After a grueling seven-hour climb through icy terrain, Daniel Mazur felt the allure of triumph as he neared the peak.
Despite the chilling ten-degree frostbite-inducing cold near Everest’s summit, dawn’s gentle glow bathed the expanse in a serene azure. “Today’s the day we conquer the peak,” Mazur reassured himself, his crampons digging into the frozen surface as he advanced with deliberate care. The team was just a three-hour trek from the breathtaking zenith at 29,035 feet.
By 7:30 a.m., Mazur had reached Mushroom Rock, a narrow outcrop where he paused to encourage his SummitClimb group—Andrew Brash from Canada, England’s Myles Osborne, and their Sherpa, Jongbu.
Surveying the snow-covered ridges below, a sudden streak of yellow caught Mazur’s eye. A tent? Impossible at this elevation, he thought, peering intently. The figure moved, leaving Mazur stunned. What on earth?
Teetering on a sheer precipice was a figure, legs folded, struggling with his attire. His bulky suit gaped open, missing a hat, gloves, or shades.
Lacking essentials like an oxygen mask, sleeping bag, food, or water, Lincoln Hall’s presence at 28,000 feet defied logic. As he withdrew his frostbitten hands from his garment, Hall’s eyes met Mazur’s.
“You must be quite astonished to find me here,” he remarked.
Hall had been stranded on the mountain since 7:30 the previous evening. His group had ascended the north ridge earlier that day, reaching the peak at nine in the morning. They reveled in the magnificent sight of the planet’s curvature and captured their triumph in photographs before commencing their descent, aiming to return to base camp before the onset of perilous afternoon storms.
Yet, at an elevation of 28,000 feet, Hall found himself immobilized, engulfed by an overwhelming lethargy. He beseeched a Sherpa companion, “I must rest—I need to sleep.”
Hall, a veteran climber with a quarter-century of expeditions to his name, had previously attempted Everest in 1984, though without success. Unbeknownst to him, he was now afflicted with cerebral edema, a severe altitude sickness. This condition causes the brain to swell, leading to disorientation, erratic walking, delusions, and, if untreated, death.
This segment of Everest, just shy of the summit, is ominously known as the “death zone.” Its treacherous slopes and icy facade require the use of anchored ropes and ice axes for navigation. It is at this daunting altitude that climbers are most vulnerable to illness.
Under normal circumstances, the journey back to the advanced base camp takes two hours. However, Hall’s condition worsened as cerebral edema set in, rendering him weak and increasingly uncooperative. Two Sherpas were tasked with helping him descend, consuming valuable daylight, while their companions continued downward.
Nine hours into the ordeal, Hall’s body became still, showing no signs of life. Following protocol, the Sherpas left him behind. In the harsh reality of mountaineering, many succumb to the cold and appear beyond revival, only to sometimes miraculously recover.
In a final attempt to confirm Hall’s condition, one Sherpa prodded his eye, but when there was no reaction, they collected his belongings and retreated to the higher camp.
Earlier that day, another mountaineer, Thomas Weber from Germany, had shown the same distressing symptoms before collapsing and dying, just a short distance from Hall. Two weeks earlier, David Sharp, a British climber, had also fallen victim to the altitude, dying under an outcrop. Despite his plight, forty other summit-seekers passed him by without offering assistance.
For many seasoned Everest climbers, the mountain holds memories of peers who never returned. Dan Mazur’s own circle included Rob Hall and Scott Fischer, both lost in the infamous 1996 blizzard that claimed eight lives. Their remains, along with those of nearly 200 others, lie entombed in Everest’s icy embrace.
Mazur reflects, “Sometimes, reaching the summit means stepping over a fallen climber—a stark reminder to always respect the mountain.”
On that idyllic May morning, as they neared the summit, Mazur and his team faced a moral dilemma: report Lincoln Hall’s dire situation to his team, 7 Summits, and continue on, or stay with him until rescue arrived?
Having summited in 1991, Mazur was familiar with Everest’s pinnacle. For Brash and Osborne, however, who had each invested $20,000 in the climb, it was a once-in-a-lifetime aspiration. Ultimately, Mazur recognized that there was only one ethical choice. “Fortunately,” he recounts, “we all chose correctly.”
Osborne was the first to voice the unanimous sentiment: “We can’t just abandon him.”
Hall was not only suffering from frostbite and confusion, but he was also perilously close to tumbling down the Kangshung Face, an 8,000-foot sheer drop.
Mazur recounted, “He was perched on a tiny ledge, merely three feet square, blanketed in snow and ice. It’s miraculous he didn’t fall off during the night.”
