Annapurna

Puja Ceremony

Everything on Annapurna is dangerous, even the route to Camp 1. Having ventured partway there a couple of days earlier, I had an idea of what to expect. The first challenge that demands your attention is crossing a dirt gully with a drop of over a thousand feet to the right. After this, you must rappel down another dirt gully to reach the glacier. Although the rappel itself is not technically difficult, the abundance of loose rocks makes it hazardous, so wearing a helmet is essential. Unfortunately, I had forgotten my ATC (rappelling device), so Pasang lent me his while he used a Munter hitch. This seemingly minor issue triggered a cascade of negativity in my mind, convincing me that I wasn’t a good climber and unprepared for a technical mountain like this. I tried to silence the “shitty committee” in my head, knowing that negative self-talk is never helpful.

Once on the glacier, avalanches could be seen periodically roaring down to the glacier’s floor. The climb up to Camp 1 involved scrambling over icy rocks and short sections of ice climbing. Fortunately, these challenging parts all had fixed ropes, but despite this, I remained on edge the entire day. Relief washed over me when Pasang and I finally arrived at Camp 1.

Rappelling down to glacier floor.

Climbing to C2

4/10: C1->C2

The route from Camp 1 to Camp 2 is perhaps the only part of the mountain relatively free from objective dangers, as it is mostly shielded from rockfalls and avalanches. Pasang and I made the ascent without issues. The climb began with a traverse across a glacier, followed by a steep section of mixed rocks and ice, which was actually enjoyable. This was capped by a snow slog leading into Camp 2.

Once we arrived at Camp 2, we noticed other teams approaching, fully equipped with their summit gear. We learned that Imagine Nepal and other groups were beginning their summit push. This presented a dilemma for us; as a small team, our plan had been to summit alongside the larger teams, but we weren’t acclimated and had left our down suits and summit gear back at Base Camp.

Ultimately, Chris and I decided to head back to Base Camp the next morning with Chirring and Pasang, while Steve opted to stay at Camp 1 to avoid the strenuous trek back. Chris and I planned to spend just one night at Base Camp and forgo the typical rest days, hoping we could turn around quickly and perhaps catch up with the larger teams for their summit push.

4/11: C2->BC
I was beginning to feel the effects of altitude and did have a fitful night of sleep with vivid high altitude dreams made worse by the anxiety of knowing the other teams were already getting ready to head to C3 and later the summit. We had some coffee and eggs and then headed back to basecamp.

4/13: BC->C2
Pasang and I begin climbing around 5 am. The weather is cold but clear, good climbing weather. The route to C1 feels easier now that I am better acclimated, and I know what to expect. When we arrive at C1 we eat some lunch and then head up to C2.

Icy rocks on the way to C1

4/14: C2->C3
This is the most perilous part of the climb, with unavoidable avalanches and rockfall making it feel like a game of Russian roulette; the only way to minimize danger is to move quickly. As soon as we leave Camp 2, we begin traversing under a slope prone to frequent avalanches. Earlier this month, other teams had fixed ropes in this section, only for an avalanche to sweep down and bury them beneath a cascade of snow. After navigating the treacherous traverse, we reach a steep pitch.
We take a brief break during which I meet a fellow American climber named Gina and Dawa Gylaje Sherpa. In the years to come, we will all become friends. Gina spots my Baby Yoda stickers and shares that she has a life-sized Baby Yoda in her apartment. Our exchange lightens the mood, providing a welcome moment of camaraderie amid the tension.

No sooner do Pasang and I clip in to start the steep ascent than I hear shouts of “AVALANCHE!” It takes a moment for the gravity of the situation to register, and time seems to slow to a crawl. I glance at Pasang, confusion etched on my face, and he urgently motions for me to pull my hood over my helmet and press my body against the rock. There’s no time to run, and nowhere to escape, so I follow his instructions.

Soon, we hear the roar of the avalanche and watch in horror as it rushes toward us. Miraculously, a rock band to our right diverts the oncoming avalanche, and instead of being swept away, we are merely showered with a spray of icy snow. My thoughts instantly shift to Gina and Daddy Sherpa below us; I fear the worst but look down to see that the avalanche has spared them as well. In that moment of sheer disbelief, I wonder what I’ve signed up for. Feeling completely shaken, I turn to Pasang and ask if we should continue. He almost laughs at my question, saying, “Didi, this is ANNAPURNA! Of course, there are avalanches. What did you expect? We keep climbing.”

