part of the mountain at the same time.

  As for the Arkansas gang, their sponsorship of our attempt was something of a mixed blessing. It’s true that the five of us could not have afforded an Everest expedition on our own, and we were very grateful to have our way paid. But several of the Arkansas climbers were, frankly, too weak to have a chance on Everest, and the stronger ones were infected with a mild case of hubris, underestimating the difficulty of the route and overestimating their own strength and ability.

  In addition, tensions developed among our group of five guides. It was almost inevitable that the weeks of strain as we slowly advanced the route should produce conflicts. For various reasons, not everyone was able to contribute equally to that effort. That’s a given on big expeditions: good teamwork depends on everyone making the contribution he can muster. And sometimes your effort is diminished not by any unwillingness to pull your weight, but by illness or trouble acclimatizing. Eric had also hired five Sherpas, who helped carry loads, especially for the Arkansas team members, but we RMI guides accomplished all the leading and fixing.

  Though a savvy expedition leader, Eric had a tendency to find fault with others if he thought they hadn’t performed up to his own high standards. One of the roles of a leader, to be sure, is keeping the expedition rolling at a steady and consistent pace, even if it means “directing” the show from below. But on April 7, after George, Greg, and I put in a strenuous day getting gear up to Camp III, Eric called us over the radio from Camp I and voiced his disappointment that we hadn’t moved faster. As I wrote in my diary that evening, “Geo called him an asshole—only half jokingly—over the radio.” Since George had been on Everest with Eric in 1982, their close friendship allowed this kind of sharp repartee. I didn’t say a word. I’d already long since formed my resolve in the face of criticism by someone who was my boss. As I wrote in my diary, “I’ll just do my job and keep my mouth shut. Actions speak louder than words!”

  As I would subsequently learn on my thirty-one expeditions to 8,000-meter peaks, I almost never suffer at altitude from any kind of illness. I’d get the occasional mild headache after a long, hot day of climbing to a new high point, or a touch of traveler’s diarrhea, but nothing incapacitating. Part of this is attributable to the rigorous conditioning I always undertake before an expedition. A lot of it has to do with simply being smart and knowing how to take care of myself. But part of it’s the luck of my genes, which have given me a physiology that functions well with little oxygen in my lungs. I’ve never suffered frostbite or been afflicted by pulmonary or cerebral edema, which has stricken even the strongest mountaineers, including Simone Moro and Jean-Christophe Lafaille, who would become my partners on later expeditions.

  But on Everest in 1987, from breathing the cold, dry air, I developed a sore throat so painful that I could barely speak above a whisper. It lasted for weeks, and added to my doubts about getting to the top. On April 17, I wrote, “My throat feels like raw meat from breathing this dry air—really painful. The only way to alleviate it is to suck on hard candies.” Two days later: “I’m losing my voice—it’s rough and crackles and makes me cough. . . . At night my throat gets really dry and painful. Last night I sucked candy, drank some cough suppressants and finally had to take some Nuprin just so I could sleep. Augh!!”

  At ABC one night, desperate to halt the coughing, ease the pain, and get some sleep, I took twice the normal dose of hydrocodone, a morphine-based drug that not only has pain-relieving properties but is also a powerful cough suppressant. Sure enough, the pain and the cough went away, but the morphine filled my head with paranoid thoughts about how completely isolated we were and how far from any hope of rescue. My drug-addled anxiety kept me awake all night and I couldn’t wait for the sun to come up and the drug to wear off!

  At one point or another, all five of us RMI guides developed dry, hacking coughs. That’s a common ailment on Himalayan expeditions. Climbers have even been known to break their ribs from coughing so hard. That’s exactly what had happened to Greg Wilson on a 1984 expedition to the north side of Everest, wiping out his hopes of getting to the top. But in 1987, the nonstop coughing that spread among us like a contagion didn’t help our morale, which through April and early May veered wildly up and down.

  Slowly, however, we advanced the route, fixing ropes on all the hardest passages. And gradually my sore throat healed, and I began to feel really fit. Those days were long and arduous, and sometimes we didn’t get back to camp till sunset. The fixed rope came in huge spools. One of us would uncoil the spool while the other climber pulled the free end behind him as he moved upward, placing intermediate anchors along the way. Once they were in, the ropes allowed safe passage on each subsequent load carry, and we could zip down them, often using just arm rappels, as we descended.

