After the Wind Read online

  AFTER

  THE

  WIND

  1996 Everest Tragedy

  One Survivor’s Story

  Lou Kasischke

  AFTER THE WIND

  1996 Everest Tragedy — One Survivor’s Story

  Copyright © 2014 Lou Kasischke

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author or publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information, address Good Hart Publishing LC, Post Office Box 274, Harbor Springs, MI 49740.

  Illustrations by Jane Cardinal

  Design by Cynthia Shaw

  Library of Congress Cataloging - in - Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-940877-01-3

  Printed in United States of America.

  The author thanks all those who helped and encouraged him in preparing these pages. A special thanks goes to Laura Kasischke, Jean Pavillard, and James Greayer for their friendship, good judgement, and professional skills and advice.

  For more information go to www.afterthewind.com

  To Sandy

  A Story I Can Tell

  Then a great and powerful wind

  tore the mountain apart...

  After the wind came an earthquake...

  After the earthquake came a fire...

  After the fire came

  A still small voice.

  1 Kings 19: 11-12

  Holy Bible

  CONTENTS

  Note to Reader

  1 Dilemma at Noon

  2 The Ritual

  3 A Story I Can Tell

  4 The Last Supper

  5 Katmandu and 1995

  6 Into the Khumbu

  7 Base Camp — 17,500 Feet

  8 The Leadership Team

  9 The Big Picture

  10 Khumbu Icefall

  11 The “Same Day” Decision

  12 Sandy Back Home — May 4

  13 Before First Light

  14 The Lhotse Face

  15 Suffering

  16 A Slow Death

  17 The South Col

  18 Decisions at High Camp

  19 Above the South Col

  20 The Balcony

  21 Up the Ridge

  22 I Can Do This

  23 After the Wind

  24 Burning Daylight

  25 Out of Time

  26 One Hour Later

  27 Crossing Paths and Into the Clouds

  28 Sandy Back Home — May 10

  29 Blinded by Light

  30 Down into Darkness

  31 Some are Dead. Most are Missing.

  32 End of Day — May 11

  33 My Deepest Darkness

  34 The Roar of Rage

  35 The Dead Guy is Still Alive

  36 Blinded by Tears

  37 Sandy Back Home — May 13

  38 The Evening and the Mourning

  39 The Hedge

  40 On My Way Back Home

  41 Back Home — May 18

  42 The Last Climb

  Mountaineering Experiences

  About the Author

  NOTE TO READER

  NEAR THE TOP of Mount Everest at noon, on 10 May 1996, things went wrong. Some climbers lived. Some climbers died. It was the worst tragedy in Mount Everest history.

  I was there. I was a climbing member of the New Zealand-based expedition led by Rob Hall. This is the story I lived.

  What went wrong first focuses on the cause of the loss of time at the South Summit in the late morning hours leading up to noon on that fateful day. This loss of time and resulting implications presented a dilemma about what to do. Before noon, there was no life or death Everest story. But then, what happened at noon is the story.

  I wrote most of these pages in 1997 and 1998. I wrote my account at that time for two reasons. One was because the events were factu­ally complex and, for me, mixed with many emotions. I wanted to write things down to solidify my understanding, my thoughts, and my reflections. I understood what went wrong. I was there. But for people not there, the aftermath reporting of the events was like fog rolling in to obscure and distort a fair understanding about what actually happened.

  My perspective and analysis were also different from much of what was written and reported at that time, particularly the relative impor­tance of things. Too much was written about things that were colorful for storytelling, but did not matter.

  What is the truth in this story? It depends on whom you ask. No one has all of it. And some of the truth may never be told.

  My personal Everest story, within the bigger historic story, is about my experience of being there—living the horror of it. But my story goes beyond and deeper than about what went wrong. It’s also about what went right—how I survived, and perhaps why.

  After I finished writing, I decided not to publish my account. Instead, I packed the pages away in a file cabinet.

  WHEN I TRAVELED to Nepal in 1996 to climb Everest, I expected a two month climb, to be followed by a return to my everyday life. Just like every other climb. The photos would eventually collect dust. The memories would gradually fade away. The story of climbing Everest would have an end. But instead, what happened to me did not fade away and continues to influence my everyday life, even now 17 years later. The story I lived never ended.

  In 1996, I almost selfishly and recklessly died on Everest. In 2011, my wife, Sandy, became seriously ill. We have loved each other for 47 years. We have been married 46 years. Thinking back to the critical moments at noon on 10 May 1996, it was Sandy’s love that came with me to Everest that saved my life. She was a source of inner strength when I needed it. That’s part of the personal story I tell in these pages.

  As life makes its twists and turns, Sandy now needs me. I regret how close I came to not being here for her today. I also like to think today that my love for Sandy is a force within her to help in her health struggles.

  I’M PUBLISHING this story now as an expression of my love and thanks to Sandy. As I have shared my Everest experience over the years, many people were interested to know Sandy’s part in what happened. My biggest hope and challenge in letting go of these pages is that I write well enough for the reader to understand and value Sandy’s part in the story.

