Because it is there

More than 200 people have died climbing Mount Everest. So why do people take on such a dangerous trek?

A rescue helicopter flies beyond the summit of Mount Everest.

On May 29, 1953, when Edmund Hillary and intrepid Nepalese Sherpa, Tenzing Norgay, emerged above the clouds to finally ruffle Mount Everest’s 8848m killer peak, it was the culmination of decades of romantic endeavour at the lung-bursting limits of human endurance. Sagarmatha, or Chomolungma, as the mountain is reverentially known in the Nepalese and Tibetan vernacular, was exclusively the abode of the gods. Later, entirely without artifice or in the glare of media flashbulbs, Hillary said in an aside to a climbing companion, “Well, George, we knocked the bastard off.”

It was another George — George Leigh Mallory, the storied British climber — who famously said of the lure of Everest, “Because it is there”, before vanishing with fellow climber Andrew Irvine after being spotted pressing on 300m below the summit. His frozen mummified body was found in 1999. Irvine remains unaccounted for.

Since then, more than 200 people have died on the mountain through hypothermia, falls, oxygen deprivation, pulmonary oedema, inadequate acclimatisation, frostbite, dehydration and heart failure. Nineteen died in May 1996 as competing expeditions slogged up through the oxygen-starved “death zone” (above 7925m) and 11 have perished this year as overcrowding has taken its inevitable toll with waiting times dragging on and fatally depleting oxygen and human reserves.

Why would anyone be willing to take such a risk? For the professional climber, the answer is simple. It’s the lure of the untamed wild. That very “wild” is now ferociously resisting attempts to tame it as assaults on Everest’s flanks have moved up to an industrial scale, with 381 permits issued to 44 climbing teams this year. A lack of government oversight has combined with the increasing commercialisation of professional expeditions that claim to place anyone atop Mount Everest for the tidy sum of $US60,000 ($86,000) or more. The onslaught of casual hikers and unfit thrillseekers has put their own lives at risk and imperilled their guides. And while Nepal struggles to cope with the growing number of climbers and the mounting rubbish (all fallouts of its own making), developments in Tibet indicate a further surge in climbers attempting the north face as China’s new mountaineering centre gears up.

Over-harvesting of tourism is a growing problem. Diminishing returns affect both true travellers, who derive less pleasure from their passion, and local inhabitants, who eventually tire of the invasion and push back to reclaim their lives. Most of all, the ruthless undressing of the world has eliminated the sense of discovery that inspired original wanderers, who immersed themselves in local cultures and committed their knowledge to books. Today’s wanderer is on a tight deadline with just a few minutes to shoot a selfie before racing on to the next point. Surely if Everest has taught us anything it is to slow down and smell the roses. There are limits to tourism on steroids. Unless, of course, as with deforestation and plastic rubbish, we are willing to despoil our one planet for a quick buck, fleeting convenience and a photo op.

Hong Kong-based Vijay Verghese is editor of online magazines SmartTravelAsia.com and AsianConversations.com.