My Gap Year

In 1923, when asked by a reporter for the New York Times why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, having twice tried and failed to reach the summit, George Mallory allegedly uttered the famous line, “Because it’s there.” Mallory participated in the first three British expeditions to Everest, and was last seen in 1924 about 800 vertical feet from the summit. Debate raged as to whether Mallory and his climbing partner, Andrew “Sandy” Irvine, had reached the summit before both perishing. In 1933, another British expedition found Mallory’s ice axe at an altitude of about 28,000 feet, but his body was not discovered until 1999, at an altitude of about 27,000 feet. I hope Mallory made it. It would suck to have such a great line ruined by failure.

Mallory was 37 when he died; Irvine was only 22. In reading about Mallory, his response to the reporter conveyed what I would describe as youthful arrogance. It wasn’t really a question of whether he’d reach the summit; the only consideration was his motivation to try. He knew he had the ability to succeed.

This all came up for me because I had decided to do a trek to Mount Everest Base Camp as part of my gap year bucket list of activities. I didn’t climb Mount Everest – I’m not that adventurous (or fit enough). I hiked for just over a week from Lukla (about a 30 minute plane ride from Kathmandu), trekking over 40 miles, and ascending about 13,000 feet to a final altitude of about 17,600 feet at the foot of Mount Everest.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had someone tell me that “60 is the new 50” or, more unrealistically, the “new 40.” Age is just a number after all. Except it’s not.

Going back to the statistics about summiting Mount Everest, I learned that the average age of a climber successfully reaching the summit is between 35 and 38 years old (about a 56% success rate). About 80% of climbers between the ages of 25 and 50 make it. That number drops to about 33% to 40% of climbers over 60 who make it to the top. That’s a significant improvement over the last 20 years; the success rate for climbers over 60 was only 13% from 1990 to 2005. The fatality rate for older climbers is about 4.5% during the ascent, but 10.5% during the descent.

I can relate to that last bit of information – it was definitely my experience that descending was harder on my knees and made me feel more tired than ascending. It’s hard to imagine what it must feel like to be doing that in an even thinner atmosphere. Where I was, at 17,000 feet, available oxygen is only about half what you get at sea level. At the summit of Everest, available oxygen is barely one third of what’s available at sea level.

As with so many things that I have experienced during my travels, Everest stirred up memories from 30 or more years ago. When I was 16, I spent the summer in Israel. One of the excursions we took from Jerusalem was to Mount Masada, an isolated rock plateau near the Dead Sea. During the Roman siege of Jerusalem, Jewish rebels took refuge on the mountain top and are said to have committed mass suicide rather than surrender. There are three different ways to reach the top – a winding path referred to as the “snake path,” a Roman ramp that provides an easier path to the summit, and a cable car for those who choose not to hike. In 1978, I took the “snake path” at dawn to watch the sunrise from the mountain top. I climbed in sandals and don’t remember even breaking a sweat.

I went back to Israel after law school, and once again climbed Masada to watch the sunrise. I had read that soldiers in the Israeli tank corps would run to the top of the mountain to be sworn in with a pledge that “Masada will not fall again.” It generally took between 45 minutes and an hour to reach the top; I was committed to seeing how fast I could make it. I was 26, and remember passing lots of people on the path on my way to the top. Again, I wasn’t winded or particularly challenged, and took a certain amount of pleasure in making it to the top faster than most of the people I started the climb out with.

It has always been my assumption that I can push through any physical endeavor, no matter how challenging. I have a pretty high pain threshold, and have always believed in the “mind over matter” approach to hurdles I’ve encountered. But now I’m 63.

Knowing what I know now, I question whether I would have booked the Everest trek if I had a clearer picture of what to expect. I was told that I’d be staying in “tea houses” along the way to Base Camp, and I pictured cozy, New England B&B’s with roaring fires and homemade muffins for breakfast. Instead what I found was that the “tea houses” were unheated plywood dormitories, usually without running water or electricity. There was a central dining room that was warmed by a stove that wasn’t lit until 5 or 6 p.m., and you could charge your phone only after 9 a.m. when the solar panels were capable of generating sufficient power. It was routinely below 5 degrees (Fahrenheit) every morning when I woke, and I slept in just about every article of clothing I had with me, including my down jacket. Sleep itself was elusive – at altitude, it’s difficult to sleep soundly for physiological reasons – I generally only got 2 to 3 hours per night.

Making matters worse, I was not aware that one should avoid eating meat once you get past a certain altitude during the trek. Meat is brought up the mountain by horse or by ox and is not refrigerated in transit. I ate what I thought was a harmless meal of roasted chicken at Namche Bazar (at about 11,300 feet), only to find myself with severe stomach issues for the following 4 days. I couldn’t eat anything without feeling sick, so I hiked the last several days to Base Camp eating nothing but a single piece of dry toast in the morning. I wound up losing about 20 pounds during the week.

I have always had an “internal age” that bears no relation to my actual age. For a long time, I thought of myself as having the capabilities of a 28 year old. Later, that shifted to about 40. But there on Everest, there was no amount of “positive thinking” could change the fact that my body was simply not capable of doing the same things it did when I was in my 20’s, or even my 40’s. The concept of my internal age was shattered, and I was forced to accept the fact that I am aging.

But I don’t think aging has to mean getting old. It’s more about aligning your internal age with your actual age. You only get told that you’re “youthful” when you’re no longer young. Achievements start being qualified by the tag line “… for your age.” I’m not interested in staying young. I would much prefer being accepting of the changes in my physical capacity, and appreciating what I hope is wisdom I’ve acquired during my life.

Would I want to turn back the clock? Not really. It would be nice to wake up without a stiff back or a sore neck, but I wouldn’t trade the experiences I’ve had or the things I’ve learned to go back to how I was in my 20’s or 30’s. That’s the paradox – would you turn back the clock but have to go back to being the person you were at that age? My life has changed so dramatically since my 20’s; I’ve worked hard to become a fully-functioning adult (not to say that I don’t have more to learn), and the person I am now, at least in my own mind, bears little resemblance to the person I was in 1978 or 1988, when I could race up Mount Masada.

So do I feel a sense of accomplishment about reaching Everest Base Camp? Yes. Would I do it again? Absolutely not. I’m glad I had the opportunity to take the trip while I am still physically capable of doing it. As with many of the things I’ve experienced during my gap year, I know it’s an experience I probably wouldn’t be able to have if I had waited longer to retire. I really hope there’s still enough time to do the other things I want to do, and that my body will cooperate with me.

At least I can say that I made the trek to the base of Mount Everest at age 63. Now it’s time to find the next challenge and see if I’m up to it. It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time. I just hope that I can have that same bravado and confidence that George Mallory had, although I hope the outcome of my next adventure is a little better than how things worked out for him. Life, and aging, is about those adventures large and small and the experience you take away from them. I feel like I have the opportunity to explore my own limits and learn new things about myself every day, even if it means going through some shit and living with the realization that I’m not the same person I was (physically or emotionally). What’s more important than aging gracefully with self-knowledge and acceptance? Well, a flush toilet is still nice.