  After a long day of fixing rope and hauling loads, getting back to camp didn’t exactly amount to rest and relaxation. Outside the tent, we had to remove all of our climbing gear—crampons, harness, packs, and hardware. The first person into the tent took off his boots and outerwear, then started the stove to begin the tedious process of turning snow and ice into water. After drinking as much as we could and filling our water bottles, we had to scrounge up a dinner out of whatever we found in our food bags. Altitude and fatigue played havoc with our appetites. Dinner might mean ramen noodles with
tuna and freeze-dried peas, or dehydrated lasagna, or instant mashed potatoes with cheese. If we were too tired, we’d settle for a cup of soup and some crackers. Rehydrating was more important than eating well. After hours of kitchen duty, we could finally crawl into our sleeping bags, but it was a rare night when we got enough sleep.

  On May 14, we established Camp IV at 26,800 feet, only 2,200 feet below the summit. That may not seem like such a great distance to overcome, but the Great Couloir stays technically serious all the way, and a summit push over such terrain can take everything you’ve got.

  Because of our deal with the Arkansas members, we also had to step aside at some point and give them their shot. We agreed that once we guides had made our own summit bids, the Arkansans could make their attempt. We went first not because we were selfish, but because it was up to us to establish the camps and fix the ropes. Privately, the five of us had our doubts that our “patrons” would be up to such a challenge, and we all dreaded a scenario in which, as they gave it their best try, they’d get in trouble and we’d have to go to their rescue. As it turned out, though, they were wise enough to know when to turn back. In the end, none of the Arkansas team got above 25,000 feet, and none of them got in trouble.

  My own mood, after almost two months on the mountain, was a mixture of excitement and apprehension. As I wrote in my diary, “After all this time & effort it’s exciting to start goin’ for the top of this mother!!! . . . I have my fears and doubts about the last 2000'. How will I do? Can I handle the lack of O2? . . . If I summit, how difficult will it be to descend?”

  We decided that on May 16, George Dunn and Greg Wilson would get the first try to go to the top. As the other three of us lingered in a lower camp, resting to build up strength for our own attempt, George and Greg pushed up the route over several days. On May 16, I wrote, “Waiting, watching, waiting! We paced around camp all day like expectant fathers at the maternity ward. We watched the upper mountain with binoculars all day.”

  Both George and Greg had suffered previous disappointments on the north side of Everest. In October 1984, both were members of another team led by Lou Whittaker making a postmonsoon autumn attempt via the North Col and a diagonal traverse into the Great Couloir. Despite breaking his rib from coughing, Greg had set out with three teammates from Camp V at 24,900 feet. Strong winds forced them to turn back short of the couloir, then pinned them in their camp for two more days. After that, Greg generously agreed to act in a supporting role to give three teammates—Jim Wickwire, Phil Ershler, and John Roskelley—a last-ditch chance to summit.

  Phil and Jim were planning to use supplementary oxygen, but John would go for the summit without. By 1984, Roskelley was widely considered to be the strongest American high-altitude climber, having spearheaded routes on Makalu and Nanda Devi, as well as making the first ascents of such technically difficult mountains as Uli Biaho, Middle Trango Tower, and Gaurishankar. In 1982, in fact, Reinhold Messner, then in his prime, had declared that he thought Roskelley a stronger mountaineer than he was.

  On October 20, the three men woke early at Camp VI, pitched at 26,600 feet in the Great Couloir. Wickwire had decided during the night that he would opt out of the bid to reach the top. As he later wrote in the American Alpine Journal, “My drive to reach the summit, which had been untrammeled in 1982 . . . was now inexplicably diminished.” His teammates knew, however, about the terrible string of fatal accidents in recent years of which Jim had had the misfortune to be an eyewitness. And they knew that he had lost part of a lung to surgery after making, with Roskelley and two others, the first American ascent of K2 in 1978. On the descent, he had barely survived a solo bivouac in the open just below 28,000 feet, then had nearly succumbed to pneumonia and pleurisy that forced his heli-evacuation from the Baltoro Glacier.

  At 6:15 on the morning of October 20, Roskelley and Ershler left the tent. John led the difficult pitches through the Yellow Band. But conditions were unusually severe, and no matter how hard he climbed, he felt his hands and feet growing numb, and he started shivering in the first stages of hypothermia. John knew that to go on would probably mean severe frostbite, perhaps even death, so at 28,000 feet he made the agonizing decision to turn around. Breathing bottled oxygen made all the difference for Phil, who pushed on alone over the last thousand feet and summitted at 3:45 p.m. It was a magnificent achievement, for Phil ended up as the sole member of the very strong 1984 team to claim victory.

