Stray Dog Climbs 23,000' Mountain

Every alpinist climbs for their own unique reasons. I still haven’t completely figured out why I climb, but I know that part of it is being in amazing places with great people. When it comes to amazing places to climb, Nepal is at the top of my list. When SummitClimb gave me the opportunity to lead an expedition of international climbers for on Mera Peak and Baruntse, I jumped at the chance.

On the thirteenth day of the expedition, the team summited Mera Peak. Mera is not a technically difficult mountain (only one section requires ropes), but at one thousand feet higher than Denali, it is certainly not just a hike either. We woke up at 1am, ate, put on our huge down pants and coats and pushed for the top. Twelve hours later, after a successful summit, the team and I had packed up high camp at 19,000’ and were on our way back down to the pass that divided our expedition; to the west was a four day walk back to civilization, to the east was three more weeks of climbing.

When coming down from a summit, I like to do a personal debrief. What were the hazards? Were you and your clients safe? What would you do differently? This was a great day though, perfect conditions, great weather, everything was easy, so my mind starts to wander. Why am I choosing to leave my fiancé and dog for so long for so little money? Why constantly put myself in dangerous situations where I am responsible for other people’s lives? Is this all worth it? Then from around the line of descending climbers comes a morale boost from the climbing gods. Trotting up the glacier is a stray dog. I absolutely love dogs, so I am trilled! She’s quite clean which is unusual for a Nepali street dog, but what is even more unusual is where this dog is. We’re at 18,000’ on a glacier with hundreds of crevasses. We’re above fixed lines, ropes that the Sherpa and guides attach to the mountain in places that are too steep for climbers to ascend using only their crampons (spikes on their boots) and ice axes.

This little 45lb Tibetan Mastiff/Himalayan Sheepdog mutt looks incredibly out of place surrounded by climbers wearing giant down suits, crampons, and using axes to support themselves. She runs around them all and straight up to me. As she gets closer, I recognize her from Khare, the village two miles away and 2,000’ below us. In Khare, she’d barely let me touch her, but up here we’re apparently best buds. I guess beef jerky on a glacier makes fast friends.

I have had dogs follow me on climbs before, but never on something like this. I instantly begin to picture this dog joining us for the duration of the trip. It would be so great to have a companion, a temporary Nepali therapy dog. Then I start to think about exactly what we’ll be doing in the next few weeks and the dream fades; days and days of hiking, then ascending thousands of meters of rope, camping in -30 degree wind chill. If she came with us, she’s surely die. Why would a dog work that hard for so long in such terrible conditions? It makes no sense.

Apparently, she had her reasons though, because she followed us for the next four days and 14 miles to Baruntse Base Camp. Along the way she would closely follow one of the clients or me, her nose inches away from the back of her hiking companion’s knee. Our first night together I tried to get her to stay in my tent because it was so cold. She had obviously never been in a tent though and wouldn’t stay inside. Instead she chose to sleep curled up in a little ball right outside my tent. When I woke up in the morning, she was still there, right outside my door, but now covered in a thin layer of snow. The next night she came in the tent.

On our trek to base camp our trust in each other grew. She quickly learned that I wasn’t going to hurt her. Not everyone is kind to dogs in Nepal. Many dogs carry rabies and it’s common for initial reactions to be negative and sometimes physical. I learned how to work with her despite the language barrier and discovered that she was a very intelligent animal. She came when called, would wait outside the dinning tent while I ate, and never chewed on any of my gear.

I told myself that if she followed us all the way to Base Camp that we would give her a name. I settled on Mera, since that’s where I met her. Not very original, I know, but we’re at 18,000’ and I’m not very creative at altitude. Mera quickly settled into Base Camp, and I gave up one of my two sleeping pads and a coat for her to sleep on. I’d also started giving her a hardy portion of leftovers from breakfast and dinner, because I assume that her body was working just as hard as ours were to stay warm and healthy at this elevation.

After a day’s rest in Base Camp, four of our Sherpa left camp and started putting in the route to Camp 1. I wasn’t surprised to see Mera follow them. I assumed she would walk with them up the dirt and rock trail to where it met the ice and steep rock and turn around. Still, it hurt me to see her leave. Base Camp was not the same without Mera. She brings such great energy to wherever she goes, and her absence is conspicuous.

