Amazon.com Review
On May 10, 1996, a paralyzing storm killed 12 climbers on Mt. Everest, disfigured many others, and put the peak back on its lofty throne. While the disaster on the South Face has received nearly all of the publicity, most notably in Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air and Anatoli Boukreev's The Climb, The Other Side of Everest details a novice's remarkable ascent through that same storm on the colder and more difficult North Face. With alarming details, author and cameraman Matt Dickinson describes the horror of the extreme altitude and crippling storm: the hunger, pain, fear, and exhaustion. At one point, the party comes face to face with failure: "As we stepped over the legs of the corpse to continue along the Ridge, we crossed an invisible line in the snow--and an invisible line of commitment in our own minds." For most of the journey, it must be said, Dickinson is uncomfortable with himself and his surroundings. But his honesty is refreshing. Through his travails, he develops a reverence for a mountain that demands respect, and as a result, the occasional moments of epiphany so central to the genre still retain a ring of truthfulness. Adventure buffs will welcome this addition to the Everest library. --Ben Tiffany --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Kirkus Reviews
Everest again, May 1996 again, this time on the Tibetan side, in a tedious, self-obsessed account from filmmaker Dickinson. While Krakauer and company were toiling up the southern, Nepalese side of Everest three years back, Dickinson was part of a commercial climb on the North Face. He was there to film the third attempt of Brian Blessed, the English comedic actor, to reach the top. Dickinson was also there to do a little soul-searching, to make some hard decisions about his wanderlust, which was so difficult on his wife and family (though why he would choose that milieu, when ones attention is best riveted to matters at hand, is a puzzle). Dickinson makes amply clear that he was unhappy, angry, or scared most of the time he spent of the mountain's flank, and he shares his misery generously with his readers. There is none of the time compression and tight focus, none of the dread that pervades most fine writing on difficult climbs. Dickinson likes to whine: about the cold and the wind and the physical punishment; about the difficulties of going to the bathroom, let alone filming, at such an altitude; about the quality of the food and the impatience of the yak drivers and an obtuse Chinese bureaucracy. Dickinson acts as though hed been dropped on the mountain against his will. And when the rogue storm that savaged the climbers on the other side hit, Dickinson was safely in camp. Then, getting his chance to make a summit push, he unilaterally decides to abandon his climbing partner, who has dropped out of sight, with a crass ``summit fever had me body and soul.'' He thumps his chest, the soul-searching long forgotten. If Dickinson's spirit was as sour on the mountain as it is in this book, his partners would be forgiven for wondering which was the greater menace: the cruelty of the high-altitude world or Dickinson's presence in it. (16 pages color photos, not seen) (Author tour) -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Dickinson's is at least the fourth eyewitness chronicle of 1996's disastrous climbing season on Mount Everest. It would be unfair to conmpare his book with Jon Krakauer's best-selling Into Thin Air (1997), for Dickinson's purpose in going to the Himalaya was not, as was Krakauer's, to report on the commercialization of Everest mountaineering but to effect commercialization by producing a film for British TV. Whatever Dickinson's writing lacks in visceral punch and dramatic effect is recouped by his tactile description of the exhaustion, exhilaration, and deadly danger that accompany all expeditions to the summit. Reaching the top, Dickinson's group skirted the bodies of five corpses but were curiously unaffected by the sight of death: "the mountain . . . hardened my emotional response." That honest remark encapsulates why Everest is so popular a book subject: it alters psyches; it creates exotic travelogues (here, through the Tibetan plateau), and dangerous drama inheres in the technicalities of climbing it--in this instance its notorious northern face. A coast-to-coast author tour will activate potentially large interest. Gilbert Taylor --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Library Journal
A powerful account of the filmmaker/author's successful ascent to the summit of the North Face during a storm that devastated the world mountaineering community, written with the wonder of an amateur climber. (Oct.)
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Feeling more dead than alive, I staggered the final few steps into Advance Base Camp just as darkness swept across the Tibetan Plateau and chased the last glimmer of light out of the Himalayas. It was 6:35 p.m. on May 20, 1996.
I stood alone, swaying unsteadily on my feet, trying to work out what I should do next. For a few moments I was dimly aware of the snow-covered tents around me. There was a shout from the darkness. A glowing headlamp bobbed up and down as a shadowy figure emerged from somewhere and picked its way toward me across the rocks of the glacier.
Then, with all the suddenness of a power cut, both my knees collapsed. I found myself lying on my back, staring at a sky full of stars, with a jumbo-jet pilot named Roger kissing me on both cheeks and calling me a bastard. We held each other in a bear hug for what seemed like ages as Roger's words of congratulation worked their way through the fog that shrouded my brain.
