The lack of warmth was a knife in and of itself, relentless in its effects on his already wracked frame. But 21,000 feet above the base of Everest, clinging to a frozen cord with rope-burned, frostbitten fingers, 27-year-old Doug McClellan found fear a luxury he couldn’t nearly afford. Separated from his guides some hours before during a localized snowstorm, Doug was somewhere between sea level and Base Camp One, limited by less than ten feet of visibility, crippling temperatures, debilitating winds, and absolutely no way to locate his destination. A sudden gust of frozen snow drove him to his knees, then face-first into the powder. He was so tempted to quit, more than ever before tempted to lie down and surrender his soul. Instead, he worked himself into a crouch to protect his face from the freeze and prayed: "Lord, if you still care for your servant, give him a chance to live."
He stood, and caught sight of a sheer facet of ice twenty paces ahead. Barely pausing for fear of loss of circulation, Doug removed the ice picks from his pack and began to climb, unassisted.
Right hand then left, a seamless pattern which defined his existence, replaced all other cognitive reasoning, as he ascended.
There. Base Camp One. Flurries of snow had been replaced by a thick fog, but he could still make out cutting flashlight beams and the faint voices of a search party frantically screaming his name. He looked up, opened his mouth to respond, and hesitated with the right hand for a second too long. The ice pick slipped, failing to penetrate the smooth icy surface, and as he lost his hold on the right ice pick, it descended into the blackness. Doug clung to a single pick, scared to raise his voice even as the search party loomed only dozens of meters away, for fear that the vibrations would jar his body free of how own grip.
The pick in his left hand lost its wavering battle with the surface of the ice, and with no handhold or foothold to maintain, Doug tumbled into uncertainty.
As quickly as it had begun, the fall desisted. His emergency rope snagged, but given the limited visibility it was impossible to identify the object. What made matters worse was the fact that his pack had continued the descent since it was not directly attached to the emergency rope. Doug was left with his clothing, the rope, and his knife. And the fact that he did not know his own location was beginning to crack his resolve. Hanging unidentifiably on the side of Everest as the cold continued to worsen, the knife in his pocket seemed to beckon. It would be so easy to end it all. Instead, he opened his mouth again to mutter a prayer.
Before any words escaped from his mouth they were drowned out. Not from a booming noise, or a piercing scream, but rather from a whisper, one which somehow, despite the howling of the snow around him, penetrated his being as easily as if he were sitting in a comfortable chair.
"If you love me, cut your rope."
Without even pausing to ponder the identity of the whisperer, Doug lashed out at the darkness.
"Do you know what that would do? I would plummet into oblivion! It would guarantee that I would never see my wife or my children again! I would never work again! I would never smile again! I would never take another breath or mutter another word! I will NOT let go!"
Still the whisper persisted, lovingly and kind, as if Doug's previous words had not registered.
"Doug, if you love me, you will cut this rope."
Taken aback at the fact that the whisperer knew his name, Doug curbed his anger and instead inquired, "Who....what are you?"
Nothing but stillness greeted his inquiry. And Doug's anger returned. "I will NOT do as you say!"
"You asked, and I answered," the whisper replied, with all the sincerity of a child. "Cut this rope."
"I cannot," Doug called into the darkness, tears streaming down his face and freezing before they reached his chin. The winds had increased, and were now swinging the man from right to left. "I cannot cut this rope. It's my only lifeline. If I surrender this, I surrender everything."
One last time the whisper responded, a touch of desperation in it's voice. "Doug, cut the rope.”
"I will not!" Doug screamed his determination into an unforgiving torrent of weather.
"Cut the rope." The whisper was becoming difficult to define between the howling of the storm. What before was so clear was now increasingly challenging to locate and understand. For a half-hour Doug pleaded with the whisperer to return, but neither the voice nor the presence satisfied his desires, and again he was left with the cold, and a choice. Finally, he tucked his head into his jacket, curled his fingers into his gloves, closed his eyes, and prepared for the night.
In the morning the search party resumed their search for Doug McClellan. They found his body, frozen and lifeless, along the edge of Everest. He hung, two feet above an outcropping. His location puzzled the search crew. "All he had to do was slice through this rope and he was home free," one remarked. "That outcropping would've saved his life."
Trust.