When the Sherpa returned that evening they gave me a report of what they had accomplished. They had hiked two hours of rough and rocky trail to the glacier and marked a path through the broken glacier around running water and huge crevasses. Where the glacier got steep, they fixed 650 feet of rope to get to the bottom of a rock wall. From the base of the wall, they fixed another 650 feet of rope up the rock and through a gulley of steep snow and ice that ended with a 60+ degree section of snow. From there, they climbed a bit higher to the first flat area in several thousand feet; an exposed, windy snow field at 20,100’ to make Camp 1.

I thanked them for the long day of hard, dangerous work, then asked the obvious question, “Where’s the dog?” Jangbu answered, “Camp 1.” Camp 1? There’s no way that a dog could possibly make the climb between here and there. Most climbers wouldn’t dream of climbing that section without a rope. Jangbu assured me that she had climbed it all, but had refused to come back with them when they came down. Apparently the view down the several hundred foot ravine scared her and she wouldn’t come with them. The Sherpa had put in a huge day of work and it was getting dark, so they had to leave her there. I hated knowing that she was alone, exposed to the elements at over 20,000’. It broke my heart thinking of her lying in the snow with no food and wind chills dropping well below zero. If this were a personal climb, I would leave camp right now and go get her, but I have an obligation to be here for the clients. So I sit in camp and send all the positive energy that I can up 2,000’ to Mera, who I hope is going to make it through the night.

The next day I woke up to a helicopter landing in camp. After dropping some gear, the heli took off and returned thirty minutes later. I could see the familiar long line hanging below the helicopter with a person attached. This is the standard rescue set up in Nepal and a surprisingly common site. As the heli got closer to camp I could see that the patient wasn’t moving and he appeared to be stuck in an awkward, stiff position. Damn! This isn’t a rescue, it’s a recovery. As they touch down, Jangbu, our lead Sherpa, and I went to meet them and help move the body into the helicopter’s interior. Unfortunately, this was not my first time dealing with a dead body, but it was my first time moving a frozen corpse, and I know that I will never forget it. Seeing a person fixed in his terrible, final moment before death, eyes open, mouth ajar, hand grasping at something that isn’t there is a sobering thing to witness.

I went from being happily asleep in my tent to loading a frozen corpse in a helicopter in just a few minutes. What a terrible way to wake up. As I walk away from the landing zone, I try to gather my thoughts and get myself composed before I address my on-looking team. I wish so badly that Mera was here. I want her to push her nose into my underarm just like Maeve, my dog at home. This familiar sense of canine love would be profoundly comforting. Instead, I picture Mera at Camp 1 hungry and alone and I wonder if hers is the next body I will need to move. After explaining to the team what has just happened, I return to my tent. I lay and stare at the tent’s ceiling and wish Mera was here, calming me with her rhythmic breathing.

I hope all day to see Mera come jogging back into camp without any luck. We have a traditional Puja ceremony and the Sherpa bless our climbers, staff, and gear. I look though the smoke of the incense, to the swirling, windblown dirt of our valley. If it’s windy here, it must be hell at Camp 1. Dead body or not, I know that Mera is having a harder day than me.

The following day, our Sherpa staff moves to Camp 1 to begin fixing ropes to the summit. Before they leave, I give Jangbu a bit of meat. “Give this to Mera is she’s still up there.” I can’t bring myself to say “if she’s alive.” I’m hopeful that she will be alright, but I am also realistic. I know that I wouldn’t survive two nights in the open at 20,000’, especially with these winds and no food. Jangbu and I test our radios and he promises to check in when he gets to Camp 1.

A few hours later, I hear an excited Jangbu on the radio “Dog is at Camp 1! Dog is good!” Thank God! I’m thrilled to know that she is alive and well. It will still be several days before the Sherpa return to Base Camp, but at least she will have food and company now. I ask Jangbu to take good care of her and make sure the she gets down safe. He promises that he will.

