The Long-Awaited Summit: A Grueling Journey on Everest

The summit push day has finally arrived, and our journey begins. Despite my failing 10-year-old headlamp, I ascend the steep face of Everest in near darkness, relying on the lights of those who came before me. It's a stressful situation, but it works. I wear liner gloves with hand warmers and big summit mitts over them, making the rope work and safety maneuvers challenging. Nevertheless, we press on. Although I am walking up, I am not in the same championship form I had the day before. Looking back in the darkness, I glimpse Lhotse behind us, spotting the distant headlamp lights of fellow climbers who are among our friends.

Dawn breaks, and I no longer miss my headlamp. We are treated to breathtaking views of the surrounding mountains below us. As we approach the ridge, the sun peeks through, and the wind blows snow, prompting me to quickly don my goggles. I won't repeat yesterday's mistake of letting my eyes get too cold. There is a congestion as we crest the slope, making our way to the ridge. Once I finally reach the top, I realize that this is where most people change their oxygen bottles. The blowing snow, propelled by 25-mile-per-hour winds, adds to the confusion. I acquire a new bottle and continue along the ridge. The journey involves uphill hiking in the snow with intermittent rock scrambling. We also encounter more climbers descending in the opposite direction, and slowly but surely, traffic jams ensue. At least the weather clears up.

There are sections where the fixed rope traverses rocky precipices, allowing only one person to pass at a time. Pile-ups occur at these choke points and others. The situation worsens when a guide descends with a client who is not functioning properly. It's unclear whether it's due to lack of oxygen or sheer exhaustion, but there are individuals on the mountain who pose a danger to themselves and others. At times, my main contribution is holding back the ascending line to create space for sherpas to safely bring down their clients in need of rescue. It's disheartening to witness these struggling individuals.

We progress so slowly on the ridge that I reduce my oxygen flow to conserve it. We remain patient, moving whenever possible, until we finally reach the end of the summit ridge. This section is snowy, open, and relatively uncrowded. It's a pleasant walk to the summit. The summit itself is crowded around the peak and the flags, but the edges offer respite. I capture a photo with the Afghan Peaks flag and climb to the true summit to record more videos. I celebrate this achievement with my Sherpa, Purba, Nema, and my climbing mates. We did it!

I'm incredibly thrilled to be the first Afghan to summit Everest. It is my hope that this accomplishment sends a message that Afghanistan is not solely defined by war but also showcases the potential of Afghans to achieve positive feats. Further

more, I recognize the significance of this platform for my foundation, Afghan Peaks. I'm optimistic that this milestone will garner more support to develop skiing and mountaineering in Afghanistan. After six months of training, three months in a tent, and considerable financial investment, I had been on the precipice of being turned around. Yet, two days later, I stood on the summit, feeling a great weight lifted from my shoulders. After the elation, the photo opportunities, and a moment of reflection, it was time to descend.

Soon after our departure, one of the climbers who had celebrated with me at the summit became hysterical. “Please, I need oxygen! Someone help me! I will die without it!” From the ecstatic high of reaching the summit, this climber has hit a low point. I'm aware that my Sherpa still has three bottles of oxygen for me. I will need one more, and having a spare is beneficial, but I inform my guides that I can spare one bottle. My guide assures me that our team will intervene and attempt to rescue the distressed climber. They have enough oxygen and don't require mine. So, my Sherpa and I continue our descent. Later, I learned that our guides had enlisted the help of our lead Sherpa, Mingma, who had summited Everest 23 times, to assist this climber. Mingma calmly provided the climber with oxygen, ultimately resolving the situation. I'm relieved to hear of this climber's happy ending, especially since they were the first to summit for their country.

