Entries from Expedition Dispatches

I'm scared of Mount Everest. There, I said it. In fact, I'm scared of most mountains I climb, even ones like Rainier which I've climbed close to 90 times. But it's a fear which I embrace and welcome with each new climb. My fear began in 1984, when I watched Winds of Everest, a film about the first American ascent of Everest's North Side (incidentally, it was led by Lou Whittaker, and his son, Peter, climbed above 25,000 feet on the expedition). The opening narration by John Denver reads: In the eternal lives of mountains, the ambitions of men are as insignificant as the snow that swirls from their rocky ridges. The lives of man are transitory...the mountain is everlasting. It's a notion that has never been lost on me, a constant reminder that mountains do not forgive complacency, that any peak - no matter how familiar, no matter how many times you have climbed it - can be a deadly, dangerous place. Fear, in the mountain realm, is a good thing. I've been to Everest before. My first trip here was to the Northeast Ridge in 1999. This is my 6th expedition to Everest, my 8th to an 8,000 meter peak. I was able to sneak to the top of Everest by the Southeast Ridge in 2002, and the Northeast in 2003. In many ways, this is familiar turf, a comfortable stomping ground. One would think, then, that gearing up for our summit bid would be simple, devoid of much thought, anticipation, or trepidation about the days to come. But that is far from the case. We've all read the press reports that love to tout today's Everest as a "walk up," "a highway," and the like. Sure, the mountain today is not Hillary and Tenzing's Everest, or Whittaker and Gombu's. It's changed considerably over the years-a little physically and a lot in how it's climbed. However, the reality is that it's still 29,035 feet tall, there's no tram or escalator (yet), and to get to the top one must still put one foot in front of the other for 12,000 vertical feet above basecamp. As I prepare for our summit bid, that reality is never far from my mind. I gaze up at the Icefall looming immediately out of camp, and see its hazards. It was only a week ago that it claimed a life. Gotta be ready to move fast there, as always, but maybe even a bit faster this time. From there, the Western Cwm presents little danger - aside from oppressive heat at times - but I know its couple of miles of length can take a lot out of a climber, and I'll need to arrive at Camp 2 feeling strong - lots of mountain above that. The Lhotse Face - a couple thousand feet of steep snow and ice - is made more approachable with fixed lines, but still a place for caution. Falling rocks are one hazard, and simply missing a clip or taking a fall are other real hazards. No complacency there, I tell myself, remembering the climber who died in 2002. Climb strong, safe, and smart. From Camp 3, it gets more serious. Approaching 8,000 meters - the famed death zone - both the mind and the body suffer, and there's still a lot of mountain to climb. While I've been fortunate to always perform well up high, I never kid myself into believing it will be easy. A myriad of things can go wrong - a stomach bug, cold, infection - can all take you out of the running. Above Camp 3, we're in down suits, breathing oxygen; communication becomes more difficult, peripheral vision obscured. And ahead lie the Yellow Band and Geneva Spur...neither overly technical or challenging, but made at least interesting given their location. No mistakes here either. It's a long way down! Finally, the South Col, Camp 4, 26,000 feet. Not even a glimmer of relaxation here. We'll pull into the Col in early afternoon, brew up, lie down, and in a handful of hours begin walking again, in the dark, up the Triangle Face and toward the summit. It's a long day from the Col... perhaps 4 hours to the Balcony at 27,500 feet. Another 2 hours or so from there to the South Summit, 28,750 feet. And then it gets interesting: here's where things most often begin to unravel. From the South Summit lies the most exposed and technical terrain of summit day, if not of the entire climb. And there are bottlenecks: find yourself up there with a crowd, and you can wait for an hour or more to ascend the Hillary Step and get to the top. There's no passing lane; standing room only. But then you finally hit the top. Celebration! Elation! Congratulations! And then the realization that the top is only 1/2 way...there's still 12,000 feet of dangerous terrain between the top and bottom. No champagne yet, not until every team member - Nepalis and Westerners alike - are safely back at basecamp. Never let your guard down...the mountain doesn't care about your ambitions. Sure, I've climbed Everest before. I'll be with a strong team with ample experience. The weather looks reasonable. But, despite all that, I still have a lot of trepidation. I'm scared of Mount Everest...and I'm happy to be.

