The Ledge

by Jim Davidson

  “Glo,” I said, “I know it’ll be tough on you, and a little risky, but I really want to go. You know how big this is.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I understand.”

  She paused, then asked, “What if something happens, though?”

  “I can’t promise one hundred percent that nothing’ll happen,” I said softly.

  “I know. That’s the problem.”

  In the end, I was swayed by the huge opportunity it represented, not just for that one trip but for an unknowable spectrum of possibilities, and for the chance to reclaim a core part of who I am. And so I soon found myself coleader of an expedition to Nepal.

  Thus it was that six years after Rainier, I once again hiked up the Khumbu Valley. The roaring waters of the Dudh Kosi and the pungent smell of rhododendrons seemed the same, yet I had changed. Last time I had been scared and scarred as we trekked toward the puja. Now I was composed and confident, using my experience to help teach, guide, and protect ten young climbers. I still carried the pain of losing Mike, but from it I had extracted the motivation to live a bigger life, to wrap my arms around adventure, to challenge myself by returning to Nepal as an expedition leader instead of remaining fearfully shackled to my desk, plodding through my middle years. Nearly losing my life gave me the courage to strive for a richer existence and the determination to pursue it with vigor.

  People sometimes say of the recently deceased, “He died doing what he loved.” I heard that a few times about Mike. I thought it far better, and much more important, that Mike lived doing what he loved.

  Ultimately, I heeded the lesson, determined to live doing what I love. That meant climbing mountains. Yes, I had to strike a balance between my passion and my responsibility to care for my family, but shutting out that ardor in fear of the possible risks seems a dishonor to the gifts of health and life I still possess. Returning to Nepal seemed especially appropriate: I honored Mike there on the first trip with a puja, and on the second one I honored him, and me, by passionately embracing this life-affirming pursuit.

  In Tibetan Buddhism, the never-ending cycle of birth, life, and death is symbolized by the endless knot. Rodney and I saw the symbol frequently as we trekked and climbed across Nepal for a month. The endless knot has many interpretations, and one that speaks powerfully to me is the interweaving of the spiritual path with the flow of time and movement. I feel that Mike and I are connected threads in some endless knot.

  I THINK MIKE would be pleased that helping people grow through invigorating mountain experiences is part of my life’s purpose now. I teach some climbing classes for Rodney at CSU’s outdoor program and lead an expedition every other year; these pursuits have added new dimensions to my climbing and my life. Passing on my hard-won knowledge feels right. For these groups I sometimes present slide shows to share climbing stories and provide some insight into what all these adventures have taught me. My most intense experience, Rainier, might be a compelling tale to relate, but I am not confident that I will be able to tell it, and not sure if I should.

  Nevertheless, I feel the urge to share what happened on Rainier, who Mike was, and how I survived. As the years go by, I also feel a growing obligation to pass on what I learned through those struggles in the hope that it might help someone else face and overcome their own harsh challenges. While I was in the crevasse, Joe Simpson’s survival tale convinced me there was a remote chance to escape, and that belief helped spur me to action. Perhaps I have an obligation to share my story, so that others who hear me might one day tell themselves: “If he did that, I can do this.”

  In a cosmic way, I wonder if sharing the lessons from surviving Rainier is part of the reason that I am still alive. Having already spoken at hundreds of science conferences, I wonder if I can tell the Rainier story publicly in a way that might offer strength or inspiration. I ask myself: Should I share this? Can I do this? Is it right? If I pursue it, can I properly honor Mike?

  I see Mike’s parents a few times each year, and it feels like we are old family friends now. I feel an obligation to check with them before I speak or write about that terrible time in the crevasse. Over lunch one day, I nervously ask for their thoughts about me possibly sharing what happened to Mike and me.

  “If you’re asking for our blessing, you have it,” Don says.

