Into Thin Air
By Jon Krakauer
In April 1996, writer Jon Krakauer joined an expedition to the top of Mount Everest. Krakauer survived to write a book about his experience, but before the trip was over, eight climbers had lost their lives. Here, Krakauer describes one of the terrifying ordeals of his climb.
If the Icefall required few orthodox climbing techniques, it demanded a whole new repertoire of skills in their stead--for instance, the ability to tiptoe in mountaineering boots and crampons (iron spikes on shoes to prevent slipping) across three wobbly ladders lashed end to end, bridging a heart-stopping chasm.
There were many such crossings, and I never got used to them.
At one point I was balanced on an unsteady ladder in the predawn gloaming, stepping tenuously from one bent rung to the next, when the ice supporting the ladder on either end began to quiver as if an earthquake had struck.
A moment later cam an explosive roar as a large serac (high, pointed mass of ice) somewhere close above came crashing down.
I froze, my heart in my throat, but the avalanching ice passed fifty yards to the left, out of sight, without doing any damage.
After waiting a few minutes to regain my composure I resumed to regain my composure I resumed my herky-jerky passage to the far side of the ladder.
The glacier's continual and often violent state of flux added an element of uncertainty to every ladder crossing.
As the glacier moved, crevasses would sometimes compress, buckling ladders like toothpicks; other times a crevasse might expand, leaving a ladder dangling in the air, only tenuously supported, with neither end mounted on solid ice.
Anchors securing the ladders and lines routinely melted out when the afternoon sun warmed the surrounding ice and snow.
Despite daily maintenance, there was a very real danger that any given rope might pull loose under body weight.
But if the Icefall was strenuous and terrifying, it had a surprising allure as well.
As dawn washed the darkness from the sky, the shattered glacier was revealed to be a three-dimensional landscape of phantasmal beauty.
The temperature was six degrees Fahrenheit. My crampons crunched reassuringly into the glacier's rind. Following the fixed line, I meandered through a vertical maze of crystalline blue stalagmites (cone-shaped mineral deposits).
Sheer rock buttresses seamed with ice pressed in from both edges of the glacier, rising like the shoulders of a malevolent (wishing evil or harm to others) god.
Absorbed by my surroundings and the gravity of labor, I lost myself in the unfettered pleasures of ascent, and for an hour or two actually forgot to be afraid.
Three-quarters of the way to Camp One, Hall remarked at a rest stop that the icefall was in better shape than he'd ever seen it: "The route's a bloody freeway this season."
But only slightly higher, at 19,000 feet, the ropes brought us to the base of a gargantuan, perilously balanced serac.
As massive as a twelve-story building, it loomed over our heads, leaning 30 degrees past vertical.
The route followed a natural catwalk that angled sharply up the overhanging face: we would have to climb up and over the entire off-kilter tower to escape its threatening tonnage.
Safety, I understood, hinged on speed. I huffed toward the relative security of the serac's crest with all the haste I could must, but since I wasn't acclimatized my fasted pace was no better than a crawl.
Every four or five steps I'd have to stop, lean against the rope, and such desperately at the thin, bitter air, searing my lungs in the process.
I reached the top of the serac without it collapsing and flopped breathless onto its flat summit, my heart pounding like a jackhammer.
A little later, around 8:30 A.M., I arrived at the top of the Icefall itself, just beyond the last of the seracs.
The safety of Camp One didn't supply much peace of mind, however: I couldn't stop thinking about the ominously tilted slab a short distance below, and the fact that I would have to pass beneath its faltering bulk at least seven more times if I was going to make it to the summit of Everest.
Climbers who snidely denigrate (dscredit, put down, belittle) this as the Yak Route, I decided, had obviously never been through the Khumbu Icefall.