Over the next few days, I get regular updates on the Sherpa’s progress and, of course, on how Mera is getting along. She followed the Sherpa to Camp 2 at 21,000’, and was even going with them above camp as they fixed ropes up the steep, knife edge ridges toward the summit. On the third day, I radio Jangbu. “How are things up there?” I ask. “We are done. Climbing down tonight. At 22,300’ with dog now. Will bring her down.” I tell him that I copy and sign off, but I know that can’t be right. A dog just a thousand feet below the summit of Baruntse? That can’t be possible, right?

When they return to camp that night, Mera comes running to me. Seeing her again brings a tear to my eye. She has obviously lost some weight and has some minor cuts on one of her feet, but for a dog that just spent five days above 20,000 in the Himalayas, she looks pretty amazing. I pet her and feed her all that she wants, and then we retire to our tent. She immediately curls up on my coat and passes out. She’s exhausted, and rightfully so. I’m thrilled to have her back in the tent with me, but it’s bittersweet. I only have a few hours before the team and I leave for our summit push and Mera should stay in base camp.

The Sherpa, clients, and I are up early ready to start the summit push that we have been waiting weeks for. We pack up our tents, eat, and I pet Mera goodbye. I’m going to miss her, but Base Camp is the safest place for her to be. We have several staff members in Base Camp who will take good care of her while we climb. The local staff’s attitude toward her has changed from a vaguely tolerant to pure reverence since she returned from the upper mountain. No one has seen a dog like this before. They call her “lucky” and “blessed.” We quickly realize that Mera won’t stay in camp voluntarily, so we make a collar and leash for her and tie her to a boulder in camp so that she cannot follow us. She yelps and whines as the team and I walk away. It breaks my heart, but I know that she will be safer in here.

Half an hour into our climb I feel a tickle on the back of my knee. I look down and see Mera following right behind me just like before. I still have no idea how she got loose, but I can’t leave the team to take her back, so I guess she is going to camp one with us! She makes quick work of the trail to the glacier, and then whines impatiently as we put on our big, double boots and crampons to start up the glacier. Apparently, I need to wear $1,300 worth of footwear to do what Mera does barefoot. We work our way up the glacier to the first of the fixed ropes. Climbers stop and attach themselves to the rope and slowly plod up hill. Mera runs up slope around all of us.

We pause at the base of the rock wall and a porter staggers up to us. He is obviously having trouble already, and things are about to get much harder. He is carrying a double load (well over 100lbs). I tell him to give me one of the big duffle bags off his back, but he refuses. I soon realize he is worried about his pay for the day, and I assure him I’ll still pay him, I just want to help. He reluctantly gives up a 45lb duffle. With the loads redistributed, I clip into the fixed rope and start to climb up the rock. The wall is nearly vertical, but has many cracks and ledges. Still, it seems completely implausible that a dog could climb it. Somehow every time I look back Mera is right behind me. She follows me until the rock is too blank for her to get a foothold then traverses to one side or another, using tiny ledges to work her way up. I had hoped that I could be a safety net for her, but with this huge duffle strapped to my already large backpack I’m doing well just to take care of myself and the clients.

At the top of the rock wall the angle eases back a bit and the terrain changes to hard packed snow. For me, this is great. One good kick with my crampons and my boot sinks into perfect Styrofoam snow. Mera though, is literally clawing her way up. She does an outstanding job for the first couple of hundred feet, then the angle increased and she started to slip occasionally. The first time or two she was able to stop herself, but then she totally lost control. I watched one paw slip, then another, and the next thing I knew she was sliding down the gully. From here, it would be several hundred feet of sliding and cartwheeling until the top of the rock band where she would free fall another hundred feet or so onto the glacier below. Luckily, I am directly below her and I was able to catch her as she slides past me.

I couldn’t fathom why she was trying the climb this terribly steep snow when she could be on the ridge of rock just a few yards to our left, and then it dawned on me. She’s trying to stay close to me. If I’m on the snow, that’s where she’s going to be too. After some frank risk assessment, I decided to unclip from the ropes and climb the rocky ridge to our left. For the next couple of hundred feet Mera, my giant pack, and I climbed parallel to the team; us on a 3rd and 4th class rock ridge, them on the fixed ropes in the snowy gully. At the top the gully the rock ridge peters out into nothing and there is no option but to climb some of the steepest snow of the entire route. I move up through this section doing my best to cut out small ledges with my crampons. With every step, I bash my crampon into the snow over and over again. After a few dozen steps my feet are throbbing, but I know it is the only way Mera could make it.