For the first time in many weeks, a half-forgotten sensation overwhelmed me to the edge of tears. The feeling of being safe. It was over. The summit of Everest was behind me.
I opened my mouth to reply to Roger but all that came out was a gabble of unintelligible words. Confused by a mixture of euphoria and shock, my brain scrambled by the effect that extreme altitude and dehydration had wrought, I was unable to string two words together.
It didn't even occur to me to wonder where my fellow climber Al Hinkes had disappeared, even though we had descended from the North Col together. As far as I was concerned, he had simply vanished. (In fact, as Roger later told me, he had gone to his tent to sort himself out before searching for food and drink.)
Roger pulled me to my feet, helped me out of my rucksack, and unstrapped my climbing harness. Then he supported me into the unbelievable warmth of the mess tent where our Sherpa team was sitting around two steaming pots of food in a haze of kerosene fumes and cigarette smoke. Excited faces crowded round in a babble of conversation. I was guided onto a seat while Dhorze the cook prepared some sugared tea.
My three layers of gloves were pulled off by eager hands, revealing the frozen fingers within. There was a whistle as my right hand emerged to reveal two frostbitten middle fingers. The end of each was consumed by a growing gooseberry-sized blister of fluid, the skin marbled and cheeselike in texture.
Kippa Sherpa mimed the motion of a saw, cutting across the fingers. "Like this!" he laughed.
"No. No." Ang Chuldim, long experienced in judging the severity of frostbite, turned my hand in his and spoke reassuringly. "First degree. But fingers probably survive OK. No cut!"
As I sipped the drink, the sweetness of the tea mingling with the bitter taste of blood oozing from the blisters on my lips, I felt the tent begin to spin. As the kerosene fumes seemed to engulf me, the familiar rise of nausea in my throat warned me I was about to vomit. I managed to stagger into the cleaner air of our own mess tent where I put my head between my knees and tried to ward off the fainting fit that threatened to black me out.
The cool air and the tea revived me, and it suddenly struck me as strange that Roger was here alone.
"Where is everyone?"
"They've gone down to Base Camp."
"Oh."
Roger's generosity in staying was now all the more apparent. Advance Base was no place to linger and he had waited here for several days even though the rest of the team had evacuated down to the warmer and more hospitable climes of the Rongbuk Valley base sixteen kilometers (ten miles) away. His gesture moved me greatly.
"Thanks for being here."
"Well, I thought there had to be someone to welcome you back to the land of the living."
I finished the tea and walked like a drunk back outside with Roger to the tents. I knew one of them was mine but in my fuddled state I couldn't remember which. Roger pointed out the correct one and I unzipped it and climbed in as he pulled the foam sleeping mat and sleeping bag from my rucksack. He pointed to my feet.
"You can't go to sleep with your boots on."
He unlaced them and pulled them off. I could feel the frozen fabric of the inner socks ripping against the dried blood where blisters had eroded my skin. This was a moment I had been dreading. I hadn't looked at my feet since the day before our summit bid and they were feeling very odd-swollen and numb, just like my fingers.
Roger went to fetch more fluid for me while I gathered the courage to shine the flashlight on my toes.
They were encrusted with blood. At first I was horrified, then, looking closely, I realized the damage was superficial: the blood was from the constant chafing of my plastic boots, and the swelling was from the impact of striking my feet into the ice. There were two small areas of frostnip but nothing more. In my nightmares I had imagined my toes would already be going black and gangrenous.
Roger was back. He took a look at my feet.
"Looks like you've got away with it."
"Yeah. Looks like I have."
Roger gave me a big smile and said, "I'll see you in the morning." He zipped up the tent and I heard his footsteps move away.
Lacking the energy to pull off the down suit, I shoved my feet into the sleeping bag and wrapped the top end of the bag around my upper body. Then I sucked down a full liter of tea, reveling in the warming sensation as the hot fluid ran through my body.
I was desperate for sleep, but my mind had now woken from its frozen state and was scrabbling to catch up with events. Much of what I had seen and experienced had been lived through the distorting haze of altitude, and now my memory banks were trying to make some sense out of a mental filing system in total disarray. The events were there all right, in crystal definition, but their order had been shuffled and, in the case of certain nightmare images, put into a state of suspended animation from where they could not easily be retrieved.
They would flood back soon enough but for now they were under lock and key.
My overriding emotion was one of intense relief at ending the ordeal. Pathetically grateful to have gotten off the mountain alive, one fact played through my mind stronger than any other: that I was one of the lucky ones.
