I was stricken by the infamous “Khumbu Cough”. At 7200m on Makalu, late in the day at the top of our fixed ropes, I doubled over in another convulsing fit, coughing so hard I felt I was about to vomit. I was developing symptoms of high-altitude pulmonary edema.
My partner Hamish Fleming choked down a gel to moisten his equally hoarse throat.
“How you feeling mate?” I asked.
“Absolutely fried.”
Matt Scholes and Matthew Clark descended towards us in bright orange down suits. Being Australian, they had more high-altitude experience than us two Kiwis. (Without easy access to the Southern Alps, they had instead travelled to the Andes and Himalaya.) They were acclimatising faster than Hamish and I, and had climbed ahead to the col. But they were forced to retreat from Makalu La (7450m), blown over by intense wind rushing over the pass. With just enough time to squint into Tibet they decided: this was no place for man.
As we descended into sunset, a golden consolatory glow was cast over Everest and Lhotse to the northwest, reminding