She sits on the last rock and watches me kick in the final 50 yards to the top of the pass. I hope desperately that she will know to use the tiny ledges that I had kicked in the ice. When I get to the top of the pass I clip myself back into the fixed lines and click my tongue twice. This is her signal to come. If she can just get here, she will be safe. Camp is an easy five minute walk away. She starts climbing as soon as I call, and it is a nerve wracking thing to watch. She claws and scratches her way up, slipping frequently, but moving purposely. She uses my ledges, finds some of her own, and eventually makes it to the top safely. Ten minutes later she was warm and safe inside my tent at camp one.

The following day she climbs with us to Camp 2 in deteriorating weather conditions. As we walk into camp at 21,000, the wind is blowing over 40 miles per hour. Unfortunately, this is the beginning of windiest time on Baruntse that any of the Sherpa can remember. Typically, teams spend just six or seven hours resting at Camp 2 and leave for the summit sometime in the middle of the night. We wait out the 40–60 mile an hour winds for four days. We hide in our wind battered tents and impatiently wait for a break in the weather. After two days of this, some clients decide to abandon their summit attempt and go down. Mera goes with them, and I hope for her sake that she will return to the warmer, calmer base camp. She just follows them to Camp 1 and then trots back up to Camp 2 in brutal winds.

Through all this Mera is a champ. I have limited amounts of food, but I split all my meals with her 50/50. She never begs for food or whines, not even when one particularly bad gust of wind rips out all our tent’s anchors and moves the entire tent three feet with us in it. Considering we have been trapped in a tent ninety five percent of the time for days on end, she is an angel. I couldn’t ask for a better tent mate.

Finally, on the fifth day at Camp 2 the wind brakes and we have our shot at the summit. I am very pleased see Mera sleeping away in my tent as we pack up and leave. The upper parts of a mountain like this are far too cold and dangerous for a dog, even Mera. We put on our huge down coats and pants, harnesses and helmets, and mittens the size of small boxing gloves and start climbing at 2am. We climb up hour after hour on progressively steeper and more exposed slopes. We ascend thousands of feet of fixed rope. Without the rope, a slip nearly anywhere along the route would mean falling thousands of feet to the glacier below. As the sun rises, we can see Tibet to our right and the tiny dots of our tents in basecamp directly behind and 2,000’ below us. I love knowing that Mera is warm and safe in the tiny little dot on the right.

We climb steep snow slopes and along knife edge ridges that fall away for thousands of feet on either side. We climb through the dark and into the morning in arctic conditions. As the sun hits us we come to a headwall; 40 feet of 60–70 degree snow topped with 2 body lengths of dead vertical snow. This would be challenging climbing for most people at sea level, but at 22,000, where we have less than half of the amount of oxygen, it’s brutal. We stop for a break at the top to catch our breath and choke down some food and water. I turn back to photograph the ridge we have just climbed and I see a black ball of fur following our tracks in the snow. It’s Mera! We’ve been climbing for seven hours and she’s almost caught up with us. I snap a couple of pictures and put the camera in my pack. The next thing that I know she is in my lap. I have no idea how she scaled the vertical wall of snow, but she’s with us now and keen to climb. I have never been so surprised or happy to see a dog in my life. The Sherpa are absolutely stunned! They all throw their fists in the air and cheer.

The last couple of hours of climbing blur by; more steep terrain, more ridges, and amazing views in every direction. Suddenly we’re there, just a few feet below the summit. Mera goes ahead of me as though she’s been up here a dozen times. We’ve done it! Three Sherpa, a client, myself, and the first dog to ever summit Baruntse. At 23,389’ this may be the highest elevation that a dog has ever climbed. We take a few minutes to take the obligatory summit pictures, making sure to get a few with Mera, and then we start heading down.

Every climber knows the most likely time for an accident is on the descent. I’m not sure how this applies to dogs, but I assume it’s the same. I try to put myself in her position. I think about going head first down the high angle slopes, and it makes me cringe. There is only so much that I can do to help her. If she cannot go down under her own power, I won’t be able to carry her. I need both hands to work the ropes and my ice axe.

