In Thin Air

On my first afternoon in Marco Polo country, we drove out across a high plain, then walked up a gentle valley until we found a good vantage point on the divide. My head was pounding, and it occurred to me that I'd never had jet lag quite like this. We surprised a group of young rams--nothing special--and it occurred to me that I should be more excited at actually seeing one of the world's most legendary game animals, but somehow I couldn't quite focus.

This little pass, though plenty high, was swept clear of snow, so my guides set up a spotting scope while I gratefully threw myself on the moss. We spotted a big band of rams far away on a high ridge--just shimmering white and gray with a hint of horns. They were much too far to approach before dark, and I was oddly grateful.

On the walk back, head still pounding, I drifted off the trail several times, dozing on my feet. In the Russian jeep on the way back to camp it got worse. I tried to sleep but I kept jolting awake, unable to catch my breath. In camp I sat still for a while, my skull splitting, unable to concentrate. Then I was sick to my stomach (both ends--almost unheard of for "Cast Iron Craig").

The proper term is High Altitude Cerebral Edema (HACE) fluid buildup around the brain caused by high altitude. I didn't know that then; I only knew--vaguely--that I was in big trouble. Later I would learn that altitude sickness, either this form or pulmonary edema (fluid buildup in the lungs), is frighteningly random. It has nothing to do with age or physical condition; it may never strike, and it may never strike the same person more than once. But that once can be fatal, as has happened to experienced climbers with dozens of serious ascents behind them.

A standard preventative is a prescription drug called Diamox, which reduces fluid buildup and aids in oxygen transfer in thin air. It's also often prescribed for glaucoma sufferers because it reduces pressure from fluid buildup in the eyes. Once altitude sickness sets in, however, the best answers are either a hyperbaric chamber, which was not available in our camp, or to drop to lower altitude as quickly as possible. The latter option was discussed and was the correct and sensible approach. Fortunately or unfortunately, I wasn't exactly in a sensible mood. So I did one very smart thing and one very dumb thing.

Well, okay, the smart thing wasn't all that smart, because I had Diamox with me. I elected not to take it because, after all, I was in my mid-40s then, in good shape, and I was a hardheaded Marine. I'd hunted up to 12,000 feet many times and 14,000 a couple of times with no problems, so I figured I was tough enough that I didn't need that sissy stuff. I started to take it, understanding that it was sort of like closing the barn door after the horse was gone, but at least I had enough sense remaining to try something.

Understandably, the Tajiks were concerned and wanted to take me down. After all, dead hunters are very bad for business. At that point I didn't know much, but I knew, even as miserable as I was, that would be the end of a hunt I'd dreamed of for a long time. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to me to load my rifle, back myself into a corner, and see what developed. I wasn't leaving the mountain.