Greg Mortenson

Now that the planes have landed, the carabiners have been stowed, and the annual writing of “gripping” adventure books has begun, it needs to be said: Mount Everest is officially over the top.

Not the peak itself. Just the parade — and we do mean parade — of people scaling its flanks these days — an inordinate number of whom claim their ascent is unique in one or more ways. We’re here not to question the worthiness of any cause, the spirit and motivation of any climber, nor the popularity of the sport itself.

But every “compelling” news story has limits at which it ceases to be compelling. Has the parade of “firsts” — and now, oldest/youngest/friendliest/funniest/shortest people atop Everest — reached that precipice? Sure feels like it.

Before you fire off that angry letter, indulge us for a second. Like clockwork, news media are deluged each May with offers for “inspirational stories” about ordinary people aiming to make some point by flinging themselves at the world’s tallest rock. It’s modern society’s method du jour to prove one’s manhood/womanhood/youth-hood/old-age-hood or whateverhood.

The truth: Typically, once you get past the PR people, each of these tales truly is compelling. We have infinite respect for anyone with the courage and fortitude to crawl, gasp and fight to an altitude of 29,000 feet — more than twice the recommended maximum ceiling for humanoids. Doing it with some major physical disability — or after beating a deadly disease — is remarkable and beyond comprehension.

We could never do it. Wouldn’t attempt it. Don’t want to. But the question remains: Is it really extraordinary anymore?

It’s almost blasphemous to suggest otherwise. But more than 1,000 have now climbed Mount Everest, with a record 182 last year alone. On May 25 this spring, a single guide company, Seattle’s Alpine Ascents International, put 17 climbers on top. On May 16, as many as 60 people from various groups were reported on the summit.

The latter group included some notable milestones. One Sherpa climber, Appa, was on the summit for the 12th time. Ellen Miller, 43, became the first American woman to claim the summit from both the north and south sides. Bellevue’s Phil and Susan Ershler became the first married couple to claim the famed Seven Summits, together. Tame Watanabe, a 63-year-old Japanese woman, became the oldest woman to reach the summit.

Clearly, none of those people would risk their lives exclusively for any “first” title. Most climbers, in truth, aren’t publicity seekers. They take on mountains for their own, deeply personal — and valid — reasons.

But the proliferation of “firsters” claiming their share of fame has reached its outer limits. Any day now, we’re expecting a news release announcing that the first female survivor of a professional rodeo accident has summited — passing on her way up the first man to summit Everest without the use of Chap Stick.

It’s easy to joke, but could be deadly serious. Something about this increasingly commercialized Everest-go-round is disturbing — particularly in light of the 1996 Everest disaster, in which 11 people froze to death in a chain of events largely blamed on South Col summit-route traffic jams. And, contrary to logic, Everest climbing permits are getting easier to obtain, with Nepal recently loosening regulations and slashing fees to keep adventurers from skipping off to competing mountains in China, Tibet, India and Pakistan.

Further, on this end, we’re often left with a nagging fear that publicizing every successful summit foray qualifies as contributing to the delinquency of an adult.

Besting Everest, after all, requires a devotion bordering on obsession. Doubters should pick up a copy of “Left for Dead,” 1996 Everest-disaster survivor Beck Weathers’ account of his own nearly fatal fixation on conquering the Seven Summits.

Weathers, twice left for dead in that deadly ’96 snowstorm, writes of turning to climbing to combat lifelong depression: “High-altitude mountaineering, and the recognition it brought me, became my hollow obsession,” he confesses. In the process, “I was systematically betraying the love and loyalty of my family.”

It begs the question: Is throwing oneself at Mount Everest — or any mountain, for that matter — really a healthy way to prove one’s worth? Risk-taking and thrill-seeking and because-it’s-thereism are part of the indomitable human spirit. But mountain climbing is an inherently selfish pursuit. Why not put that creative energy toward a more worthy endeavor, one that might help other people?

Note to those planning to climb Mount Everest next year: Strike a blow for a worthy cause, or stand as a shining example to Generation Y or Population X: It’s been done. Repeatedly. Almost ad nauseum. Choose another icon to fling your body at. Point your compass in a different direction. Invest your $75,000 guide fee in a more worthy cause.

Don’t be a Beck Weathers, who had to twice rise from the dead to realize life was worth living without an ice ax in one hand.

Be a Greg Mortenson, who thought he was going to climb K2 to prove his worth back in 1993. He never made it to the top, but on the way home, he befriended Pakistani villagers, whom he now endeavors to provide schools and drinking water through his charity, the Central Asia Institute.

Firsters, take note: That’s proving one’s worth. And it’s something that climbing Everest really no longer is.

Exceptional.

Ron C. Judd: 206-464-8280 or rjudd@seattletimes.com
Copyright © 2002 The Seattle Times Company