I had hoped that, as a later group, we would encounter minimal traffic on the descent. However, there were still slow climbers we had to navigate past. In one challenging section, a Sherpa struggled to assist his Chinese client up a snowy patch. Despite the Sherpa's repeated pleas for the climber to turn back, the summit was tantalizingly close, and the climber refused to give up. As a result, they remained stranded in the snow. Minutes passed by as I watched, both climbers secured by the rope, with a steep ledge beside them. Our team's Sherpa attempted to aid them by pulling on the rope, but to no avail. Frustrated by the delay, I decided to take action. I clipped myself to the guide who was blocking our path and maneuvered around him and his client. Upon reaching the stranded climber, I offered a helping hand, attempting to push her up. The guide recognized my efforts and pulled simultaneously, while the climber herself struggled to gain traction in the snow. Unfortunately, our combined efforts proved fruitless. I had already exerted myself to the extent I was willing to at over 8,000 meters. It was not my responsibility to ensure this climber's progress further up the mountain, particularly if they hadn't adequately prepared. It was time to continue my descent.

During the journey, my oxygen supply ran out for a brief period. Unaware of the situation, I walked about 40 feet before realizing something was amiss. Initially attributing it to my body's fatigue, I was relieved when my Sherpa replaced the empty bottle, and I felt rejuvenated. As time passed, there were fewer climbers ascending, but we still encountered people moving far too slowly on the descent. Some appeared to have given up. Our guides would shout at them, trying to awaken them from their daze, reminding them that this was not a place to stop. To survive, they had to keep moving. Many of these climbers had been on the mountain for far too long. Some had departed three or four hours ahead of us and had already spent over 12 hours out in the elements. It was clear that not everyone had appropriate guide support. When a few climbers from our group grew tired, our guides stepped in, roping up with them and aiding their descent. With enough oxygen and a sufficient number of sherpas and guides, the investment in a reputable guiding company proved worthwhile. I was grateful to have both resources available if needed.

After navigating the roped sections and overcoming initial challenges, our pace quickened. I wrapped the rope around my arm, pointing it ahead, and descended rapidly with my security in place. I managed to pass numerous climbers and, after a determined effort, reached Camp 4. I had been on the mountain for about 12 and a half hours. In camp, we replenished ourselves with food and drink while waiting for the rest of our group to gather. All eight of us who attempted the summit had been successful. Despite the isolation within our two-man tents, the camp buzzed with happiness.

At 6 p.m., we packed up and began our descent toward Camp 2. Lowering ourselves through the rocky section and traversing along the traverse, I witnessed a stunning sunset over the Himalayas, framed by soft clouds and majestic peaks. I opted to savor the moment rather than capture it with a photograph. It was a sublime experience. Before darkness fell, I noticed someone hanging upside down from the rope on a steep section of the Lhotse face. I approached to shake them awake, urging them to move and avoid being stranded for the night. My Sherpa quickly stopped me, indicating that shaking wouldn't rouse this climber. I then noticed how their hat obscured their face. This Sherpa had lost their life earlier in the day. Discovering the body served as a stark reminder of the risks we had undertaken.

Now that darkness enveloped us, I relied on my headlamp to guide my way. Having changed the batteries before leaving Camp 4, I affixed the headlamp to my helmet and continued moving through the darkness. My Sherpa, carrying a heavier load, motioned for me to continue as he observed my ability to descend swiftly. So, alone in the dark, I descended the treacherous Lhotse face. Suddenly, my headlamp went out, plunging me into complete darkness. I did my best to create flat steps, allowing me to squat down and address the issue. With caution, I removed my helmet and detached the light from it. Carefully opening the headlamp, I hoped the batteries wouldn't slip out. I feared that the battery order might become mixed up. I inserted the batteries, hoping for a positive outcome. A wave of relief washed over me as the light illuminated my surroundings.

