(I would like to publish this in a mainstream outlet - if you are such an outlet, please be in touch [and I will remove this self-published website]).
Written April 2022 about a 2019 expedition. See also Nepal Expedition 2019.
Preface
It wasn’t on my bucket list, not even a peripheral goal. Why then in 2019 did I attempt to summit Lhotse, the world’s fourth highest mountain and Everest’s next-door neighbor? It was happenstance more than anything. I had been an avid outdoorsman for quite some time traveling across exceptionally remote and challenging regions, notably in Alaska, Canada, and southern Utah.
I remember how nerve-wracking it was when I set out to solo hike most of Canada’s Great Divide Trail without any communication devices in 2008. It took a few sleepless nights to really come to terms with the prospect.
I suppose then that I had slowly worked my way up towards an acceptance of the inherent risk that comes with ambitious (particularly solo) outdoor pursuits.
Lhotse was another matter altogether though. I had always been more of the contemplative adventurer, seeking simple beauty, solitude, and of course a solid thrill and sense of accomplishment here and there. Death defying stunts weren’t really my style.
It just so happened that I met a scientist of sorts who was leading a research expedition in the area that involved spending three months in Nepal in multiple valleys and climbing several peaks. I was compelled as much by the intellectual merit as anything else, so I signed on (and may have had a sleepless night or two afterwards).
Climbing the world’s highest mountains is necessarily an encounter with death. The region above 8000 meters even bears the name: the death zone.
While the primary risk here is oxygen deprivation, dangers of course also abound outside of the death zone. Foremost among them are avalanches or falling seracs. Another is the possibility of falling into a crevasse, but this is fairly mitigated by fixed lines and ladders on popular peaks in the Himalayas in contrast to more DIY mountains like Denali.
It is an expectation when climbing high peaks like Everest or K2 that you may encounter the corpses of climbers who have succumbed in one way or another to the mountain. Some even become known landmarks, aiding in navigation. If a body is near the climbing route, some complication from low oxygen is probably the culprit. Those killed by avalanches or falls are more likely to end up somewhere off route, probably lost forever.
It is also a reasonable expectation to encounter someone who may be near death or have recently died.
Reasonable. Expectation.
The Journey
On my journey, death initially posed as a blustering cascade—a torrent of unbridled snow tearing down a mountainside—first as a serac-triggered avalanche—an unstoppable bubbling white wave—parallel to the climbing route on the steep and icy Lhotse face—covering over a quarter mile towards Camp 2 in seconds. Another tore across the valley between Camp 1 and 2 where I knew some members of our party were ascending. Some hours later when they arrived, one of them was clearly on edge: “holy shit, I was only 10 meters from the edge of that avalanche.”
During our final ascent through the icefall for the summit push, another serac broke just above it, triggering an avalanche that dropped at exactly the point where 16 sherpas were killed in 2014. I watched it from a safe perch above but knew again that just below were members of our party.
Within minutes a Nepali guide rushed up to us and we heard some distressed chatter on his radio. One of our party had been glanced, but not badly, and was only psychologically distressed. Luckily most of its power had dissipated on the underlying rocks before reaching the climbing route.
None of these avalanches killed anyone, but death would come. This was the last time I ever saw this Nepali guide. He would later have an epileptic seizure above Camp 3 leading to an unprecedented—and ultimately futile—long-line helicopter evacuation.
(continues below)
Preface
It wasn’t on my bucket list, not even a peripheral goal. Why then in 2019 did I attempt to summit Lhotse, the world’s fourth highest mountain and Everest’s next-door neighbor? It was happenstance more than anything. I had been an avid outdoorsman for quite some time traveling across exceptionally remote and challenging regions, notably in Alaska, Canada, and southern Utah.
I remember how nerve-wracking it was when I set out to solo hike most of Canada’s Great Divide Trail without any communication devices in 2008. It took a few sleepless nights to really come to terms with the prospect.
