Entries from Expedition Dispatches

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.

Another early start had us walking toward the Lhotse Face at 7 AM. That may not sound terribly early, but the Western Cwm is still deep in cold shadows at such an hour. Seth, Kent, Erica and I all wore down suits... Ang Kaji was dressed casually, in comparison, but that had more to do with making fashion statements to the many other Sherpas out for a day of hard work than with truly acknowledging the cold temps. This was to be a major test for my little team. I know that I have gone on and on about the difficulties and dangers of the Khumbu Icefall, since that has been the test we've concerned ourselves with for weeks, but it is difficult to exaggerate the seriousness and significance of the Lhotse Face as a next major hurdle for Everest climbers. We intended to go high... so high that success would shatter altitude records for Erica, Seth and Kent. We intended to go long... I conservatively predicted a 9-hour day to tag Camp III and return. And we meant to push back a whole mess of fears that might pop up from the great exposure and unnatural dependence on rope and equipment. I thought I saw some of that fear dragging on Erica as we made the 1.5-hour uphill trudge to the base of the Face. Since she'd gotten a trifle quiet and seemed to be laboring awfully hard to keep my pace, I wondered what was going on. I guessed that this all fit into a pattern of slow starts we've made on otherwise great and productive days, but as I looked up the North Face of the fourth highest mountain in the world, I knew she had to be a bit intimidated. I was intimidated. In brand-new sunlight, one could trace the route for the day by watching tiny dots struggling upward. None of them was moving very fast, and all of them looked extremely vulnerable and precariously placed on the steep sheet of ice. I sent Ang Kaji, Seth and Kent ahead, since it wouldn't be particularly useful to have five climbers entering the awkward traffic flow together. This took a little of the pressure off Erica, but as we neared the base of the fixed ropes, she still seemed not quite up for the day. I had no alternative or lesser test to offer her and she knew that, but I wondered briefly if she might just quit the whole thing before we crossed the bergschrund and committed to the wall. I dealt with my own shaky nerves by wondering about hers. My life would get a lot easier and safer if she dropped her Everest ambitions, but that doesn't mean that I wanted her to. Within a few more minutes, we were clipping in to the first ropes and climbing a near-vertical ice wall to get on the face proper, and there wasn't room in my brain for hypothetical questions. This was a place for some instruction and encouragement, but also for adrenaline kicking in and making a difference. Mine was flowing... I was excited to be using chest and shoulder muscles to haul myself up the ropes; I was amped to kick crampon points into hard blue ice and see them hold for another upward step. Obviously, Erica was coming alive as well. We made steady progress up some of the steep, unrelenting pitches at the base of the wall. Suddenly, I heard Seth calling out a warning on my radio. I couldn't see him up above, but he let me know that a helmet had just passed him at a high rate of speed, heading my way. I shouted to the climbers around us and then, sure enough, we all watched as a helmet came clattering and bouncing about ten feet to one side of the ropes. It didn't seem particularly lethal, but I considered it a good warning of the types of threats we needed to be on guard for on this day. Erica was fully awake when we came over a steep roll and could finally see the tents of "Low Camp III." While still 45 minutes of hard climbing away, and then a full hour from our tents at "High Camp III," the vision acted to spur her on. It helped when I told her that she'd passed the altitude of Aconcagua and that she was now setting personal records with every step. Improbably and unexpectedly, we ended up in fun social setting on the first carved-out tent ledges of Low Camp III. The seventeen-year-old So Cal Johnny, guided by Scott Woolums, was just ahead of us and the seventeen-year-old Snowbird Utah Johnny, guided by Damian Benegas, was just behind us. Both teams were doing the exact same thing for the day... tagging CIII, but when we all gathered on the ledge, they had already reached their goal, while Erica and I were taking a break on the way to ours. The ledge had been great, a chance to take off the packs without worrying about them tumbling down should we let go. And the company had been great, but Erica and I needed to climb another hard hour of unknown ice walls and bulges. Via the radio, I knew that Seth, Ang Kaji and Kent were already up there and about to descend. We set out and eventually met Seth and Kent carefully picking their steps downward. We could have turned then, but I wanted to get the most out of this practice day, and to her credit, Erica was eager to see High CIII. We finally pulled in to find Ang Kaji, Tendi and one of our Camp II cooks working away at Camp III to