Surviving the Extremes: A Doctor's Journey to the Limits of Human Endurance (35 page)

I knew Everest would be there next year. I didn’t know whether I would. As it turned out,
National Geographic
decided to continue the project, so I did get the chance to come back the following year. Again, however, I was unable to reach the summit. This time it would
be because my expedition turned into a rescue mission when a brutal storm inflicted the worst disaster in Everest’s history and I was the only doctor on the mountain.

We should have paid more attention to the comet Hyakutake, when it lit up the night sky over base camp that year. Ancient healers warned that visitations from comets brought death and destruction to those below. They were doubtless thinking about plague and pestilence more than hypothermia and frostbite. Nevertheless, by the time our expedition was over, I wished we had heeded their warnings.

Several major expeditions were on the mountain that year. Besides our
National Geographic
team, there was another American team, a team from New Zealand, and a film crew shooting an IMAX movie. After taking a month and a half to acclimatize and to build and supply our own camps up the mountain, we each started off on our summit attempts. The other American team and the New Zealand team were one day ahead of us, the IMAX team one day behind. Four days after setting out, we reached Camp III and were preparing to move up to Camp IV at the South Col the following morning. The American and New Zealand teams had arrived at the Col the previous day and had set out for the summit. Our only link to them was through a radio relay from base camp. We anxiously awaited our scheduled call time to see how they were progressing. When it came, we learned that Rob Hall, the leader of the New Zealand expedition, and five others from his team had summited. We could hear the jubilation at base camp far below. But there were some ominous signs. Five others in the group had turned back early because of high winds, and the summiters hadn’t reached the top until two-thirty in the afternoon—a very late time to be starting down. And so far, there was no word at all from the American team. We left the radio on standby, hoping for word that everyone had made it back safely to Camp IV. Our uneasiness grew as the wind blew fitfully, the temperature suddenly dropped, and storm clouds rolled over us. Slowly it got dark. The radio was silent too long.

The next report chilled our already-too-cold tent. Caught in the sudden storm, Rob was still up near the summit with Doug Hansen, who was out of oxygen and too weak to descend the Hillary step, a technically difficult rock cliff just below the summit. The rest of the
New Zealand team was also having trouble getting back. The American team had all summited, with the exception of its leader, Scott Fischer, who, mysteriously, had not been seen since early morning. Nor was there any word on Makalu Gau, a Taiwanese climber who had last been seen on the summit. Climbers were strung out all over the mountain, some apparently still trying to get down off the southeast ridge. I could visualize every step they were taking. The images of my own summit attempt last year were still vivid in my mind.

That night I lay huddled in my sleeping bag at Camp III, sipping oxygen, unable to stay warm, or to sleep. As the storm battered my tent, climbers 2,000 feet above me were exhausted, out of oxygen, and exposed to savage wind and cold. They were at the limit of survival. Some, perhaps, already beyond it.

The next morning the reports were confusing and conflicting. Rob was still stuck above the Hillary step. It was unclear what had happened to Doug. The climbers who had managed to make it back to Camp IV before the storm hit reported that it was bitter cold and that the high winds were blowing snow in all directions, creating a zero-visibility whiteout. Climbers had no idea who were in the other tents. Anyone outside the camp wouldn’t be able to find it. Eighteen people were still missing, including the entire American team. We heard that two members of the New Zealand team, Yasuko Namba and Beck Weathers, had already been found lying dead in the snow on the South Col.

The wind was blowing snow right through the fabric of our tents, which were flapping so violently that it was impossible to communicate between them, even by shouting. Our two strongest climbers, Todd Burleson, in my tent, and Pete Athans, in the other, had to talk by radio to formulate a rescue plan. They never discussed
whether
they should go. Their conversation began with how quickly they could get ready. Though I was the only doctor on the mountain, there was never any thought of my accompanying them. Not only would I not be able to keep up, I’d more than likely end up as one of the casualties. Moreover, I had worked with them both for years; I was confident they could take good care of anyone they found alive. But I reminded them to be extremely cautious before deciding that someone wasn’t.
My presence on the scene would probably not make any difference; treatment options would be limited to the absolute basics. Before bringing any medical supply to this extreme altitude, I had ruthlessly considered its weight and bulk, its usability once it froze, the chance of its being needed, and the likelihood that anyone, including me, could function well enough to use it. I gave Todd nearly all the medicines we had—one handful.

