by Lincoln Hall
Alex had done everything he could to save me. Fifteen 7Summits-Club Sherpas had been on the mountain to strip the camps of tents and other equipment, but Alex had redirected most of these men to help with my rescue. As it turned out, this number of Sherpas was unnecessary because I had been able to walk down the mountain.
With the mainstream media deliberately creating misinformation, it was not surprising that amateur Web reports from the mountain and elsewhere were riddled with inaccuracies and (hopefully) unintended slander.
BUT THE MEDIA IS a double-edged sword. Good stories were also published, by journalists who had done their research and analyzed points of view before presenting their version to the world. Invariably, these were stories that were overviews of what took place on Everest in April and May 2006. What happened to me was certainly one of the stand-out events of the season, but because I could not give many interviews, the articles usually included only summaries. The journalists who wanted more detailed information resorted to the initial garbled reports of my misadventure.
The part of my story that could be told without any input from me was that I had been declared dead high on the mountain, that I had been left out in that state overnight, and that I had been discovered alive in a weakened but remarkably lucid state. No one who had been left for dead at that height had survived. These were a unique set of circumstances, which added a feel-good factor at the end of an Everest season that had first caught the eye of the press because of controversy and tragedy. I was happy to provide that feel-good element.
My apparent death and survival led to headlines not only in my home country of Australia, where a media flurry might be expected, but also around the world. The headlines included words and phrases such as “Miracle Man,” “Lazarus,” and “Dead Man Walking.” There were plenty of photographs of me taken by the few climbers still around when I descended from the mountain, as well as those taken by Dan, Myles, and Andrew. The media in the United States was very keen on the story, partly because Dan was an American who could tell the story firsthand. He found himself regarded as a hero, and I was certainly prepared to support that view. As a Canadian, Andrew Brash received similar treatment in his hometown of Calgary. Myles Osborne was British but was studying at Harvard and spent much of the rest of 2006 researching his dissertation in Africa. The beams of the limelight did not highlight his contribution as effectively.
Meanwhile, I was consciously avoiding the attention. Simon Balderstone handled all media inquiries for me because I simply did not have the energy to face the press.
However, one opportunity arose that was impossible to refuse. An NBC crew had filmed us in Kathmandu and invited us to appear with Dan Mazur in New York on the Today show and Dateline, both hosted by Matt Lauer. Dylan and Dorje were invited as well and were excited until they realized that it really was a “flying visit,” with almost as much time in the air as on the ground. When they did the math, they decided their social engagements for the upcoming weekend seemed more appealing. Barbara came, of course, as part of the story and to look after me, while Simon looked after everything else.
The long flights that took us from Sydney to New York were the ideal way to relax. There was absolutely nothing else I wanted or needed to do but lie back and let my healing continue. When we landed at Los Angeles, my wheelchair and bandaged hands brought us special treatment, which allowed us to sidestep the huge line and be the first on board the flight to New York.
A black stretch limo waited for us outside JFK Airport. I hobbled toward this well-polished symbol of opulence and chuckled when I realized the vehicle was a Lincoln. I was also laughing at the absurdity of the whole experience and at the distance I had traveled—not the physical distance of our travels but the inconceivable divide between the world’s greatest mountain and its greatest city.
Our first interview, for the Today show, required an early start. Matt Lauer was very easy to talk to, and our time on air was over before we knew it. The segment was received very well, according to Simon, Barbara, and Dan’s partner, Liz, all of whom had been in the audience. Back at the hotel on Central Park South, we relaxed by sitting down to breakfast next to the windows. It was good to get to know Dan in more relaxed circumstances. We shared a similar deadpan sense of humor, with ridiculous comments building upon each other until we broke up laughing. Barbara and Liz were instantly on the same wavelength. Initially they collated the advantages and pitfalls of men who were mountaineers, but they quickly moved beyond that subject.