  George Dunn had also played an important role on that expedition. A pair of Australians who had reached the summit earlier that season had left their tent pitched at their high camp in the Great Couloir. The Americans were counting on using that tent for their own summit bid. The day before the traverse, thwarted by high winds that stopped Greg and his teammates, George and two others had succeeded in getting to the Great Couloir, but they couldn’t find the tent. They had to endure a miserable bivouac in the open, sitting on unstable rocks on the edge of the couloir, before retreating all the way to Camp III the next morning. After that, George was pretty much out of commission in terms of summit attempts.

  George had also been on the 1982 expedition via the Great Couloir, when he, Eric, and Larry Nielson had made the team’s only serious try for the top. The men had set out from their Camp VI at 26,500 feet, but Eric and George turned around at 27,000. Larry pushed on alone, without supplemental oxygen, gaining another 500 feet, but wisely retreated, knowing he would be stretching his margin of safety too thin. Even so, he suffered frostbite during the attempt and subsequently lost part of a thumb to amputation. Undaunted, Larry came back to Everest the next year and climbed it successfully from the opposite side, via the “standard” South Col route. He pulled off that feat without bottled oxygen, the first American to do so. By 1987, no other American had gotten to the top without bottled O’s—a fact I was keenly aware of as I made my own attempt to duplicate Larry’s achievement.

  Earlier, the 1982 expedition had suffered a tragedy when Marty Hoey, the only female member of the team, was hanging from her jumar on the fixed rope at 26,100 feet in the Great Couloir. Suddenly she was falling free. Jim Wickwire, standing only a few yards away, yelled, “Grab the rope!” Marty was sliding headfirst, but she rolled on her side and made a valiant effort to seize the fixed line, only to fail. Jim saw her plunge out of sight, knowing that her fall wouldn’t end for 6,000 feet. In disbelief, he stared at the intact fixed rope. Dangling from it were Marty’s jumar and her waist harness. Somehow she must have failed to double back the belt through the buckle, and her weight had caused the belt to come loose, allowing her whole body to slip out of the harness. Marty had removed her leg loops from her harness to save weight. Had those loops still been attached, they might have saved her life.

  That shocking accident, witnessed up close by Wickwire, would obviously contribute to Jim’s ambivalence about going for the summit in 1984.

  Lou Whittaker later organized a search for Marty’s body at the base of the face, but concluded that she had been swallowed up by a massive bergschrund separating the Rongbuk Glacier from the wall. Like those of so many other Everest victims, Marty’s body has never been found.

  In a sense, then, by 1987 George Dunn had more Everest “baggage” than any of us on Eric’s team. As he and Greg Wilson went for the top on May 16, it was George’s third attempt to solve the puzzle of the Great Couloir.

  Both men were climbing with bottled oxygen, but their progress was slowed by difficult climbing through the famous Yellow Band. They overcame that obstacle, fixing rope as they went, but Greg later said that the pitches he led were some of the hardest and most dangerous climbing he’d done anywhere in the world, at any altitude. The two men reached 27,500 feet before deciding they had to turn back. It was 500 feet higher than George had gotten in 1982, but to have to retreat again with the summit almost within their grasp was a huge disappointment for him.

  On the descent, however, George and Greg had a nearly disastrous accident—the closest call of our
whole expedition. As they rappelled the fixed ropes they had placed that day, George, descending first, got to the end of the lowest rope, He had a single knifeblade piton, which he pounded into what he called “manky” rock, making for a very insecure anchor. Below him, a steep fifty-foot pitch on which the two had left no fixed rope filled George with malaise—it looked very hard to downclimb unprotected, and the men had brought no climbing rope to belay each other, but only the heavy spool of thin fixed rope they had strung through the Yellow Band.

  The last fifty feet above George had been easy going on soft snow, so when Greg rapped into sight, George stopped him with a command: “Cut the rope!”

  “Whaa—?” Greg protested. But soon he understood. If the two men could retrieve the unnecessary lowest fifty feet of fixed rope, they could affix it to the knifeblade piton and make one last rappel over the short passage that gave George pause. Greg got out his knife, severed the line, and brought it down with him.

  They strung the salvaged fifty feet of rope from the “manky” knifeblade anchor. Again George rapped first. At the end of the rope, he hollowed out a kind of butt stance in which he could sit. He had no hardware left to put in an anchor, but the going below looked easy. Providentially, George kept the jumar attached to his harness fastened to the end of the salvaged fixed line.

  Greg got on rappel and weighted the thin cord. He was about halfway down when the knifeblade anchor popped loose. All of a sudden he was falling backwards, out of control.

  As George later told me, “I thought about Marty Hoey. I said to myself, Oh my God, this is it! We’re going all the way! Greg fell past me, then started bouncing. All I could do was sit there and wait for the sudden jerk of the rope.”