stabilize and secure the tents there. As we took our packs off, we were handed a couple of cups of hot grape Tang, fresh off a camp stove. This was most welcome, as our throats were good and parched by the 23,900 ft. elevation. The Sherpas finished up their work and got moving downward as Erica and I finished our break. We geared up for the descent and I could tell that something was dragging at Erica again. I asked as we began carefully downclimbing and she told me that she wasn't clear on how we were going to get down safely... she'd never been more terrified of anything in her life. As I looked out at the ridiculously vast expanse of air beneath us and the tiny tents of ABC far, far below, I came close to laughing. Of course, I assured her that we were going to get down safely... that I was going to watch every move she made and that we were going to be fine... but I was chuckling to think of what crazy things a 17-year-old Arizona girl could possibly have done in her life that would rival the stupidity of climbing halfway up Lhotse. Terror was justified and appropriate. But we found our way down anyway. Slowly and carefully, since this was all new. The hours were getting long, but I was considering that to be a good thing too. We needed such challenges for the tests ahead... like the Yellow Band, the Geneva Spur, the Balcony, the South Summit and the Hillary Step... none of those would be tackled on short and easy days, so make this one long and arduous in preparation. We were back to ABC by 5 PM and comparing notes with Kent and Seth. Each of us was tired and gulping down hot cups of tea to soothe our dry throats. But we were plenty satisfied with having passed our test... and excited at having seen a new world a long way up a mountainside. Seth mentioned how strange it had been to be so far above everything and to still look over at the untouched bulk of Everest soaring to impossible heights next door. Enough for one foray though. We left ABC this morning for a well-deserved BC rest and a reunion with the rest of our team. The Icefall was blissfully uneventful and uncrowded this morning as we made our way down its rickety ladders and shifting blocks. I was stunned to see the avalanche debris from Everest's West Shoulder covering the climbing route down just about where one might have assumed they'd escaped the clutches of the Icefall itself. Our team and several others had certainly gotten lucky three days ago. Word comes that a few climbers may have touched Everest's summit today. The intention had been for a number of Sherpas from various teams to pool their labor and fix the route, and the last word we had was that they were quite close to achieving that. That is a great thing and brings us all a little closer to success, but I'm still focused on my team's victory yesterday. Everest can and will wait.

The chatter of Sherpa staff waking up and getting going is the first thing I hear, then the sun hits the tent and it is time to get up. Basecamp is a busy place, but I always think of it as the place that is ruled by the rise and set of the sun. As soon as the sun hits, it is too hot to stay in the tent and once the sun recedes, it is too cold to stay out. I like the simplicity of that; I don't have to think too hard about where exactly to be. If all goes well and the weather holds, this will be our final rest before the summit push. There is still so much to do, but plenty of time. At Camp 3 on the last rotation, it was a great test of how things will work, and what still needs to be done. Today, I look through the gloves that I can choose from for the summit bid. I scan my climbing clothing, seeing what needs to be washed one last time and what is ready to go. I count out the energy gels that I will use for the summit push, and tuck in a few packages of fruit snacks for good measure. Looking at all of this equipment, it is hard to imagine that in less than a week it will be tucked onto my body and my back, on my way to the summit. Of course, so much has to line up. A week seems close, but in reality, it is still a world away. The weather has to be good, but also we have to feel good as climbers. Your body has to be strong and your mind open to the challenge that is ahead. On the summit push, I need to stay healthy, avoiding any stomach bugs or head colds that might be trying to come my way. If everything does line up, then you have to be open to the mountain's terms. If I have learned anything, it is that you have to come prepared with health and strength but also humility and openness. Nothing is assumed. You have to be prepared to take this experience and enjoy each step of it, knowing that the mountains will give you exactly what they want to - that is the beauty of it. These are the thoughts that are roaming through my mind as final preparations are being made for the summit. Somewhere between being aware of what the mountain is telling us, and which gloves I should pack, I realize that all the preparations (the mental and the physical) are the part of the experience that I value so much, the part that I can take with me on the next adventure. But for now, I will focus on this adventure.

