The snow no longer felt cold. In fact, it felt warm and fluffy. I closed my eyes – and started to fall asleep.
I was exhausted. Frozen deaf and low in oxygen at about 22,600 feet on the Tibetan climb of Everest.
Surrounded by crevasses and treacherous drop-offs, I stopped at a bed of ice to rest, not realizing how easily these mountains can take lives.
“Come on, Sadie,” one of my group’s Sherpas, Nima, demanded. “We’re not far. Just one more hour and we’ll be there.’
He was friendly but determined. Because he knew only too well: If I had fallen asleep, I might never have woken up again.
That was in March 2018 – and this week brought back memories of that arduous climb as drone footage of the dying moments of 27-year-old Pakistani Muhammad Hassan on the slopes of Mount K2 went viral.
We all watched in horror as a mortally injured Sherpa (known in Pakistan as a “porter”) Muhammad, a Sherpa, lay motionless at 27,000 feet, pinned in the snow-capped cliff face of K2 – the second highest mountain after Everest but deadlier.
Memories of an arduous climb surfaced this week as drone footage of 27-year-old Pakistani Muhammad Hassan’s final moments on the slopes of K2 Mountain went viral.
We all watched in horror as a mortally injured Sherpa (known in Pakistan as a “porter”) Muhammad, a Sherpa, lay motionless at 27,000 feet, pinned in the snow-capped cliff face of K2 – the second highest mountain after Everest but deadlier.
As is now customary on these wish-list peaks, Muhammad was by no means alone – surrounded by dozens of eager climbers, many of them westerners, paying large sums to be safely guided to the summit by experienced local guides like Muhammad become.
Nima was my Muhammad. And how lucky I was that he kept me awake and held my hand.
Mohammed wasn’t so lucky – maybe because he was a Sherpa and not a paying tourist.
And as the mountaineers in their relentless pursuit of the summit took turns apathetically stepping over the limp body of the father of three, his life slipped away.
Only two climbers are said to have stopped to help. In the end he was so shaken that he could neither speak nor hear.
Worse, a group of Norwegian climbers posted pictures on social media shortly after his death to celebrate a record-breaking ascent that would undoubtedly have failed had they stopped to come to Mohammed’s aid.
Disgusting, yes. But sadly, as someone who has spent over a decade in the unique and bizarre world of elite climbing, I can tell you that this travesty of inhumanity was a disaster just waiting to happen.
Sure, Sherpas and porters look after each other even when tourists don’t, but at the end of the day, they’re under tremendous pressure to prioritize their customers.
And these customers, mostly high-flying, over-the-top westerners, change at high altitudes.
They could very well be decent, friendly people at base camp. But high up, when the atmosphere is thinning, at the height of human achievement, when the pinnacle of the world is in sight, the look in their eyes can become menacing.
Why would they jeopardize their own slim chances of success to help another climber? It’s everyone for themselves.
There’s the money too. A climb of Everest or K2 will cost you the best part of $50,000. Even for the few who can afford it, it’s probably a one-time thing.
Muhammad was far from alone – surrounded by dozens of eager climbers, many of them westerners, paying large sums to be safely led to the summit by experienced local guides like Muhammad. (Pictured: author Sadie Whitelocks).
As the mountaineers took turns apathetically stepping over the limp body of the father of three in their tireless pursuit of the summit, his life eluded him. Only two climbers are said to have stopped to help. In the end he was so shaken that he could neither speak nor hear. (Pictured: Sadie with famous mountaineer Nirmal Purja).
Training also takes months, often away from family and friends in difficult conditions, to acclimate to the heights and build fitness. Sacrifice is essential – and when push comes to shove, the fear of failure can be overwhelming.
In 2010, during a lecture at the Explorers Club in New York City, I first heard about the concept of “summit fever”—the dangerous compulsion to reach the summit at any cost.
As a 23-year-old with no mountaineering experience, I was appalled.
You could die, others could die, but so be it. Certainly not, I thought.
But as my experience increased – climbing in Tibet, Nepal, Africa, Russia, Argentina on my vacations – I soon realized that “summit fever” is a real and frightening phenomenon.
By far the worst offenders I’ve seen in the mountains are wealthy amateurs.
Both men and women, transformed into arrogant monsters, decked out in the most expensive gear, but often clueless, yet adamant that their expenses must be met with success.
Such people also tend to treat the Sherpas and porters horribly.
They are also invariably over-ambitious, unfit and often expose their leaders to real danger at high altitudes.
Nonetheless, the rapid rise in adventure tourism and “peak swagger” has brought good business to local communities—albeit relatively speaking (a Sherpa can expect to make $5,000 in a climbing season).
And make no mistake: your job is the most dangerous in the world.
I went to Everest in 2018 to set a world record for the tallest dinner party, which took place at 23,149 feet — about 6,000 feet from the summit.
The expedition raised money for the Nepalese community after the devastating earthquake of 2015 and thankfully sponsors covered my prohibitive expenses.
The Sherpas and porters who set the world record with us became our friends and, I know only too well, some of us owe them our lives.
By far the worst offenders I’ve seen in the mountains are wealthy amateurs. Such people tend to treat the Sherpas and porters horribly. (Pictured: Sadie and her teammates set the world record for the tallest dinner party on Everest at 23,149 feet.)
They taught us how to dance to Nepalese pop while we invited them to a high altitude egg and spoon race.
But such an experience is the exception.
Overall, the strong separation between clients and local guides borders on abuse: they’re divided into separate tents and even eat different foods.
There’s no prize for guessing who gets the tastier dinner.
And this is not only happening in the Asian Himalayas, but in all poor mountain regions of the world – from Africa to South America.
And in this context, the death of Muhammad Hassan is as repugnant as it is unsurprising. One where Sherpas and porters are treated as second-class citizens.
To be perfectly fair, a mountain rescue at Mohammed’s height and in such snowy conditions probably wouldn’t have been the best advice, or even possible. But it says it all that so few people have bothered to even try.
These men and women love the mountains they call home. How shameful that Muhammad had to pay the price with his life just to help others enjoy it.