This was a great day for staying put. That said, it sounded like everything outside our little tents was moving around. The forecast called for snow and wind - the reality was exactly that. I was wide-awake at 5:40 a.m., listening to what sounded like a 20-minute train derailment: an avalanche pouring off Everest's Southwest face. Several times I zipped down the tent door, only to see that we were still in the milky midst of the turbulent powder cloud thrown off by the slide. I knew the actual debris couldn't possibly hit ABC - but it was a reminder to me that it wouldn't be a day for wandering around. The decision had been made the night before that our expedition business would be put on hold. No Sherpas shuttling supplies or camera memory cards-no members going on upper mountain "hikes" in a whiteout. My gang was due for an ABC rest day in any event, but lack of morning sun and abundant frost shaking from tent ceilings kept us all deep in our sleeping bags this morning. Pathetic as it may sound, we were too lazy to even get up and begin resting. Once up and about, we were granted breaks in the cloud that allowed us to dry our gear and view the mayhem up on the heights. Huge ribbons of snow and cloud tore back and forth across the mountain faces and circled us. The Niagara Falls noise of it all eventually became accepted background to our head tunes and reading. Not much thought was given to an Everest summit today. Our radio traffic with BC just confirmed that the rest of the team was wisely pushing back climbing plans. It can be difficult deciding whether marginal weather should dictate climbing plans. Thankfully, that is no longer a problem. Real Himalayan storms don't invite calculation and outfoxing. Rather, it is an obvious time for patience, for rehydration, for resting and recharging,,, and the tying down of loose objects.

It is like a ghost town up here at ABC. We don't mind a bit, having fought half the day to get here from Basecamp. Most others were struggling to get elsewhere. There is a storm sumo wrestling with the exposed summits of Everest and Lhotse today. Since this one is coming out of the west, 25,000 ft Nuptse gives us some protection down here in the Cwm. We still get good strong belts of wind and blowing snow, but we know it could be a lot worse at Camp III and Camp IV in this pattern. Our friends up at the South Col - hoping for a break so as to ring the summit bell - didn't get a break. They were forced to retreat this morning just as we were tentatively moving up. We were tentatively moving up because that seemed like the smart way to be with a 4 AM sky full of clouds, a couple of inches of new snow on the ground, and untested legs in our crew. It didn't take long at all for Erica's legs to prove they were ready for climbing today. I could hear her crampons digging in just a few steps behind me for all of the first dark hour-she was cruising over the same ice that had defeated her 24 hours earlier. I focused on other problems. The big one was the misbehaving cloud ceiling. It was steadily dropping as we climbed and the morning light came on. The more I could see, the less I could see. When we took the first short break it was snowing, and I polled my team as to whether they thought it would intensify. There were six of us today - the five usual suspects (Seth, Erica, Kent, Ang Kaji and me) plus Maila - the Camp II cook who had been enjoying a brief Basecamp vacation from one of the toughest jobs on the hill. Maila thought-as we all did-that the snow was just getting started, and that there wasn't much point in going on. None of us wanted to be doing the braille thing through a Khumbu Icefall whiteout. And there definitely weren't any takers for a stroll in close to the Nuptse avalanche chutes beyond Camp I, with serious snow coming down. So we very nearly called it quits at 5 AM, before getting into the worst of the Icefall. The retreat plan was sound - and we hated it. This acclimatization round is important - it is our "tryout" for a summit bid. We want the extra strength, skill and confidence that may come from it. We can't really get that by going an hour out of BC every day. And the calendar is moving on to the phat part of May. We want to be ready. We decided to hedge our bets-pushing onto the middle of the Icefall - another hour along, for a final call on the weather. In that next hour, the snow quit and the clouds lifted. We knew the storm wasn't finished, but we saw our little window of opportunity for scampering out of the Icefall and past Nuptse, and we were determined to take full advantage. Long story short - our little gamble worked. We arrived at ABC at midday excited as kids (even those of us not quite kids anymore). Excited with storm adrenaline, excited to have put things on the line, and to have made correct climbing decisions, and to feel the fitness we didn't have 5 weeks ago. We called down to BC to boast - but also to be assured that the rest of our team is coping well with their summit holding pattern. They are not alone in that - as I said, we've got ABC pretty much to ourselves - and we barely had to make room for other climbers today on the route. Most are lower. Most are waiting for summit weather.