That little puff of cloud on top of Lhotse yesterday was a gathering storm. Not a bad storm we are told - no cyclone out of the bay of Bengal, no jetstreams trying to push over mountains, tents and people. But any fool can see that the skies are now full of moisture. There are clouds at all levels, and every 30 minutes or so, there is a snow shower. This isn't all bad in my book - as I've said, a carpet of snow on the Lhotse Face will just make it safer (now a meter of snow is a different animal entirely - lets not go there). Pre-storm, if anyone had been careless enough to drop a carabiner or water bottle from Camp III, it would have rocketed down the ice at terminal velocity, seeking grey matter (helmeted or otherwise) on the ropes below. My hope is that a little texture over the blue ice will make the Face safer and footing easier. I'm all about easy. Just this morning, when it was cold and snowy outside after breakfast, I invited birthday boy Kent Harvey and his camera into my and Erica's tent, to show him how we pass time in a storm. It was our rest day anyway - so being forced by the weather to focus on puzzles, books and I-pods didn't seem odd to me. I've long considered such skills to be the mark of a good expedition climber - the ability to do nothing, when nothing is what should be done. For active (or hyperactive) Type A climbers this requires an acceptance and a faith that there will be an abundance of physical abuse and over stimulated synapses, all-in-good-time... like, say, tomorrow. I've made a career out of interspersing corpse-like downtime with long, brutal, unfair, unrelenting sessions on my feet/crampons/skis/snowshoes/etc. It works. It is sustainable. I'm satisfied after 18 years at 8,000-meter peaks, that my job here is not to compete with the Sherpas at load carrying or route fixing. I've decided that I can do a better job of concentrating at guiding. Within reason. Today, just when it got ugly, mean and nasty out, with the tent walls shaking and rough snow pellets, peppering everything - just when it seemed proper to turn up the head tunes and guide by hiding from reality - I became aware that all was not right. Ang Kaji and Tendi were concerned about several dozen Sherpas trying to get heavy packs to 26,000 feet in this intensifying storm. Specifically - they were worried for four of our own team - the guys who were buying me the ability to sit on my butt, a mile below the battle-zone. It was obvious that Ang Kaji and Tendi were gearing up to walk in the storm. They meant to get to the base of the Face - to help out with thermoses of tea and water for Sherpas who battled their way back down in wind and blowing snow. I thought about things for 12 seconds, before declaring that I'd join them and Damian Benegas on the mercy mission. I thought of how little emergency gear sherpas bring on a carry - I thought of how much emergency gear I have surrounding me in a tent. I thought of how very few storms could keep me from reaching the Face if I threw on a First Ascent down suit, and if I pulled on some goggles, and pressed the right buttons on my GPS. Word came up quickly via radio from Lambabu that my services weren't really needed. And I knew that. I also know that the best climbing Sherpas have an admirable pride that this is their mountain, on which they solve their problems. But my client was safe at ABC and I happened to have time and energy and a New Mexico EMT license. And I admire guys like Tendi, Ang Kaji, and Damian who are hardwired to look after others and to make things come out right in the mountains. We went. And it was no big deal. Our climbers and everyone else's had wisely turned in the storm. We ended up sitting in the sun at the base of the Face as the guys came staggering off the rappel ropes. I didn't do anything - except watch tired men smile when Tendi handed them tea. I'm calling it a good day.

