![]() That altitude is called the “death zone” for good reason. The ghoulish face and bone-white teeth scared them, so they covered the head with the jacket’s hood. The Sherpas picked at the body and used gestures and muffled words to decide how best to move it off the mountain. It was as if the man sat down for a rest, fell backward and froze that way. His frozen arms were bent at the elbows and splayed downhill over his head. His hydrant-yellow summit suit had dulled to the hue of a fallen leaf. More than a year of exposure to the world’s wickedest elements had blackened and shriveled the man’s bare face and hands. They were inside out and flapping in the whipping wind. When the Sherpas arrived - masks on their faces, oxygen tanks on their backs - the only movement on the steep face came from the dead man’s frayed jacket pockets. A plume of snow clouded the ridge toward the summit of Mount Everest, so close above. The sun was shining, but the air was dangerously cold and thin at 27,300 feet above sea level. ![]() When they finally freed a leg and lifted it, the entire stiff and contorted body shifted, down to its fingertips. They knocked chunks of snow from the body, and the shattered pieces skittered down the mountain. They swung axes at the body’s edges, trying to pry it from its icy tomb. Five Sherpas surrounded the frozen corpse.
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