Among other things, I have been an American adventurer, a
man who challenged the elements, sometimes two and three at a time. I have
almost been killed many times while attempting to defy fiery conditions, watery
graves and a flight in an airplane built by John Denver.
I am here to write about one of my greatest adventures, one
that took me to the summit of Mount Everest, where bad weather created deadly
conditions so bad they could kill you.
I wasn’t climbing for the twelfth time just to make the
count an even dozen (I am the only man ever to climb Mount Everest successfully
while reading The Odyssey—backwards); I was traversing the congested
trails in search of a lost climbing party.
This group of seven people braved the mountain’s “dead
zone,” the twenty-nine thousand foot peak, and lost communication a day after
they should have arrived. A month later, relatives became concerned and called
me.
I set out for the mountain despite having been diagnosed
with a mild case of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. I was alone but not
by choice. Two of the three partners who usually climbed with me had died in
air-circus accidents and one had reached an age his doctor said was far too old
for him to be capable of negotiating eighty-miles-an-hour winds. Then again,
this guy was always a bit of a wimp.
Some of the winds on the trail caused me to stall at one of
the “choke points” reached. Climbers call them choke points because the wind is
so fierce it literally grabs your throat and squeezes, taking the breath from
you so strongly that at times you can speak no louder than a character played
by Clint Eastwood.
When the wind died I screamed the names of people from the
party. When there were no answers I realized that the avalanche that was
starting had been caused by the volume of my voice. I quickly nailed my boots
to a ledge and let snow boulders break around me. When the avalanche was over I
plied my boots out of the ground and continued to ascend.
Almost at the peak, I realized that the photographs the
lost party’s relatives had given me were useless, since the pictures showed
each person in a swimsuit. I would have to identify them some other way. If
they were alive, I thought, I could show them the photos and ask each one to
identify his or herself.
As I reached the top I was once again mesmerized by the
majesty of the view. I never grew tired of looking out into the eternal
vastness, with its hues and magical cloud shapes. But then I realized the lost
party was nowhere around me, meaning they were still lost, perhaps dead. I
mourned them for a moment and then began my descent.
It
turned out that all seven were alive and had fallen in the avalanche to a point
where they could climb down safely. Aside from being hungry and dehydrated,
they were all well enough to play Parcheesi that evening after a bath.
The
families thanked me when I returned. I was off, then, to Africa, where I was
going to live with a troop of gorillas that scientists were convinced could
learn to play string instruments.
Frank Cotolo 11:27 AM