In swirling wind and bitter cold, Todd and Pete started up the slope that led to Camp IV. I turned my attention to the medical situation we were in. We still had no clear idea of the magnitude of the disaster, but I knew how thin the margin of survival is near the summit. When I had returned from my own summit attempt the year before, cold and exhausted, I reached inside my down jacket for a drink from my water bottle, only to find that the water, which I had been carrying against my chest to keep warm, had frozen solid. And my summit conditions had been comparatively mild. I was about to learn what happens to human bodies when confronted by the full power of this alien environment.

Remaining at Camp III made sense only if everyone got back safely or no one did. I didn’t have enough supplies, or enough room, to take care of anybody there. At 24,000 feet, Camp III was merely a notch cut into the middle of a relentlessly smooth 5,000-foot, 45° ice slope. The platform of ice was no bigger than the tents that rested on it. There was no place to stand outside. Even if I had the medications, anyone who needed treatment would have to be tied in at a 45° angle. Any seriously injured survivors would have to be brought down to Camp II, a much flatter, more open area located at 21,000 feet. There I could set up a makeshift hospital. I listed the medical supplies for each condition I might soon be treating, then contacted base camp, read off my list, and asked that the supplies be brought up to Camp II. I didn’t yet leave Camp III. I knew that once I did, I would be out of radio contact with the South Col. So I waited.

Todd and Pete made it to the Col. The survivors of the New Zealand team were huddled in torn tents, many too weak or dazed to boil water or put on oxygen masks. The American team had all made it back to Camp IV with the exception of Scott, who was still
missing, and his chief guide, Anatoli Boukreev, who was still looking for him. They all had frostbite but were in better shape than the New Zealanders and, since the wind had by this point somewhat abated, were starting down under their own power. A group of Sherpas were starting up from Camp IV to look for survivors and to try to rescue Rob and Doug, still perched above the Hillary step.

Based on Todd’s and Pete’s assessments, we concluded that none of the survivors were hypothermic or in immediate danger of pulmonary or cerebral edema. But they were exhausted. The danger of having them try to descend a 5,000-foot ice slope in that condition had to be weighed against the risk of further deterioration overnight at 26,000 feet. On balance, it seemed better to keep them on the Col until morning. We hoped that with rest, food, and fluids, they would regain enough coordination and concentration for a safe descent once the weather cleared. The route down the ice slope can be fatal even for a strong climber in good weather, as we had seen the previous year.

While Todd and Pete were recharging the survivors at Camp IV, those of us at Camp III turned our attention to the American team climbers, who would soon be passing us on their way down to Camp II, where they could rest a lot easier. Members of the IMAX film team had come up from Camp II to help us out. They brought supplies and set up a way station in one of their tents to dispense water, food, and oxygen, as well as to provide a place to warm up and rest. There was no room to examine anybody in a tent, so I sat by the open door of mine and watched while, one by one, each climber came down the rope and into the IMAX tent. All were exhausted, most had frostbite, but none showed the disorientation or incoordination of cerebral edema or the breathing distress of pulmonary edema. I had a few dexamethasone pills left, which I handed out to those I thought needed them most. Inside the tent, climbers were given a cup of tea, a bowl of soup, some puffs of oxygen, and a lot of encouragement. Then they were promptly sent on their way. We were afraid that if they rested too long, they would be unable to get moving again.

The drop in the wind that had allowed the American team to descend proved to be a temporary lull. The storm caught its breath
and then roared back more fiercely than before. I began to second-guess our decision to leave the New Zealand team at Camp IV for another night, knowing that conditions on the Col now had to be even worse.

They were. The Sherpas who had gone out looking for survivors returned to Camp IV, forced into retreat by the freezing winds. They had been unable to reach Rob and Doug, trapped high up on the southeast ridge. They had, however, found Scott and Makalu on the South Col, lying in the snow not far from each other. Scott was dead, but Makalu was still breathing, so they dragged him back to camp.