Together with Al Hinkes and the team of three climbing Sherpas, we had all survived the Death Zone and returned intact from the summit of Everest. Now I found myself running a mental check on the state of my body, ticking off the damage.
I estimated I had lost eleven kilograms (about twenty-four pounds) of body weight. My legs were now so completely stripped of fat that I could easily encircle my thigh with my two hands. I had first-degree frostbite on two fingers and a range of superficial injuries that are common at extreme altitude; radiation burns on my ears and lips; and pus-infected fissures on my fingers and toes. Both my eyes had retinal hemorrhages where blood capillaries had burst during the ascent. My kidneys were throbbing with the dull ache of days of fluid deprivation. My bowels were chucking out alarming quantities of blood every time I got up the courage to defecate.
The persistent racking cough, the torn muscles around my rib cage, and the raging sore throat had been with me for so many weeks now that I scarcely noticed them.
But that list of minor ailments was nothing. The mountain had let me off extremely lightly and I knew it. In physical terms, the cost of my Everest summit had been negligible. If Ang Chuldim was right about my fingers, then I wouldn't lose anything. In a couple of months I would be healed and no sign would remain-on my body at least-that I had ever been here at all.
For twelve other climbers in this premonsoon season, the attempt to climb to the summit of Everest had proved fatal. The bodies of ten of them still lay on the high slopes of the mountain. Only two of the corpses had been retrieved. The shock waves of this disaster were still reverberating around the world. The cost in human suffering, for the families, friends, and loved ones of those who died, is incalculable.
Others had escaped from the Death Zone with their lives, but the price of their survival had been painfully high. One American climber and one Taiwanese had each suffered major amputations due to frostbite, losing an arm, fingers, and toes, and suffering facial disfigurement.
In short, this had been a disastrous season on Everest and one that had caught the attention of the world's media in a way that hadn't happened since the blaze of publicity heralding the first ascent in 1953.
Before I lapsed into unconsciousness, my hand moved up instinctively to check the small rectangular container that lay against my skin in the breast pocket of my thermal suit: the tiny digital video tape that contained footage from the summit of the world. My hand was still in the same position, cradling the precious roll of rushes, when I awoke fifteen hours later.
For the next forty-eight hours I lay on my back in the tent, neither moving nor speaking. Occasionally the Sherpas, Al, or Roger would check that I was OK and bring in some tea or food, but basically I just lay there, staring at the canvas interior of the tent.
My mind was in shock, replaying slowly through the events of the last ten days since the storm swept in. Thinking of the place we had been. Thinking of the Death Zone.
The term "Death Zone" was first coined in 1952 by Edouard Wyss-Dunant, a Swiss physician, in a book called The Mountain World. Drawing on the experiences of the Swiss Everest expedition of that year (which had so nearly made the summit), he described with remarkable accuracy the effects of altitude on the human body.
Wyss-Dunant created a series of zones to help his readers understand. At the 6,000-meter (19,685-foot) zone, Wyss-Dunant concluded, it was still possible for the human body to acclimatize ... --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author
Matt Dickinson is a filmmaker and a writer who specializes in documenting the world's wild places and indigenous peoples. He is also the author of a novel, High Risk. He lives in England with his wife and their children.
From the Trade Paperback edition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From the Inside Flap
This dramatic tale of the storm that hit Mount Everest in the spring of 1996 will resonate with anyone fascinated by life on the outer edge of physical and psychological limits. Before the killer storm subsided, some climbers reached the summit, others abandoned their quest, and twelve people froze to death. Matt Dickinson, a filmmaker and a novice climber, chose that fateful May for his first ascent of Everest, up the treacherous North Face. His story is one of discovery, tragedy, and personal triumph--told, literally, from the other side of the world's tallest peak. It will be cherished by all readers eager to experience adventure, from their armchairs to their own base-camp bivouac. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From the Back Cover
"White-knuckle time on the summit ridge."
--Newsweek
"Dickinson has an eye for meaningful detail and storytelling talent -- a rollicking, insightful and harrowing ride."
--The New York Times Book Review.
Gripping -- the action more than lives up to its promise. Dickinson takes the reader through the steps of his climb with humor, wisdom, and a minimum of bravado -- a thought-provoking exploration of nature and man's will to master it.
--Los Angeles Daily News
"Dickinson brings the fresh perspective and wide eyes of the novice to mountaineering's most enduring saga -- the result is an absorbing narrative that vividly portrays, step by agonizing step, his slow climb to the summit."
--Mercator's World --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
