Earthquake Reveals Hubris and Imbalance on Mount Everest
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Version 0 of 1. LONDON — From afar it almost seems as if two discrete tragedies are unfolding in Nepal, bound by nature’s fury. One is a story of the vulnerable, exposed in flimsy homes to catastrophe conjured by a netherworld of geology and tectonic plates, an existential hazard. The second, after the earthquake and avalanches, is a narrative of First World hubris, of the sense that, with planning and grit and courage and cash, even the world’s highest mountain may not escape human conquest. Between the two there is a profound imbalance. The bulk of the dead — now thought to exceed 5,000 — are in homes and villages condemned to a precarious existence on the fault line that convulsed their world on Saturday. A far smaller number — 18 — died on Mount Everest when what one mountaineer called a tsunami of ice and snow barreled through Base Camp as climbers who had traveled there by choice prepared their attempts on the summit. Indeed, some foreigners in Nepal said that, compared with local people, they had benefited disproportionately from better-resourced rescue efforts. “We need to make sure this isn’t forgotten in the news,” said Roger Strachan, 19, a British volunteer teacher who landed back in Britain on a special flight from Katmandu early on Thursday. Everest has drawn outsiders in increasing numbers since George Mallory and Andrew Irvine disappeared just below its summit in 1924. Only in 1953 did Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay achieve what was depicted as an emblem of revival for Britain in the grim days after World War II. Indeed, news of their ascent augmented the fanfare surrounding Queen Elizabeth II’s distant coronation. But in retrospect, their achievement began a slow transformation in the outsiders’ assault. For decades, expeditions had largely been nationally sponsored affairs gathering climbers and resources in huge undertakings. The advent of relatively lightweight equipment, clothing and tents helped individualize the campaigns. The first solo ascent came in 1980 when Reinhold Messner of Italy reached the summit. Then came the creeping commercialization of the peak, with private expeditions costing up to $80,000 — far more than is earned by the load-bearing Nepalese Sherpas who make livings as guides and carriers. Since then, thousands have been recorded as having conquered Everest and hundreds have died. Each year, in this season of summit attempts, scores of climbers begin the ascent from Base Camp, many using ropes and ladders fixed in advance. That is not to minimize their triumph. As climbers approach the summit, they enter the so-called Death Zone, above 26,000 feet, where human life cannot be sustained for long. The air is thin. Every step is laborious. After the summit, the climbers must quickly turn back down while the body can still function in heights that are more familiar to the pilots of pressurized airliners. There is little room for sentiment or any prospect of rescue. In 2006, David Sharp, a 34-year-old Englishman, was left to die at high altitude as 40 other climbers passed him on their way toward the top. Almost routinely, the mountain, like other great Himalayan peaks, shrugs off its would-be conquerors, displaying nature’s power. In 2014, 16 Sherpas died in an avalanche, setting a record for a single incident that was broken again this week. And yet, each year, the climbers and expeditions return, as if there were a perception that nature can be managed, peril diluted. Attempts and success rates have both risen sharply. When the avalanche struck on Saturday, around 1,000 people were said to be on the mountain, 400 of them foreigners. In his day, Mr. Messner said in 2004, “we were finding out how breakable, how weak and how full of fear we are.” But in modern times, he said, “the guides and organizers tell clients, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all organized.”’ As the past few days have shown, that presumption is no shield against tragedy on the mountain, far less so for those who live, physically and figuratively, in its shadow. alan.cowell@gmail.com |