We descend quickly, moving down the snowy ropes as fast as our lungs will allow. Still, Mera frequently stops and looks over her shoulder at me as though she doesn’t understand why I am not keeping up with her. At this point she has beaten up her paws a bit and is leaving spots of blood as she walks. I hate to see the blood, but if this is the worst injury she sustains today she will be lucky. Time after time she watches us clip into the rope and rappel down steep slopes, then climbs down on her own. When she gets to especially steep terrain, she whines a bit, waits for me to get below her then climbs to me. Her trust in me is unbelievable. Just when I am starting to think that there may not be anything that this dog can’t do, we get to the vertical snow step where Mera met us earlier today.

This is an awkward rappel that traverses hard to the right. Going straight down would go almost directly into Base Camp 4,500’ below us. As the team rappels one by one, I start to worry for Mera. One slip here and she would be gone forever. The terrain is difficult and the consequence is huge. When it’s only Jangbu, Mera, and I left at the top, I have a frank conversation with Jangbu. “It she follows me over this edge, she not going to make it.” He nods in agreement, and says that he has an idea. He just needs the 20’ cord that I keep on my harness. I know what his plan is. I don’t love it, but I don’t see a better option. I give him the cord, rappel to the bottom, and wait.

Jangbu uses the cord to create a makeshift harness then clips her to the rope. She barks and whines and pushes back from the edge. When he sees that I’m ready for Mera, Jangbu gives her a nudge over the edge and suddenly she’s half falling, half running down the slope. She comes flying down the hill and straight into my arms. Everyone yells and cheers for her, but no one more than Jangbu who is pumping his fists in the air on top of the cliff. After this, the rest of the descent is a cake walk for her. It is more intense than most people, and I assume most dogs, could handle, but Mera just tales it in stride.

We take a quick stop at Camp 2 to pack up, and then descend past Camp 1 and back into the approach gully. Of course, Mera does a miraculous job of getting down. By the time we get to the base of the gully it is dark. Without the sun, the snow is very firm and Mera has trouble descending the glacier that she had run up before. I walk next to her shining my headlamp in front of her so that she can see. We carefully make our way off of the glacier and onto the dirt trail. It feels great to be on solid ground. After 18 hours of climbing, we walk into base camp. I feed Mera a huge dinner and we pass out. She has been above 20,000’ for ten of the last eleven days and had just climbed higher than any dog has ever climbed. If a dog ever deserved to get some sleep it is certainly her.

The next day we begin the trek back to airport in Lukla. A disheartening fact of climbing in the Himalayas is that after a summit, you’re still a very long walk from civilization. In our case, we are thirty-two miles from the airport with a 19,200’ pass between here and there.

On our way out, I begin to consider my inevitable separation from Mera at the airport. Of course, I had considered bringing her home and even discussed it with my fiancé. It just wouldn’t be fair to Mera though. How could I bring this mountain climbing machine to live in my 700 square foot condo in Seattle? She would hate it. The thought of leaving her makes me sick and I do my best to push it to the back of my mind.

Amphu Labtse pass is nearly a mile higher than any mountain in the continental United States. To get over the pass from the south, climbers must climb rocks to access the glacier, climb up and over the crevassed glacier to the top of the pass, and then rappel down other side. After what Mera had already done, I assume this would be trivial.

On the lower section of the pass is a few hundred feet of rock climbing. Most is not that challenging, but some sections are vertical and have thin layers of ice covering the rock. There is a steel cable permanently attached to the rock on the steeper sections. Climbers and porters use this cable to pull themselves past the difficult sections, but Mera’s lack of opposable thumbs makes the cable useless to her. She works hard to climb the rock and finds creative solutions to climbing around difficult areas. I watch her work from ledge to ledge carefully balancing on the thin layer of ice.

She pauses at a bulge just big enough that she will have to jump to clear it. As she puts the extra pressure of jumping on her back legs her feet slide just enough to keep her from clearing the rock step. She lands back on the icy rock and starts to slide. I am a few feet below her holding onto the cable, but I’m not attached to it. If I want to save her I’ll have to grab her with one hand and hold on to the cable with the other. I brace for the weight of her hitting me and try not to think of the consequence of a fall from this height. She does her best to arrest her fall, but it is too icy. She slides toward me and I death grip the steel cable. As she slides by I throw an arm around her body and hold on for dear life. I quickly swing her back up onto the rock and she gets her gets her balance. My heart is pounding out of my chest. Mera just looks over her shoulder at me, then continues up the icy rock and jumps over the bulge like it was nothing.

