Buried in the Sky: The Extraordinary Story of the Sherpa Climbers on K2's Deadliest Day

by Peter Zuckerman

Despite the climb costing more money than his father had made in forty years. Despite his Buddhist lama warning him that K2’s goddess would never tolerate the climb.

K2 lacks the mass of Everest, but it’s sleeker—and meaner. Climbers call it “The Savage Mountain.” The peak has all the obstacles of Everest, and more. K2’s glaciers are riddled with fissures concealed by layers of snow; climbers step on these crevasses, punch through, and, if unroped, disappear. Blocks of ice cleave off overhanging glaciers; avalanches roar down icy flanks. And then there’s the altitude. No human, plant, or animal can tolerate such harsh conditions for more than a few days. With each lungful of air, climbers on the summit suck in only a third of the oxygen they breathe at sea level. Oxygen deprivation saps their strength and compromises their judgment. Altitude illness breaks them, giving some the coordination of toddlers. As if these difficulties weren’t enough, storms are harsher on K2. It stands 882 miles northwest of Everest, and, being farther from the equator, is more vulnerable to extratropical cyclones and their accompanying jet streams. Everest at least follows a reliable weather pattern: Water evaporates from the Bay of Bengal east of India, forming cloud banks; they float northward over the Himalaya, nudging the jet stream off the summit, in advance of the monsoon. In May, relatively windless weather graces Everest for as long as two weeks. In contrast, K2’s weather window is a crapshoot. Climbers don’t know when the window will open—or whether it will open at all.

polemic

the victory on K2 helped bring a “psychological reconstruction of Italians” after the trauma of fascism and war.

Judas

But people don’t climb because it makes sense. You can come up with reasons—it gives direction to the lost, friends to the loner, honor to the reprobate, thrills to the bored—but, ultimately, the quest for a summit defies logic. So does passion. So does a trip to the moon. There are better things to do. Safer, cheaper, more practical. That’s not the point.

halcyon

27,000 feet. Above that is the Death Zone. Nobody can adjust to it. At this extreme altitude, the percentage of oxygen in the air is the same as at sea level, but the air pressure is much lower—the same volume of gas has fewer molecules in it. As a result, the body can’t extract enough oxygen from the air. The more time spent in the Death Zone, the weaker and sicker a climber becomes. The digestive system fails and the body devours its own muscle tissue. “It’s living hell. You feel your body deteriorating,” said Wilco. “Ever tried to run up a staircase while breathing through a straw?”

Twenty-six climbers had claimed the Abruzzi; ten had chosen the Cesen.

Few recognized the cultural crevasse beneath the slick organizational surface. The advance team was dangerously diverse: Shaheen spoke Wakhi; the two Muhammads, Balti. These Pakistanis communicated in Urdu, a third language, which Shaheen translated into English for the Nepalis to understand. The Nepalis, in turn, played their own linguistic hopscotch. Pasang and Jumik’s first language was Ajak Bhote; Chhiring’s was Rolwaling Sherpi tamgney; Pemba Gyalje’s was Shar-Khumbu tamgney. They used Nepali to communicate among themselves. Information could easily become garbled as it passed through four linguistic layers, not to mention the crackle of a radio.

abstemiously

Nick Rice still hadn’t left his tent. He had spilled a pot of snowmelt on his gear and was drying a soggy sock over a burner. By the time he had finished, Nick decided that August 1 wasn’t going to be the day he would reach the summit of K2. He’d lost too much time. The mountain would still be there next season. “I wanted to make sure I would be, too,” he recalled. A simple mistake—sloshing a pot of water—probably saved his life.

Thinking about the goddess reminded him of the rice and barley in his pocket. Still suspended from an ice screw beside the Bottleneck, he removed the Ziploc bag and flung the contents into the air. They shimmered in space. Suddenly a gust of wind grabbed the grains and spat them back in his face. The offering had been rejected.

Before starting the climb again, he scanned his surroundings. Ahead of him, a solitary red suit was tromping down the mountain. Pasang recognized Alberto Zerain, the Basque climber on the lead team who had surged ahead of everyone at the Bottleneck. Alberto flashed a zinc-oxide–streaked grin, and Pasang recognized the look: summit glow. “I was thinking, ‘How is this possible?’ ” Pasang recalled. Alberto had soloed up the rest of K2, topping out at 3 p.m., hours ahead of everyone else. Now he was on his way down. “That guy made K2 look easy.”

In all, eighteen people topped out on August 1. As the sun set, the celebrations continued for as long as ninety minutes.

But summits also have a cost, and by 7:45 p.m. on August 1, the human price was becoming apparent. The Flying Jump started lurching down the mountain like lushes leaving a bar—reveling, swearing, and puking on their boots. The summit party was over. Now they needed to find the way home.

Pasang turned to Chhiring and spoke without emotion. “You can go, too,” he said. Chhiring considered it. Taking responsibility for Pasang—stranded without an axe, on the deadliest pitch of K2, on a moonless night, without a rope, beneath crumbling seracs—wasn’t rational. But Chhiring never doubted that it was the right thing to do. Sonam, the Buddhist concept of virtue, is nonnegotiable, particularly on K2, so near a goddess who could influence his next reincarnation. She was watching and expected him to show compassion. He expected it of himself. The seracs creaked. “It’s better if the mountain only takes one of us,” Pasang continued. “Go.” Chhiring clipped his safety tether onto Pasang’s harness and sank his axe into the ice. “If we die,” he said, “we die together.”

equanimity

pariah

Jehan’s youngest son, eight-year-old Zehan, had grown to resent Western expeditions that employ Shimshalis. When his grandmother was discussing the downturn in tourism, the boy had blurted out: “I hate foreigners. Why do they come to climb mountains and kill our fathers?”

Dawa appreciated the compromise and set forth her terms: “Stay away from Annapurna, K2, and Nanga Parbat”—the most dangerous mountains—“and you may climb Everest and the others.” Chhiring agreed. Survival had given him strong resolve to hold onto Dawa and the rest of his family and friends.

The sky above was a bright celestial blue. As Pasang stalked the summit plateau, he lost a crampon and slipped. Chhiring shot out a hand to grab him, but Pasang slid from his grasp. Plunging down on his back, Pasang felt more freedom than fear. He gripped his axe and, for a split second, still had a choice. What he chose surprised him. “I decided I didn’t want to miss this life,” he recalled. “Would the next be any better?” He wasn’t ready to find out, so, twisting onto his stomach, he hacked his axe into the slope. His body fishtailed and skidded to a halt. Choked on adrenaline, Pasang stood up and smiled. The rush had cleared his head, and, on his way down from the summit, he had an idea. “I need to climb every 8,000-meter peak,” Pasang confided to Chhiring. “Don’t get married,” his friend advised, “until you’ve bagged all fourteen.” On the descent, their Swedish clients had a crazy inspiration, too: take a hot shower in town, then go for a second 8000er. Soon, Chhiring, Pasang, and the Swedes were making a beeline for Lhotse, Everest’s conjoined twin. Eighteen days later, all four were on the top, completing the fastest doubleheader of the season.