I was up early for my first carry up the North Col. The rest of the American team was in Base Camp. The Sherpas were taking a rest day. It was just Pasang and me in the cook tent—firing up hot drinks and breakfast. I’d met Pasang in 1991 when he was one of the cooks for our North Ridge trip; he had come along as Mike Rheinberger’s long-time cook. Pasang had a smile that stemmed from his whole being, not just his face. For the next two hours, my eyes were not dry as I remembered Mike.

Mike and I had climbed together for several weeks high on this very North Ridge in 1991. We’d just hit it off like I’d rarely experienced before. The partner I’d been climbing with was down in Base Camp, for repairs. Mike’s must have been getting the same treatment. This was to be his 6th attempt on the mountain, my 4th. We both tried to overlook the punishing repetition of the mountain build-up and acclimatization. We talked at night, nestled into the tent while brewing and cooking dinners, of what wondrous things we’ll be able to do when we finally can get past this Everest roadblock in our lives...

Both having an interest in construction, we hit on a common theme of a stone cottage: small, maybe only two rooms; wood shake roof; built in a pastoral setting, with a small creek gurgling through the grassy area. The kitchen would be set up much like an alpine hut—stone fireplace and loft above, accessible by ladder. Of course we would build the cottage ourselves, his in Australia, mine in the States somewhere.

Large parts of our time, during the day, were spent trying to remember the words to an Eric Bogel song (Australian songwriter), ‘And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda.’ I’d originally brought it up to learn the history of the Invasion of Gallipoli, where Aussie soldiers were 'butchered like lambs at the slaughter.' We’d keep our rediscovered verses in my journal. It is a long ballad, and we finally did get all the words after weeks of pleasant focus and memories associated with the song. We’d decided we’d sing it at the end of the expedition when sufficiently lubed. For some reason, that never happened. I think his plane reservations took him home to Australia before we left Base Camp.

I saw Mike again in 1993, on the Khumbu side of Everest; we were both on the South Col route. By now, this must be his 7th attempt. He’d spent the previous season on the west face of Makalu, a sheer scoop of granite forming the west side of the mountain—in my mind one of the finest lines on the big peaks.

The beauty of sitting in a tent beneath the magnificent Khumbu Icefall, drinking hot, sweet milk tea with a close friend is hard to express. It must be akin to oldsters reminiscing about their glory days. The vast difference being I having been lucky enough to have attained my Everest summit, while Mike was still carrying that screaming burden. He’d done so well and gotten so close. In ‘93, he’d turn around in unsettled weather, while his two partners went onto the summit. Yet another crushing effort with no satisfaction...

In 1991 Mike and I had spent so much time together, I’d assumed we’d be on the same summit team together. When he was placed on a subsequent team, I felt a void in his absence. His strength and experience was needed elsewhere. We hit good weather. He didn’t.

Michael Rheinberger died on the descent of his successful ascent of Everest in 1994. I’m going to miss his short, stocky, bouncing intellect. I got the impression he was after life, not death.

As I walked up the moraine towards the North Col after breakfast, my tears and irregular breathing made it hard to fall into a comfortable walking rhythm. It was windy enough for goggles, but my constant tears would have made the whole show a mess.

I made a mistake by not speaking up and getting Mike and I on the same summit team in 1991. Mike made a mistake in pushing past exhaustion in 1994. I realize now my tears are for having been lucky enough to have known such a fine man. He has sculpted my character in a way I can’t articulate, but I’m sure will shape me for the better.

At the head of the moraine, ready to put on spikes for the glacier ahead, the radio came to life. Time for the eight o'clock radio call. Our sirdar, Dawa’s, words ended my personal appreciation and memorial service. He tried to dissuade me from continuing on in the winds, 'too high winds, come down.' My response was, 'I’ll go up and have a look.' He concluded with, 'Okay, sir.'

The East Rongbuk Glacier, this year, is dry, blue ice—ice so clear I can see 12 inches into it in places and so smooth a couple of laps with a Zamboni and you’d have a tilted hockey rink, except far harder ice. I quickly fell into the seductively mechanical rhythm developed over years of guiding on Rainier. Seductive because it soon led to comfort, confidence, and achievement at the same time. My new sharp spikes easily bit into the ice.

The ascent of the North Col was expectantly hard. I wasn’t acclimated to 23,000’. It just took forever. One thousand feet of ascent shouldn’t be that hard. I’d heard concerns of the fixed ropes the Ukrainians had altered. Any steep ground I climbed with an ice axe in one hand and an ascender on a fixed rope in the other until I knew what I was putting my kid’s future on. The wind never got extreme. I did, thankfully, wear my Outdoor Research facemask for half the ascent. That is a fine piece of gear.

On top, the peaks of Tibet and Everest itself were very clear with no haze—just breathtaking, or maybe that was the altitude? I started down after caching my load in the tent at Camp IV. Tired from the ascent, the many arm rappels to the glacier had me questioning if my arms would hold up.

Finally down. The upper end of the East Rongbuk is the only place I’ve been where it’s uphill both ways, especially when you’re acclimating to a new altitude. Unending. It was all I could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Far ahead, I saw several goraks (big black Himalayan ravens) take flight from a tan colored pile. On the West Ridge of Everest in 1985, I remembered finding an old camp in a crevasse at 23,000’ by observing goraks depart from one of many possible crevasses. Heck, why not go out of my way a bit? Who knows what it could be?

When I first got to the site, the first thing I noticed was a 1960’s era tent, bent aluminum tent poles, and aluminum wire tent pegs. Another pile had old tent fabric; and bronze tent pegs scattered around; ancient pitons; cotton cord; and old, soldered, unrusted cans. My first guess was the old tent was fine cotton. Upon closer inspection, the fabric could be silk! The bronze tent pegs design reminded me of vintage English yachts. Printed on them was: SAMPSON—made in England.

As much as I wanted to tear into that tent right there, we do have a movie to make. As I pulled myself away, I could not help but wonder, "What were the goraks interested in?"

—Andy Politz, Climber

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