I suppose then that I had slowly worked my way up towards an acceptance of the inherent risk that comes with ambitious (particularly solo) outdoor pursuits.
Lhotse was another matter altogether though. I had always been more of the contemplative adventurer, seeking simple beauty, solitude, and of course a solid thrill and sense of accomplishment here and there. Death defying stunts weren’t really my style.
It just so happened that I met a scientist of sorts who was leading a research expedition in the area that involved spending three months in Nepal in multiple valleys and climbing several peaks. I was compelled as much by the intellectual merit as anything else, so I signed on (and may have had a sleepless night or two afterwards).
Climbing the world’s highest mountains is necessarily an encounter with death. The region above 8000 meters even bears the name: the death zone.
While the primary risk here is oxygen deprivation, dangers of course also abound outside of the death zone. Foremost among them are avalanches or falling seracs. Another is the possibility of falling into a crevasse, but this is fairly mitigated by fixed lines and ladders on popular peaks in the Himalayas in contrast to more DIY mountains like Denali.
It is an expectation when climbing high peaks like Everest or K2 that you may encounter the corpses of climbers who have succumbed in one way or another to the mountain. Some even become known landmarks, aiding in navigation. If a body is near the climbing route, some complication from low oxygen is probably the culprit. Those killed by avalanches or falls are more likely to end up somewhere off route, probably lost forever.
It is also a reasonable expectation to encounter someone who may be near death or have recently died.
Reasonable. Expectation.
The Journey
On my journey, death initially posed as a blustering cascade—a torrent of unbridled snow tearing down a mountainside—first as a serac-triggered avalanche—an unstoppable bubbling white wave—parallel to the climbing route on the steep and icy Lhotse face—covering over a quarter mile towards Camp 2 in seconds. Another tore across the valley between Camp 1 and 2 where I knew some members of our party were ascending. Some hours later when they arrived, one of them was clearly on edge: “holy shit, I was only 10 meters from the edge of that avalanche.”
During our final ascent through the icefall for the summit push, another serac broke just above it, triggering an avalanche that dropped at exactly the point where 16 sherpas were killed in 2014. I watched it from a safe perch above but knew again that just below were members of our party.
Within minutes a Nepali guide rushed up to us and we heard some distressed chatter on his radio. One of our party had been glanced, but not badly, and was only psychologically distressed. Luckily most of its power had dissipated on the underlying rocks before reaching the climbing route.
None of these avalanches killed anyone, but death would come. This was the last time I ever saw this Nepali guide. He would later have an epileptic seizure above Camp 3 leading to an unprecedented—and ultimately futile—long-line helicopter evacuation.
(continues below)
Unlike this guide and most of our party, I made it above Camp 3 and on to Lhotse Camp 4—where the Everest and Lhotse routes finally diverge. As I slowly approached the camp—a small batch of blazing orange tents perched on a small flat area at the bare edge of the plummeting Lhotse face—I noticed a man’s body tethered to the fixed line. He was attached by a carabiner just below the main trail, right at the corner of camp. His face was covered by a jacket with his arms crossed over his chest and his lower stomach exposed. He was plump with dark olive-brown skin. He was a Bulgarian climber named Ivan Tomov who summitted Lhotse without oxygen and was found dead in his tent the following morning. Though this may have been my first encounter with a body outside of a funeral, I wasn’t particularly bothered. This was reasonable, expected. Besides I had been warned of a body near Camp 4.
Perhaps I ought to have been more disturbed when I was assigned the corner tent mere feet from the corpse. The tent was a mess of pads, sleeping bags, side pockets stuffed with all variety of small camping trinkets, and trash. I don’t know if it was the altitude or some miscommunication between the Sherpas and I, but I became convinced I was in a dead man’s tent, not necessarily that of the fellow outside, but someone’s. What of it? I rested hard in preparation for the following day’s summit attempt.