Although my vision was restored, it didn't solve the challenge of navigating the steep, icy face. I still had to move. I wound the rope around my arm, which bore deep burn marks by this point, faced the 60-degree slope, and proceeded downward, my crampons digging into the ice for stability. There were a couple of instances where I lost focus and slipped, but thanks to my firm grip on the rope, I swiftly regained my footing after a short swing to the side. I met up with another climber from my group, Colin, and together we descended the steep face. It seemed endless. Finally, we reached the Bergschrund and, after carefully descending, found ourselves on flatter terrain. However, we still had a couple of miles to traverse across the glacier before reaching Camp 2. Initially, I felt strong, but as we neared camp, fatigue began to take its toll. The journey from Camp 4 to Camp 2 had consumed approximately six hours, meaning I had spent over 18 of the past 24 hours on the move, and the weariness was catching up to me. We eventually arrived at Camp 2, where the cook kindly provided us with water (I had shared half of my remaining water with a struggling climbing partner) and noodles. I devoured double servings of noodles before crawling into my tent and collapsing. The Sherpas arrived later, delivering sleeping bags and pads, which provided additional comfort before I drifted off to sleep.

Upon waking the following morning, still exhausted, I overheard a debate about the possibility of using a helicopter to transport us from Camp 2 back to base camp. My tent mate inquired about this option, but Lukas, our guide and owner, explained that helicopters were reserved for medical emergencies only. If one were to be used, the individual would be required to proceed directly to a hospital in Kathmandu. Additionally, their summit achievement would carry an asterisk denoting the need for rescue. My tent mate decided against it. However, another climber in our group had frostbite on their toes and required medical attention. We bid farewell and began our hike downward while they awaited their helicopter.

That morning, we enjoyed a pleasant walk in cool weather to reach Camp 1. From there, we faced the daunting task of descending the icefall. On the ascent, the most nerve-wracking part had been crossing four aluminum ladders tied together to form a bridge over a large crevasse. The bridge would visibly sag under our weight as we traversed it. The previous night, the bridge had collapsed, causing injury to someone attempting to cross (they would have been saved by the safety rope). Fortunately, we had avoided that incident. The ice doctors had established a new route around the crevasse early in the morning, allowing us to continue our journey. Fatigue weighed heavily on both me and my Sherpa, resulting in a slower pace. We encountered steep sections where I utilized a figure-eight device to belay myself down icy cliffs for the first time. We leaped over intriguing crevasses and walked across ladders that had yet to succumb to collapse. The surrounding mountains loomed over the icefall, presenting unique shapes and forms. Although the sun's heat intensified, the tolerable temperatures brought relief as we steadily descended. After hours of walking, we reached the point where we removed our crampons—spiked attachments that had adorned our boots for the past six days—and continued the final leg back to camp.

The first sip of Coca-Cola and the subsequent lunch were immensely satisfying. Our summit team exchanged hearty congratulations. Attention shifted to arranging helicopter flights from Kathmandu back home. That night, we celebrated by dancing alongside the jubilant Sherpas, who were delighted to receive their summit bonuses. The following morning, we embarked on our journey home. It marked the end of a long and arduous expedition for me, and I eagerly anticipated reuniting with my family and returning my daughter's little Yeti stuffed animal that I had carried to the summit. I also felt a sense of accomplishment knowing that Afghan Peaks had achieved its goal of placing the first Afghan atop Everest. Hopefully, this achievement would provide a platform to raise awareness about Afghan skiing. Interview requests from the BBC had already begun pouring in. In retrospect, I believe the climb was worthwhile due to its benefit for the foundation. However, one need not undertake such extreme measures to experience and appreciate nature. The Swarthmore College and Smedley Park forests offer fantastic hiking opportunities. For mountain enthusiasts, Vermont and New Hampshire are close at hand, offering equally beautiful experiences without the crowds. I encourage my readers to explore and enjoy nature closer to home.

My climb of Everest serves as a means to raise awareness and funds for my foundation, Afghan Peaks, which aims to develop mountain sports, promote safety, and preserve nature in Afghanistan's mountains. We organize an annual ski race in the province of Bamiyan. If you would like to support our cause, please visit afghanpeaks.org, where you will find an easy credit card donation form.