Above an eerie realm of endless snow covered spires . . . Each step appears increasingly impossible. Disorientation and fatigue make the climber's head swim and the body threaten to collapse. For Greg Child it happened at 8,000 meters on an all-out alpine-style climb marked by tragic loss.
In this spellbinding chronicle, Greg Child takes us step by nerve-shattering step through the world's most remote regions - as he cracks the "death zone" above 26,000 feet, and attacks "by fair means" the world's most perilous pinnacles.From Child's assault on Gasherbrum IV to a season of tragedy and carnage on K2, "Thin Air" is more than one man's story - it is an intimate portrait of mountains and those who climb them: what bonds clients together and what separates them, and what the mountains teach us all about life -- and death . . .
passed, but another storm front is blowing in fast. ‘Let’s get out of here and give the ridge a couple of days to clear,’ calls Doug from his and Georges’ tent. Moving for the first time in twenty hours we gear up for the descent. Rick flops about weakly, fumbling with boot laces and the zippers of his windsuit. ‘Bloody boots,’ he mutters in a slurred voice. His expression is puzzled, as if he is unsure of where he is or what he is doing. Though I’d been laying beside him all day, it is only
Tapovan, in Hindu tradition, and their ashes, in rime, would flow into the Ganges. Steve sits with his eyes bandaged, chomping codeine, snowblind after losing his sunglasses on his attempt to reach the summit of Shivling. Balwant switches on the radio and tunes in to Radio Moscow. A torrent of words and static tells us that the Pope has been shot in an assassination attempt. Shivling stands framed by the doorway of the tent. Were we really up there, or was it a dream? Already the experience
Emotions and Postcards from the Ledge, I owe many thanks to Margaret Foster of The Mountaineers Books. — Greg Child Seattle 1998 Part One Shivling, Garwhal Himalaya, 1981 The Simple Life ‘Never write anything. You’ll only regret it.’ —Don Whillans, 1983 Monsoon clouds spilling onto the Gangotri Glacier before the storm. Karchakund is the peak on the right. 1 Parting Clouds ‘Hey—wake up. The storm’s blown over,’ Rick says, nudging me with his elbow at first light. We poke our heads out
relieved the arthritis from his bone-breaks and injuries of the past, and also helped his adaptation to altitude. Doug became terse. ‘Now listen—would you eat pork if I served it up to you?’ To Moslems, pork is unclean and to eat it is a sin. Taken aback, the Captain declared he would not eat pork. ‘Then what are we to do about this stew?’ Doug continues. Captain Malik ponders for a moment, then shrugs indifferently. ‘This is not my fault,’ he says, leaving the vegetarians to stew in their
others. The storm was now upon them. As the last man, Nowaczyk, made the final rappel to the col, the anchor pulled and he fell to his death, taking the vital ropes with him. Trapped in a raging storm and with no way to descend the steep, avalanche-prone chute beneath the col, the climbers bivouaced out, wearing only the clothes on their backs. At first light they resumed their search for Nowaczyk and the ropes. Nothing was found; in desperation, they tied all their slings and harnesses together