We were surrounded by New York, of course. One day we set out across Central Park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a crowded and colorful journey because it was the annual Puerto Rican Day Parade, when a million Puerto Ricans march through Manhattan. Barbara and Simon took turns pushing me in my wheelchair, with the detours set up because of the parade doubling the distance we had to travel. As fate would have it, a Hatshepsut exhibition was showing at the Met. This was a delight for Barbara, who has a master’s degree in Egyptology. Hatshepsut had been one of the few women to rule as pharaoh, and her wealth and importance was obvious from the ancient artifacts on display.
Many of the exhibits were made of gold, and that reminded me of Tibet, where golden statues of Buddha and associated deities were once a feature of the monasteries. Both Egypt and Tibet had been plundered of their riches, Tibet only in the past sixty years. At least Tibet still has its mountains.
It was midday in New York, which meant the whole of Tibet would now be covered in darkness. Less than three weeks ago I had sat at Mushroom Rock in that same darkness, with snow swirling around me. I had faced the horror of death, alone and at the cruising altitude of a jumbo jet. Soon I would be at that height again but with Barbara and Simon, on a United Airlines flight.
I continued to marvel at the wealth and beauty of the three-thousand-year-old treasures. The mass and demeanor of the museum itself spoke of the wealth of modern America, with New York as its showpiece.
In one cabinet that displayed ancient body decorations, I spotted some finger and toe coverings, lying at the front of the display as if they had been laid out ready to wear. They were made entirely of gold and shaped like replica fingers and toes, complete with golden nails. There were two full sets. I called Barbara over.
“Look at these,” I said. “They’re exactly what I need.”
My fingertips were dead, black, and mummified—not that different from the fingertips of pharaohs who had been prepared for the afterlife. I had almost passed through to an afterlife without the help of gold, so it was difficult for me to argue for it now. And besides, among the replica Egyptian ornaments and gold jewelery for sale in the museum shop, there were no golden fingers.
EPILOGUE
THE LAST SATURDAY of February 2006 was the day I had begun my training for Everest in earnest. My legs had been fit for running but not for going up and down steep slopes—which is the entire process of mountaineering. I had developed a strategy for treating my knees gently until they built up strength. It began with a loaded pack and a ten-minute jog from our house. I followed the wide trail through wind-pruned heath on the edge of the sandstone plateau, until a short downhill slope brought me to where Jamison Creek plunged over Wentworth Falls. The 700-foot drop was interrupted halfway down by a broad rocky shelf. There are pools here big enough to swim in, but the largest pool is at the base of the lower falls, edged by rainforest. I climbed down the steep ladders and steps to the base of the lower falls, where I filled the plastic bottles with two gallons of water from the pool. Ascent is much gentler on the knees than is descent, which was why I wanted the extra twenty pounds of weight only for the climb back up. At the top of the falls, I poured the water into the creek, then headed down to repeat the cycle.
A year later, on the last Saturday of February 2007, I decided to revisit the falls. The wound where my big toe had been had taken a long time to heal properly, so I had only been able to manage walks on level ground, most of which I did with our dogs a
nd either Dorje or Dylan. On this Saturday, I did not bother to take a pack with empty apple juice bottles. Although I was far from fit after months of convalescence, I no longer had a mountain that needed to be climbed. When I came to the lookout on the southern side of the amphitheater of cliffs, I watched the curtain of water pour over the upper cliff, much of it turning to spray. Where the spray caught the sun, there were flashes of rainbow—the full spectrum of colors but none of the bow.
From where I stood, my line of sight was directly down the edge of the second drop, which meant I could see the water pouring over the lip and vanishing. The only proof of its continuous fall was the ripples spreading across the big sunlit pool below. Unexpectedly, as I began to watch the water, I regretted that I had no way to collect any water from the bottom, no way to carry it up and pour it into the stream at the top of the falls. I remembered the satisfaction of fetching, carrying, and releasing the water—my own tiny water cycle at the edge of the thundering falls. The memory made me feel connected to this place again, where a year ago I had felt myself grow stronger. Pouring the fall’s water back into itself was like tending a garden, a way of lending a hand to life. But, of course, the only life in this process was mine.