Question #1: Written by erstad17 on May 1, 2009 As a Nikon shooter myself, I'm proud to see the Nikon name at Everest. Is there a specific reason why you wouldn't go full frame? Do you carry a backup to the D300? Answered by Jake Norton on May 11, 2009 Hi erstad17...good to hear from another Nikon shooter! As for the full frame issue, I'm not personally against full frame, but have not gone that direction for a couple of reasons. First, I personally do not see a huge benefit to full frame, it being a somewhat arbitrary size anyway; I find the DX format to take a little getting used to at first, but now quite familiar and good. But, more importantly, I use the D300 (and used the D200 previously, and the D100 before that) primarily because of size and weight. Both, of course, are major issues when shooting on Everest. The "prosumer" Nikon (digital) line has always treated me quite well, with exceptional performance in the extreme cold, with a great balance of weight and quality. I do have backup cameras with me - a D300, D200, and D100 in case I'm really in trouble - but do not carry them with me all the time. Again, finding the balance with weight, space, etc. Thanks for your questions, and keep shooting! Question #2: Written by Grizmtn on April 28, 2009 Thanks for all the great footage and comments. Allows folks like me in faraway Montana to get a glimpse at a fascinating other world through the eyes of experts. Question for Dave Hahn: Since you were involved in the search for evidence of the Mallory & Irvine expedition, and the finding of Mallory's body, do you think the north route has been scoured enough (hopefully not by treasure hunters) to have discovered Irvine and the sought after camera if they were there, or is the area complex and difficult enough that Irvine's remains may be hiding in some nook of the yellowband? Answered by Dave Hahn on May 11, 2009 Hi Grizmtn. There probably is still more to be found high on the north side regarding the Mallory and Irvine mystery. Just as you say, the area is complex and difficult enough to keep plenty hidden, including Andrew Irvine's remains and whichever camera(s) he and George Mallory had with them on June 8, 1924. I trust you use the term "treasure hunters" as I do, with tongue-in-cheek when it comes to those exploring Everest's North Face. A dumber way to get rich has yet to be conceived. I still feel that Irvine's remains may be hidden on a ledge within the Yellow Band but I doubt I'll risk my life again to confirm that. That said, it is hard for me to imagine a better season for searching than this dry one. Jake Norton and I covered some good ground (rock) in our 2004 Yellow Band search, but due to snowdrifts, we can't categorically say that those same ledges didn't still hold clues to the mystery. Best Regards, DH Question #3: Written by GB on April 25, 2009 It's exciting following the climb through the dispatches and photos. Does the beauty of the mountains ever stop you in your tracks and make you want to look around in awe at your surroundings? How do you respond when climbing with a client or climbing partner? Safe climbing! Answered by Seth Waterfall on May 11, 2009 Hello GB. Thanks for following our expedition. I can safely speak for the team when I say...heck yeah, the beauty of the mountains stops us in our tracks! Fortunately, this style of mountaineering allows for plenty of time to soak up the surroundings. But in fact it is very necessary to be aware of what's going on around you at all times when you're in the mountains, especially while guiding. I regularly encourage my clients to avoid just looking down and following my boot prints. One needs to be aware of everything going on around you and a good team member is always looking out for everyone. Question #4: Written by T-Dawg on April 25, 2009 Quick question: do the Sherpas get acclimatized well before the expedition teams arrive? Also, after watching the video about waste collection, and yeah, this is a little gross, when at ABC or when you all reach HC, what happens when "nature calls"? Do the Sherpas bring up latrine tents or do you bust out the shovel? I'm sure some inquiring minds are wondering. Answered by Seth Waterfall on May 11, 2009 T-Dawg, the Sherpas on our team arrived about one to two weeks before us. That plus the fact that they, for the most part, live at a much higher altitude than us 'westerners,' gives them a head start on acclimatizing. That said, they are definitely predisposed to be more adaptable to altitude, but the mechanism there is poorly understood. There's no doubt, however, that these guys are tough as nails. Now to your question about 'number two.' In my experience, every popular mountain has its own rules regarding waste disposal. Here it is no different. The rules just change depending on where you are on the mountain. At base camp, the waste is removed and dealt with down the valley. Higher up on the mountain this is not practical, and the waste is deposited in a crevasse in the glacier. Question #5: Written by DrewEvansPhoto What do you all do during downtime like this, besides heal and rest? Answered by Seth Waterfall on May 11, 2009 Hi DEP. We all do different things to relieve the boredom of rest days. With the advent of video iPods, the game is totally different and movie watching is an indescribable pleasure. Of course, reading is great and we've got a little book exchange and tons of magazines. We also eat, play cards, fly our one kite, play Frisbee, and make fun of each other mercilessly. That's all in addition to helping maintain the camp and taking care of ourselves. It's just tons of fun at base camp.