  One night in 2003, a frenetic kind of energy overtakes me, and soon I am in front of a computer screen, searching for an appropriate place to share the Rainier story. Staring at a webpage, I find the Rainier Mountain Festival—a gathering that celebrates the mountain, bringing in climbers who relate their stories and show pictures and answer questions. I feel certain that I must go there and tell this story.

  That September, I’m in Ashford, Washington, on the southwestern flank of The Mountain, standing in a stuffy garage-sized tent in the shadow of the very peak that took Mike’s life and changed mine forever. I steel myself to speak publicly for the first time about what happened in the crevasse.

  I have no idea whether I can do it. A good friend, Scott Yetman, stands by, ready to escort me off the stage if I falter, if my emotions choke the words from my throat.

  It takes all the courage I can muster to stand on that volcanic soil and tell the tale. I fight my way through it and see the audience stare back wide-eyed. After I finish, I am wrung out emotionally. I stand outside the tent door and shake hands with some of those who listened. One middle-aged woman approaches me with her two adolescent girls. After prompting the kids to thank me, she says, “I’m so glad my daughters were here to hear this.”

  “Really? I worried about you wishing that they not hear this intense experience.”

  “No, I wanted them to hear it. Now if they’re in an accident or a difficult situation, they’ll know how much people can do, that we can do incredible things if we try our hardest.” She grips my hand with both of hers and says, “Thank you for sharing with us.”

  Her comments stun me. They run over and over through my mind. That evening, while eating grilled salmon with Scott at the festival cookout, I look toward Rainier’s summit, hidden behind the conifer forest.

  Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do.

  IN TIME, I recognize that the most important things I learned were not about scaling overhanging ice walls but about what allowed me to climb out of that crevasse. Life is full of scary crevasses. Illness, accidents, and financial disasters can appear without warning. Seemingly secure institutions like banks, businesses, and marriages collapse, just like snow bridges weakened by the sun. At some time, everyone will fall into one of life’s crevasses; mine just happened to be a crack in the ice. Crawling out of these crevasses, overcoming life’s challenges, is something each of us must face. Finding resilience for surviving and thriving through adversity is part of everyone’s climb.

  ULTIMATELY, I PUT aside environmental consulting to concentrate on my work as a full-time speaker. The progression developed naturally—the more I spoke, the more I was able to distill what facing the terrible situation in the crevasse had revealed to me. Although the dark terror and horrific circumstances had made me want to hide and quit, I’d had to constrain these natural reactions enough to think and work my way out of the crisis. I’d had to accept the harsh realities and face them—the sooner, the better.

  Now I am able to tell others that facing and analyzing their problems gives them a chance to determine which factors they control. In my case, I had no control over the steepness of the ice wall or the depth of the crevasse. Fixating on things you cannot control is pointless, disheartening, and debilitating. Instead, it’s critical to identify the factors within your control and then act on them with vigor. I could control how I used the rope and where I placed my precious gear, so that is what I focused on. By tenaciously applying themselves to the things that can be acted upon, people can overcome incredibly difficult challenges.

  Finding the courage to act under duress is among the toughest things most of us will eve
r face. I believe people can reach into their past to find the incredible strength needed to take action. By remembering loved ones in your life and honoring their faith in you, you can tap the deep well of strength that you innately carry, and this will give you courage. I found strength and courage in the lessons my father taught me, and through my bond to Gloria. Just touching the medallion I wear whenever I climb reminds me of that.

  In a crisis, the bravery to act can also be crystallized right in the present moment through our commitment to those who face the challenge with us. In my weakest moments, I manifested the willpower to act by honoring the deep-rooted mutual commitment Mike and I shared.

  But strength from the past and courage from the present moment are only part of the equation. The promise of a better future—in my case, the promise of life—is a powerful motivator. Like the crux of a climb, the hardest and scariest moments of life’s harsh challenges are often fleeting, and are soon followed by less difficult times. Knowing that the future will inevitably become easier than the momentary crux can serve as an anchor with which you can draw yourself forward.