The year between those two Saturdays was an ongoing journey of recovery, combined with a search for meaning and understanding. Writing this book helped me to dig deep into myself, but the search is not over simply because I have finished writing. My brush with death may always remain an enigma, but I won’t turn my back on it. Meditation has an extra purpose now.
My twenty-two-year relationship with Everest has reached a turning point. I vividly remember my few minutes alone on the summit, with the world beneath me. And I can still recall how daunted I felt on the day that I stepped onto the North Face for the first time back in 1984. Everest had an undeniable aura then, but at the time, I tried to tell myself that it was just another mountain. However, there is no denying the power of the ongoing accumulation of myths and legends, successes and tragedies—in fact, I had become a part of that accumulation myself.
Edmund Hillary’s climbing partner, Tenzing Norgay, reached the summit of Mount Everest on his seventh attempt, in 1953. It took fifty-three-year-old Australian Mike Rheinberger seven attempts as well before he summited in 1994. Mike had declared that 1994 would be his last Everest expedition, and it was. Not far below the summit he died from exhaustion, perhaps boosted by edema. I had known Mike, of course, as there were very few Australian high-altitude mountaineers in those days. It is only now that I realize how his fate could so easily have also been mine.
It is the tragedies more than the triumphs that maintain Everest’s aura. The mountain is a mirror, where climbers look to find themselves. They discover their frailty, take heart from their strengths, drink deep of the insights. But if the mountain was to have a perspective, it would be that humans are the dust on the surface of the mirror—readily wiped away by storms, hardly relevant in scale, ephemeral in the scope of the mountain’s existence. Human hopes and ambitions are as independent of the mountain as my fetching and pouring water have been for the waterfall beside me.
Although my foot had almost recovered, it took me more than twenty minutes to walk back to our house that Saturday afternoon. I was happy to walk slowly. Thunder clouds were gathering to the south, which meant it was very likely we would enjoy not only lightning but also some rain. I had learned that some of the best sunsets happened when the clouds were moving eastward after a storm.
Often at home we sit outside and watch the sunset from the sandstone slab that slopes away from our doorstep. Dylan likes to take photographs of the best sunsets and regularly updates them as the desktop background to his computer screen. Sometimes all four of us sit and watch the colors change; sometimes it is just me and Barbara, often only me. At that time of day our two big dogs like to burn off the last of their energy, running in circles, biting each other’s necks, legs, or tails. I love the dogs, I love my family. In particular, I love the two-way street of love, but I am a man so I’m not going to say that to anybody. I certainly do not have to tell Barbara. All that has to happen is for our eyes to meet.
These days I love to take in the sunset because every time I do so, I remember how lucky I am to be alive. That’s a great relationship to have with the setting sun.
I SEE THE WORLD differently after Everest but not because my eyes are hazel now rather than the blue of the preceding fifty years. The difference is that I have a 360-degree view. The devil did not attach eyes to the back of my head before I leaped from his spade. All that has happened is that I am now very aware of what surrounds me. As I sit here at 2:00 A.M., typing these final words, I am aware of the mist swirling around our cozy home, of the cliffs to the west and the valley beyond, of the waterfall thundering in the dark beyond my hearing. I am aware that everyone else in the house is sleeping, not only Norbu on the rug beside me. It is not an assumption; I can feel the pervasiveness of sleep.
There are so many stimuli thrown at us through our lives and so many roads of perception down which we could travel. If we indulged ourselves in all of them, we would go mad, but instead most of us go to the other extreme and numb ourselves by developing habitual responses that allow us to slip into autopilot mode. We go to foreign countries but see everything in the form of postcards.
On the mountain, death had, in effect, begun to consume my consciousness, and the autopilot had been turned off. My habitual responses to everyday issues were deprogrammed. I found myself holding fewer opinions when I realized that they only created dichotomies, and the next step from there is judgment. Too often we judge when we have no need to do so, and just as often we ignore. My scrape with death had shaken me free of some of those restrictions. I now find myself in a space where judgments are fewer, where habits don’t seem as necessary. I do not have any more answers than anyone else, or even more than I was accustomed to having. What I do have is a stronger feeling of the unity of which I am a part. There is no messiah complex here—unfortunately, I am just as fallible and imperfect as I have always been.