If you follow mountaineering much, you already know that climbers often don't do what they said they were going to do. And I assure you that there are good reasons for such contradictory and inconsistent behavior. For instance, yesterday I said that I would lead my sub-team of Erica, Seth, Kent and Ang Kaji in an effort to get up early and go on up the hill to ABC. I lied. We did get up early...at 3AM...and we did give it a try, but then we came back down to BC. It was a beautiful night and each of us got up and out of the tents professing to have slept well. There was a massively full moon lighting things as we swallowed coffee and rice porridge. There weren't any headlights already in the Icefall, and in fact we were the first to venture onto the route this morning. This didn't surprise me as many potential summit climbers are well down valley in the tea houses right now, taking a rest before their final bids on the mountain. Their Sherpa teams have, for the most part, already carried all the equipment that is needed for those final bids. So things are quiet on the climbing route at the moment and we seem to be the only folks still thinking of going up for practice and acclimatization. Being slightly out-of-synch with the general mob is exactly to my liking though. As we strapped on our spikes, I was pleased to contemplate cruising through the Icefall route without any traffic considerations. I led the way and began to experience a strange fringe benefit of being first. The glacier kept popping and snapping with my passage...sometimes playfully, sometimes with a rifle-crack that made one want to duck and cover. Lots of daytime melt water runs on the surface of a big glacier in Spring and it freezes solid in cracks and seams at night...whoever puts weight on it first breaks the new bonds. Knowing this intellectually and being surprised out of your socks by a loud CRACK on a quiet night are two different things. We'd been walking for just a half hour when the International Space Station whizzed through the dark sky over Lhotse's summit. Out to the West, the full moon was crashing dramatically to earth over Cholatse's summit. It was yet another very beautiful morning. But we all knew something was wrong, just the same. We weren't coming close to our intended pace for the day. Our initial hope was that Erica was just having a slow start, but after a couple of hours, it was clear that she was having more of an "off" day that we needed to pay attention to. Her knee was aching from an old twist and every awkward step up in the ice was a little slower as a result. These things happen to all of us...even when we've got big plans for the day. We'd already passed through the big avalanche scar on the route and were in the "popcorn" section when I did the math and figured it just didn't make sense for us to try getting to ABC as planned. We'd all be too tired, overworked and dehydrated from so much extra time spent out on the trail with packs on our backs. Better to get on back to BC, have Erica's knee checked by the HRA docs and with a green light, go for it again tomorrow...hoping for an "on" day. It was a little strange to be back in basecamp in time for the regularly scheduled breakfast with the gang, but I don't see it as too big a setback. Certainly not as big a setback as a grindingly slow day through the Icefall would have been. The rest of our team is still in a holding pattern, trying to get over minor ailments and trying to get enough exercise in so as to stay sane in this weather-waiting period. Luckily for their sanity, things clouded over and got cold, mean and nasty for the afternoon at BC. It is easier waiting for good weather when one feels like one is actually in bad weather, but of course the weather perceived from basecamp is not always the actual -and more significant- weather at 8000 meters. It doesn't take too much imagination and extrapolation today though to believe that things are rough and grim at 8000 meters, but rumor has it that climbers are camped at the South Col and gunning for the summit tonight. Good luck to them...if they happen to do what they said they were going to do, that is.