  Sharing these messages becomes a powerful outlet for all I took from Rainier. It is how I honor Mike, how I extract something positive from the negative. It is how I wrestled with my demons, and pinned them to the ground.

  SOMETIMES AFTER A presentation, I hear variations on the same questions. Did Rainier change me? How did surviving affect me? While a traumatic event can induce dramatic changes, I made no major alterations to my life or lifestyle. I lived in the same town, stayed married to the same woman, and hung out with the same friends. For a while, I thought maybe I should have been dramatically changed by the tragedy on Mount Rainier. In the end, I concluded that I would not be one of those people who buy a Harley and ride off in search of something. I believe this lack of dramatic life shift was not some inability to learn or change on my part but was, instead, affirmation that I had been largely living life on target for myself even before the accident.

  Resources in the world are not distributed evenly, including the precious gift of time. The point is made when my mom dies shortly before Jessica is born. The lesson is further driven home when Dad dies suddenly of heart failure while I am climbing Denali. Over the years, Dad and I had become even closer, and I looked to him as a dear friend and wise adviser. His death hits me hard and makes me realize that at forty-one years old, I have only so much time left.

  Surviving Rainier, and experiencing the sad loss of Mike and my loved ones, drives home the fact that I had better make sure I am living my life well. So I begin to vacation a little more and work a little less. I spend less money on things and more on experiences. I free myself from relationships with unpleasant or untrustworthy people. Each of these refinements has some costs, but they are just minor surcharges to live a life that I can look back on fondly when my journey concludes.

  Mountain climbing is risky and rewarding, painful and powerful. Climbing provides an intense crucible that reveals much about human frailties and capacities. The distilled learnings from my mountain travels are invaluable to me.

  THERE ARE THINGS I carry in my head and my heart. The memories of Mike. The lessons I took away from Rainier. The knowledge that I found a way to be at my best in the worst situation.

  There are other things, ones I can hold in my hands, that are also precious to me.

  Mike’s blue pile Patagonia pullover, the one he wore on Rainier, the one I climb in each June 21. One of his snap-button western shirts. His Olympus OM-1. And the one that always brings a smile to me: a T-shirt that exemplifies Mike’s wit, his sense of humor. On the front of the gray shirt are three ships out at sea, with two American Indians standing on a cliff, watching. Angling below the sketch are these words:

  In 1492, Native Americans

  discovered Columbus

  lost at sea!

  And then there are the two carabiners, both dull aluminum and lightly scratched. As I hold them now, they are much alike, except one has a small band of red tape wrapped around it. That one belonged to me, the other to Mike. Retrieved by rangers from somewhere deep in the crevasse, the carabiners were clipped together on the mountain, then later dropped onto the front seat of our rental car just before I left the mountain alone after the accident. They are two links in the chain that connects us.

  I have never separated them—there is no “mine” or “yours” on the mountain, only “ours.” Sometimes, I think about having them welded so that they can never be taken apart, so that this last physical tie to Mike can never be broken.

  On one of the carabiners is my tattered kata from Tengboche—the silk scarf blessed by the rinpoche before Mike’s puja. I tied it on after Gloria and I returned from Nepal a few months after the accident and I’ve never removed it.

  And I have never removed the folded piece of notebook paper stapled around the other carabiner. In black ink on one side is a note from one of the rangers who sent our linked biners down from the mountain on June 23, 1992.

  These belong to Mr. Price or his partner.

  They need to be sent to John Madden, Longmire.

  I stare long and hard at the other side of the paper. There, in blue ballpoint ink, is a note signed by Madden, the ranger who investigated the crevasse fall. That note contains a few simple words:

  Jim, These were just delivered.

  You did all you could.

  Life is a gift!

  CHAPTER 19

  OVER TWENTY-SEVEN years of climbing, I have loaded my pack a thousand times, but never as carefully as now. This morning I have double-checked my gear against printed lists, mental lists, even against my instincts. There can be no oversights as I’m preparing for the biggest summit push of my life: into the Death Zone, all the way to 8,201 meters.