IN THIS NEW LIGHT I see that the best thing about having climbed Mount Everest is not so much having done it but more the fact that now I don’t have to do it. No longer do I have that unfinished business, and I can move on.
7 SUMMITS-CLUB EVEREST EXPEDITION
April 10 -June 10, 2006
Leader
Alexander Abramov (Russia)
Sirdar
Mingma Gelu Sherpa* (Nepal)
Guides
Sergey Chistyakov (Russia)
Sergey Kofanov (Russia)*
Ludmila Korobeshko (Russia)
Maxim Onipchenko (Russia)
Dr. Andrey Selivanov (Russia)
Igor Svergun* (Ukraine)
Nikolai Cherny (Russia)
Climbers
Vince Bousselaire (USA)
Johnny Brevik (Norway)
John Delaney (Ireland)
Michael Dillon (Australia)
Patrick Flynn (Ireland)
Giuseppe Gariano (Italy)
Petter Kragset (Norway)
Vladimir Lande* (Russia)
Lorenzo Gariano* (UK)
Noel Hanna* (UK)
Lincoln Hall* (Australia)
Christopher Harris (Australia)
Richard Harris (Australia)
Frode Høgset (Norway)
Vladimir Pushkarev (Russia)
Ilya Rozhkov (Russia)
David A. Lien (USA)
Ron Morrow (USA)
Ronald Muhl** (South Africa)
Henrik Olsen* (Denmark)
Torbjørn Orkelbog (Norway)
Igor Plyushkin† (Russia)
Arkadiy Ryzhenko* (Russia)
Slate Stern* (USA)
Barbara Tyler (USA)
William Tyler III** (USA)
Thomas Weber† (Germany)
Kirk Wheatley* (UK)
Sherpas
Dawa Tenzing Sherpa*
Dor
je Sherpa*
Furba Kushang Sherpa*
Jangbu Sherpa*
Lakcha Sherpa*
Mingma Sherpa*
Nima Sherpa*
Pasang Sherpa
Passang Gyalgen Sherpa*
Passang Sherpa
Pemba Sherpa
Pemba Norbu Sherpa
Renjin Sherpa*
Cooks
Chandra Sherpa (chief cook)
Chandra Sherpa (assistant cook)
Dawa Sherpa
Tendi Sherpa
KEY
* Summited 2006
** Summited 2007
† Died
Notes on My Survival
I have been asked many questions about the physical factors that kept me alive during my ordeal. One thing I have learned over the years is that it is often impossible to separate interactions among the mental, the spiritual, and the physical. A good example from my experience is the spiritual practice of yogic breathing, which has the huge benefit—for high-altitude mountaineers, at least—of making everyday breathing more efficient, regardless of the purpose and motivation of the practitioner. The boundaries of the body-mind-spirit trinity are even more blurred for me after my night on Everest.
Some physical realities, on the other hand, are easier to outline. What follows is a list of items—food, clothing, and the like—that are a part of normal life on the mountain. Some of these, I feel, contributed greatly to my survival that night.
MOUNTAIN CLOTHING AND OTHER ESSENTIALS
The climate is uncomfortable at Base Camp and intimidating on the mountain. I knew what to expect from the weather, but the storms, winds, and sub-zero temperatures frightened me more than anything else because these elements were completely beyond my control. Survival on a big mountain begins with appropriate clothing.
Base Camp to North Col
Skin layer: Long-sleeved T-shirt of silk-wool mix, by Silkbody. Merino wool long johns, by Icebreaker.
Second layer: Long-sleeved zip-neck top of merino, by Icebreaker.
Third layer: Lhotse lightweight fleece jacket by Mountain Designs. During good weather this garment was rarely worn under the wind suit.