This Is What Slipping At The Top Of Mount Everest Looks Like

The following is an edited excerpt from the book Written in the Snow: My Journey to the Seven Summits by Elizabeth Rose.

My heart is racing. I’ve slipped against the icy rock wall near Everest’s majestic summit right at the start of my descent. Moments ago, I was standing on top of the world taking in views of the Himalayas, the bright blue sky contrasting beautifully against the flapping swarm of colorful flags planted by fellow climbers. Suddenly, I found myself swinging in the air, my black and yellow mountaineering boots dangling off the top of the world’s highest peak. My crampons — the metal spikes on the bottom of my boots that have given me traction and grounding in the face of some of the most challenging environments on the planet — have sliced my Sherpa’s snowsuit. Feathers are flying everywhere.

For a moment, I worry that I have cut not just his snowsuit, but also through to his leg. The weather is about to turn, and we need to make it down to camp. We need to make it down fast.

Thanks to the combination of the rope and belay device, my Sherpa and I catch ourselves. I learn the only thing injured is his very expensive snowsuit. Still, I’m on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack and I begin to cry, making it impossible to catch my breath.

I have to hold my oxygen mask to my face because my tears have soaked through the suction. My glasses are fogged from the moisture.

First, I can’t breathe, and then, I can’t see. I ask my Sherpa — a Nepalese man with tanned skin, kind eyes, and now, a seriously dysfunctional snowsuit — for a moment to catch my breath and regroup. “There’s no time to stop,” he says. “Everyone is going up and down along this one rope, and we need to move.”

So, I did what I’d continue to do throughout my journey to summit the highest mountain on each continent and, looking back, what I’d done many times over the course of my twenty-five years: I said yes. I trusted myself. I kept going.

***

The memory of swinging near the top of Everest is a vivid one in my mind, but I have countless others. The hours before I reached the summit were brutal. But, as I’ll cover in detail later in the book, I summited strong. Together with my group, I left Camp Three for the summit push around 10:00 p.m., when it was pitch dark and freezing. Every zipper pull and every exposed part of me — every strand of hair peeking out from my hat — was covered in ice thanks to the -40 C/F weather. When the group was stopped or moving slowly, I stomped my feet and clapped my hands to prevent getting frostbite. My oxygen mask was making my mouth dry, and the sips of water I’d had that day didn’t feel like enough. Summiting, though, was worth it all.

After slipping on Everest’s peak, the rest of the way down wasn’t much better. When I finally pulled myself together from swinging from the highest mountain on the planet, next came passing the dead body that I had seen on my way up, haunting my thoughts the rest of the way. I tried not to look and just stay focused on the summit. Only the vintage of his boots told me he had been there for decades; otherwise his body looked perfectly preserved. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his flesh was exposed and flawlessly frozen. You’d think his body would be covered by snow, but instead, lying on the windy ridge, it was in plain sight atop the snow. In my head, I kept wondering what had gone wrong? Was he on the way up or down? A running list of endless possibilities — it could’ve been anything. Seeing his body on the way down was a wakeup call that I needed to get off this mountain — as soon as possible.

That first night, we could only get to Camp Three — a slope dotted with the orange and yellow tents of other climbers heading down. I wanted to get past Camp Three because it was still located above 26,000 feet, also known as “the Death Zone.” In the Death Zone, your body becomes deprived of oxygen and can start to break down. We didn’t have enough daylight to go further, so we camped in our down snowsuits and sleeping bags with oxygen masks over our faces.

The next day, we woke up and continued our descent. A strong windstorm made the already treacherous path even more dangerous. At one point, we had to face our back toward the wind and walk down the mountain backwards. At another point, we took shelter at Camp Two. Or rather, we tried to take shelter in the only two tents that hadn’t been blown apart in the storm. We piled into the two remaining tents and attempted to wait out the weather, but eventually it became clear: there was no waiting it out. We needed to keep going.

When we reached Camp One several hours later, most of the climbers in my group wanted to stop to sleep. I understood. I was tired, too. My oxygen bottle felt like lead in my backpack, and I was exhausted. Still, the thought of reaching Advanced Base Camp — reaching a satellite phone to let my parents know I was alive — overtook my body and gave me strength. One other climber and I set off with our Sherpas, leaving the rest of the climbers behind.

When I reached Advanced Base Camp, I was ecstatic. I felt lucky to be there and thrilled to be safe. I couldn’t wait to reach out to my parents. They’d found out I had summited via a social media post from someone who worked for the climbing company, but they didn’t know I’d made it down in one piece. I was able to call them quickly and I think that was the happiest they’ve ever been to hear my voice. They were so relieved that I was safely off the mountain. Later that night, I lay wide awake in my tent, my mind racing, trying to process what I had just accomplished. Reflecting on my experience, I emailed my parents:

Sorry to put you guys through the pain of waiting to hear from me. I am truly grateful for the accomplishment and the experience, but zero chance my kids are climbing Everest. I wouldn’t even want a friend to go. It was truly that insane. The biggest summit is being down in one piece. I only have a few blisters and some sore spots on my face from my oxygen mask, sunglasses, and windburn. I am so lucky to be alive.

My name is Liz Rose, and I am the youngest Canadian — and one of fewer than one hundred women — ever to have climbed the Seven Summits: all in less than three years.

I have always worked hard to achieve my goals, and I was lucky to have an amazing support system. I’m thankful for all the opportunities I’ve had, but the point of sharing my story and my journey through the Seven Summits is not to promote climbing. Instead, I want to inspire you to find and reach your own goals. You don’t need to climb huge mountains to get the same experience and adventure in your life.

In this book, I’ll take you on my journey and hopefully motivate you to find your own. To leave you wanting to say ‘yes’ to more opportunities. To do hard things. To open doors and embrace what’s new. To find what you’re passionate about and go after it. To stay positive in the face of challenges. To chase big, meaningful goals. And, if you’re at a crossroads in your life (like I was), to take action. To find your summit, whatever that looks like.

Here is my story.

To keep reading, pick up your copy of Written in the Snow: My Journey to the Seven Summits by Elizabeth Rose.