Camp 1 couldn't have been quieter last night. There wasn't a puff of wind to rattle the tent fabric. No dogs barking, no trucks shifting gears, no loud parties and no roosters crowing when our 5 o'clock alarm went off. Breakfast took about an hour...not because we read newspapers...but more because our little propane canisters barely want to burn when they are cold. So we put our boots on with our sleeping bags on our laps, and we put coffee powder in our cups, and stared at a pot of icy water waiting for a puff of steam. After a few hot drinks, some cereal and a little pre-cooked bacon... it isn't so hard to throw open the tent doors and greet the day. I watched the mere hint of a cloud cap play around Lhotse summit, in an otherwise clear sky as we stuffed our packs. Today was basically our...tag team...day. Those up the hill were dropping down while we were moving up to take control of the heights. As planned, Peter Whittaker came through first so that he and I might have a few minutes face-to-face in order to figure out the timing of our various pushes for the mountaintop. My team of Ang Kaji, Kent, Seth and Erica marched out of Camp 1 at 7 a.m., leaving me to my meetings and the small chore of knocking down our tents for safekeeping. Peter strapped his helmet on and dropped down towards basecamp. Ed Viesturs and John Griber weren't far behind. As I packed up the last tent and stepped into my crampons, I saw Gerry, Melissa, Lambabu and a handful of sherpas bringing up the rear in their strategic withdrawal to basecamp. We chatted for a few minutes as the sun finally found Camp 1. A half hour later, I was cruising up the middle of the Western Cwm alone - feeling pretty good about the day and my strength...when I heard familiar voices in panic on my radio. I stopped and turned around...now sickeningly aware of an avalanche roaring somewhere down valley...out of my sight. I barged in on the radio - trying to get some clear accounting for where the slide was hitting and who was involved. Others closer and with a view began to do the same, and I shut up. I told myself I could run to the scene - the popcorn in the lower half of the icefall - in 45 minutes, but that would be for some worst case scenario that I hoped would not come to pass. I stood in the Cwm waiting through the tedious process of various teams taking attendance on the radio. My mind kept darting back to the morning in 2006, when my own radio attendance efforts came up short, and I realized I lost a friend to the Icefall. This time the headcounts came out right. It was a near miss and too close a call, but everybody was all right. I continued my walk to ABC, still intent on catching my gang. I still felt healthy and hopeful...but I didn't feel nearly as bulletproof or in control anymore. With vast walls of ice and rock surrounding me, in the world's greatest cathedral, I missed my strong, humble friend Phinjo. I'd trade a thousand pretty mountains so see his smile again...but it doesn't work that way.

I probably shouldn't have accepted the toast from Dave Hahn...after all, red wine with antibiotics to treat a deep-seated chest infection is perhaps not doctor recommended. But, how could I pass it up? It was nearly 10 years ago that Dave and I and three others - Conrad Anker, Andy Politz, and Tap Richards - stood on a lonely patch of rock at nearly 27,000 feet on Everest's North Face, each in stunned silence, for lying at our feet were the remains of a legend, a hero, a mystery: George Leigh Mallory. He and his climbing companion, Andrew Irvine, had disappeared 75 years before, virtually without a trace, some 800 feet below the summit. Yup, this is definitely an anniversary worth toasting, antibiotics or not. That day was, and is now, the most poignant day in my climbing career, far surpassing the fleeting moments I've spent on top of the world, or on top of other peaks around the world. Far removed from personal achievement, our discovery of Mallory was a collision with history, a step back in time, and a humbling, welcome reminder that our goals and accomplishments, successes and failures in the mountains - and in life - are predicated on the efforts of remarkable people who came before. We are, as I wrote in Issue 1000 of Trail & Timberline Magazine, standing on the shoulders of giants. Indeed, as I sit in my basecamp tent reflecting on May 1, 1999, I can't help but think about my predecessors on this side of the mountain...May 1, 1963, when Jim Whittaker and Nawang Gombu (clad in Eddie Bauer down) struggled through deep snow and blasting winds to stand on the summit of Everest, Jim becoming the first American to reach the top. (Two years later, Gombu would reach