The storm continued to build. The climbers remained hunkered down in their tents all afternoon. Todd happened to look out his tent window into the swirling snow and saw an apparition. Someone was out there. Thinking it was a climber trying to go to the bathroom, he went out to help. The climber staggered toward him, jacket open, a gloveless right hand dangling from his arm. His face was bloated and blackened with frostbite, but it was still recognizable. It was Beck Weathers—risen from the dead.

Todd brought Beck into a tent and laid him down inside two sleeping bags. But no number of sleeping bags would have been enough to rewarm him. Sleeping bags are like thermoses; they retain heat, they don’t produce it. Beck had stopped shivering. He was too cold to generate any heat on his own and would have to be warmed from the outside in. Todd and Pete filled bottles with hot water as fast as they could melt snow, and placed them where they knew they would do the most good: in the armpits and groin and around the neck. The arms, legs, and head are the parts of the body that “stick out” farthest from the central core and hence are the most vulnerable to cold. They have large pipes that channel blood into them to keep them warm—a brachial artery for each arm, a femoral artery for each leg, and two carotid arteries for the head. The armpits, groin, and neck are the entrance points for these vessels. There the skin is thin and there is a large blood flow just below the surface, making them the most efficient starting points to transfer heat into the body. Another way to add heat, though far less effective, is to place it inside the body. Todd and Pete warmed Beck’s stomach with tea and warmed his lungs
with oxygen. The oxygen would also serve to stoke the embers of his dim metabolic fire.

They were doing all the right things by the time they called me. The only thing I considered suggesting was that one of them take his own clothes off and get in the bag with Beck. A warm body would provide a steady source of additional heat radiating over a large surface. How much heat actually gets transferred through this method is questionable, but I was anxious to rewarm Beck as evenly as possible. I didn’t want him to survive hypothermia only to die from being defrosted. His hands and arms and face were severely frostbitten, and possibly his feet as well, which meant that the blood vessels supplying these areas were constricted; any blood trapped inside would be as cold as the outside temperature. Now that we were warming his limbs, that blood would be flushed out into his general circulation. If his body temperature remained low, nerve conduction and muscle contraction would be slow. His heart muscles would be stiff and clumsy. Being hit with a sudden blast of cold blood might be more than enough to turn a coordinated, synchronous heartbeat into a disjointed collection of muscles firing independently.

I was about to suggest that one of them get in the bag with Beck when Todd told me that Beck was coming around. It was too late to carry him down to Camp II that day. He would have to spend the night on the Col, as would Makalu, who was also still alive but, like Beck, in precarious condition. It didn’t appear as if anyone else would be coming out of the snow alive. However, Anatoli Boukreev, Scott’s chief guide, who had already rescued three climbers, refused to leave the Col. He had been told Scott was dead, but now that Beck had been resurrected, he thought there was a chance for Scott too. He went out into the fierce storm a third time to look for him.

Anatoli’s ability to combat the storm was a demonstration of the human body’s ultimate performance, of what it is capable of achieving at extreme altitude when finely tuned, fully adapted, and highly motivated. Anatoli had been climbing without oxygen. As a guide responsible for the safety of others, he was criticized for this because it made him less strong and less able to tolerate the cold. But as a climber, it meant that he was fully adapted to the effects of low oxygen. A
superb athlete, he was even able to outperform many other climbers who had the advantage of supplemental oxygen. He was in the best position to confront the natural environment when disaster struck and the artificial supports had been blown away.

Anatoli reached Scott. All he was able to do, though, was confirm that his friend had lost his battle with the environment. Higher up on the mountain, Rob Hall was losing the battle as well. The Sherpas trying to rescue him had been beaten back by the wind. His companion, Doug, had already succumbed to the cold, and now Rob was alone and out of reach. He could have saved himself earlier had he left Doug, but he refused to abandon the dying climber and now was too weak himself to descend any farther. Risking one’s safety for the sake of another, as Anatoli and Rob had done, would seem to be a counterproductive trait in the game of survival, yet it persists in higher animals and humans. A successful species is one that preserves its genes in many individuals, to ensure that some will be passed to future generations. Any one copy is expendable, especially if it serves to preserve the species’ genes in other carriers. Altruism may be destructive to the individual but it benefits the species, which is why we value it so highly.