Ascent into Madness (Everest - Part 5)

Today shit is getting real. After not sleeping most of the night, the elevation is showing up in my irritability and pounding headache. My blood oxygen percentage is in the low 90s now.

For context, the highest peak in Colorado is a little over 14k. The highest pass on the Inca Trail barely reaches 14k. And those are up and over, descending back down to a reasonable elevation to sleep. Now it's going to be over a week before I even sleep below 14k again.

From Dingboche to Chhukung is just two hours of "Himalayan flat" - ie we ascended only 1000ft.

The weather is perfect - not a cloud in the sky - and perfect visibility. This gives me the entirety of those two hours to look at Island Peak with mounting anxiety. In two days I'm supposed to reach it's summit at 20k feet.

My only comfort is that it looks tiny compared to the surrounding mountains - so tiny it's hard to make out which one it is. Standing next to the Olympian, it's basically part of the pee wee club. Leave it to Lothse to show up everyone else.

I wish I could be as unbothered as all the grazing yaks we pass.

We get to the lodge early and since there's nothing to do, my guide Anil suggests a “little” acclimatization hike to the Chhukung Ri viewpoint.

In both distance and time, the Himalayan understanding of measurements is just....different.

When I asked how long it will take - he says 2 hours. This wasn't on the agenda, so I didn't verify the information.

6 hours later I hobbled back to the lodge, extremely hangry, frozen, and ready to murder. What happened?

The trail starts out steep and I'm very slow. I'm learning I don't have the juice for a second workout in the day at elevation.

I use the surroundings as an excuse to stop frequently and take a picture of the exact same view 100 times. You know, in case the first 99 turn out bad.

Finally I see the end is in sight….and it turns out to be a false summit.

My heart breaks a bit looking up at the tiny dots of people as if on a wall. I haven't yet learned that three false summits is the status quo.

I trudge along slowly, at least enjoying the scenery. It seems like it's getting steeper and I'm making no progress.

Descending into madness, I start counting steps, forcing myself to get to at least 100 before I'm allowed to stop again.

Then I start counting potatoes. Why potatoes you ask?

Maybe a subconscious jab at the fact that I skipped lunch thinking it's going to be “just 2 hours”. Strangely, “lunch” is asked for around 10:30 am, when I've not even finished digesting the 7am breakfast. It's all hot plated food, making it difficult to pack up for a later snack.

Then I start muttering to myself - on why I am here, how much money I'm paying to sleep in the cold, suffer daily headaches, toy with cardiac arrest. My poor heart is thumping in my chest and in my head. My legs are burning - well at least one of them is.

By feel, my right hamstring is doing 80% of the work. The right calf might be chipping in 15%, and my left leg is basically a passenger princess. Regardless which leg I step up with, this is the division of labor.

After the step count phase and the potato phase come the distinct grief stages of trekking: muttering, cursing, negotiating, and pleading.

Having run through all the stages, I no longer let myself to look up, and just stare at the switchback directly in front of me. Another hour later I reach a summit - and it's glorious.

Looking down at the path, I finally understand what Camus meant when he said “Imagine Sysephus walking down happy”.

But wait! There's more.

This is actually just the second false summit. Anil says we need to go up on the other branch so I can acclimate at 18k. That's still 2k less than what I will need to do in a day, and I look across at Island Peak with more and more trepidation.

Fine, fine, I'm here already. What's another 700 feet?

We start out again. Anil is like the hare - speeds ahead, stops, waits for me to come into view, and then sets off again. In the last few days we've discovered this is the best way we can walk without driving me insane from his impatient mannerisms.

The weather changes suddenly, with clouds and wind whipping around me.

A steep walk turns into a scramble. The wind blows right through me, chilling me to the bone.

My summit pants and a second jacket are cozily down at camp. Why I have a full mini pharmacy in my daypack but not a spare pair of pants is a lesson I will not need repeating. This may be the worst hell I've been in (so far).

Breaching 18k feet / 5500m is when I get very lightheaded. My heart is thumping, I can't catch my breath, and I start panicking.

For context, the effective oxygen level at this elevation is about half of what it is at sea level (link). Your heart is working overtime, your brain doesn't get enough oxygen, and decision making and reasoning faculties are impaired. It's a bit like the effects of drinking too much. There's an entire science to acclimatization, but if you're usually a sea level dweller, even with a rapid acclimatization process while you won't die, you won't be anywhere near your best.

A gust of wind nearly knocks me off the mountain, and from then on I am basically crawling on all fours. My reasoning and decision making skills are suspect from the reduced oxygen. I don't know if a fall from here would be lethal but I don't want to find out. The trail is not marked and what looked like a trail turns out to be a dead end. I have to climb up over a the pile of rocks to what looks like a trail. Not all of them are steady.

The guide I'm paying is nowhere to be found. He's great at badgering me about tea or coffee 10 times a day (which I have to pay for by the way), but when I actually need him to guide, he's nowhere to be found. Born above 10k feet, sherpas are well acclimated to the oxygen levels. Unfortunately the one the tour operator paired me with has no patience for sea level dwellers and their problems at altitude.

Somehow, painfully, achingly, I make it to the very top. Standing in the middle of clouds there's no view to be had. The wind is whistling and my ears start hurting. What in the hell did I sign up for?

Chilled to the bone, I coin a new phrase - "I'm not cold, I'm tingly".

Now that I've caught up to my useless guide, I have to resist the strong urge to push him off the peak. After snapping a few pictures I start making my way back down. He speeds off as always.

Past the scramble and back to relative safety, my right knee is in protest from overuse and decides it's not going to be bending anymore today. I may have failed to bring a second pair or pants or a snack, but at least I have a wrap in my mini pharmacy.

Bandaged up, I hobble down with painstaking steps, using my hiking sticks as pseudo crutches. Eventually I link up with a small group of trekkers from China, who believe in "no man left behind" and stay with me. As two of them are sporting proper knee braces on both legs, I'm in good company.

Some hours later I hobble back into the lodge. Cold, exhausted, and very apprehensive. I have 30 hours to get my shit together before the summit bid.