the summit again on an Indian expedition, becoming the first person to reach the summit twice.) Whittaker and Gombu's ascent was made no less impressive by the tracks that came before: Hillary and Tenzin in 1953, the Swiss in 1956 and the oft-forgotten Swiss expedition of 1952, which put Raymond Lambert and Tenzin Norgay within 800 feet of the summit. And, of course, their tracks were only made possible by the reconnaissance expeditions of '50 and '51. And, those, in turn, were enabled by the efforts of the pioneering Everesters of the pre-World War II expeditions of 1938, '36, '35, '33, '24, '22, and 1921. None of those would have happened without Sir Martin Conway, the Duke of Abruzzi, Fanny Bullock Workman, General Bruce, Sir Francis Younghusband, John Noel, and countless others who pushed the limits years before. And...the tracks go back through the ages, each generation standing on the shoulders of the giants who came before. To some, that may be demoralizing...to them, the idea that someone had climbed the route before takes something essential away from the enterprise today. For me, however, it is far from demoralizing, and rather is invigorating. To look around me high in the Western Cwm, and see hidden in the layers of snow the footsteps of Hillary and Tenzin, the toil of Whittaker and Gombu, the inspiration of those who came before...well, it inspires me to push on against the demon of the day, against the gnawing forces of inertia, lethargy, and the want of comfort, rest, food, and air. Seeing the giants in these hills, the things they accomplished and all they endured, pushes me onward, upward, and forward. May 1, 1999, was an amazing day, a direct interaction with one of the many giants on whose shoulders we all stand. Tonight, perhaps another toast...

It sounds pretty romantic, and lots of people envy my job. And, I must admit, I'm pretty happy with what I do for a living, and count my blessings every day. But working as an expedition photographer is not always a piece of cake. This goes for me shooting stills, as well as Gerry Moffatt, Kent Harvey, and John Griber shooting our video footage. While I cannot speak exactly for them, I can give an idea of what my days on the hill are like. Being a photographer on an expedition does not really put you into a special category. There are no chairlifts or trams waiting for us; we must climb the mountain just like anyone else, acclimating, moving up and down, and capturing images along the way. Along with the standard equipment all of us - Ed, Peter, Melissa, Dave, Seth - carry on the hill, I also have my photo equipment. I've always been a Nikon shooter, and this is my 6th Everest expedition using Nikon gear. So in my pack is a Nikon D300 camera, chosen for its superior image quality complemented by reasonable size and weight. In addition to the D300 body, I have a handful of lenses: a Nikon 18-200mm, Nikon 50mm, Sigma 10-20mm, and a Nikon 80-200. This selection gives me a fantastic range while keeping the weight reasonable. I also bring along my Nikon SB-800 flash unit and an SC-28 remote cord for filling in faces and dark areas in this contrasty environment. Oh, and of course, extra batteries, cleaning supplies, a variety of filters, and a tripod. My personal M.O. on all expeditions has always been to disrupt the flow of climbing as little as possible while shooting. Certainly there are times when the environment and risk enable me to set up shots and choreograph the scene. But, more often than not, my style is to catch what I can by moving ahead of the climbers and capturing them in real time, in real situations. (You can imagine trying to ask climbers in the Khumbu Icefall to stop for a few minutes under tons of tilting seracs while I compose a shot - not even nice to contemplate!) This style, while my preference, creates some challenges, as I am in a constant game of leapfrog, setting up a shot, shooting, repacking my gear, and shuffling ahead as fast as possible to get ahead of the climbers and find the next spot for a good image. Not easy, but it is an added challenge I strangely relish. The other challenge with expedition photography is the need to be constantly thinking, looking around at the terrain with a creative angle, trying to find a new perspective on the environment at hand. While this terrain is so spectacular that pointing and shooting often works, the nut for me to crack is how to find a new perspective, how to tell a different story in a single frame and show what perhaps has not been shown before. This requires constant attention to the task at hand, for moments missed may never come again. But, again, this is a cerebral game which adds depth and