A messy weather picture has got most teams pulling back from immediate summit bids. That isn't so strange at this point of the season. It is not quite awful weather and not quite good weather...tough to commit a bigger team to a resource-burning summit bid without a bit more stability. And we hope that stability will be on the horizon soon, but in the meantime... My team of Seth, Erica, Kent and Ang Kaji can still head up for our final acclimatization rotation and we will tomorrow morning. The days are still shiny and blue each morning with messiness creeping in near midday. Wind, clouds and some snow showers roll in and down here in Basecamp, we retreat to the tents. But none of that should keep us from hopping up to ABC and making an effort to sleep at CIII in these next few days. Whereas just a day ago, it seemed unreasonably tough to gear up for this mission, now that the decision has been made we are each eager for it. The only thing worse than actually taking risky, uncomfortable action at high altitude for four or five days is sitting down in BC contemplating it. We are now set to get on with it. There will be a few significant tests to this round. The first will be our effort to go directly from BC to ABC without a night at CI. It means getting up just a bit earlier and walking just a bit farther than we have, so far, but my guess is that we are capable of it. Then, it will be important to improve on our past performance in what will be our second climb up the Lhotse Face and to withstand the weirdness of a first night close to 24,000 ft. We'll test out our oxygen systems in the place they were designed for and try to work out any kinks before the summit bid. Despite the avalanche accident and a day that was anything but restful - smack in the middle of our time down low...we are now well rested, healthy and ready to get our work done. I believe that Peter Whittaker's team actually has things a bit tougher now, having to keep their edge for an imminent summit bid while patiently waiting a few more days in Basecamp. This kind of thing happens a lot in mountaineering, they will do fine with it.

I believed I'd imagined Kent Harvey's call to me at ten minutes to four in the morning. I didn't have any alarm set; it was a rest day coming on and I was sound asleep in my tent. So fully unconscious that Kent called me several times and when I finally responded, I had no idea where I was or what was going on. It was dark, and as he suggested that something had happened that I might want to be concerned with, I finished rubbing my eyes and zipped open my door. The beauty of the scene seemed unreal and impossible. The moon had set, and the sun wasn't close to being up, but there was starlight on the Khumbu Icefall, Nuptse and the great bulk of Everest's West Shoulder. Kent was saying that he'd just seen a fairly large avalanche come down the Shoulder-sending a cloud of debris across the Icefall-and he was concerned that climbers may have been caught. I listened to him, but I was having trouble taking my eyes from the bright planet perfectly framed above the Icefall and bracketed by the mountains. I did manage to look down and left enough finally to see several small strings of headlamps, just where I knew the avalanche had to have come down. I turned on my radio, taking a guess that my friends at IMG had people in the area. I listened to Mark Tucker calmly and carefully check in with his Sherpa team to find out that they were ok...another near miss; and his Sherpa team was able to tell him that the only other team in the area was also ok and that everybody was going on with their climb. I related this to Kent...stared at the planet again for some time and then went back to sleep in my warm down bag. In the morning, we all looked up at the troublesome serac on the West Shoulder to gauge its stability. The same huge fin of ice had been threatening all week. It had sent down the major avalanche we'd earlier reported which caught some of our team on their way to basecamp while I was pushing up to Camp II. In the morning light, it appeared hideously undercut and I don't believe any of us expected it to last through another day. I went so far as to take "before" photos of it. But to my knowledge, no Everest climbers did anything different yesterday morning because of the serac. It wasn't like the Icefall route would be closed by any proclamation; there wasn't some safer way to go instead. This isn't the only mountain we frequent that has chunks of glacier ready to fall, and I for one have mistakenly pronounced dozens of crazily tilted hotel-sized ice-blocks in danger of imminent collapse only to watch them hang on for months. But this serac sent down a handful of lesser slides as the morning progressed...enough to keep our attention focused...and our cameras ready. I wanted the thing to come down. I certainly didn't want to walk under it again in its decaying state. At 10:35 AM it did come down. I was sitting in my tent doorway, and I didn't need to fully look at Everest's West Shoulder to know that this was the big one. In this valley of avalanches, the quality of noise was easily different and distinct for this particular slide. I fumbled with my camera and began shooting. I didn't see the tiny dots representing climbers in the avalanche path. Partly because they may not have been visible down in the rough terrain of the Khumbu Icefall, and partly because I was totally mesmerized by the power and majesty of the white explosion I was witnessing. I kept taking pictures as the cloud engulfed basecamp. I knew it was only a cloud...we were nowhere near close enough to be hit with actual debris, but it was ominous and disturbing even so. It rolled over us like a volcanic ash-cloud, blotting out the sun and