  As I dusted off and reviewed the pages I wrote so many years ago, I took out things I no longer want to say. Things that are not mine to say. But I added a personally meaningful recent part about my per­sonal story.

  I have two stories to tell. One is a story about being there—facing that critical situation at noon, and then living a nightmare in the wind, cold, and thin air, with things going terribly wrong and people dying around me.

  The other is a story about what I heard near the top as I listened in sheer silence—after the wind. A story about the voice of the heart. A love story. The story of how I survived.

  Lou Kasischke

  October 2013

  CHAPTER 1

  DILEMMA AT NOON

  ON MAY 10, close to noon near the summit of Mount Everest, I gasped for breath.

  Four or five breaths for every step. Over and over. And over.

  Four or five breaths. Shift my weight. Then step. Over and over. The frigid dry air burned inside me like cold fire. Four or five ragged breaths. Shift my weight and step. My fingers were white and stiff. Frostbite.

  I wanted water. More than anything, water. But my water bottles were frozen blocks of ice. Frostbite. No water. Temperature at 30 below zero. High winds. Dehydration. Malnutrition. Little air to breathe.

  But none of that mattered. Sheer will kept me going. Breathe, breathe, breathe, gasp, shift my weight. Then step. It was getting steeper.

  I was far above the clouds. Almost six m
iles high. On a narrow ridge just 400 vertical feet from the top of the highest mountain in the world. Snow spindrift whipped around me. The wind sounded like low-flying jets. An ugly storm slowly boiled up from below.

  After several weeks of enduring the savage cold and thin air, of climb­ing rock, snow, and ice, I knew I was close to the top. Thirteen hours of physically and mentally grueling climbing this day was behind me, just to get to this point. The top was minutes away. Four or five breaths. Shift my weight. Then step. I was 400 vertical feet from achieving my goal. The top of Mount Everest. Four or five breaths. Then step. Sheer will.

  Nothing could stop me.

  Step by step by step. With each step, as a weaker force, I was over­coming a greater one — Everest. I didn’t care about anything except reaching the summit. And I was almost there.

  I sensed that the climbers above me had slowed down. But at first I did not equate that with a problem. I checked my watch. It was close to noon.

  Noon? How could it be that late? Rob Hall, our expedition leader, had hoped to be on the way down from the top at noon. Trouble?

  I tried to be calm, but my mind raced to grasp the implications of the time. I felt alone. Isolated. I couldn’t talk with anyone. All I could hear was the wind and my own breathing. I looked up at the top. I looked at the climbers above me. I realized things had gone wrong. Very wrong. Climbers were still climbing up, but it was late.

  I decided I didn’t care. Being late didn’t matter much at that moment. This was Everest. Climbing past the safety turnaround time I prom­ised to follow didn’t matter at all at that moment. Knowing I would be climbing down in the dark didn’t matter. What mattered was the top. And I was almost there. Others were still going. Me too. If they could, I could. Nothing could stop me.

  The already high risk of being there just rocketed far beyond reckless­ness. This, too, I knew. But I was close. I could get to the top. I wanted to keep going. I had to keep going. But it was too late. We were out of time.

  The frostbitten fingers? I didn’t care about those, either. Go. Keep going. Others are still going. Me too. I can do this. In climbing, there is only one thing worse than not reaching the summit. And that is when others do, and you don’t.

  I chipped away ice that had caked over my face so I could breathe what little oxygen there is six miles above sea level. With my head down and gasping for air, I continued to climb. Four or five breaths. Then step. Step by step. That first and only voice I heard within me said—I can do this.

  Then it happened.

  A veiled force overpowered me. I jammed my ice axe into the snow directly in front of me. I held tight, as my knees buckled. My heart pounded in my ears. Everything else went quiet. Stone silent.

  I didn’t know what I would hear—after the wind—when I listened to the sound of sheer silence. But I was about to find out.

  MERE moments later, physical toughness and sheer will to climb a mountain of rock, snow, and ice meant nothing. What meant every­thing was what it would take to overcome a mountain of ambition and pressure to succeed, and to make a hard choice. Was I prepared for that challenge?

  Hours later, I would be fighting for my life. Hours later, others would be dying on the mountain.

  Years later, I would be fighting to understand. Years later, I wanted to forget. Years later, I could never forget.

  Today, I give thanks.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE RITUAL

  MY WIFE, Sandy, claims she was always the last to know what mountain I would climb next. That was not true. My mother was always last. But for sure, Dee, my assistant at work, was the first. Dee typed the letters, overheard the phone calls with my climbing friends, and faxed messages to strange places around the world, helping to make logistical arrangements. I purposefully did all my climbing planning at work. This was so Sandy didn’t know my plans until the right moment. After all, climbing plans quickly changed or were can­celled because of a partner’s schedule conflicts or logistical problems. I saw no point in starting the ritual about a climb with Sandy before plans advanced to the stage where most elements were in place. After decades of climbing, I had learned the importance of this strategy.

  By 1995, I had been a climber for many years. I’d climbed many of the classic mountains around the world, including the highest on six continents. I was always thinking about or planning my next chal­lenge. One June afternoon, I asked Dee to fax a message to Rob Hall, a professional mountain climber and Mount Everest expedition leader from New Zealand. When Dee read the message, she didn’t say a word. But I got a look and a slight nod of the head that spoke louder than words. Dee knew it would be a big deal at home.

