A Physicist on Everest: How Body and Mind Break Down at Elevation

Features | Mind & Brain

In his new book, physicist Francis Slakey recounts the myriad physical and mental challenges in summiting the world's highest peak

By Francis Slakey ?| July 20, 2012

Image: COURTESY SIMON & SCHUSTER

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In 1997 physicist Francis Slakey set out to climb the highest mountain on every continent and surf every ocean ? he dubbed it the first "global surf-and-turf." In his recently published memoir, To the Last Breath: A Journey of Going to Extremes, he describes the geophysics of waves, the body?s physiological breakdown at high-altitude, and the technology of climbing, as well as the people he encounters and the challenges he endures on his 12-year journey. Below is an excerpt, a moment on his climb of Mt. Everest:

This is the last place on Earth you would expect a fork in the road. Yet, here it is, at 29,029 feet, the highest point on the planet, and I?m heading in the opposite direction from the Russian. He turns north, heading down to Tibet, and within a few moments his silhouette vanishes behind a curtain of snow. I turn south, toward Nepal, into the teeth of the storm.

I am facing a growing list of problems.? First of all, I am descending into a blizzard alone. Over the last two hours our climbing team has gotten completely spread out along the southeast ridge and we?ve lost contact as our radios have become ineffective amid the twists and turns of Everest?s summit. At most, there is roughly thirty feet of visibility. The blizzard is so severe that the ridgeline blurs into the background of falling snow.? Under ordinary circumstances I could easily deal with that. But here it won?t be easy because somewhere up ahead the ridgeline narrows to just a bit wider than my boot and there is a four-thousand-foot drop-off on either side.

Making matters worse is the cornice of snow that hangs over that narrow ridgeline, creating an illusion that the path is a few feet wider than it actually is. If I place a foot on the snow cornice instead of the rock of the ridgeline, I?ll plunge through, falling nearly a mile down the mountainside.

The good news is that there is shelter ahead; the bad news is that it?s on the other side of that corniced knife edge and still hours away.?

The tracks I left coming up to the summit just a few minutes ago have been scrubbed away by the wind and snow, but the direction I need to go is still obvious?even in a blizzard, down is still apparent when you?re standing on the highest point on Earth.

I take in a big draw of air from my oxygen tank and the rasp is just audible over the thirty-mile-per-hour wind. With that, it?s time to go to work.

I take my first step down the mountain and immediately feel depleted. Adrenaline is a direction-sensitive stimulant. My body has been producing gallons of it since I set out for the summit at midnight, but the moment I turned around to go back down the spigot went dry. I have felt this on every climb I have ever done and other climbers tell me they experience the same thing: adrenaline on the way up, an empty tank on the way down.

These are the moments when I have my greatest focus. It?s not that my mind is sharp; at this altitude, with this level of fatigue, I know that my mind is as thick as timber. And it?s not that I?m broadly aware of my circumstances.

In fact, now, at this moment, my world has become astonishingly small. It no longer consists of friends and family.? My hometown, the smell of coffee, the push and hustle of my job, the last book I read?all of that is distant and forgotten.?

The only thing that exists in my life right now is the square foot of snow directly in front of me where I will plant my next step. I can sense that spot with absolute clarity. I can see the bend of the snow, feel the weight of the falling flakes, sense the flakes settle on the ridge creating a new contour. The shadows and folds of a small patch of snow and rock are my entire world now.

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