Being an Everest neophyte, I expected that the days prior to the summit push would be marked by a sort of dramatic still. The climbers would prepare their wares, sharpening minds and crampons under the thick air of anticipation. Climbing here, however, has changed. It has met the pace of modern life—and now there is no rest for the weary.

The past few days have been a buzz with activity. David, Chris, and Matt arrived, bearing their collection of technological toys. Under a warm morning sun we assembled around a buffet of electronics. The briefings ensued. The team toyed with telemetry, GPS, thermistors, barometers, radios, and phones. The plethora of devices seemed more akin to a lunar exploration than a summit bid. The degree of scientific objectives appeared ever so daunting.

A few select Sherpas were instructed on the placement of the GPS units. Overwhelmed by this foreign technology, their faces were drawn in apparent confusion. Kelly then leaned over, explaining that their efforts with this project would become a significant part of Everest history. They would make a mark on their mountain. Eyes opened wide with renewed vigor. Enthusiasm beamed.

The days rolled on with this flurry of preparatory activity. Food was packed, weather scrutinized, and oxygen masks fitted (the climbers wandering about camp producing their best Darth Vader impersonations).

One day, amidst this buzz, Mother Nature spoke as if to remind us all that the true challenge still lay ahead. Part of an overhanging glacier on the Nuptse face sheared off and came tumbling down onto the Khumbu. It fell with quite a thunderous rumble and left a billowy and vaporous trail down the marbled slope. The debris struck then rebounded in a surging froth of white, looming like an approaching wave. The crystals eventually flew overhead, refracting the afternoon light in miniature rainbows.

Smiles adorned the faces around me. "Thanks for the reminder. We know you're still there."

—Terry O'Connor

DISPATCHES