I had been suffering from some undefined ailment. I wasn’t sick per se, but I had, since reaching Camp 1, been coughing up bits of thick phlegm, often spotted with blood. Well, maybe more than bits—I filled half a Nalgene during a night of poor sleep, punctuated by loud, vicious hacking spells at Camp 2. There were no other symptoms though. I didn’t feel sick in any conventional sense and the issue was concentrated in my throat with no involvement of my lungs. The moment I felt anything in my lungs was my turnaround I had decided. Whatever it was, it likely took a toll on my energy reserves.
We left in the darkness of an early morning that was warmer than I anticipated. Outside the narrow scope of our headlamps loomed a full moon, endless stars, and a glistening line of headlamps snaking up Everest—some, it seemed, already at the summit.
Hours of painfully slow, intensely deliberate climbing—and a brilliant pink sunrise—later, and the remnants of our party were at the cliffy, snow-striated summit cap. We were now well into the death zone, and I had fully entered force-of-will-to-keep-moving-mode. Oddly, I didn’t really feel tired or out of breath. I was just slow, and it was hard to move. I noticed this and used this noticing to convince myself to continue.
About a third of the way up, my path was blocked. The route—a narrow snow-covered rock bench—was suddenly occupied. Confronting me starkly was another corpse. This was however beyond any reasonable expectation I had for such an encounter—rather than a pair of green boots casually glanced safely off trail, here was an all-consuming, gruesome presence.
He was seated upright on a rock bench, right hand on his knee—gloveless—fingers black with frost, feet partially buried in the snow, head upright, his face also spotted with black. He was clad in a Mountain Hardwear down suit—the exact same type and color as mine, but very faded and tattered, strips of which were blowing in the wind. His clothes suggested he had been there quite some time, in contrast to the condition of his stark white flesh and his naturally seated upright position—almost as though he had died yesterday.
His eyes were wide open.
It required a conscious effort not to touch the body—not to lean on or grasp it as I clambered directly across him, holding myself away from the cliff slightly out into the open air. As I crossed over him and my face veered directly in front of his, I couldn’t resist looking into his lifeless face and icy eyes—fully intact and frozen. I saw nothing but pure silver reflections, of myself, and of the surrounding landscape—mountains barely visible behind the white clouds of an impending storm.
The summit cap took on new dimensions with his presence: this steep, isolated pinnacle built from jagged brown rock was now a stone shrine to the god residing on Lhotse. The dead man was guardian of this summit temple, after knowingly risking his life for the opportunity to confront Lhotse’s deity. He was a voluntary human sacrifice as it were—keeper of the god’s abode—a solid statue—with eyes frozen open to forever gaze across the summit approach watching every climber who approaches to pay homage to this god, possibly with their lives, thereby joining him in his eternal communion with the mountains. You must confront him to summit, and as you do, he tempts you to stare into his eyes, to behold the silver nothingness.
In the time it took me to struggle to the summit, a storm had arrived. Visibility was reduced to a few hundred yards, vicious winds and snow blasted my face; the epic views I had worked so hard to glimpse were wiped out before I had the chance. But I had made it after months of preparation and acclimatization.
I was exhausted, I still had to descend, and I knew that descent is the deadliest part of any climb.
The winds roared down through the couloir’s natural funnel. Dense gray clouds loomed above, lightly dropping snow. Visibility was low, but sufficient. My Sherpa guide kept well ahead of me, usually within view, until suddenly he wasn’t.
I was alone. Abandoned. In the death zone. I knew the very last pair of climbers was above me in the storm. But I also knew anything could happen to them on the way, and that they were moving slowly enough that I couldn’t rely on them if I ran into trouble. And they too were probably exhausted.
My energy was extremely low and dissipating. I stumbled a bit when walking. I had to constantly rework my figure-8 on the fixed line at every knot or new line, which seemed at the time like an immense effort. I rested on occasion, panting on my knees. Each time I did, I was haunted by the summit corpse—the macabre sentinel. This is how this man came to die, I was sure: he decided to sit for a quick break, which turned into an eternal nap. I entered survival mode. I couldn’t make the same mistake as he and so many others had. I was responsible for my own fate and had to keep moving.
