A lot of the stories and images of Everest you’ve seen have been carefully curated by the storytellers to show the rad and beautiful parts of the mountain. This year, photographer ��and I aim to change that.

This month, the two of us are going to Snapchat various parts of our journey to and up the north side of Everest.��(My guide company,��, moved to the north side of the mountain after the 2014 incident in the��Khumbu��Icefall��that��killed 16 Sherpas.)��Along the way,��we’ll post short videos and photos in real-time to depict an unfiltered look at an unfiltered climb during a crucial season on a changing Everest. We chose Snapchat because “snaps”—unlike posts to Instagram or Facebook—must be posted immediately from a phone’s camera. If we’re successful, you’ll have a complete chronicle of our journey.

We’ll show various points of view by handing the camera to Sherpas, guides, climbers, an expedition doctor, and a philanthropist during our climb. Our goal is to share our perspective and encourage dialog on both the positive and negative sides of climbing Everest. Ultimately what we want is a positive future for Everest, and for those who work and recreate on the mountain. Getting there will require thought, discussion, and effort from everyone involved. We hope our story can help to illuminate some of the issues, and possible solutions.

While over 7,000 ascents of the mountain have been made with bottled oxygen, only 193 have been accomplished without, and Cory and I are going to try going without, too. While I’ve summitted six times, I've always done while guiding—and always with supplemental oxygen. Cory has climbed Gasherbrum II and Lhotse without oxygen, but has yet to reach the top of Everest.��

To see our journey unfold, follow @EverestNoFilter, and mine and Cory’s personal Snapchat accounts: @adrianjb and @crichardsphoto.

The post Why Cory Richards and Adrian Ballinger Are Snapchatting Everest appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.

It’s always the same with big trips. No matter how many years of planning, how many weeks approaching the mountain, how many days stocking camps and acclimatizing, or how many hours on the summit push, the expedition can feel slow—but the end is always frantic and fast. And that means the processing, the “what if’s,”��happen at home.��

This expedition was still a success, at least in my terms. We didn’t summit, and we didn’t ski the peak. Makalu awaits a ski descent from its summit. We skied only 500 vertical feet more than I skied in 2012, and we skied it in far worse conditions this time. After a month of low winds, stable snow and days of boot-top pow and cream, our summit push was characterized by breakable crust and sketchy wind slabs. That’s the way of Himalayan skiing.��

What made it a success for me was the way our team worked. The biggest reason I love expedition climbing and skiing is not the summit. Or the turns. It’s being a part of the human experience. Expeditions magnify that human experience. Life is at its most intense. Desire, risk, uncertainty, pain, and exhaustion all blend together to create intense stress.��

On Makalu, that culminated in camp 4, above 25,000 feet. The four skiers, along with two Sherpa, moved to camp 4 in high spirits. We felt strong and had an incredible weather forecast. Meanwhile, of their own volition, our other two Sherpa teammates had continued above camp 4 to scout a line towards the summit. They quickly kicked off three small slab avalanches attempting to climb one side of the face. They retreated, reassessed, and tried another line. It was at this point that Mingma Chirring triggered not one but two larger slides. The second was a two-foot thick windslab that carried Mingma hundreds of feet. Mingma, banged up but not buried, retreated to camp 4, and the team dove into discussion.��

Back at home, it now seems that our decision should have been easy. A team-member was almost killed and the slope above was clearly unstable. But big mountains are not that straightforward. Deciding to climb and ski a peak like Makalu always meant we would have to accept a level of risk. What level is “acceptable” is deeply personal. Each of us has a different tolerance. Could we find a way around the dangerous slope on vertical rock? Had the slab been cleared, so that the slope could now be passed? Would a slide on a possible alternate route up the center of the face mean even a slough would take us over ice cliffs? And a dozen more hypotheticals.

We discussed all of this for two hours on the night of Mingma’s slide. And for another two the next morning. All at 25,000 feet. We debated for hours. And ultimately, when we did descend, we played different roles. Jim and Hilaree skied the sweet couloir (with big packs and challenging snow), experiencing a highlight of their trip. I had skied it before in 2012, and decided it was more important to carry a chunk of Mingma’s load so he could descend (with badly bruised ribs) more easily. Emily climbed down with me, choosing a bit of additional safety while carrying an epic pack.��

All of this went on, in a really stressful and painful place to simply exist, and none of it went bad. After all the discussion and debate, I made the call. We all digested it, we shed a few tears, and then we got to work. And for me, this is why I would adventure again with this team anytime, anywhere. When it was all on the line, we didn’t fail at staying alive. We listened to each other, tried to respect each other’s differing views, honored the final decision, and were still able to laugh, cry, and drink tequila with each other back in base camp.

