Cho Oyu, whose name in Tibetan means "turquoise goddess", stands along the Nepali-Tibetan border about 18 miles west of Mt. Everest, tied to it by a long ridge with five summits over 23,000 feet. While Eric Shipton's Everest team trained and conducted the first reconaissance on Cho Oyu in 1952 (this team included Sir Edmund Hillary), the peak's first ascent was made in October of 1954 by Austrians Herbert Tichy, Josef "Sepp" Jochler, and India's Sherpa Pasang Dawa Lama. This team set a new style in climbing by eschewing oxygen and using alpine techniques during their ascent of the Northwest face.*

      Cho Oyu has the highest success rate of all the 8000-meter peaks because of the quality of its route, the good conditions typically found there, and its ease of access. AAI expeditions to Cho Oyu are joint undertakings with Adventure Consultants, a guide service based in New Zealand.

      The following is an excerpt from the diary of climber Carol Masheter who participated in AAI climbs in Bolivia and Ecuador to prepare for her attempt on Cho Oyu.

Prelude: September 23, 2005

      Uncontrollable sobs wrack my exhausted body. The sobs trigger fits of coughing that threaten to turn me inside out. Mike, Cho Oyu expedition leader, has just left my tent at Cho Oyu Camp 2 (23,900 feet), after recommending that I not climb higher.

      I train hard and prepare well. I do power yoga, weight training, run a marathon, bike, hike, climb, backpack, and carry loads in the Wasatch Mountains near my home in Salt Lake City, Utah. I work overtime and sell some of my gear to buy the warmer sleeping bags, a down suit and three-layer expedition boots. Departure day arrives. The expedition has begun. The dream is becoming action at last!

August 30, 2005

      After three days on planes and in airports, I arrive in Kathmandu and meet the rest of the expedition. Mike, our Kiwi expedition leader, reminds me of a big good-natured dog, patient and calm with us eager climber puppies. Mark, also a Kiwi and second in command, has more edge - perhaps the German Shepard to Mike's Newfoundland.

      Though English is our common language, different English dialects and accents are a challenge. I can barely understand Mike and Mark and don't do much better with other climbers - Peter from Northern England or Simon, our expedition physician from Australia. Richard is Swedish but sounds British, perhaps because he is "reading law" at Oxford. Ana from Brazil has the biggest challenge, which she handles with humor and grace. Chuck and I are the oldest, smallest, and the only climbers from the U.S. We form the old-fart hobbit division of the expedition.

September 6, 2005

      Being at nearly 12,000 feet elevation in Lhasa feels fine. The others, including the guides, have come from lower elevations, are breathless and are taking altitude and headache medication. I can't take these drugs due to allergies. I try not to compete and compare but it's tempting. Though I feel strong, the others have impressive experience and training. Chuck has climbed Ama Dablam. Ana has climbed Aconcagua and recently completed an Iron Man. And I was feeling cocky about my marathon!

      Mike knows how to deal with competitive climbers. He casually mentions that the last person into Advanced Base Camp has the best chance of summiting. During our acclimatization hikes, we compete to be the slowest.

      The road to Chinese Base Camp (CBC) (15,300 feet) is challenging, ironically because the Chinese are improving it. Our Land Cruisers wallow through seas of mud, ford rivers, and lurch over rocky ruts. We pass hapless stuck vehicles: large modern trucks, little one-cylinder engine tractors and cultivators, horse carts, motorcycles, and even bicycles. We help push a mired Jeep, hoping that they will help us if we get stuck. Ang Tsering, our Sherpa Base Camp Sirdar, chants Buddhist prayers with increasing intensity. At last the exhausting drive ends, and we spill out of the Land Cruisers into CBC, aching from the bruising drive.

      CBC is a tent city of transients. Expeditions and yak trains come and go daily. Mike warns us to stay away from the yaks; they are half-wild and will gore even their handlers. A yak bucks off its load and rampages through camp, its handlers in tow. Mike shoos me inside the dining tent. The next day, we climb above CBC to practice with our ascenders. We are alone except for ravens and one other expedition, also practicing.

September 9, 2005

      We all have arrived at Advanced Base Camp (ABC) at 18,300 feet after a two-day walk. I hate ABC. Garbage and yak poop are everywhere. When I get up at night for the 100-yard dash to our outhouse, my route is a jumble of tents and ropes, loose rock slick with ice, snow or mud, and yaks that eye me balefully. I talk to the yaks in what I hope are soothing tones; they swing their massive horned heads toward me. I deal with my dislike for ABC by picking up garbage and lugging flat stones for a tent porch.

