On Everest, the air is thin, and death is always close. A writer who survived a massive avalanche on the mountain recounts the experience, describing the sound of the avalanche as “like a freight train gone feral, wild on the tracks, its weight bearing down from every direction.”
The writer and their climbing partner, Kara, were camped at the Valley of Silence, a place with a cruelly ironic name, given the danger that lurks there. They had just come through the Khumbu Icefall, a treacherous maze of blue ice that can be deadly.
The writer’s body was lean and hardened from years of preparation, but they knew the dangers of climbing Everest, including hypoxia, pulmonary edema, and cerebral swelling. Despite these risks, they pressed on, driven by a desire to reach the top.
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The morning of the avalanche, the writer and Kara were in their tent, sipping water and discussing logistics. Suddenly, the ground shifted, and they knew something was wrong. The snow outside disappeared into a thick, fast-moving white, and the world went quiet.
Avalanche Strikes Camp
Kara looked at the writer with a face contorted in terror and said, “We’re going to die.” The writer followed Kara out of the tent, and they were lifted into the air, carried by the snow. The sound was like thunder, but deeper, and the writer felt their body become weightless and useless.
The writer slammed their ice axe into the slope, and for a moment, it held. This brief moment of stability was enough to stop the spinning, and the writer was able to break through the snow. They dug themselves out of what could have been their grave, and everything hurt.
The writer crawled through the wreckage of their camp, looking for Kara. They saw a Sherpa tent still standing, and from inside, they heard chanting. The writer was pulled into the tent, where they found Kara, alive and trembling. The tent was heavy with unspoken words, and the writer knew they had survived, but only just.
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Trapped on the Mountain
Outside, the terrain had shifted, and the writer saw that they were trapped in a bowl of broken snow and silence, surrounded by steep walls of ice and rock. The Lhotse Face above them was unclimbable, and the path back to Base Camp was gone. The writer and the others could only sit there, alive and unsure what that even meant anymore.
The writer thought about the nights they stayed up beside their mother’s bed, checking her breathing every few minutes. Now, their brother was doing the same for them, waiting to hear if they were alive. The writer’s name had been spoken, and they had been accounted for. Someone they loved had heard it, and that would have to be enough, for now.
A Sherpa beside the writer answered a call on the radio, saying, “Yes, I’m in the tent with a few people.” The writer thought about their brother, who was probably in his office or in a stairwell, waiting to hear the news.
