“[T]he sort of individual who is programmed to ignore personal distress and keep pushing for the top is frequently programmed to disregard signs of grave and imminent danger as well. This forms the nub of a dilemma that every Everest climber eventually comes up against: in order to succeed you must be exceedingly driven, but if you’re too driven you’re likely to die. Above 26,000 feet, moreover, the line between appropriate zeal and reckless summit fever becomes grievously thin. Thus the slopes of Everest are littered with corpses…”
- Jon Krakauer, Into Thin Air
On June 8, 1924, the first great challenger to Mount Everest, George Leigh Mallory – along with partner Andrew Irvine – made a fateful attempt to summit the tallest mountain in the world. Expedition member Noel Odell, who was following in support, watched their progress from the safety of camp. In a “sudden clearing of the atmosphere,” Odell reported, Mallory and Irvine appeared as two “tiny black spot[s],” moving toward a “great rock step.” He saw them only for a moment before the clouds came in, obscuring Mallory’s blind march into legend. Neither Mallory or Irvine returned.
In the years since, Everest has not grown more forgiving. If you happen to reach the summit, you are at the approximate cruising altitude of a commercial jet liner. The air is so thin that you are literally dying. That, combined with moody weather changes and the typical challenges of mountaineering, makes for a dangerous, deadly environment. Everest is so unforgiving that the bodies of her would-be conquerors – such as the ill-fortuned “Green Boots” – often remain on her slopes for years, becoming macabre landmarks.
Despite this frightful reputation, the toll of May 10-11, 1996 manages to stand out. Five people – including two experienced guides – lost their lives after ignoring their own turnaround times and getting caught in a sudden storm. The cluster of deaths would have made news by itself. It just so happened, however, that one of the surviving climbers was Jon Krakauer, an adventurer and journalist on assignment for Outside magazine.
Krakauer eventually wrote an article about his experiences, though it was a far cry from the report on Everest’s commercialization that he had originally intended. Ultimately, he returned to his article and reshaped it into a book, Into Thin Air. In the years since its publication, Into Thin Air has come to be recognized as a classic of outdoor writing, despite the counter-publications written by other participants, disagreeing with every single one of Krakauer’s words.
Leaving aside the controversies – which swirl around the disaster like the spindrift off the peak of Everest – Into Thin Air is deserving of its lofty reputation.
Unlike a lot of first-person memoirs churned out in the wake of disaster or trauma, Into Thin Air is the product of a man with a gift for writing. Krakauer may have thought of himself as a climber who got into journalism, but he is a natural storyteller, and his prose wonderfully evokes the beauties and terrors of the mountainside. In terms of conjuring place, of putting you there with the climbers – whether that is the squalor of a filthy lodge in Lobuje, the vertiginous seracs of the Icefall, or the top of the world itself – Krakauer succeeds at describing the indescribable.
At less than three-hundred pages, Into Thin Air is compact and briskly paced. Krakauer indulges a brief – and fascinating – history of mountaineering on Everest, before recounting his experiences as a member of Rob Hall’s Adventure Consultants expedition.
Most of the time, Krakauer stays within his own experiences. He tells you what he saw, what he heard, and his impressions of the other climbers (owing to the fact that he wrote this with the wounds still raw and weeping, he is extremely careful in his presentations). The only time Krakauer leaves the first-person perspective is to piece together what happened to those who died while he was not present (Krakauer was one of the first to summit Everest on May 10, 1996, and made it back to camp before the dying started in earnest).
Typically, I am wary of memoirs, since they are usually a vehicle for self-promotion or self-defense. Krakauer struggles a bit with being both journalist and participant, of both reporting the action and being part of it. For the most part, though, he strikes a good balance. He points out instances where bad decisions were made – Hall’s failure to abide by his turnaround time, for instance – but he does not reach a verdict or even issue an indictment. Indeed, Krakauer reserves his harshest words for himself, and a hypoxia-induced mistake he made that contributed to the death of one of the climbers.
To the extent that Krakauer provides a theory of the disaster, he attributes it to the crowds, with multiple expeditions trying to reach the summit during the same good-weather window. This led to traffic jams that turned the fixed ropes up the mountain into a Himalayan version of a Costco checkout line during a pandemic. One of the most gripping, anxious scenes in the book is Krakauer’s descent, as he has to wait for a slow-moving group to ascend the Hillary Step while his bottled oxygen runs out.
There is a saying that the first guy through the door always gets hit. Because Into Thin Air came out so quickly, and grew so popular, it immediately became a target for those who felt slighted or disrespected in Krakauer’s telling. For instance, the famed mountaineer Anatoli Boukreev felt compelled to pen – with a cowriter – his own account of the catastrophe, after Krakauer tepidly chided Boukreev for attempting to summit without supplemental oxygen while acting as a guide. (Krakauer also thoroughly describes Boukreev’s near-superhuman attempts to save the lives of climbers caught in the storm, so it’s not like he had a vendetta).
With the passage of so much time, I have absolutely zero interest in parsing all the different accounts, of trying to keep track of the directions all the fingers are pointing. I don’t believe it serves much of a purpose. This isn’t like a plane crash or a train accident, where reverse-engineering the calamity might save other lives in the future. You can’t make Everest safer because it is Everest. When you get near the top, you are subject to hypoxia, which hits everyone differently, and can strike down even the most veteran climber. It’s tough to blame anyone for an error in judgment when they can’t breathe, when they can’t think, when they are dying.
To say this event was a tragedy requires some modification. If this was a tragedy, it was of the high-tax bracket, entirely-avoidable variety. To make a supported climb on Everest requires a chunk of change that is quite a bit higher than the median income in the United States. Dying on Everest – unless you are a Sherpa – is a privilege few can afford.
To not only risk your life, but to pay handsomely for the opportunity, is partly an ego trip. Yet it is impossible not to stand a bit in awe of those who make the attempt. As Krakauer points out, the summit becomes an obsession for many, one that cannot simply be explained away as a premeditated lunge for the best cocktail party story ever. There is something mysterious in a person who insists on trudging past the deadline, who – like Mallory in 1924 – refuses to simply turn on their heels and return home, and instead keeps reaching for the apex, as time and breath wind down to nothing. There is a cost to Everest that Krakauer aptly shows cannot be translated into hard currency. There is a knowledge that – as a member of Mallory’s expedition later wrote – “the price of life is death, and that, so long as the payment be promptly made, it matters little to the individual when the payment is made.”