Climbing above the area where the avalanche and rockfall happened on the relatively safer snow slopes.

Guide Pasang on the way to C3. Line of climbers can be seen above him.

Feeling foolish and naive, I push onward. The next section is steep, but the fixed ropes make it manageable. Just as we approach a flat spot, a rock tumbles down and strikes Pasang on the arm. A quick examination reveals a rapidly expanding goose egg on his forearm, but thankfully there are no cuts or broken bones. Despite the injury, he insists we continue climbing. When we reach a safe spot, we stop to eat lunch. We meet up with Maya Sherpa, a female climber I admire, and we decide to tackle the next section together. It stretches on for several more hours, and the heat becomes unbearable.

As we get close to Camp 3, we enter an icefall. Clouds roll in, the temperature plummets, and suddenly we are freezing. We must navigate a tricky downclimb to find a group of tents nestled against an icy headwall. Although we do not have a tent set up yet, a group of Nepali climbers, including Purnima and her brother, welcome me into their tent and share hot tea with me. I am incredibly grateful. Before long, Pasang has erected our tent, and we climb inside to begin the process of melting ice so we can eat and drink. I share a tent with Guide Pasang and Small Pasang. The plan is for the three of us to climb together for the remainder of the journey.

4/15: C3->Lower C4
As soon as we start climbing, we are confronted with an ice feature which we must traverse while front pointing with our crampons, followed by a jump across the crevasse and then a steep ice climb to a plateau. The Sherpa’s have decided to haul their heavy packs up first and then climb after the packs are up. I watch as Guide Pasang sends his pack up, part way up his pack gets stuck, the Sherpas give it a big tug and his pack springs free but small bag with my contacts lens and asthma inhalers springs free of his pack and tumbles into a deep crevasse. Fuck, I think, what were the chances of that? The Shitty Committee in my brain immediately starts berating me for being so lazy and giving Pasang these things to carry which are not heavy and essential for my climbing. I try to look to see if my stuff sack is retrievable but sadly it is gone forever. Unsure what to do I figure I will keep climbing and hope I can wear this pair of contact lens for the next few days.

We are in a cue and eventually it is my turn, at this point the anticipation has built and I am filled with anxiety. I have told the nasty voice in my head it must be quiet, it can chastise me later but now I need to focus. I tell myself I know what I am doing, remind myself I have been practicing ice climbing and that I am on a fixed rope. I am able to climb this feature without incident. I am of course exhausted when I reach the top and I throw my pack down and double over to catch my breath. I have opted not to start oxygen yet and I see some of the other climbers using it. I allow myself to feel proud for a moment and then it is time to get going.

The Sherpa’s regrouping after we ascend the ice wall.

Approaching lower C4

The next part of the climb is a moderate snow slope. We climb it without issue. When we get below C4 we are informed that C4 is “full” and there is nowhere for us to pitch our tent so we need to stop here. I am disappointed since I know this will mean a longer summit day.

As we prepare to pitch our tents, a helicopter suddenly hovers overhead, poised to drop a load of fixed rope and rescue an injured climber. The scene unfolds surreal at nearly 24,000 feet—I’m astounded by the pilot’s incredible skill in flying at such altitude while managing a rescue operation. The helicopter cannot land, so it hovers precariously above the injured climber, who is attached to a rope, dangling below while being flown to safety. I later learn that the team attempting the summit ran out of rope, which explains the helicopter’s urgent mission.

Before long, Guide Pasang, Small Pasang, and I are inside our tent, melting snow and getting ready for the summit push later that night. The excitement and tension in the air are palpable as we prepare for the challenges that lie ahead. I’ve decided to keep my contact lenses in; with no solution or way to store them and my spare pair deep in a crevasse, it’s the only option I have.

