On the 19th of April, Tap, Dave, the Sherpas, and I made a dash to Camp V on the North Ridge. The previous two nights we were fortunate to sleep at the North Col without any complications. The only real adversary at this point in the game is the air: the lack of oxygen in it and the speed it can travel. The camp site on the North Col is sheltered by a 90-foot serac, which can deceive climbers into thinking the wind has tapered off. Three days previously I had ventured part way up the ridge fixing rope. It was windy, quite windy on that day.

Had I learned anything on that day? Obviously not much as I was prepared to embark on the ridge once again in similar conditions. Waking at the North Col is simple. Eating takes on a scenario which reminds me of eating vegetables my grandmother had overcooked. I know that I need the calories, that they are good for you, but somehow my grandmother's veggies and oatmeal at 23,000' lack a certain culinary allure. Imagining my grandmother giving me a well-intentioned lecture on the value of squash, I manage to cook and eat two packets of instant oatmeal. With a 'full belly,' I pull on my windsuit and head out to the North Ridge.

The Sherpas planned on leaving ABC, climbing to the North Col, picking up equipment, and continuing on to Camp V. My plan was to leave an hour earlier than the Sherpas, meet them at the junction of the snow and rock, and continue on to Camp V. Being as fit as they are, I had hoped we would meet up at the same time and fix the rope together.

The climbing begins with a slight downhill to the low point on the Col. At this point one is introduced, rather forcefully, to the wind. Your companion for the next several hours is invisible, but very real. Where did it originate? How far did it travel? And why is it so strong? These simple thoughts are caught in the eddy of my mind as I lift one foot in front of the other. The wind can turn a fun day's climbing into a very challenging ordeal. One must be constantly aware of the wind on exposed skin, as it doesn't take much to turn one's nose into a frosty pop.

The top of the snow was a welcome sight except for the fact that my climbing buddies, the Sherpas, hadn't arrived. The hand-held anemometer I had was measuring a constant wind of 30mph with gusts up to 47mph. Not really relishing the thought of standing in the wind, I chopped out a small hole in the randkluft (moat) and hopped in. I was protected from the wind, which was a relief, but had basically put myself into a freezer. To wile away the time and keep warm, I began dancing. It was as if I was a Kilroy, peeking over the edge of the snow looking for my friends.

At 11 o'clock Da Nuru and Tashi show up, breathing easy as only Sherpas do. We began the task of fixing ropes by untangling and flaking out the rope for the next bit of climbing. The rock was exceptionally loose, the variety my rock climbing friends would refer to as choss. Da Nuru tied into the rope and marched up the scree. My task was to follow behind, pull up the rope and tie it off to the occasional secure looking block. An hour later we arrive at the Camp V site and deposit the equipment we had carried. The wind? It had increased in tempo and was telling us in no uncertain terms to descend.

During the descent, I would look to the west to enjoy the vista of Pumori, Cho Oyu, and the upper Khumbu. To enjoy this view required that I twist my head to one side. Each time I did this the adjustment straps of my pack, motivated by the wind, slapped me across my cheek. I guess it wasn't a good day to take in the views. Tap, Dave, the Sherpas, and I arrived back at the North Col camp shaken not stirred, by the wind. We shared tea and laughed in retrospect at the frivolity of a day of climbing in 30-50mph winds. Why do it? It wasn't really climbing as we know it. It was more akin to playing rugby. You get beat up in the process, yet in the end you somehow see it as fun.

Strange stuff, eh?

—Conrad Anker, Climber

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