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.
CHAPTER 8
DESCENDING ON FAITH
Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace. There we can receive mercy and grace to help us when we need it.
HEBREWS 4:16, NCV
I STOWED the radio in the outside pocket of my pack to ensure that it was secure. Then I put my mask back on and sucked in a couple of long breaths of oxygen.
The morning sun was moving higher in the sky, so I put on my goggles. As soon as I did, however, they fogged up and froze. I tried wearing my sunglasses, but the oxygen mask kept getting in the way. My mask covered only my nose and mouth, but the straps reached all the way around my head and cinched tight in the back. When I tried to wear my sunglasses over the mask, the straps pushed the sunglasses away from my face, leaving me unprotected against side sun exposure. Then I tried putting the sunglasses under the straps, but that caused the straps to dig painfully into my face.
I decided I’d just have to deal with frozen goggles.
It had been about an hour since I’d left the South Summit, so I figured it was time to start heading down. It’s hard to believe how much time I spent preparing for this, I thought, and now it’s already over. But I knew that for the sake of safety, I didn’t have the luxury of basking in the accomplishment much longer.
I checked my gear to make sure I was ready for the descent and took a few final pictures from the su
mmit. I looked up, and all at once, my vision got extremely blurry. With my light-blue eyes, I tend to be sensitive to sunlight, but this was unlike anything I’d experienced. Even when I was looking down, it felt like I was staring directly into the sun. Then suddenly, without warning, I couldn’t see anything.
I knew immediately what was happening.
I was snow blind!
Snow blindness, also called photokeratitis, is essentially when the cornea of the eye gets sunburned. It usually isn’t noticeable until hours after exposure, which means the damage had probably started the day before, when I was climbing up Lhotse Face. I was wearing goggles with compromised UV protection at an altitude where there’s a 100 percent ozone risk. My eyes hadn’t stood a chance.
Okay, I told myself. Stay calm. Facing the path toward the Hillary Step, I knelt down, felt around for the fixed line, and grabbed it with both hands. Everything around me was bright white, and I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. If I squinted really hard, I could make out a few blurry objects up close, but I couldn’t see anything in the distance.
I scrunched my eyes tightly, trying to get my bearings to make sure I didn’t step off a cliff and plummet to my death. My heart was racing, but I knew I needed to control my body’s natural response of panic and shock.
Fortunately I’d had my share of experience with keeping panic at bay in emergency situations. In AIRR training we spent time learning multiple-survivor rescues. We’d sit in the doorway of the simulated helicopter 10 feet above the water and assess the situation. After ensuring that the area was clear of debris, we’d jump into the pool, which was churning with rotor wash. Our mission was to rescue multiple victims—some of whom had parachutes draped over their helmets and were face down in the water, and others who were thrashing around in a panicked frenzy, trying to take us down as soon as we breached the surface.
From the moment we hit the water, the air pressure from the powerful rotor blades caused the water to spray out from the center of the helicopter. The force was so great that it felt like handfuls of gravel were being thrown in my face. With limited vision, I had to carry a 200-pound survivor into the mini-hurricane so I could find a rescue hook. Once I gained control, I’d call for the hoist operator to lift the survivor 80 feet to the helo.
After the panicked person was safely in the helicopter, it was time to assess the other survivors and stabilize them. I had to keep each survivor “in close and in control” while I went underwater, crawling down his spine to remove all the tangled parachute lines, also known as shroud lines. Because it’s impossible to see anything in the darkness underwater, I had to navigate by touch alone. If I made a single mistake in a procedure, the survivor would become active, spinning around and latching on to me for flotation, which would take both of us under and put us at risk of drowning. In those critical moments, I had to stay calm and not panic.
Now, high on Everest instead of underwater, I took a few breaths and tried to assess the situation. Reality quickly set in. I’m at the highest point on earth, with no one else on the mountain, I thought. I’m going to have to descend on my own—without my vision.
There was absolutely no chance of being rescued at that altitude. Nobody else was making a summit attempt that day, and the other groups had either already descended or were getting in position to make an attempt later that night. I’d heard of a few rare solo summits in the past, but even in those situations, there are typically other people on the mountain making attempts at the same time. I’m truly alone on the summit, I thought. I’m above the death zone and truly alone.
My radio was of no use since I’d scrambled the frequency earlier when I’d tried to turn down the volume. Even if it had worked, the mountain blocks radio transmissions from the South Summit down to the Balcony, so chances were I wouldn’t have been able to make contact anyway. Besides, I never would have asked for help if it meant other people would have to risk their lives to try to save me. Rescue attempts at this altitude were nearly impossible—and it wasn’t like there were groups sitting around at the South Col waiting to rescue struggling climbers. In mountaineering, you have to calculate the risks and then accept them if things go sideways.
I figured that Lakpa and Bill wouldn’t miss me for another three hours. If I was going to survive, it would be entirely up to me. But I knew I wasn’t really alone.