4/16: Summit day 1 am – 9 pm (20 hours)
Our initial plan was to wake up at 10 PM and begin our climb, but fresh snowfall and news over the radio that the rope-fixing team at upper Camp 4 had not yet departed changed our course. To give them a head start, we went back to sleep, resuming preparations at midnight. I was relieved to find that my contacts stayed moist enough to see clearly, especially after losing my other pairs in a crevasse.

The plan was for me to climb with Guide Pasang while Small Pasang would go at his own pace, allowing him a chance at the summit as well. My breathing was labored, even with the supplemental oxygen we had started using the night before, and the terrain was steep. Upon reaching upper Camp 4, Guide Pasang suggested a brief rest, pleased with our quick pace. Continuing onward, we encountered our first traffic jam at a rocky section where shouts of “rope loose, rope loose” filled the air. At first, I misunderstood this as a warning about an unanchored rope, but soon realized it was a caution against pulling too tightly, as the snow remained soft, and the anchor was not bombproof.

When it was our turn, Guide Pasang and I navigated the climb together, finding it manageable with solid footholds. We then climbed through steep, somewhat exposed snow slopes, although the early light obscured their true exposure. Catching up with our teammate Steve, we exchanged quick greetings and swapped out our oxygen tanks, which had been partially used from sleeping on them the night before.

The Sherpa’s regrouping after we ascend the ice wall.

Stymied by another traffic jam, Chris W and Chirring reached us. They had started from Camp 3, skipping a night at Camp 4, and were now blazing a trail to bypass the congestion. Chirring invited us to join them, but I hesitated, unsure if I could sustain that speed while also feeling the urge to pee, which didn’t help. At one point, Guide Pasang shouted, “No sleeping on the rope! If you want to sleep, go back to your bed; we want to summit!” His heckling amused me, though the slow climbers seemed indifferent, with one appearing to smile or perhaps be in a hypoxic stupor. This heckling earned him the nickname of Loud Pasang.

Upon reaching a small plateau, I convinced Loud Pasang to stop so we could put on our sunglasses and grab a snack. Thankfully, eating was easy, but I felt too shy to relieve myself just off the main trail. Despite my watch indicating we hadn’t yet reached 25,000 feet, I remained determined to keep pushing toward the summit.

By 10:30 AM, we hit the plateau traverse where another group had stopped. The urgent need to pee overwhelmed my modesty, so I squatted in front of everyone. Afterward, to my dismay, I realized my oxygen was almost empty. Worse still, our remaining oxygen bottle wouldn’t open; we had noticed the valve was finicky earlier, but now it wouldn’t budge in the daylight. Panic began to set in, but I tried to remain calm as I sat, admiring the view and considering that this might be my high point.

Maya caught up to us and informed me this was the end of the fixed rope. She expressed concern over the risks of continuing, saying, “I am a mother, and the risk is too great.” I explained we couldn’t open our oxygen tank and were preparing to turn back. After some discussion with Pasang, Maya initially offered us her spare oxygen, but after contacting her team, she learned that the rope fixing was continuing past the traverse. She decided to use her extra oxygen and keep going.

Meanwhile, I told Guide Pasang we were heading down. His frustration was clear as he pointed out all the other teams going for the summit. I thought bitterly, “Thanks, Captain Obvious, but they probably don’t have defective oxygen.” After over thirty minutes of trying everything—knives, ice axes, hot water—Pasang finally sat beside me, triumphantly displaying the open oxygen tank. “Thank God!” I exclaimed, relief flooding over me. We quickly agreed to push for the summit, and Pasang set up a rope system as we hurried after Small Pasang, who had recently passed us.

As we moved forward, I mentally calculated how long our oxygen would last. It was now 11 AM, and I needed to stretch it to ensure a safe descent. We crossed one crevasse with a fixed rope and arrived at the start of the French Couloir. Reality hit: with no one descending, I had no idea how much further we had to go. I kept replaying Chris W’s words about the true summit requiring a traverse from the top, which further dampened my spirits. We negotiated a new turnaround time of 2 PM, a decision every mountaineer knows is risky.
Soon after, I picked up on excited chatter from some Sherpas over the radio, which I hoped signaled good news about summits. I kept popping shot blocks and fantasizing about finding a moment to pee. What felt like an eternity later, Chirring came through on the radio, mentioning “oxygen, China”—a clear indication that their tank was empty. Panic crept in; if they couldn’t make the summit, what hope did I have? The negativity spiraled in my mind, further compounded by the clouds rolling in and the wind picking up, accentuating my unease.