rocking the tents back and forth in its wind while pelting us with a "snow" of overly large ice crystals. And then, quite quickly, it was gone and what remained of any mist in the air was quickly burning off in the bright sun. I assumed that it had been a lucky day...that what needed to happen had happened and that nobody had been affected. It is possible that I went on in this belief for a full twenty minutes before word began to filter around that people had been caught in the avalanche. I began putting on my climbing boots and quickly loading my pack...by then, word had it that it was an acquaintance of mine of several years and many mountains. My friend had been caught along with his client and the Sherpa working with them. I saw Willie and Damian Benegas going past our camp, both speaking into their radios. There were a number of Sherpas moving toward the start of the Icefall route, including Tendi and LamaBabu from our own team. Seth Waterfall was ready before me and stood patiently as I finished up my climbing harness, then we started walking fast and I joined the ongoing radio scramble to get men and equipment to the accident scene. Since IMG's Sherpas and clients were descending the route at the time and were very lucky to come through unscathed, they were among the first to report the situation via radio, and so all other teams migrated to the IMG frequency. This seemed right since Mark Tucker and Ang Jangbu Sherpa at the IMG basecamp had shifted into their familiar role in bilingual crisis management. Seth and I checked in and learned that HimEx was offering up a full rescue pack cached near the start of the route. Russell Brice came on the radio, directing us to the gear. We loaded up heavy packs full of oxygen, sleeping bags, medical equipment, and rescue hardware and began climbing. We listened as various expedition leaders, guides and Sherpas reported in and offered up a mountain of resources. This from supposedly competing companies-none of whom had any reason to think that their own staff or customers were involved or injured. We began to feel the sense of community that is so often overlooked or ignored in modern media coverage of the Everest "scene." And we began to feel the intense sun that we normally avoid working under at midday. The glacier surface was brilliant in its new coat of "snow" from the avalanche and seemed to be reflecting 100% of the sun's radiation onto the skin I hadn't had time to protect in my dash out of BC. Within minutes under the big packs, we were covered in sweat. It turned out that a descending Indian team was instrumental, along with IMG's Sherpas, in getting my friend and his client out of a crevasse that the avalanche had pushed them into, but now the radio chatter was focusing on the Sherpa that had been with them. He was missing. Willie and Damian Benegas (Argentinian-American brothers leading two different Everest teams) were among the first Western professionals on the scene, and we relied on their reports of the situation as we continued to climb. My friend, badly hypothermic and shaken, was being placed on a stretcher as Seth and I arrived in the blast zone. We dove into the medical supplies we carried in an effort to help stabilize him. Seth concentrated his efforts then on escorting the remarkably unscathed client down. Willie Benegas and a strong team of Sherpas worked to get the stretcher down, as I then went up to join Damian and perhaps 20 Sherpas who were searching for the missing man. After 15 minutes or so, I was encouraged to hear Willie describing my friend as "combative" enough that they could no longer carry him on the litter. He preferred to walk, as it turned out, and of course that was a fine outcome. At the "point-last-seen" I was amazed at the bravery and high energy of the searching climbers. Damian and a British guide were roped up and jumping crevasses in an effort to reach islands of glacier that might offer better views. The Sherpas had fixed ropes down a series of steep, debris-strewn ice gullies and were exploring every crevasse and alcove along their path. I kept looking up at the origin of the avalanche, where it appeared that a tooth had been broken from some massive jaw. Unfortunately, there were still other teeth, and the searchers were clearly in a terrible position should a second slide follow the path of the first. I checked my watch and my radio to confirm that two-and-a-half hours had passed since the avalanche. I began asking the team to suspend the search. The missing man's boot, with crampon still attached, had been found close enough to his last known whereabouts that we were each haunted to imagine the power of the wind that had hit him. His pack was eventually retrieved some 100 meters distant. The clues only made it more difficult to quit. The Sherpas all agreed that there was now no chance of finding a buried man alive. They agreed that it was time to quit and move to safety. But they wouldn't. Nobody wanted to be the first to leave. Tendi and LamaBabu continued to twist in ice screws and rappel into crevasses..."Just this last one." But they couldn't find the 31-year-old father of two. Knowing how many of them were also fathers, I insisted that they quit-eventually they listened to me, to their own leaders and their own valid concerns. We walked down through the ice rolls and ridges of the lower glacier without much talking. Dozens of good folk had come out from basecamp and stood on the ice ridges with water and tea for the search teams. Upon reaching basecamp, the teams melted back into a tent village composed of twenty different expeditions, but not without a number of quiet handshakes and a hundred expressions of thanks. To each other...to a missing man's sacrifice...to the good luck of survivors.