And we all came home.

The post Skiing Makalu: Coming Home appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.

I fell asleep last Friday at advanced base camp (18,700 feet) to the sound of snowflakes on my tent. It was only 9 p.m.; my body and brain were worked. I had just had half a glass of boxed wine and a dinner of fresh chicken and buffalo and a Nepalese attempt at angel food cake. We all had huge grins on our faces. Why? Check out the on the . Our team of four* skiers and four Sherpa just completed a hugely successful rotation on the mountain.��

The route is in to over 23,000 feet, we slept and survived a night at 21,750 feet (Camp 2), and for the first time this season our team skied from our high point all the way down to the end of the glacier. And, unlike most skiing on 8,000-meter peaks, every turn was sweet. Conditions were perfect—stable, edge-able, and even with a few centimeters of fresh to play in. We found steeps, spines, and big open faces. It was like a day at home in the Sierra. Except each time we stopped making turns and remembered to breathe, we could barely stand from hypoxia. It was perfect!

A day like that, and a trip like this one, holds a special place for me. I have attempted to ski Makalu before, in 2012, while working for my guide company . That 8,000-meter peak expedition was one of 16 I have guided over the past eight years. And I’ve been incredibly lucky in that guiding role—I have summited 8,000-meter peaks twelve times, skied two of them, rope-fixed with Sherpa to make the first summits of the season on Everest, Cho Oyu, and Manaslu, and shared all of these climbs with talented and dedicated clients and Sherpa.��

But I have never attempted an 8,000-meter peak for myself. I have never climbed at my pace. I have never skied at my limit. My rule has always been to reserve at least 50 percent of my energy for when the shit hits the fan. Others’ safety and success has always been my job.��

And that’s why this��expedition means so much to me. Today, I am typing in our hangout tent surrounded by badasses that push me. As climbers and skiers, they are my equals or beyond. Due to my five months a year in the Himalaya, I am the expedition leader. But Hilaree, Emily, and Jim, and equally Panuru, Tenzing, Mingma and Palden, all play as hard as I dream of. I finally have the opportunity to see how fast I can move at altitude. And, if weather and conditions allow, how cleanly I can summit and ski an unskied Himalayan peak.��

*Editor’s note: A fifth climber, Kit Deslauriers, began suffering symptoms of acute mountain sickness ��and, later, high altitude cerebral edema. She left the mountain for Kathmandu in order to receive care. Deslauriers recovered, but has decided to end her expedition.

��

The post Skiing Makalu: Rest, Ski, Work, Play appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.

It’s been three weeks since the tragedy of April 18, when 16 Sherpa were killed while working on Everest. Many stories have been written, a documentary has been produced, rumors from the season continue to fly, and I have spent a large part of every day discussing, brainstorming, and processing the accident that took the lives of climbers we knew and cared for.

The awful side of this accident is clear and must not be forgotten—16 climbers lost their lives, and their families are without their husbands/fathers/primary breadwinners. The climbing community and the public have come together impressively, and raised many thousands of dollars for these families. I hope this money helps to support better lives for those left behind.

When my head Sherpa and good friend Nima was killed in a climbing accident with me in 2004, my team and company took our responsibility to his family very seriously. Nima loved his work and climbing. He loved the fact that he could afford to send his son Pemba Gelu to private school in Kathmandu, and that his son would have the opportunity to choose his future profession. This year, Pemba is about to graduate from one of the best schools in Kathmandu, supported not only financially, but also through letters, annual get-togethers, and phone calls from our guides and clients throughout the past decade. He now has options of where to continue his schooling, and he has the English skills, the education, and the finances to be successful. It does not replace losing a father. But he is proudly living his life, and running with the opportunities that he has been presented.��

I hope the support for the families of this year’s tragedy continues. Financial help, and time and effort, are all important. Anyone who’s interested, whether Everest climbers or not, can get involved through the Khumbu Climbing Center () and the .

Throughout the difficult past few weeks, the main question for me has been: Is it acceptable to expose our Sherpa to clear risk of death while working in the mountains? For that matter, is it okay to expose our Western guides and clients to the same risk? Every year around the world, American and European mountain guides are killed while working. I’ve lost climbing friends to accidents in Nepal, France, Alaska, and Peru. It is a constant reality of our jobs.