enjoyment to the climbing at hand. When looking at the end of the day, I must admit I long a bit for the days of film. Way back then, in the late 1990s, we'd shoot film during the day, pack it away after sunset, and the day was done- but, no longer. Digital, despite its great benefits, has caused quite a bit more work for us photographers. When the day is done, I now take my compact flash cards into our production tent, fire up my solid-state Asus laptop, download my images onto a hard drive, make a backup copy on another drive, and then edit the day's work. Select images are spotted for dust and blemishes, captioned, resized, saved to a thumb drive, and handed over to our field producer, Cherie Silvera, for transfer via satellite phone with the day's text and video dispatch. It all makes for a long day, to say the least, but, I wouldn't change a thing about it. I love the honor of capturing the amazing people on our team and the stunning environment, and the chance to share those images and moments with a greater audience. It was, many years ago, images by Ansel Adams, Galen Rowell, Barry Bishop, and other greats of mountain photography that first inspired me to tread in the mountain realm. Their images shared with me a place I could scarcely imagine, bringing a new world to my doorstep in Topsfield, Massachusetts. It was through their lenses that a passion was discovered and ignited within me, and my one hope as I photograph our team and our climb is that I may share that same sense of wonder and enjoyment that hit me long ago. Enjoy the images, and climb on, wherever your trail may lead...

We dragged out an oxygen bottle to practice with, just after breakfast. It does take a little practice, by the way, to get good with the systems we rely on up high. Today we were just familiarizing ourselves with how the regulators attach to the bottles, how the hoses attach to the regulators, and how the masks attach to the face. I like doing this sort of run-through down in the thick air on a rest day in the sunshine so that when we have to get up in the middle of the night at a bajillion feet above sea level with cold hands and dim brains, we can maybe muddle through and get our hook-ups and flow-rates right. It all seemed reasonably simple this morning, and each of my little team put the gas bottle carefully in their pack, the mask on their face and some goggles or glasses on their eyeballs, and then took the rig for a test drive around camp. Over the radio, we could hear the gang with Peter Whittaker up above as they were taking another stroll on the Lhotse Face. It all sounded like it was going well as they checked in with one another and pointed out interesting features along the route. We heard that Jake Norton was coming down to BC to deal with a chest cold and, like most news, we immediately sorted it into its good and bad components. The bad news: Jake would need to slow down long enough to get well. The good news: Jake is a smart, strong guy who knows how to shake a typical, run-of-the-mill expedition illness out of his system, and we won't mind having him around in BC. Erica Dohring and I went for a glacier walk after lunch. I do want her following the slacker example that Seth and I set for getting quality rest during our BC downtime. She is a voracious reader, which ought to qualify her for a fine life of expeditioning. I'm impressed with the way she orders her time, alternating between books for fun, books for school, and the odd movie on a borrowed iPod Touch. That is good resting, and it is important, but I also wanted to mix in a little exercise clambering around in the glacier today. I'm a big believer in keeping the legs stretched and the reflexes tuned for making awkward steps. We went out for about two hours, finding our way to a medial moraine and then hiking down-glacier with an occasional semi-frozen stream crossing to negotiate. I'm trying to teach Erica to violently knock over every fragile pinnacle of ice and balancing rock that she encounters...for no particular reason...and she is rapidly gaining skill in this department. The late afternoon is gray and overcast with a hint of snow flurries. We've gotten so used to the thunder of avalanches now at BC that it takes a particularly loud and violent one to get us out of the tents for a look. At the moment, though, it is quiet and cold enough that the team is starting to find their way to the dining tent for hot drinks, gossip magazines, and card games. Tomorrow, we'll be a little busy preparing for the mountain again, and my guess is that we will be torn between lazy thoughts of staying indefinitely in BC and antsy thoughts of getting up where the action is again.