The Ghosts of the Summit

“Perhaps a figment of my subconscious. Perhaps something else. I don’t know and to search for that answer is to miss the point entirely. The point is that they put me back together.”

This isn’t your typical summit story. There is no conquest to read of. No delusions of grandeur. No indirect self-praise. Certainly, no titles. This is the story of destruction and recombination. This is the story of that thing every mountaineer knows to be true in their hearts but can never find the words to describe it. The shiver in the chest as we fight back tears that come from the disbelief that we’ve pushed ourselves beyond what we knew was possible. The acceptance that there is something out there that pulls us to take that next step, to not falter, to be the strength that we want to see in the world, to become.

It was 5:00 am on the summit push of Ama Dablam. The closest climber to me was over 100 meters below. We had left camp 2 together at 2:30 am but as the night progressed circumstances had pulled us apart. I was alone on the south face of the Himalayas’ most iconic summit. Ama Dablam is the great mother. She stands above the Khumbu with her arms open to embrace the many who revere her, admire her and ignore her. Like any true mother she does not discriminate. There I was. 6,600 meters in the air. No one to turn to. No one to hear my gasping for air in between every 10 steps. The battle here was not with the mountain. The mountain is what it is. It does not care or not care. It just is. The battle with the final portion of her increasingly hostile slopes was with myself. I faced every doubt in my mind by concentrating on what I was doing. Heals down. Axe low. Breath. There was no space for anything else. No room to contemplate where I was, how far I’d come from the safety of home. From the warmth of family around me. From the security of a life far away from here. I was alone.

As the sun began to illuminate the hills in a regal purple I took a pause to finally look at exactly where I was. The giant Dablam ice fall to my left. The base camp 3,000 meters in the distance. The footsteps that I’d carved throughout the night below me. The top of the mountain now visible. I wished it wasn’t. Now with every 10 steps I’d look up only to find that it wasn’t getting any closer. “Breathe” I’d say to myself over and over again. I would exaggerate it just to hear myself. It was the only assurance that I was still alive. As long as I could hear the gasps I was still here.

“Actually, up here on the edge of human existence is where I’m least alone. I’m with everything and everyone.”

As 5:00 am turned to 6:00 am and the summit still felt like an eternity away I looked to my feet. I had nothing left. Feet frozen. Hands hardly able to clench the ice axe. Eyes sore from the cold. Heart beating in my head like someone was hammering me with a baseball bat. I was defeated. I was torn to shreds from every fiber of my being and the only thing I could do was submit to the mountain fully. “I will go wherever you will me to go”. “I will be whatever you will me to be”. “I am nothing.” These were my only thoughts. I wasn’t me anymore.

It was in that moment that I looked to the direction of the summit. The sun was just kissing the wind shear coming off the top. The glow was something that no words could possibly describe. It was in that moment that the mountain finally spoke to me for the very first time. Weeks spent at the base camp trying to connect with the mountain. Hours spent meditating at her foot for some kind of sign or connection but it was 100 meters below her summit that she finally answered me by sending me the most powerful vision I’ve ever experienced. There, 100 meters below the summit of the Ama Dablam, I saw my Grandparents. They were standing meters away, smiling, warm, comforting. This may have all taken a matter of seconds but in my mind, it took far longer. I could feel their presence in the same way I did as a child. The feeling of security, of wisdom and of selfless giving for nothing but to see me safe on my journey. They were the ghosts of the mountain. Perhaps a figment of my subconscious. Perhaps something else. I don’t know and to search for that answer is to miss the point entirely. The point is that they put me back together. They lifted me up in my darkest moment and they took me to the top.

This wasn’t the first time my grandparents came to me when I reached the edge. Five years earlier I saw them on the summit ridge of the Mont Blanc having endured one of the toughest conditions I’ve experienced until this day. I’m often asked what happens to a person when they reach the summit. Personally, I cry but not because I’m exhausted or scared. I cry because I know I’m not alone. Actually, up here on the edge of human existence is where I’m least alone. I’m with everything and everyone. I’m with the ghosts of the summit and they are the reason I climb.