I don’t think I really thought about home or family or some other overriding connection to the outside world that was worth living for in those moments. It was more sheer determination, a desire to live that really made no sense, not so much different than everyday life I suppose.
As I descended, the clouds thinned and the winds calmed, as I dropped beneath both the storm and the death zone. I passed the tattered remnants of tents buried in snow—a deceptive ghost camp from past expeditions.
At long last, I collapsed alone into my tent at Camp 4. I didn’t even bother to take off my crampons, which dangled out of the open door. Climbers shuffled by on the fixed line, occasionally peering into my open tent door.
My energy never returned until I descended from Base Camp days later. Despite this, I managed to navigate the neglected and decaying climbing infrastructure in the icefall, where there were many loose anchors barely surviving in the melting ice. One ladder seemed to have dropped, necessitating a climb into a crevasse onto a thin ledge followed by a leap across, clipped only into a single slack line above. Later, as I traversed along an ice cliff, an ice screw above ripped out entirely—only my balance and quick reaction likely prevented a fall.
The feeling of elation at reaching Base Camp was tremendous, as was the wonder of returning to the world of green and blooming things. One night on the trek down to Lukla I woke suddenly, clutching furiously for my oxygen mask, grasping at the wall beside my bed, certain I was still in my tent at Camp 4. A microdose of PTSD I suppose.
I’m not sure there is a moral to this story, that this is anything more than yet another tale of harrowing adventure in the mountains. I came close to death, less my own, than to its clearer penetration into life. The summit of Lhotse became for me a kind of portal where the dense weaving of death and life, though ever-present, was simply more evident. Perhaps then I had to ascend in order to properly descend.
Perhaps I ought to have been more disturbed when I was assigned the corner tent mere feet from the corpse. The tent was a mess of pads, sleeping bags, side pockets stuffed with all variety of small camping trinkets, and trash. I don’t know if it was the altitude or some miscommunication between the Sherpas and I, but I became convinced I was in a dead man’s tent, not necessarily that of the fellow outside, but someone’s. What of it? I rested hard in preparation for the following day’s summit attempt.
I had been suffering from some undefined ailment. I wasn’t sick per se, but I had, since reaching Camp 1, been coughing up bits of thick phlegm, often spotted with blood. Well, maybe more than bits—I filled half a Nalgene during a night of poor sleep, punctuated by loud, vicious hacking spells at Camp 2. There were no other symptoms though. I didn’t feel sick in any conventional sense and the issue was concentrated in my throat with no involvement of my lungs. The moment I felt anything in my lungs was my turnaround I had decided. Whatever it was, it likely took a toll on my energy reserves.
We left in the darkness of an early morning that was warmer than I anticipated. Outside the narrow scope of our headlamps loomed a full moon, endless stars, and a glistening line of headlamps snaking up Everest—some, it seemed, already at the summit.
Hours of painfully slow, intensely deliberate climbing—and a brilliant pink sunrise—later, and the remnants of our party were at the cliffy, snow-striated summit cap. We were now well into the death zone, and I had fully entered force-of-will-to-keep-moving-mode. Oddly, I didn’t really feel tired or out of breath. I was just slow, and it was hard to move. I noticed this and used this noticing to convince myself to continue.
About a third of the way up, my path was blocked. The route—a narrow snow-covered rock bench—was suddenly occupied. Confronting me starkly was another corpse. This was however beyond any reasonable expectation I had for such an encounter—rather than a pair of green boots casually glanced safely off trail, here was an all-consuming, gruesome presence.
He was seated upright on a rock bench, right hand on his knee—gloveless—fingers black with frost, feet partially buried in the snow, head upright, his face also spotted with black. He was clad in a Mountain Hardwear down suit—the exact same type and color as mine, but very faded and tattered, strips of which were blowing in the wind. His clothes suggested he had been there quite some time, in contrast to the condition of his stark white flesh and his naturally seated upright position—almost as though he had died yesterday.
