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Turning back: My toughest decision on the world's tallest mountain

  • Published
  • By Staff Sgt. Nick Gibson
  • 308th Rescue Squardon
MOUNT EVEREST --  Editor's Note: Staff Sgt. Nick Gibson is a reserve pararescueman with the 308th Rescue Squadron, part of the 920th Rescue Wing, and a full-time physician assistant student at Emory University. Gibson climbed Mount Everest with a military team as part of the USAF 7 Summits Challenge. Gibson chose to climb for a cause; he set out to raise awareness about veterans' mental healthcare issues, specifically suicide. Although Gibson, in addition to teammate, Capt. Colin Merrin, had to turn back merely 829 feet short of the 29,029-foot summit due to altitude sickness and potential frostbite, the rest of the team pressed on, becoming the first-ever all military team to reach the summit of each highest peak on each continent.

Today is May 20. It's game time. We are finally at the South Col, approximately 26,300 feet, ready to head for the summit. The weather says winds less than 15 miles per hour, and I feel good. I try to rest and gather gear to make my pack even lighter since we have a large oxygen cylinder to carry up with us -- like a lifeline. It's to the point where even moving things around in my tent leaves me gasping for air if I don't have my mask up on my face at the time. I've been up since 2 a.m. climbing from Camp 3 at 24,000 feet.

When I first arrived at the South Col, I collapsed in the tent with my tent mates, Capt. Kyle Martin and Capt. Marshall Klitzke. They immediately started getting my boots off of me while I just laid there gasping for air. When I asked them what they were doing, they remarked that when they had arrived, it had taken them well over 20 minutes to remove their own boots. They were helping me out as good teammates do.

My start time for my summit push is around 7:30 p.m. This was decided to help us avoid the slow moving climbers who could impede our progress up the mountain by moving in large numbers giving others few options to pass. As soon as I step out of the tent, I notice that we aren't the only camp stirring. Multiple languages echo through the cold night, and I am concerned that everyone is leaving at the same time. I am the first of the Air Force team to leave, and my suspicions are confirmed as I begin my climb up the Triangle Face.

Soon, I come upon a line of climbers moving extremely slowly. My climbing Sherpa, Mingma Tenzing, broke off to the right of the line of what has been referred to as the "zombies" and began passing on another parallel rope until eventually the terrain and line of climbers meant having to come "off rope," as it's called when you climb with being clipped into a line, in order to make the pass. I followed, and we jetted past many climbers lined up back to back. The terrain we passed upon was difficult and exhausting; by the time I reached the front of the line of 30-40 climbers, I was destroyed from the effort. After hours of climbing, we reached the balcony (27,500 feet) and took a break.

Mingma switched one of the new bottles in his pack for the one in my pack. I got a new bottle to ascend on and he dropped the used one from my backpack there at the balcony for alternate use on my descent. My hands had gone numb, so as I warmed them, I also ate and drank to replenish what I had spent on my passing of the "zombies." I realized that I was much more tired than I had expected. I had used much of my energy I was reserving for the Hilary Step.

Just before I finished eating, drinking and warming my fingers, the large group I previously passed had forgone the common break on the balcony and continued to climb. By the time I realized this, it was too late. Once we were ready to climb again, we were forced to fall in behind the long stack of slow climbers. My Sherpa wanted to pass again, and normally I would have had the energy, but not this time. We were too high, and I was already exhausted. As we climbed behind them, I felt my toes going numb. After two hours of climbing on numb toes, they began to stiffen, and I told my Sherpa we may be done.

I felt trapped between my body and the elements, and I knew who would win. This is where I think people roll the dice. Not me -- not with an entire medical career and all my family waiting for my return as a whole man. I screamed into the darkness with the frustration of this reality.

I called over the radio and explained to the Base Camp manager that I didn't have the energy to pass the group ahead of me, and I didn't have the heat to safely follow behind them. He agreed it was the right decision. Once the call was in, my Sherpa said, "I'm sorry, Nick." We both knew.

We turned around and sat down next to each other at 28,200 feet and just stared off into the cold night. Emotions were raw for us both. After a few minutes I said, "C'mon, let's go home." As we climbed down the Triangle Face, the sun made its appearance. Calls came through on the radio from my teammates as they stood at the summit, on top of the world and elated with life. My joy for them was mixed with sorrow.

I stopped Mingma for a while as the sun showed me the beauty of a window seat in the death zone. I told him I wanted to sit and look for a minute because I would never see this again. It was the only moment I afforded myself since the death zone does more for giving its name than anything. Once back to the South Col and Camp 4 at 26,300 feet, I had an hour to get my stuff together and rest.

I asked if I could get another shot the next night to summit before I go down, but my request was denied. Not enough oxygen resources, and in truth, once you step above the balcony, it takes your body weeks to recover. When I finally arrived at Camp 2 after 36 hours of climbing, it was evident that something was wrong with me. I was audibly wheezing and was too tired to even stand up and walk to my tent. When I finally got there, I tried to lie down, and I went into fits of coughing with a drowning feeling. It was obvious pretty quickly that I had High Altitude Pulmonary Edema.

My teammate, Capt. Colin Merrin, who had turned around just short of the balcony due to an upper respiratory infection, called to Base Camp on the radio and told them what was going on with me. I took medication to help treat my condition and slept on oxygen that night. I continued the oxygen during the subsequent descent to Base Camp the next day. I felt my condition improve quickly with descent. I also felt certain that it had played a role in my fatigue and potential frostbite on summit day. This helped me feel somewhat more reassured about my decision to turn around.

As an Air Force pararescueman accustomed to working in the rescue profession and caring for others, I must be aware of the circumstances that entail rescuing myself. I once cared for a fellow SCUBA diver who was panicking and threatening to dart for the surface from 140 feet. I made sure nothing happened to him, but I was so focused on getting him to the surface safely that I ran out of air 10 feet below the surface. I got lucky that time, but forgot the cardinal rule of rescue: never become a victim yourself. My summit attempt was over, and I had to find a way to deal with the emotional ripple effects of that.

The trip back to Kathmandu was delicate. We all had our own health effects we were dealing with, but it was emotional balance that proved most difficult. Four team members had just stood literally on top of the world, a life-long dream realized, while two of us had gotten just about as close as you can get before turning around. It's a crushing blow. We did the 50 mile trek out of the mountains in two days. Emaciated, that was an accomplishment in its own right. All that time and effort put into something, and it is gone at the hands of a traffic jam or the timing of an illness.

After a while, I realized that I done everything else I had set out to accomplish. I wanted to use this platform to draw attention to the figurative mountains our veterans are climbing to get out of where war has taken them. I wanted people to pay attention to the veterans around them and the battles they fight with their healthcare. I wanted veterans to know that getting help is the honorable and brave option, not suicide. None of that requires me to stand on top of Mt. Everest.

Turning around 800 feet short doesn't compare to a veteran turning around on life through suicide. By turning around, I haven't failed. Every time a veteran commits suicide, we all have failed. Veterans, let's all rope up and climb together because turning around on this summit push is not an option.