The Final Push
The South Col when we got there, we quickly realized it is not your regular camp. It’s windy and there are oxygen bottles everywhere. Ours were stacked. Lukas had said we had 30% more oxygen than needed, and I believed it.
There was also more garbage in the camp than the others. Actually, there were pieces of broken tents everywhere. No doubt the constant high winds were the culprit. It’s colder there and as soon as you take your oxygen mask off, your breathing is laboured. We know this is only a resting place for what is smack in front of you…Everest.
We could see people coming down, although some may have been going up, it was hard to tell. Our group was told to go rest and get ready to start at 8:00pm with our Sherpa.
At 8:00pm we head out. Ngima is in front of me, and another Sherpa is behind with a backpack full of oxygen. There were already lights on the face of the mountain and very quickly we reached them. They seemed to go very slowly. And then slower. At first, I welcomed the pace, as it allowed me to go slower, but soon it became annoying. I could feel Ngima getting impatient.
We overtook 3 groups, but then came to a place we could no longer overtake anyone. The line up is huge, and we moved slowed and slower. I watched people in front of me struggle at every rope transfer point. I found myself judging their equipment, judging their speed, and silently felt annoyed at what I perceived were amateurs.
We climbed and climbed and climbed. At night you can only focus on your feet, and I did, I felt good. Ngima changed my oxygen bottle.
We pass a man sitting on the left of the ridge we were climbing. He seemed exhausted, his face freezing and next to him is what I assumed to be his Sherpa, sitting with no expression. A couple of people asked if he is ok, and he replied I am cold. Ngima tells me sternly to keep moving. I do, but a knot forms in the pit of my stomach.
What seemed like shortly after, I looked to the side and saw the golden glow of the sun rising. Shortly after Ngima pointed it out to me, “sunrise” he said and pointed. I just shook my head in acknowledgement.
I started to see around me and I knew I am high; my anxiety starts to form.
Then just like that, we were at the Hillary steps. Not technically steps but a couple of slanted, slippery rocks, that have a web of ropes for how you are supposed to cross and keep yourself attached to the mountain. My heart raced. I asked Ngima to increase my oxygen, I don’t know if he did or just pretended since he had been saying he was increasing on occasions in the lower camp and never did.
Then I saw it. I froze. It was a dead body. Just there, at the bottom of the second step. He still had his crampons on, laying on his back with his goggles on and everything, as if he just laid down to take a rest.
The down on the left side of his suit shoulder was showing, as some people had been using this shoulder as a stepping-stone. He was dead and I panicked. OMG. He was dead.
Fear feels my soul. What was I doing there? Why was I there?
Ngima told me to move, and I did as I was told mechanically, but I was silently talking, begging Jesus to please keep me safe and not let me die. I had never been so afraid for my life.
Then we reached the summit.
I sat. I pretended to be happy, but I am shaking inside, and I don’t want to look around. Ngima took my photos and was excited to be there. He took videos and made me get up and look around. It’s his 10th time standing there. I just wanted to leave.
We got ready to leave the summit and, on the way back we stopped in our tracks. We couldn’t go anywhere. There was a line of people on the ridge, just coming and coming and there was no end. Their expression was one of anger or maybe they were just as scared as I was.
We had our safety carabiner on the line and just stood there waiting, as people passed us, moved around us. We stood there for what seems like hours. I started to worry about my oxygen, and I imagined dying there and again I silently begged God to spare my life. I reprimanded myself on the stupidity of being there. Tears streamed from my eyes, then I stopped myself as I knew I couldn’t take my goggles out. Then there was a break and Ngima tells me we needed to go. I moved faster on the two steps and purposely didn’t look at the dead body. I needed to get out of there. We did.
Somehow, we lost the second Sherpa with the oxygen. Another Sherpa from our group crossed and told Ngima the oxygen bottles were. Just before the end of the ridge, we made a short stop and Ngima exchanged my oxygen bottle for another one before we continued to journey down.
I didn’t want to climb anymore. Once we reach the South Col, I could hardly move, I was so exhausted. Ngima told me to rest for an hour, but not to sleep as we needed to descend to Camp 2. He helped me pack my sleeping bag. My whole body hurt.
I had been awake for more than 24 hours and we still needed to descend to Camp 2. It took another 6 hours before we finally arrived at Camp 2. My ribs were killing me from so much belaying. Each belay I felt like my lungs were being crushed. Tears rolled down my cheeks a few times. I couldn’t believe we had climbed that far up? How was it possible I kept asking myself?
I didn’t even know my name at this point. When we finally reached Camp 2, we are told wake up the next morning was at 4:00am so that we could get to the icefall while its was still cold. Awesome I thought sarcastically.
Something was dead inside me. I kept thinking of the dead body.
We left Camp 2, whizzed by Camp 1 and we were back in the icefall making our way down.
We descended, belay after belay. I questioned myself several times, how many more belays – how high did I climb?
Hours later we were out of the icefall and reached the crampon point where we could finally take off our crampons. I hand them to Ngima and told him he can keep them.
I am not climbing anymore.
I also tell him he can keep my down suit he is carrying in his backpack as well. He smiles and thanks me. RAB had generously given it to me for 2020, before Covid. I was grateful and thought it was a great to pass it on to someone that needed it.
I am done.
I finished what I started.