      Our Sherpas build a puja altar of rock and prayer flags. We bring cookies, Pringles, beer, whiskey, crampons, and ice axes to be blessed. Looking like a wild mountain spirit in his fur-trimmed hat, Ang Tsering (Base Camp Sirdar) chants prayers, while we sit quietly as in church and toss rice at the alter. Tibetan yak men sit nearby, chat and joke through the prayers, waiting for the cookies and whiskey afterwards. A climber from another expedition drifts in, helps himself to our whiskey, drains his glass and leaves without a word.

September 13, 2005

      Our first carry to Camp 1 (20,400 feet) starts with a four-hour hike over rolling rock-covered glacier, past other-worldly pentitentes and crevasses. We stop hourly for snacks and water, sunscreen and layer management. Our leisurely pace feels like a picnic. However, after the last two-hour slog up the infamous 1,500 foot scree slope to Camp 1, all I want to do is drop my load and sit. We leave our loads and return to ABC that night.

      Sadly, our expedition doc, Simon, has left the expedition due to altitude problems. After several days at ABC, his resting breathing and heart rate are still high. We say goodbye with hugs and hopes that a few days lower at CBC would help. However, at CBC Simon phones his wife, also a physician. She orders him home. We miss Simon's ready grin, enthusiasm, and fine doctoring. Ana, a cosmetic surgeon, becomes our expedition doc.

September 14, 2005

      Over the weeks, ABC grows on me. When we return from our load carries, Chhongba, our Sherpa cook, greets us with huge smiles and killer burritos. Mike and Mark work tirelessly through hardware and software problems so we can send and receive email. The staff heat water so we can shower, a bracing experience that snatches warmth from our wet bodies.

      I quickly learn to be as lazy as possible during rest days in ABC. Between meals and chores, I sit in my Crazy Creek and watch Cho Oyu's many moods, sometimes shrouded in thick clouds, other times a masterpiece of gleaming glaciers, wind-fluted snow, crevasses, rock bands, and long plumes of spindrift streaming from her summit. I never tire of watching the ever-changing patterns of rock and snow, light and shadow, cloud and sun on the surrounding peaks, passes, and glaciers. I admire the grace of the chuffs and ravens as they soar and dive in the thermals. Legend has it that they are fallen climbers. I believe it. Magically, ABC becomes home.

September 16, 2005

      Cho Oyu shows her teeth. We carry our second loads to Camp 1 (20,400 feet) and spend a cold, windy night. I struggle to eat and drink enough, but everything tastes like ash. My first altitude headache keeps me awake all night. I spill my pee bottle and mop up the mess with used Kleenex, trying not to wake Ana, my tent mate.

      In the morning we climb part way to Camp 2. After about 30 minutes, the wind strengthens, a snowstorm swallows the sun, and the temperature plummets. Ana is so cold she is in tears. Mark takes her back to Camp 1 for warmer clothes. After multiple pitches on fixed lines, I feel weak as a sick cat. I stop and wait while the others, including Ana, push on for another hour. As we return to ABC, Mike assures me that we all have bad days and they are not necessarily signs of doom.

September 18, 2005

      In our dining tent at ABC, other expedition guides and our guides swap information about weather, the route, and other climbers. Elena, who is racing Ana to be the first Brazilian woman to summit Cho Oyu, is climbing alone without oxygen or rope for fixed lines. Elena claims she is climbing pure. Guides resent these climbers. Often they use fixed lines that guides and climbing Sherpas establish and then get into trouble, need oxygen or rescue, jeopardizing others on the mountain. But what is too much support? Guides scoff at climbers who have Sherpas carry everything, even their oxygen tanks as the climbers breathe from them. Our guides and all the other climbers use altitude and headache medication. Am I climbing pure because I can't use these drugs?

      Doubts haunt me. Cho Oyu is nearly 6,000 feet higher than anything I have climbed. Will my new integrated plastic boots and down suit be warm enough -- or too warm? Will weeks of poor sleep and trouble eating exhaust me before I can summit? Can I climb the steep sections, like the Ice Wall and the Yellow Band, or will I suffer the shame of being a bottleneck to other climbers? The guides recommend that we think only about what we need to do during the next five minutes, the next hour, and by the end of the day. I try to follow this advice.

