Scott spent time alone with the monks at the monastery. Upon his return to their tents, his usual upbeat mood seemed muted. The monks had warned him about the dangers on the mountain and the unfavorable timing of the ascent. Astrologically, the conditions were not good for climbing Everest, they said. Balancing the spirituality of the mountain and the needs of his clients, Scott pressed forward, listening to snow avalanche down distant slopes.
GERI FOLLOWED THE NEWS OF Scott’s expedition, preferring the personal connection with the Mountain Madness office to the option of navigating the world of online news sites. She called on Friday, May 10, when she was on the way to Yosemite with a climbing partner. Lengthy ring tones gave way to the sounds of laughter. The gas station pay phone in her hand suddenly felt weightless. Celebration in the Mountain Madness office was under way.
“It’s Geri. I’m just calling to see what the news is from Scott? I take it by the sounds I’m hearing that it’s good?”
Juggling a plastic cup full of champagne, the office staff member said, “Yes, Geri! A pile of them made it to the top. We’re still waiting to hear about Scott, but it’s thrilling news so far!”
Geri asked for clarification, straining to understand. “I’m not sure I heard you. Did you say that Scott hadn’t made it yet?”
“As far as we know, but . . . it’s Scott. Call back tomorrow and I’m certain I’ll have more good news for you!” Geri hung up the phone, not quite satisfied.
Back in Seattle, all but a couple of the staff members continued to toast the success of the expedition. The two without champagne glasses were the only climbers in the office. “All I recall,” one of them remembered, “was turning to my colleague and saying, ‘I don’t know why everyone’s celebrating right now. They’re not down yet.’ We just knew it was premature.”
The four-hour drive from San Francisco to Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite took Geri and her friend through the Sierra National Forest. Hiking the next day in 64-degree weather, she envisioned Scott on top of Everest, his mirrored glasses reflecting neighboring mountains. She knew how he longed for this commercial success to make Mountain Madness more solid financially. Returning to their cabin that evening, Geri reached out and pulled a note off the front door. In scrawled handwriting were instructions for her to call Mountain Madness immediately.
She called to learn that Scott was missing. A freak storm had hit the mountain on the descent, and he was feared trapped in the area of the mountain above 8,000 meters known as the “death zone,” where oxygen in the air decreases, becoming a precarious environment not meant for human survival in long stretches. She made a second call a few hours later. Scott was still missing, now presumed dead.
Disbelief gripped Geri’s heart. She and her friend collected their gear and made the drive back to San Francisco to await confirmation. “I was in shock, unable to believe he was gone,” Geri said. “He was supposed to come back. He always came back.”
MONDAY MORNING, MAY 13, 1996. Geri walked slowly around her kitchen. Sleep had eluded her all night. She tried to ring Mountain Madness, but the phone lines had been constantly busy, the media relentless as outlets across the globe sought details on what happened. None of it mattered. Scott was gone.
She noticed a pile of mail lying neatly stacked on a rectangular table in the front foyer. Her husband had brought it in, though it could have been days ago. Mail seemed bothersome to Geri, but this stack drew her attention. A few letters. Several bills. A magazine. Nothing noteworthy, except what lay on top of the pile. A postcard.
Picking it up, she found herself looking at an image of soft snow covering the tops of a mountain she recognized instantly. Unnaturally blue skies framed the edges of the postcard. At the bottom, just one word: Everest. The metered stamp indicated it had been mailed several weeks earlier, no doubt carried out of base camp and sent from Kathmandu long before the ascent. She’d later learn the postcard had actually been mailed by Jane Courage, who’d said goodbye to Scott and left the mountain before he began his final climb.
Turning it over, she saw Scott’s bold handwriting, filling the postcard with just a handful of words. Reading them, her heart swelled with elation, then took a dive not unlike the plunge of a roller coaster on its last loop.
Geri,
You should have been here. It’s a good one!
—Scott
FAMILY AND FRIENDS OF EIGHT climbers received unimaginable news as a result of the storm on Everest in May of 1996. Four others had died on the mountain that year, making it Everest’s deadliest season to date. Stories from survivors packed the pages of books, most notably Into Thin Air, an account by journalist Jon Krakauer, who had been embedded with the New Zealand expedition that was also on the mountain at the time. His retelling of the disaster became a bestseller. The book resonated within the climbing community, most notably in Seattle, where Mountain Madness lay in turmoil, its leader, for the first time, not coming back.
For those seeking controversy, the disaster on Everest and those that followed on other mountain expeditions provided ample material. Each one laid out a new palette of issues to be debated: decisions made based on inaccurate assumptions; minds clouded by hypoxia at altitudes not meant to sustain human life; weather reports gone bad; egos that transcended judgment. The narratives differed, but the end result was often the same.
Chris and Keith received news of Scott’s death at their home in Atlanta. Preparing for her second ascent on an 8,000-meter peak, Chris paused, and she and Keith made plans to fly to Seattle for Scott’s public memorial. As fresh as her climbing career was, she’d already been exposed to its dangers and had lost several friends to the mountains.
Scott’s friends gathered in Seattle from throughout the region and across the globe. A memorial service had melted into a gathering at a local brewpub. Hours later, Geri and three new acquaintances, including Keith and Chris moved on to Ray’s Boathouse. Also at the table was Henry Todd, a popular Everest outfitter from Scotland. Ray’s hummed with the sound of steady conversation. The restaurant was a fixture in Seattle, with sweeping views of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains beyond. It was several weeks after the disaster on Everest.
The four chatted about Tibet, where Chris, Keith, and Henry intended to travel in a few months before attempting a summit of Cho Oyu. They teased Geri about taking a pass on another 8,000-meter peak. “It’s the easiest eight-thousand-meter peak of the whole lot,” Henry told her. “You can practically walk up it.”
“God, you sound just like Scott,” Geri said. “I was told I needed to do McKinley before I considered anything at that altitude.” The waitress arrived, momentarily stopping conversation.
“I’ll have an Indian Lady Martini,” said Henry.
“What’s that?” asked Chris. Geri, Henry, and Keith smiled. Decades and hundreds of cocktails ahead of Chris, they’d been around the world and back while Chris, just twenty-nine, was eager to learn.
Back to the issue at hand, Keith pumped Henry for details on Cho Oyu. “So what you’re saying is that Chris and I shouldn’t have an issue with the summit?” His voice pulsing with excitement, Keith used his hands and facial expressions liberally to make points.
“God, no,” said Henry. “I think the two of you could walk it in the dark after hearing what you survived on Broad Peak last year.”
Leaning forward on his elbows, Keith tried to drive the conversation, Geri sensed, but Chris’s interest in the topic of their upcoming climb was equally relentless. Listening to every word, Chris said little, but when she did, her words were thoughtful. As the evening progressed, she peppered Henry with questions about the Tibetan culture, the people, and his attitude toward mountaineering. Geri could tell that at forty-seven, Keith had more climbing experience, but Chris’s youth and physicality were a major asset. What she lacked in years, she made up for with enthusiasm and a hunger to grow.
The conversation continued, drinks were served, and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin appeared, complete with a likeness of Queen