“Lord,” I prayed, “please keep me calm and give me the strength to get down this mountain.”
I inhaled deeply, held my breath for a couple of seconds, and exhaled. Then I stood up and began making my way down, using the fixed ropes hand over hand. Everything was a whiteout blur, but I still strained to see what little I could, knowing how dangerous a single misstep could be. I kept my hand gripped around my safety line and made sure both feet were firmly planted in the snowy ground.
My first challenge was the Hillary Step—an obstacle that some people deemed impossible to climb with vision. It helped that the rock was dark in contrast to the bright snow, but I had absolutely no depth perception. I used my sense of touch to maneuver in and out of the fixed rope through the various anchor points. With every changeover, I checked to make sure my carabiners were locked and the rope was properly inserted. With all the adrenaline coursing through my body, I felt utterly parched, but I was in no position to get my thermos.
Then it was time for the inevitable: I had to slowly lower myself down the step. Anchored to a section at the top, I went down the rock pendulum style. Although I couldn’t see anything below me, I knew there was a 10,000-foot drop on each side of me and 40 feet of exposure directly below me. I had no choice but to trust my gear and proceed with caution.
Every move I made was ultraslow, as I had to be extremely cautious about each foothold and handhold. Then, about halfway down, my crampons slipped against the smooth rock surface, leaving me swinging sideways and slamming helplessly into the wall of rock and ice. Unable to even brace myself for impact, I let out a cry of pain. No one could hear me.
Maybe it will be easier to face forward instead of backward, I thought. I turned around so my back was against the icy wall, and I leaped to a lower boulder. I stopped my backswing with my left arm. My heart was beating wildly, and my carotid artery felt like it was ready to burst out of my neck. I hunkered down on a flat snow shelf, trying to calm my body’s systems. Finally, after a few minutes of deep, controlled breaths, my heart rate went down.
I fumbled through my pack to get some much-needed water. I removed my mask and cautiously unscrewed my thermos, careful to not drop the lid. I felt instant relief as the water made its way past my dry lips and down my throat. It had taken me more than 30 minutes to climb less than 100 feet. It was going to be a long descent.
The next section was the Cornice Traverse, which was a small pathway with two miles of exposure on each side. I gripped my safety line and took half steps, being careful not to let the spikes of my crampons snag the boot in front. I knew from memory what was on each side of me, but with no visual points of reference, I felt a nearly disabling sense of vertigo.
Keep your fear and panic in check! I coached myself sternly. These reactions are normal survival mechanisms, but with a long-term challenge like this one, I knew I’d need to rein in my emotions if I was going to survive. With my heart racing and my nerves tingling, I forced myself to focus on each step and not think about the enormity of the danger I was in.
Yet somehow I didn’t feel alone, even as I made my way through this terrifying leg of the journey. In the Bible it says that faith is believing what we can’t see, and in that moment, I experienced that truth in a very real way.
I thought about JoAnna and the kids back home. The mental image of them brought me a sense of peace as I focused on breathing and slowing my heart rate. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step. Emily, Jordan, JoAnna. Step.
As I made my way down, the wind started picking up. Fifty-mile-per-hour gusts were blowing against me, so I hunched down to create a lower center of gravity. The gu
sts seemed to come in two-minute intervals, and the spindrift intensified. This must mean the higher gusts are on the way, I thought, remembering the mini-tornado I’d experienced near the Geneva Spur on the way up. I considered getting on my hands and knees and crawling across this section, but I figured I’d be better off anchored to the ground, with my spikes in the snow. I didn’t want to find myself slipping off the side or through the cornice.
Some people have the idea that climbing is glamorous, but even under the best circumstances, there’s nothing elegant about it. And as I made my way across the obstacles without the luxury of my eyesight, I could only imagine how awkward I looked. I inched my way across the traverse, taking small steps and bending down every so often, squinting my eyes so I could get a blurry image of where my feet were planted. I knew this wasn’t speeding things along, but it helped me mentally to know that my feet were firmly planted on the ground.
Finally, after forcing myself to move one foot after the other, step after step, I felt the ground sloping downward, and I knew I’d made it to the edge of the traverse. I was on top of the ridge, heading to the South Summit.
I stepped off the traverse, my spikes digging into the warming snow. Wedging my fingers tightly into the carabiner, I sank backward and gently fell onto the top of the hill. I got up and took a couple of heavy steps, being careful not to snag the other boot.
I made it across the South Summit ridge and then stood for a moment, trying to decide how to go about my next descent. If I’d had the use of my eyes, these areas would have been quick rappels for me. But now each descent was agonizingly long—not to mention exhausting. I did some quick calculations and realized I’d been climbing nonstop for more than 26 hours. I shut my eyes for a second to rest and felt myself doze off in an instant. I jerked my eyes open, and my heart started racing. Wake up! I berated myself. If you fall asleep, you’ll die!
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