September 18, 2005

      Our third carry to Camp 1 is easier for most of us than previous carries, but Peter looks like walking death. We had planned to sleep at Camp 2, but a storm drives us back down to Camp 1.

      Unable to acclimatize, Peter leaves the expedition. I will miss his quiet intensity, his dry wit, and the evening strolls he and I shared. This second loss hits the rest of us hard. The remaining four of us bond even more tightly as a team, climbing together during load carries, reminding each other to eat, drink, check for sunburn and frostbite, encouraging each other.

September 23, 2005

      After several days of rest and consulting weather forecasts, the guides decide that we start a five-day summit push today. We shoulder our packs and head up the mountain one more time.

      The climb to Camp 1 is now routine. This night I sleep intermittently, headache free. The climb to Camp 2 is easier for the others, but I struggle with eating difficulties and fatigue. I stagger into camp an hour and a half after the others. In slow motion, I get clean snow, find a stove, go to my tent, and struggle to release my crampons. Mike comes to my tent and advises me not to continue. Despair overwhelms me with waves of sobs and coughing.

      Ana shows up. "What's wrong?" she asks. I tell her what Mike said. "It's over for me, Ana." "No," she replies. "I will cook dinner, we will eat something and get some rest. Tomorrow you will climb with me to Camp 3." I reply, "You don't understand, the guides don't think I should continue." Ana repeats her little speech. I shrug. She's right. I had been a bit annoyed with Ana up to now for not doing her share of camp chores. Tonight she coaxes me to eat, like a finicky child. I will be grateful to her forever.

      Though I don't sleep, the next morning I feel stronger. I collect more clean snow, melt it and cook breakfast, while urging Ana to get up. I put on my climbing gear and find Mike. Nervously, I tell him that I am feeling better and want to continue. Mike says that if I collapse, I jeopardize the others' chance to summit. I reply, "These guys are strong. They will summit. I don't want to take that from them. How about this? If I feel weak like yesterday, I will tell you. Then I will do whatever you ask." Mike gives me the nod.

      Mike offers me supplemental oxygen. We have extra tanks now that we have fewer climbers. My first impulse is to refuse. I would be starting oxygen a day before the others. How humiliating! I had hated the oxygen drill in ABC. The bulky mask blocked my vision so I could not see my feet and seemed to restrict my breathing. However, starting oxygen now might give me a chance to make peace with the hated contraption before our final push to the summit tomorrow. I swallow my pride and accept Mike's offer.

      I set the flow at one liter/minute and trudge up the fixed lines amid other expeditions. A young guy teases me between gasps for air, "That oxygen sure looks good, but I want to climb pure." I forget my pride and tease back, "You wouldn't want this mask anyway. I've already slobbered all over it." I sound like an alien with a mouth full of mush.

      Today's climb is long and slow but easier than yesterday. I plod into Camp 3 with my teammates, tired but overjoyed to be here. Mark and I share a tent, toasty in the afternoon sun, even at almost 25,000 feet. We doze in our long johns, savoring our oxygen, and joke about being at the beach. We take pictures of each other looking goofy in our oxygen masks. Mark cooks dinner while I struggle into my down suit, climbing harness, and inner boots. Then I rest while Mark sleeps.

      The sun goes down and paints the clouds below us peach, then rose, then violet. The unearthly beauty fills me with a sense of peace. I will give summit day my best effort and accept whatever happens, whether or not I summit. I try not to worry about the Yellow Band. Other expeditions report that it is difficult: smooth and steep with little ice for front pointing. Rest now, I remind myself.

      Stoves-on time is 11 PM. I wake Mark at 10:50 PM. He grumbles, "Still have ten more minutes." I start melting snow and dig through food packets for something that won't make me throw up. My thermometer reads minus 25 degrees F.

      After a battle royal with my boots and crampons, I am the first climber ready, which earns me the second position behind Chhuldim, our quiet, sardonic Climbing Sherpa Sirdar. We exchange grins and thumbs up. I savor my oxygen at two liters/minute and marvel at Chhuldim's steady, easy breathing without supplemental oxygen. Chuck has trouble pulling on his overboots. We start a half-hour later.

      This is it! We lean into the slope and climb. I look back at Ana and say hoarsely, "Mi hermana de Brazil, we're doing this!!" She flashes one of her radiant smiles, eyes ablaze like a child on Christmas morning. At the first fixed line protection point I have difficulty unclipping and reclipping my safety and ascender. I remove my huge expedition mitt for more dexterity and accidentally dislodge the thumb liner. I can't get it back in place, so I climb with a paw without an opposable thumb. My liner gloves are fine for the short time I am unclipping and re-clipping, and the paw works okay between protection points.

