Out of the comfort zone: feeling the altitude in Everest
Blog part five:
As I stare down at my hand I can see a half eaten chocolate bar, but I can no longer lift my arm to eat it. My frazzled brain considers the option of using the other hand to take the bar and eat it, but that arm has gone too. I’m sat like a puppet whose strings have been cut. I am unable to stand or to move my limbs now, it’s clear I have AMS, acute mountain sickness. I’m also on the verge of panicking.
I’m writing this from the comfort of a cafe at Namche Bazaar, 3,440 meters. I know this as it is customary to proudly display the altitude on the menus. The air is thin and sharp like watered down skimmed milk. The logistics of getting supplies up to this height are extreme. No cars or vehicles go past Lukla so everything must be carried either by yaks or more commonly men and boys toiling up steep ravines with 70+ kilo loads on their backs. The coffee and danish cakes on offer at this cafe are a feat of unimaginable human endeavour.
I had hoped to write sooner but the fog of the altitude has made holding clarity of thought impossible. The mind needs oxygen, and in this depleted environment perception itself blends. Memories of the journey so far feel more like a giant jigsaw, scattered expectantly rather than a neat linear day by day account. My Acute Mountain Sickness experience was several days ago, but shock and tiredness has delayed my hand in writing. It’s fresh in my mind and feels fitting to recount the experience from the mountain rather than the comforts back home.
Day seven: we are high above the cloud line yet despite the beautiful sunny day with mountains on all sides, I am struggling to appreciate it. I am holding my fingertips to my temples in the vain hope that my 8/10 headache will subside a little. I’ve been in pain since we set off early this morning up a steep incline on our acclimatisation day and now the pain is unbearable.
‘Are you OK?’ asked one of our group. I wobble my hand side to side ‘not really’. I’m hoping we don’t have much higher to go when we stop for a ten minute rest and news comes that we can start our descent. This is good I think. I am slow on my downhills as my knee ligaments are not great after a rock climbing fall years ago. As the others scamper off, I can quickly tell that I’ll be last off the mountain. Steady as she goes has been my motto so far. Everything moves meticulously slowly at altitude. The race between the tortoise and the sloth I would tell myself (the rabbit is too fast for this tale).
Going down is hard. Going up by contrast feels more natural, like you’re getting somewhere which spurs you on. The hill is steep, very steep in fact. Any uncontrolled tumble could be catastrophic. That said, each step going down gets immeasurably easier, gravity assisted and with increasing oxygen this is usually the easy part. But not today.
As I begin to retrace my steps I half skid and half slip on the loose stones, but manage to steady myself. The path is narrow and winding. Every breath is already laden so sudden moves use up sparse reserves. Minutes later I fall again, this time my right leg just seemed unsteady and the loose stones won and in a moment I was on my bum. A little shaken but feeling good, once more I set off. It’s not long before things rapidly decline, I fall over again but this time it’s clear the fall is due to me not the terrain.
My legs are like jelly and this time I winded myself a little. Now I was catching my breath in huge gulps, suffocating in the thin air with the onset of hypoxia. The team doctor, Stewart and trek leader Dean, were quickly by my side and were taking my pulse and oxygen levels with the pulse oximeter. Stewart showed the reading to the leader out of my gaze. ‘We need to get someone up here’ he said, ‘There’s no phone signal’ came the reply. A small group had gathered including sherpas offering to help carry me down.
Take this diamox, said Stewart. I’d already reluctantly had one on the way up. ‘Don’t be so stubborn, it won’t just help you today but also in the days to come’. Stewart understood people and had already got the measure of me. I tentatively reached out my hand and put the half tablet in my dry and rasping mouth.
A quick check from the group to see what else might be available and some chocolate and a bottle of Sprite was procured. After a couple of bites of the Snickers bar it’s clear I won’t finish it as my arms don’t work anymore. Instead I’m suffocating like a fish out of water with its gills violently exposed.
‘How are you feeling?’, asked Dean the trek leader. ‘Great’ I replied. By this stage I’d kind of given up on my body, it was largely responseless anyway. In doing so weirdly I felt more in control of what was left, more lucid, even the headache seemed to have eased. Having rapidly lost control of my arms and legs my perception had splintered, delaminating mind from body. Inwardly I felt good, strong and calm, yet outwardly it was clear I was in quite a state, tears streaming, hyperventilating.
I sensed I was de-tethered, a bit like an astronaut floating away from a mothership oblivious to the precariousness of the situation. Relinquishing control and responsibility for my body was like sinking into a deep feather mattress. I was serene. Happy to float in the sunshine.
‘Andrea, Andrea’ I could hear my name but everything had a second or two time delay. Looking as earnestly as I could into the team leader’s eyes I said ‘I’m starting to panic now’. It was a measured panic, but panic nonetheless. I wasn’t floating, I was dying, limb by limb.
Dean hinched me up and with the doctor on the other side started carrying me down the hillside by the arms, legs skimming along beneath. Halfway down we stopped. My arms were cold and I was feeling worse if anything.
Dean checked my fingertips, toes and legs one by one for sensation. I was no longer sure what I could feel. Still not good, everything was becoming out of synch. Questions and more questions few of which I could muster an answer. The sherpas reaffirmed their offer to carry me rapidly on their backs to safety, but Dean’s resolve remained. Once more we continued aided arm in arm down the slope but this time at greater pace.
This continued in bursts until we were met near the bottom by the stretcher and oxygen. But by now the air was thicker, more like semi-skimmed milk. My legs were improving and I could begin to walk unassisted. Stewart the medic asked me to walk in a line and remarkably I could. Despite this progress my mind was still fuddled. Guided into the tea house felt like a walk of shame as the concerned group waited anxiously over half an hour in the sunshine to see what had transpired.
Once back in my room at the the tea house I sat on the bed unable to move, or lie down, in shock of what just happened. I was brought garlic soup by a Sherpa who waited expectantly as I forced two spoonfuls down. I was still reeling, jarred by the speed of the eclipse that had just occurred and how sharp the edge was between control, comfort and cognisance to rapid, seemingly uncontrollable decline.
Until that point I had wondered if altitude sickness might prevent me from reaching the summit of Kala Patthar, now I was so far out of my comfort zone that getting to the basecamp itself was looking improbable.
For me this was the first time at altitude, which I had no idea could be so extreme. For Dean and Stewart, highly experienced in these kinds of expeditions, it was simply another case of AMS. I am indebted to their amazing response that day and throughout the trek. Supremely capable, I trusted them implicitly. I felt safe in their hands, yet my biggest challenge was still to come. I no longer trusted my judgement and that proved a problem in the days to come. After what transpired at base camp and Kala Patthar I would need their help more than ever.
In my next blog ‘living in the clouds’ I reflect on the highs and lows of trekking Everest.