Mera cruises through the upper glacier passing another team of climbers who are doubled over with exhaustion and are too tired to speak. For Mera, this is a walk in the park. The glacier is absolutely beautiful; one of the highlights of the trip. Mera seems to know this and stops to pose for several great pictures along the way. Just over the top of the pass is a very long rappel over vertical rock. Mera watches the clients go down first. She knows what she’s in for and begins to whine and get restless.

Jangbu and I talk again about the best way to get her down. We obviously can’t push her over the edge like we did on the snow. He wants to lower her on a rope, but I’m concerned that she will slip out of her makeshift harness. I decide it would be safest to attach her to me while I rappel. I can lower us with one hand and hold her with the other. We rig up her “harness,” I clip into the rope, and then attach her to my harness. She’ll be hanging between my legs once things get vertical. I give her a hug and apologize for what I’m about to do. I know that she isn’t going to like this part. I lean back and pull her with me. At first she, paws at the rock and whines, but she eventually relaxes and takes the slow ride down our 150+ foot rappel. Her trust in me is amazing! If someone tied me up and drug me over a cliff I’d sure as hell bite them, Mera just tucks her head behind my knee and waits for the ground.

Touching down to the ground with her was one of the more satisfying moments in my life. From here, all we have to do is walk downhill for two more days; no more ropes, no more steep terrain, just trails and warmer weather. The relief is overwhelming, but short lived. I immediately remember that I’ll be leaving Mera soon. I have no idea what will become of her. I can’t imagine this legend of a dog becoming just another kicked around mutt in Lukla. My love and respect for this dog is immense. The thought of leaving this her alone on the street breaks my heart.

Kaji, our base camp manager, rappels down to us. Kaji is a funny little guy who always wears an insulated tweed suit. He only comes up to my shoulder, but commands the respect of all the Sherpa and porters who work for him. He’s a good man. “That is a special dog!” he says. “There’s no dog like that.” I nod in agreement and tell him how upset I am that we’ll have to leave her, and then he gives me some incredible news. “She will not be left on the street! This is a special dog. She is lucky and brings good luck to us. She will come to my home and I will feed her good meat at every meal. She will live with me and we will call her Baru, after the mountain that she climbed.” My heart melts! I am so thrilled that a tear comes to my eye and I yell to the rest of the team. “Kaji is adopting the Dog! He’s going to take care of her! He’s renamed her Baru” Everyone is thrilled to hear the news.

Kaji goes on to tell me that he can’t fly from Lukla with the Baru. He will have to pay a family member to ride a bus to the nearest town, walk three days to Lukla, pick up Mera, and then reverse the trip. All this will cost Kaji about $100. In Nepal, the average income is $862 per year, so $100 is a lot of money. I tell him that I’d like to help with the cost and give him some cash. I’m overwhelmed that she will have a good, safe home. Kaji is like a proud new father. He makes her a nice, blue collar from a backpack strap so people in the villages will know that she’s not a street dog. For the next two days back to Lukla, he babies her and orders her entire entrees from tea houses. Watching her eat an entire plate of momo’s was priceless. I couldn’t be happier that she will be with him. It makes me smile every time that I see her following him down the trail just inches away from his knee the way that she used to follow me.

On our final morning before flying out of Lukla, I spend my last hour with Baru. I pet her and try to soak up all the positive energy that I can from this amazing animal. I try to imagine why a dog would do what she had done. It isn’t natural. I can understand why she would follow me from camp to camp. I gave her food and shelter, but why would she leave those things to follow me to one of the most inhospitable places on Earth? I can’t come up with a single reason why she would subject herself to that. I’m not even sure why I do sometimes. Part of me wonders if some of my climbing friends who have gone on to that big mountain in the sky weren’t giving Baru a little nudge up the hill for me. Whatever her reasons where, I will be forever grateful for the time that I got to spend with her, and for Kaji for taking care of Baru, the world’s greatest mountain dog.

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