Sure enough, the rumors turned out to be true. Several climbers made the summit yesterday. By modern standards, this would be quite early for success on the Nepal side of Mount Everest. It is a good thing, without question. I've overheard gossip and squabbling as to whether the proper emphasis was placed on doing a thorough job of fixing rope as opposed to just tagging the top first, but for my purposes it doesn't matter so much either way. The door is open to the top and others will move that way with greater confidence and determination now. The route will improve with the passage of each set of boots. My hope is that a few weeks of relatively stable weather will allow a steady trickle of climbers to get up, get down and get moving on to whatever they've scheduled next. Traffic jams up high on Mount Everest are a bad thing. That is as obvious as can be, but jams are an especially bad thing for those of us who are trying to guide the mountain. Safely guiding big mountains often boils down to keeping one's team moving at a business-like pace (for various reasons including conservation of body heat, conservation of bottled oxygen, conservation of daylight and conservation of good weather and luck). Few things mess with that business-like pace more than hanging out on a 28,000 ft. rope in the dark behind a line of climbers you don't know while they learn things about themselves and each other that they should have learned at sea level. Good, strong, skilled climbers may bob and weave through such traffic jams...forging detour routes and forgoing use of the rope in some sketchy places in order to get by. And those same climbers can usually endure lengthy delays without losing fingers, toes and noses because their fitness and abundant experience in really cold places will protect them. But those who try to guide normal folks through such jams had just better hope they get lucky. Not it. We'll wait, thank you, until the crowds have had their shot at the big top. Sadly we'll miss out on some of the hype...the fame ...the fortune. The world may be completely over the yearly Everest summit mania (and justifiably so) by the time Seth, Erica, Kent and I get around to heading that way in earnest. The confirmation of the early success hit us after a first luxurious night back down in basecamp. And like I said...it was all good news. But as you can see from the previous paragraph, I rationalize and blow my own horn and justify my own slow methods in order to remember that. I've gone on and on about the importance of resting in basecamp, but it should also come as no surprise that it is hugely anticlimactic after days spent up in the tricky and interesting zone. Maintaining focus can be difficult when life gets soft again (basecamp "soft" being used as a relative term now...not to be confused with someplace actually warm, clean and well endowed with furniture). The other half of my team is composed of good, strong, skilled climbers and they are gearing up for the summit and getting set to head out the door. Our paths are diverging after six weeks and I'm prone to summit-bid-envy. We are still weeks away from our own guided bid and in need of a last difficult acclimatization round before the summit. Patience is a pain in the neck sometimes...but I keep in mind that screwing up an Everest summit bid is a bigger pain in the neck. I keep in mind that the goal is not simply to get myself to the top or to chase Apa Sherpa's numbers (18 summits and counting...not exactly low-hanging fruit, ripe for the picking). My goal is to guide a climber (Erica) who has earned a decent shot...to introduce a deserving guide (Seth) to the holy grail of mountain guiding...and to stun the world with the imagery a consummate cameraman (Kent) can capture up that way when given half a chance. We'll take our rest and take our time and be as absolutely ready as possible when our own summit window opens in two weeks.