As a guide, my first priority is reducing risk. It is why Alpenglow decided two years ago to keep trips through the icefall to an absolute minimum—for clients, guides, and Sherpa. We got rid of all the heavy infrastructure teams usually bring to Camp 2 and above. We got rid of all our acclimatization on the mountain so as to reduce our need of food and comfort. And we dramatically increased the required experience and skills of our clients, so they can better partner with our Sherpa and guides. This means our Sherpas and guides aren’t required to move as slowly and dangerously in the icefall and other exposed sections of the mountain. Our Sherpa planned on only 5 or so trips each through the icefall; Sherpa working for other teams will make 20 or more such trips.

But are we doing enough to manage the risk? There are some options under discussion, including flying helicopters to over the icefall to Camp 1 (hauling all equipment, staff, and climbers). We’ve also considered moving our expedition to the North Side, in Tibet, where the route is less exposed to ice- and rockfall.

Of course, flying helicopters to Camp 1 would dramatically change the character of the climb, removing what has historically been the most challenging and memorable—if deadly—obstacle. What’s more, the reality of flying hundreds of trips over the icefall presents its own significant risks (even today’s incredible helicopters and pilots are working at the absolute limit of safety when flying above 20,000 feet). How long will flying helicopters over the icefall be viable? Insurance companies may cover one heli crash while flying above 20,000 feet, but more than that? I don’t believe this is a sustainable option.

Moving to the North Side also presents challenges: A colder and windier base camp; life at significantly higher altitudes (Advanced Base Camp, where climbers may spend up to two weeks, sits at more than 21,000 feet, instead of 17,500 feet on the Nepali side); and, currently, no options for a heli rescue in case of an accident. There is also the constant possibility that China will limit access to Tibet. We’ll be considering all of these factors before making a decision about next season.

The practical considerations lead me to a second, and perhaps more significant, part of my thinking over the past few weeks, which, after nearly 20 years as a mountain guide, has to do with understanding why I’m willing to take certain risks to climb. For me, it is because I believe the life I live, the experiences I have and share with others, are worth those risks—even the risk of death. I have so much passion for what I do that I cannot, for now, imagine life without it.

For my Sherpa, and my guides, I see the same passion and love for the lives they have chosen—and I should stress that it is a choice. The most challenging days are the days we thrive on. Last year, working together with Sherpa, we established the routes on both Cho Oyu and Ama Dablam, in extremely difficult conditions where other Sherpa had been injured or taken big falls. And we loved it. We felt we could manage the risk, and we got to climb amazing terrain in full conditions, successfully guiding our clients through challenging conditions.

I believe this is true for many of those who work on Everest. We do everything we can to minimize risk for ourselves and our clients, and then, at the end of the day, we accept what risks remain. We do so happily, and willingly, because we love our work and believe in the importance of it for us and our clients. The experiences I have had on Everest guide me every day in my life and work.��

I didn’t cancel our Everest Expedition this year because of politics, or because my Sherpa refused to work. I didn’t cancel it because I felt the icefall was more dangerous in 2014 than in past years. I cancelled our climb because, in the wake of the devastating tragedy, the passion and love of what we do was gone and therefore the risk was no longer acceptable.��

Under those circumstances, risk can’t be offset by money, regardless of the amount. The accident had left my Sherpa grieving and in fear of what their gods had taken. They believed, as did I, that the accident sent a clear message that the mountain should not be climbed this year—by Sherpa or Westerners. While my Sherpa would have climbed out of loyalty to me and my company, they no longer had the love and passion that I believe justify the risk.

We are a team, and our Sherpa are essential members of that team. As such, we don’t take very real risks without having the buy-in and belief of our teammates. This idea is fundamental to climbing, and not just on Everest. This may be the tallest mountain in the world, and a proud accomplishment, and, yes, we are financially compensated for our climbing and risk-taking, but none of that should change the fundamentals of why and how we climb.

Adrian Ballinger is a 6-time Everest summiter, and the founder of .

More ���ϳԹ��� Everest Coverage:

��

• Sherpas Have an Extensive—and Often Devastating—History on Everest
• We Ran the Numbers on Just How Dangerous Sherpas’ Jobs Are
• Why Did the 2014 Climbing Season End So Suddenly? It’s Complicated
• Climbing in Tibet is Still an Option for Some Teams

The post Everest: Without Passion, Why Climb? appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.