His eyes were wide open.
It required a conscious effort not to touch the body—not to lean on or grasp it as I clambered directly across him, holding myself away from the cliff slightly out into the open air. As I crossed over him and my face veered directly in front of his, I couldn’t resist looking into his lifeless face and icy eyes—fully intact and frozen. I saw nothing but pure silver reflections, of myself, and of the surrounding landscape—mountains barely visible behind the white clouds of an impending storm.
The summit cap took on new dimensions with his presence: this steep, isolated pinnacle built from jagged brown rock was now a stone shrine to the god residing on Lhotse. The dead man was guardian of this summit temple, after knowingly risking his life for the opportunity to confront Lhotse’s deity. He was a voluntary human sacrifice as it were—keeper of the god’s abode—a solid statue—with eyes frozen open to forever gaze across the summit approach watching every climber who approaches to pay homage to this god, possibly with their lives, thereby joining him in his eternal communion with the mountains. You must confront him to summit, and as you do, he tempts you to stare into his eyes, to behold the silver nothingness.
In the time it took me to struggle to the summit, a storm had arrived. Visibility was reduced to a few hundred yards, vicious winds and snow blasted my face; the epic views I had worked so hard to glimpse were wiped out before I had the chance. But I had made it after months of preparation and acclimatization.
I was exhausted, I still had to descend, and I knew that descent is the deadliest part of any climb.
The winds roared down through the couloir’s natural funnel. Dense gray clouds loomed above, lightly dropping snow. Visibility was low, but sufficient. My Sherpa guide kept well ahead of me, usually within view, until suddenly he wasn’t.
I was alone. Abandoned. In the death zone. I knew the very last pair of climbers was above me in the storm. But I also knew anything could happen to them on the way, and that they were moving slowly enough that I couldn’t rely on them if I ran into trouble. And they too were probably exhausted.
My energy was extremely low and dissipating. I stumbled a bit when walking. I had to constantly rework my figure-8 on the fixed line at every knot or new line, which seemed at the time like an immense effort. I rested on occasion, panting on my knees. Each time I did, I was haunted by the summit corpse—the macabre sentinel. This is how this man came to die, I was sure: he decided to sit for a quick break, which turned into an eternal nap. I entered survival mode. I couldn’t make the same mistake as he and so many others had. I was responsible for my own fate and had to keep moving.
I don’t think I really thought about home or family or some other overriding connection to the outside world that was worth living for in those moments. It was more sheer determination, a desire to live that really made no sense, not so much different than everyday life I suppose.
As I descended, the clouds thinned and the winds calmed, as I dropped beneath both the storm and the death zone. I passed the tattered remnants of tents buried in snow—a deceptive ghost camp from past expeditions.
At long last, I collapsed alone into my tent at Camp 4. I didn’t even bother to take off my crampons, which dangled out of the open door. Climbers shuffled by on the fixed line, occasionally peering into my open tent door.
My energy never returned until I descended from Base Camp days later. Despite this, I managed to navigate the neglected and decaying climbing infrastructure in the icefall, where there were many loose anchors barely surviving in the melting ice. One ladder seemed to have dropped, necessitating a climb into a crevasse onto a thin ledge followed by a leap across, clipped only into a single slack line above. Later, as I traversed along an ice cliff, an ice screw above ripped out entirely—only my balance and quick reaction likely prevented a fall.
The feeling of elation at reaching Base Camp was tremendous, as was the wonder of returning to the world of green and blooming things. One night on the trek down to Lukla I woke suddenly, clutching furiously for my oxygen mask, grasping at the wall beside my bed, certain I was still in my tent at Camp 4. A microdose of PTSD I suppose.
I’m not sure there is a moral to this story, that this is anything more than yet another tale of harrowing adventure in the mountains. I came close to death, less my own, than to its clearer penetration into life. The summit of Lhotse became for me a kind of portal where the dense weaving of death and life, though ever-present, was simply more evident. Perhaps then I had to ascend in order to properly descend.