Excerpt from Higher Love:

“Guess what’s right over here,” Jimmy said teasingly at 10:48 a.m. and pointed with his mitten toward the summit just several steps away. We’d climbed to the top in close to nine hours, and given that there had been no well-trodden boot path to follow and it was October 18, this was a respectable accomplishment.

Sure, there are hardcore high-altitude alpinists who can do it in far less time, and even without oxygen, but they’re also the ones who think the Southeast Ridge is “the easy way,” and at any given point in history, their numbers can be counted on just two hands. The truth is that Everest will always be the highest mountain in the world, and no matter the style or the amount of time it takes, getting to the top is not easy.

We were all smiling, but the excitement was more felt than seen, since we were still wearing the Darth Vader–style black oxygen masks. As we clasped hands with one another in acknowledgment of our achievement, which had taken more than six weeks of effort, our energy was palpable. A fog-like air mass had crept up beneath the northern and eastern sides of the mountain as we climbed and now obscured the panorama that we knew was below us, but there was nothing that could interfere with what we could see around us from the summit: a sea of black and white mountains set against the deep blue sky and extending all the way to the round horizon.

Dave called Wally on the radio to tell him the good news.

“Wow, you guys made great time,” Wally said. “Congratulations on number eight, Dave.”

“Seven and a half. Thanks!”

The true summit is only big enough for two, maybe three people to share, and just as it became my turn to stand on top, a visibly fatigued Dasona handed me my skis. At Wally’s urging, we’d made the tough decision to allow our trusted Sherpa friends to carry our skis up on summit day so that we might be able to save some extra energy for the descent.

“Kami will carry them down for you,” Dasona said, handing me the skis and sounding as tired as he looked.

These guys don’t believe we’re really going to do this.

“Thank you very much, Dasona, but I’ll wear them down,” I said, truly appreciating the huge effort he’d made so far and his concern about what was next.

His face contorted in surprise, and with a shrug of his shoulders and a shake of his head, he turned away. Lakpa and Kami handed over Rob’s and Jimmy’s skis along with a new set of prayer flags Lama Geshe had blessed, which we wrapped around our skis for a symbolic moment. We were going to do this, and the reality of that hit me in a wave. My heart opened with gratitude for everyone’s efforts, and I experienced an upwelling of joy and incredulity at the fact that we were about to make the ski descent I’d been dreaming about for a year and a half.

“I think I’m gonna cry.”

Rob leaned over and we shared a quick church kiss, but as soon as our lips parted I moved on, mentally and then physically.

Don’t delay. Now is the time to be fully focused.

I began the process. With a deep breath, I bent over and wrapped the leash of one ski around the ankle of my boot. The last thing I wanted to do on a high, remote mountain was lose a piece of critical gear, so I was in the practice of using ski leashes on my bindings instead of brakes. As I fastened the leash buckle, my brain and body moved on to the next step: digging out the ice from the binding- receiving holes on the toes of my ski boots to make sure I had a positive connection—more insurance against losing a ski.

Oh, no!

I realized that when I was dressing the night before, I’d forgotten to put my multitool in the front thigh pocket of my down suit even though I’d been rehearsing this in my head for weeks.

Dave saw immediately that I was upset. “What’s wrong? Can I help you?”

“I forgot my awl!”

“You gave it your all. I’ll give you my awl!”

In a flash he had his tool open to the perfect point for reaming out the tiny holes, and I continued the process through my laughter.

No sooner had I handed Dave’s tool back and finished stepping into my skis than he took off on foot down the ridge to set up the rope belay we’d talked about using to get around the Hillary Step. Now it was my turn. I planted my poles as if pushing out of the starting gate at a ski race and made my first turn off the summit.

I was aware that the Sherpas didn’t quite understand skiing, so I wasn’t surprised that some of them were standing right in front of where I would make my next turn. We’d overlooked planning the part of the day where I’d ski off the summit with twelve other people standing around. Given the language barrier, the tight quarters on the summit, and how difficult it is to speak through oxygen masks, I sideslipped slowly toward them, which sent them scurrying away from my line until I had enough room to make a few more turns. Immediately below the summit, the Southeast Ridge of Everest has an offcamber fall line, so it’s not at all like skiing a familiar run or mountain face. My movements were more like a ski turn to the right that was just enough to lose some elevation, followed immediately by a turn to the left and a good old-fashioned traverse along the ridge, most of which wasn’t wide enough to make any turns at all. The snow conditions didn’t make for fast going, either. Beneath my skis, the surface felt extraordinarily firm as eons of intense winds had created patterns of frozen six-inch snow waves eager to trip anyone attempting to ride them. When we’d climbed up, the steel points of our crampons had left tiny marks in the snow, but now with my weight distributed over 164-centimeter-long skis, I detected barely a hint that we’d passed this way.