They swiftly moved Hall from the precipice and aided him into his snowsuit. Digging into their packs, they shared their oxygen, lemonade, and Snickers bars with him.
Mazur inquired, “Do you recall how you ended up here?”
Hall, puzzled, eventually smiled and replied, “Yes! I’m Lincoln Hall. But how did I get here?”
Relieved by Hall’s recognition, Mazur hoped for his recovery. However, Hall’s clarity was fleeting.
He rambled, “What a fantastic boat journey this is!” as he gestured wildly, nearly shedding his snowsuit and lunging towards the abyss.
Mazur reacted swiftly, “Hold on! Where are you off to?” He secured Hall in a firm embrace, pulling him back from the edge, bewildered by Hall’s reckless actions.
Mazur’s thoughts turned to his late friend Scott Fischer, who had succumbed to Everest’s harsh conditions. Climbers who encountered Fischer’s body found his suit unzipped, with an arm exposed to the brutal cold—a clear sign of hypothermia’s final stages, where victims paradoxically strip off clothing. Hall’s erratic behavior, resembling a toddler’s outburst, indicated he was unresponsive and possibly unable to comprehend the situation. Mazur resolved not to let Hall succumb to the mountain.
“Let’s move him from the edge,” Mazur urged his team. They needed to secure Hall to prevent any fatal missteps. An ice axe was planted firmly into the snow, and a sling—a durable nylon strap—was fastened around Hall with a secure figure-eight knot.
In urgent need of assistance
Once Hall was safely tethered, Mazur radioed the high base camp, instructing the cook to alert the 7 Summits team. “Wake them and get them on the radio—quickly!”
When Hall’s head Sherpa responded, Mazur conveyed the gravity of Hall’s condition.
“Lincoln Hall is alive but in grave danger,” Mazur communicated.
A tense silence followed. “He’s alive? To what extent?”
“He’s active and speaking,” Mazur replied, frustration tinged in his voice. “We urgently require additional provisions, hydration, and oxygen to facilitate his descent. Without these, his survival is doubtful.”
Mazur was insistent, urging the man to get Alex Abramov on the line.
“Your team’s at the higher camp, aren’t they? We need them here now!” he pressed Abramov. The Russian mountaineer agreed, promising to send as many Sherpas as possible.
Mazur understood the Sherpas’ earlier decision: “You can’t fault the Sherpas for Hall’s predicament. They’re here to assist in our ascent, not to risk their lives.”
The team endured over four hours in the biting cold, marching in place and shuffling along the narrow, icy ledge to keep warm.
Brash, who had dedicated years to preparing for Everest, reflected on the silence that enveloped them. “It was a heavy quiet, filled with disappointment. The summit was no longer within our reach.”
Hall’s fate hung in the balance. His body convulsed with shivers, his head bobbing involuntarily. Blinded by the snow in the glaring sunlight, a common affliction at such altitudes, his fingers were so frostbitten they resembled waxen sculptures.
Mazur was insistent, urging the man to contact Alex Abramov immediately.
“Your team’s at the higher camp, right? We need them here now!” he pressed Abramov. The Russian mountaineer agreed, promising to send as many Sherpas as possible.
Mazur understood the Sherpas’ earlier decision: “You can’t blame the Sherpas for Hall’s situation. They’re here to help us ascend, not to risk their own lives.”
The team endured over four hours in the biting cold, marching in place and shuffling along the narrow, icy ledge to stay warm.
Brash, who had spent years preparing for Everest, reflected on the silence that surrounded them. “It was a heavy quiet, filled with disappointment. The summit was no longer within our reach.”
Hall’s fate was uncertain. His body convulsed with shivers, his head bobbing involuntarily. Blinded by the snow in the glaring sunlight, a common issue at such altitudes, his fingers were so frostbitten they looked like waxen sculptures.
Hall faced the grim prospect of surgery to remove the tips of six fingers. Despite this, he considered himself fortunate, knowing he narrowly escaped becoming the 12th fatality on Everest in its deadliest year since the 1996 disaster. His remarkable survival has sparked controversy over the ethics of climbers prioritizing their summit goals over helping those in danger.
Sir Edmund Hillary, famous for his pioneering ascent in 1953, expressed his dismay upon hearing that 40 climbers had ignored David Sharp’s critical condition.
“People have utterly disregarded the true essence of climbing,” he told a New Zealand publication. “In our time, abandoning an incapacitated team member to their fate was unthinkable.”
Mazur remains uncertain if measures can be implemented to prevent future tragedies. He acknowledges the irresistible draw of Everest’s summit, understanding that climbers will always risk everything for the fleeting triumph of standing at the pinnacle of the world.