The snow no longer carried its usual chill. Instead, it felt warm and soft, lulling me into a drowsy state. Exhaustion consumed me as I found myself stranded, frozen and oxygen-deprived, nearly 22,600 feet up the Tibetan side of Everest. Surrounded by treacherous terrain and deep crevasses, I sought refuge on an ice bed, unaware of the deadly nature of these mountains. With concern in his eyes, Nima, one of the sherpas in my group, urged me forward, reminding me that falling asleep could have dire consequences. It was in March 2018 when I embarked on this daunting climb, and the recent viral drone footage of Muhammad Hassan, a 27-year-old Pakistani sherpa, on K2 mountain brought back memories of my own perilous journey. We watched in horror as Muhammad, critically injured, lay motionless at 27,000 feet, wedged against the snowy rockface of K2 – a mountain known for its fatality rate.
Muhammad was not alone in his pursuit of reaching the summit. Plentiful climbers, many of them Western tourists who pay hefty fees to be guided safely by local sherpas like Muhammad, surrounded him. Nima was my Muhammad, and I was fortunate to have him by my side, ensuring my safety and keeping me awake. Sadly, Muhammad wasn’t as lucky, perhaps because he was a sherpa and not a paying customer. As climbers callously stepped over his lifeless body, only two individuals stopped to help. Towards the end, Muhammad was so incapacitated that he could neither speak nor hear. To compound matters, a group of Norwegian climbers posted celebratory pictures on social media moments after Muhammad’s death, boasting about their record-breaking ascent time, a feat that would have been hindered if they had taken the time to assist their fallen comrade.
This despicable behavior, while appalling, does not surprise me. As someone who has spent over a decade in the world of elite climbing, I can attest to the inhumanity that often unfolds in these extreme environments. While sherpas and porters may look out for one another, tourists too often prioritize their own success and survival. Clients, predominantly wealthy Westerners, undergo a transformation as they ascend to higher altitudes. They may be kind and compassionate at base camp, but as they face the pinnacle of human achievement, their focus shifts. Why should they risk their own chances of success to help another climber? It becomes every man for himself. Additionally, the exorbitant costs of climbing Everest or K2, averaging around $50,000, limit most individuals to one attempt. The pressure to succeed and the fear of failure overshadow any moral obligations.
Mountaineering requires months of training, often in isolation from loved ones, acclimating to high altitudes and building physical fitness. Sacrifices are necessary, and the fear of failure can be overwhelming. I first learned about the concept of ‘summit fever’ – the dangerous compulsion to reach the top at any cost – during a lecture in 2010. Initially appalled by this mindset, I would later come to understand its reality through my own experiences climbing in various locations worldwide. The worst offenders are often well-off amateurs, transformed into arrogant individuals who believe their wealth guarantees success. They treat sherpas and porters poorly, assuming their financial contribution absolves them of any obligations. These individuals are often overambitious, unfit, and put their guides’ lives at risk in high-altitude conditions.
The rise of adventure tourism and the obsession with bragging rights have brought economic opportunities to local communities. However, it is essential to recognize that these sherpas and porters hold the most dangerous job in the world. In 2018, I embarked on a mission to set a world record for the highest dinner party on Everest at 23,149 feet, with the purpose of raising funds for the Nepalese community affected by the 2015 earthquake. Fortunately, sponsors covered my costs, and the sherpas and porters who accompanied us became our friends and, in some cases, saviors. But this positive experience is the exception, as the divide between clients and local guides is often marked by mistreatment and exploitation. They are segregated into separate tents and provided inferior meals. This pattern repeats worldwide in impoverished mountainous regions, from Africa to South America.
Muhammad Hassan’s tragic death is sickening but not entirely surprising within this context. In this system where sherpas and porters are treated as second-class citizens, it may not have been advisable or even possible to carry out a mountain rescue at Muhammad’s altitude and in such treacherous conditions. Nevertheless, the fact that so few even attempted to help speaks volumes. These men and women hold a deep love for the mountains they call home. It is a shame that Muhammad had to pay with his life to afford others the opportunity to experience that same joy.
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