  My message was simply an inquiry. If Rob was organizing a climb­ing team and getting a permit from Nepal to climb Everest in 1996, I wanted to be considered as a team member. It was just an inquiry, I said silently as I returned Dee’s look and nod with my own shoulder shrug and grin.

  Rob was regarded in the mountaineering community as the best in leading professional Everest expeditions. I had known him for a few years. We had climbed in Antarctica at the same time. We had mu­tual climbing partners, and I closely followed his Everest expeditions in 1993 and 1994.

  But my fax message was just an inquiry. Who knew, Rob might not be going back again. As for me, thoughts about climbing Everest would probably fade away. That would have been okay. There were many other mountains I wanted to climb. Climbing Everest was not a pas­sion I needed to fulfill. It seemed like a special thing to do if it worked out with Rob, but no big deal if it didn’t.

  Over the next few months of letters and calls, Rob confirmed he was organizing a team and securing a permit. We talked at length about leadership aspects of the climb and the specific leadership team. This was critical to my thinking and any commitment by me.

  On recent expeditions, Ed Viesturs of the United States and Guy Cotter of New Zealand assisted Rob. These were two people with exceptionally strong credentials and reputations as veteran Himalayan climbers and expedition leaders. In combination with Rob in prior years, they had the best record for safety on Everest. These were climbers for whom safety, not risk taking, was paramount. They were my kind of leaders. In the end, a specific condition of my participation (which became part of a written agreement) was the leadership team consisting of Hall, Viesturs, and Cotter.

  After all the calls and correspondence, Dee knew that matters were serious. Several times she gave me the look that said, “I can’t wait to see what happens at home when this one comes out.” But until that time not a word was said to anyone, especially Sandy. No point in engaging Sandy too quickly. That required strategy. Timing was critical. I told Rob I had some work to do on the home front—the ritual.

  MOST OF my friends understand the athletic challenge of being a climber. They know I love mountains and all mountain sports — ski­ing, ski mountaineering, and climbing. They know my history as an endurance athlete. They recognize the physical and mental chal­lenges involved. They can see the beauty and imagine what a thrill it must be to stand on top and look around, as clouds go floating by underneath you. But they also know the dangers, the cold, the harsh environment, the hardships, the suffering — and they frequently ask “why.” They point out that mountain climbing is irrational and conflicts with the innate sense of survival. To that point, I agree. And I agree that, perhaps, from just a rational perspective, climbing is only for people of unsound mind. But from an emotional perspective, climbing makes perfect sense and is an obvious choice. I also point out to them that climbing is about the richness of living a story. A whole story. Standing on top of the mountain is only part of the story. And frequently not even the most important part. The climbing story I live is not one single moment. In the story of getting to the top, many moments are more meaningful and more worthy of memory.

  The main actors in the climbing stories are sometimes the place, the mountain, the history, the rigors of the climb, the obstacles overcome, the beauty, the wonde
r, and the feeling of deep satisfaction from the accomplishment. Sometimes the main actors are the people: what happened to each of us, and why we did what we did. Sometimes it’s the mistakes we made, how we responded, and what we learned. Sometimes it’s the Third World places and cultures. Always it’s about the accumulation of very specific special moments for remembrance, such as crossing a raging river without a bridge, traveling by public bus across the plains of Africa or the highlands of Peru with people sitting on top and hanging over the sides and chickens, pigs and goats as fellow passengers. And, of course, sometimes it’s about bad experi­ences I want to forget. The ones I don’t tell Sandy.

  Still, I admit that my journal later goes into a file cabinet, the summit is forgotten, and the photos collect dust on the wall or table, or never make it out of the file cabinet. It is a great story I lived. But the earth did not stop turning, no one else really cared, and it was just a big rock covered with snow. Still, the story I live is my keepsake. It lives within me. And the quest to live whatever the next story will be is a major motivating force for the next climb.

  ON MY end and Rob’s, Everest was a go. But one more thing was needed. Just as Rob needed to secure a permit from Nepal, and just as Everest can only be climbed with expedition team support, I needed the support of Sandy. I love Sandy very much. She needed to be thinking the right way on this. After all, we were talking about Everest—not just another climb.

  I couldn’t climb Everest or any mountain without Sandy. And I wouldn’t want to. I could never draw the rewards from climbing I sought if it came at the price of an erosion of our marriage. I knew of too many cases where climbers wrecked their marriages over climbing. That would not happen to me. And it was not a matter of just getting Sandy’s approval. That would not be enough. I needed more. Sandy might have been the next to last to learn about my next climb, but her support was at the top of the list of what I needed to climb any mountain, or accomplish any of my goals in life.

  Sandy was a first grade school teacher when we met. It was on a blind date at a party, with music and dancing. For me, it was love at first sight. I was on my best behavior. But Sandy barely noticed, even my best dance moves. It took awhile for her to fall in love with me. We were married in 1967 by my father, a Lutheran minister. We had two sons, Doug and Gregg, in short order.