      I hear the clash of crampons and curses as climbers ahead struggle up the Yellow Band. Now it's my turn. Slow and deliberate, I remind myself, find a rhythm. I can't see my feet because of my oxygen mask, so I feel with one foot, hook its crampons into rock or ice, test, weight the step, feel with the other foot, test, weight, stand tall, slide my ascender up the fixed line as high as I can reach, hook or stick my axe, take some extra drags of oxygen, then repeat. I inch worm up the Yellow Band without a single slip. I hear others scraping and clanging behind me. Sooner than I expect, I top out, panting heavily, more from excitement than exertion. Chhuldim smiles and advises, "Easy, easy." I steady my breathing and we climb on.

      Past the Yellow Band, a traffic jam of about forty climbers creeps up the fixed line at one step every three minutes. Impatient shouts and curses ripple up and down the lines, but no one passes the slower climbers. I am tempted to be impatient too. However, we can only go as fast as the slowest climber. I am warm enough in my down suit, integrated boots and mega-mitts, my breathing is steady and comfortable. Why complain? This is easy.

      Before I expect it, the east horizon turns red. The sun is coming just as my headlamp dims from the cold. On we climb, hour after hour. At the top of the fixed lines, Chhuldim and I unclip for the last time. Chhuldim passes a slower expedition, breaking his own trail. I follow in his wake. The snow is a tricky, layered breakable crust. Sometimes we sink to our shins, other times to our hips. A snot-cicle several inches long grows from my oxygen mask like a walrus tusk.

      As the sky lightens, the glacier turns dusky blue. Cho Oyu's summit casts a strange pyramid-shaped shadow down her own slopes. Yet another rock outcropping appears on the horizon. I climb toward it. It grows. And grows. It must be Everest! Guidebooks say that you can see Everest only from the true summit of Cho Oyu. We are getting close! The sun rises behind Everest, backlighting it. Sometimes I am not sure it is real. Maybe it's a mirage or hallucination. The angle of our route slowly flattens. It's still hard going through the breakable crust. Chhuldim has pulled ahead by about 50 yards. Just ahead of him I see a small figure doing a happy body wave. It's Chuck and another climbing Sherpa; somehow they passed Chhuldim and me.

      Finally Chhuldim says, "This is it. The summit." An absurd scene unfolds. Red, yellow, blue, and green TeleTubbies wearing goggles and oxygen masks collapse into awkward hugs. I am so full of joy I feel like I can fly, but I'm so tired, all I can do after the hugs is suck O's and gaze around in dazed wonder. Mike and Mark are taking pictures and videos. Right, take pictures, I remind myself and fumble with my camera. Ana is on her satellite phone talking in Portuguese. Then she thrusts her phone in my face. "Do you want to make a call?" she asks. I was not prepared for this gift. My colleagues have been supportive and fascinated with this expedition, so I call work. I poke the buttons awkwardly with cold-stiffened fingers. I cough and gasp into the phone, "This is Carol Masheter (cough, pant) AKA SilverFox calling from (gasp, cough) the summit of Cho Oyu (cough, cough) 26,906 feet at 7:15 AM local time (wheeze, cough) September 25, 2005. aaahhhhooo..." (more of a moan than my usual summit howl).

      After 20 glorious minutes on the summit, we start our 10-hour descent to Camp 1, packing up Camps 3 and 2 on the way. The sun is shining but it still is cold enough that my down suit feels good. Other climbers on their way up congratulate us. I thank them and wish them luck. This is the happiest day of my life. Maybe some will say I didn't climb Cho Oyu pure. I don't care. I learned that big mountains teach patience, humility, and willingness to surrender expectations and consider other options.

      Now that I am home in Salt Lake, enjoying "my" Wasatch Mountains, I think about the Cho Oyu Expedition a lot. I was fortunate to have skilled supportive guides, strong patient Sherpas, and really nice capable fellow climbers. I can't wait to climb another big mountain!

Learn more about AAI's High Altitude Expeditions.

*Introduction reference sources: www.mounteverest.net and www.k2news.com

Notes: We apologize to expedition members if any of the credits for the pooled photos are incorrect. We think that Ana is the first Brazilian woman to summit Cho Oyu. Her "rival" Elena was about one week behind our expedition in her acclimatization schedule.

Return to AAI's March 2006 E-newsletter

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