  Within the hour, my teammates and I will begin rallying for our final four-day push to the top of Cho Oyu, at 26,906 feet, the sixth highest peak in the world.

  TWO DAYS PASS. It’s September 23, 2009, and I am at Camp 3. It took me more than three heart-pounding hours today to make the 1,200-foot snow climb up from Camp 2. With every brutal step, I set a new personal altitude record, and here at 24,600 feet, just sitting in the tent leaves me fighting for air. Soon we will go on bottled oxygen for the first time, then try to catch two or three hours of sleep before our planned departure to the summit at eleven tonight.

  Before I lie down, I need to confirm that my down suit’s left chest pocket holds the critical items I carry on all serious climbs.

  Photos of Glo and the kids. My amulet box holding a Tibetan coin from the Tengboche lama, Mike’s Outward Bound pin, and my Denali Pro pin earned by helping with a high-altitude rescue in Alaska.

  I warm my icy hand against my bare neck until sensation returns to the fingertips. Then I reach deep into my down suit, under all the layers, groping for my necklace, tracing along the familiar thin chain to the medal Gloria gave me twenty-six years ago.

  It’s seven P.M. I need to sleep, but can’t. Trying to relax and to point myself toward success, I bring to mind reassuring thoughts expressed by friends and family members, and the supportive words of climbing buddies at my going-away party. I mentally match each section of the summit push ahead with experience I have gained on other high peaks around the world.

  I can do this.

  I look at the black inked messages of love that I asked Glo, Jess, and Nick to write on the left forearm of my red down suit. And I reach out mentally to those who will protect me. I ask Dad for the determination to keep going. I ask Mom to help me get back down to my family. And I ask Mike to watch over me.

  AROUND MIDNIGHT, I reach the famous crumbling rock section above 25,000 feet called the Yellow Band. With Kay-Two, a Tibetan guide, nearby, and with some fixed lines to clip into, I cannot fall far. But I can falter. I place my crampon points carefully on tiny limestone ledges, and press down hard.

  Do it like ya mean it.

  Moving my head fast sends my oxygen-starved brain swi
mming, so I learn to make slow, smooth motions. I try gliding through this alien environment as we push farther up into the darkness. On steep sections, I inhale so hard from the oxygen mask that I sound like Darth Vader on steroids.

  The stars have never seemed as bright as they do here at 25,500 feet. I keep checking my watch and altimeter. We are moving fast. When I detect orange light flashing intermittently in the valley far below us, I worry that I’m seeing things, that perhaps my brain is too oxygen-deprived. But then I realize I’m looking down on the flattened tops of massive thunderclouds illuminated from within as lightning sets them ablaze.

  I should eat and drink, but it’s so cold that insulated water bottles freeze and food sets up rock hard. The altitude and the hours roll by. When my altimeter reads 26,000 feet, a distant voice in my mind shouts encouragement.

  Stick with it.

  Just as Dad taught me as a kid, I keep checking the stars to confirm our direction. We’ve spent several hours going southeast, directly at the Orion constellation. At first Orion was partially hidden behind Cho Oyu’s summit, but as he has risen higher, so have we. Now his full, friendly outline sparkles in front of us. Then, as we swing east toward the big drop into Nepal, Orion takes a protective flanking position to my right.

  At 26,500 feet the terrain eases. We are on the final march across the summit plateau—an agonizing 400 yards. Mount Everest sits twenty miles dead ahead, and I can see a black spot where its bulk blots out stars. A biting wind picks up around three-thirty A.M., and stopping, for even a minute, feels impossible.

  The slope flattens more. My mountain sense tells me we’re almost there. The altimeter reads 26,900. In my headlight beam, about fifty feet ahead, I see a small snow bump crowned with a sacred kata and bits of frozen food offered up during an informal puja.