People starting to descend just above the French Coulier

Summit Guide Pasang and Tracee

Before long, Chirring’s enthusiastic voice came through—he and Chris had made it to the summit! Loud Pasang confirmed this, and with the sun breaking through, a wave of optimism washed over me. I could see a group at the summit, waving flags and cheering. One person stood on a rock, frenetically taking selfies and filming himself—no doubt for TikTok, I thought. It felt like some alternate universe filled with oxygen-deprived revelry.

As we approached the bottleneck created by a large rock, dread settled in over how we would all descend on a single rope. To my relief, the rope-fixing team had set up a new rope, and I felt a surge of excitement! I spotted some women coming down as well as Chirring and Chris and managed to shout “congratulations!” to them.

Climbing over the rock felt manageable, even though I feared being caught by the descending rope. Once I safely flung it aside, I considered whether to arm wrap or rappel down, as both techniques were in use, with Sherpas urging their exhausted clients to rappel for safety.

Finally, around 2 PM, we arrived at the summit plateau, entering the chaos. My hackles were raised; I hadn’t come this far to be knocked over for a selfie. We quickly snapped a few photos while trying to avoid the throng and focused on documenting our hard-won achievement.

As we descended the French Couloir I felt a sense of dread as the wind picked up and clouds rolled in again. We roped together for the traverse, but soon both Loud Pasang and I ran out of oxygen much sooner than anticipated. I decided to take Dexamethasone to stave off HACE.

I was shocked by how quickly I lost the ability to manage the rope, and my gait became unsteady. Loud Pasang began yelling at me, adding to my anxiety. Aware of the dangers in this area, I started to hallucinate, hearing what felt like spirit voices. I felt suspended between life and death, but thoughts of friends who had survived similar challenges gave me courage and hope.
When we reached the high camp set up by a Russian team, Loud Pasang negotiated for one of their emergency oxygen bottles. He handed it to me, and I was immensely grateful—this support may have truly saved my life.

After several exhausting hours, we finally arrived at upper Camp 4 and then lower Camp 4 way after sunset. Once inside our tent, we were too drained to care for ourselves, but I knew I needed to rehydrate. Small Pasang fired up the stove and made ramen for us. Soon, we fell into a fitful sleep, with Loud Pasang yelling in his sleep throughout the night. I worried about Maya as I had not seen her since we passed her on the traverse.

Below C4

4/17: C4->BC

When we awoke the next morning and I heard Maya’s voice, a wave of relief washed over me. After melting some snow for drinking water, we set off on our descent. Miraculously, my contact lenses were still holding up. The journey down felt endless as we dropped over 10,000 feet in elevation, but we persevered and finally arrived back at base camp long after the sun had set.

The experience had shaken me to my core; it was the hardest thing I had ever done and brought me closer to death than I had ever been. Sitting in the stillness of base camp, doubts began to flood my mind. Did I truly belong in the world of high-altitude climbing? The weight of my recent struggles hung heavily over me—was I really equipped to face the challenges that came with ascending 8,000-meter peaks?
The fear of failure nagged at me relentlessly, whispering thoughts of inadequacy. Yet, amid the uncertainty, a more primitive part of my brain stirred. It suggested that surviving the most dangerous peak was an achievement worth celebrating. Perhaps, it argued, I should push myself further and see if I could tackle all 14 of the world’s highest peaks.

About dZi Foundation

dZi Foundation has worked in Nepal for more than 20 years, partnering with communities across the Koshi River Basin — in the Solukhumbu, Khotang, and Bhojpur districts — to build critical infrastructure, reliable water systems, inclusive livelihoods, and climate resilience. Their programs have reached over 61,000 people, with a goal of serving 33,000 more across six municipalities.

Every trekker on this journey commits to raising a minimum of $500 for dZi. Those funds go directly to the communities dZi serves — empowering marginalized households so that the next generation in Nepal can thrive.

To learn more about dZi Foundation, visit dzifoundation.org