Compared to the base camp at 5,200 meters ten days ago, the landscape here is completely different—bizarrely shaped ice towers beyond any imagination, a perennially melting ice tongue not far away, and the towering ice wall that must be crossed to reach the North Col camp at 7,028 meters.
Various ice towers
Because they are located in the valley and often battered by strong winds, the actual time available for work is quite limited. Most of the time is spent scouting locations, and even more time is spent hiding in tents or even sleeping bags, listening to the howling wind tearing at the fabric. Sometimes, I even find myself weirdly nostalgic for the base camp, where under the blazing sun, the tent felt like a 50-degree sauna when the flap was closed—completely ignoring the stinging sensation of snowflakes hitting my back when the flap was open and the wind blew fiercely. Because here, sunlight is scarce. Perhaps the most comfortable place I can think of is the night before coming here, when I meditated at the Upper Rongbuk Monastery at 5,154 meters. It’s a natural cave where the great master Padmasambhava once practiced in seclusion. No matter whether there was scorching heat or hailstorms outside, the candles inside burned steadily, accompanied by warm, slightly humid air, making one forget that this is the world’s highest monastery in an extremely dry environment.
Fortunately, the nights are very quiet. The fierce winds probably don’t want to ruin people’s moods under such pure, bright moonlight. So, on the nights when Dawei (Tibetan for "moon") becomes a giant light bulb, I carefully carry rails, tripods, gimbals, camera lenses, various controllers, and weave through the jade-like, crystal-clear ice towers. Of course, I have to be extra careful of the thin ice melted by the daytime sun—no one wants to wake up with their lower half soaked in icy water. So, I make more trips. Who can blame me? My poor assistant can’t be woken up at all. Maybe he’s suffering from severe altitude sickness? I saw him bring several oxygen cans into the tent. According to Wangdui and Bata, even Tibetans get splitting headaches at this altitude.
It’s tough working alone, but there are more benefits—I can enjoy the most beautiful starry night sky over the ice towers all by myself. It’s so quiet that all I can hear is my own awe, except when occasionally interrupted by the sound of cracking ice. Oh—that sudden crack of ice startles me, my eyes fixed on the sky, as if the slowly rotating Milky Way had suddenly broken apart. But this interruption makes me notice about four flashlights moving down the slope at around 8,000 meters. On the slope where the Milky Way meets Mount Everest. Four little comets slowly descending, flickering occasionally. Their destination should be the North Col camp at 7,028 meters, where the lights of the tents are also twinkling.
The Milky Way among the ice towers and the descending lights on the mountainside
Looking down along the line of sight, I actually spot a few little comets appearing on the icy cliff leading up to the North Col camp. The tails of those comets sway left and right as they slowly climb upward. Oh no, not just a few—it’s a dozen or more. Could it be the road construction team transporting supplies up the mountain at midnight? Yes, although it’s colder at night, the lack of wind makes climbing the ice wall more stable. Little did I know, this scene would be captured by the lens—the flashlight lights flickering and slowly moving up the cliff face, resembling a glowing centipede crawling up the precipice. Just as I was marveling at this incredibly rare and beautiful opportunity, the first light of dawn brushed the horizon, and the glowing centipede feet gradually disappeared. The once-bright climbers now looked like tiny ants.
The road construction team climbing to the North Col camp at night
Then, I have to carry the equipment back to the camp.
Being able to catch a clear night during the full moon is also a blessing. I can enjoy the moon under the world’s highest peak, accompanied by rich butter tea, a gentle breeze, thick snow, and quietly watch the hidden Milky Way slowly lift the moon. The ice towers in front of me, illuminated by the moonlight, refract and reflect, appearing even more mysterious and azure. The wind occasionally sweeps up snowflakes on the mountainside, like dancing in a whirling rhythm, tugging at the heart and then scattering away.
The moon-gazing companions
Back on the plains, my digestive system worked three times a day, but here on the plateau, it’s reduced to once a day. And like all patients, I have bloody hemorrhoids, spraying onto a less-than-one-square-meter pile of rocks. Quite a spectacle. The biggest advantage of this fully enclosed toilet (compared to the base camp at 5,200 meters) is that it’s nearly fully enclosed—you won’t have your toilet paper blown back onto your butt or the face of someone just opening the door to come in. The second advantage is that you won’t have to wake up in the middle of the night, put on a super-thick down suit, and hike 300 meters just to relieve yourself. Its downside is that it sways precariously in the wind, and it lacks the spectacular view of the base camp toilet.
The scenic toilet at the 5,200-meter base camp
Speaking of strong winds, they are truly the most impressive local specialty of the plateau. In the first few days, my feelings about the winds of Mount Everest were a tangled mix of love and hate, bordering on obsession—I even created a new poetic form: crazy poetry. Here are a few excerpts.
Ever since setting foot on Everest, I’ve contracted a disease called "wind poetry," also known as "crazy poetry."
A Piece of Crazy Poetry
Ah, wind, you’ve finally taken a break. Since you’re off, go take a nice trip somewhere far away. It’s very quiet here—don’t worry. The night after you left, even the thermometer dropped to 0°C.
Another Piece of Crazy Poetry
Ah, wind, you really aren’t tired at all.
The Final Piece of Crazy Poetry
Why, for what reason?
I miss you, the wild wind atop the Earth.
Thanks to your relentless, indomitable, unyielding, and overtime-working efforts, you’ve successfully shattered my tiny dream of reaching 7,028.
In this line of work, reputation matters. My professional responsibility can’t wait for your long vacation.
To be honest, my hatred for you always wells up in the early morning, evening, and late at night.
Why can’t you just let me finish my work properly?
Why do you have to blow the tripod, gimbal, and rails until they tremble, showing off your invisible power?
I understand your power. Indeed, without you, I wouldn’t see today’s spectacular ice towers, the steep, knife-cut mountains, or the clouds swirling among the rugged stone peaks—all these wonders.
But have you ever thought that if you took an early long holiday, maybe you could share the magnificence of Qomolangma (Mount Everest) at 7028 meters with even more people?
The wind can’t be too stingy, can it? One day I’ll become one with you, and when that time comes, I’ll definitely give you a good scolding too.
Of course, you’re not entirely useless either. Without you, the prayer flags at my home wouldn’t flutter, and the sacred mantras and scriptures couldn’t spread along the ridges you stir up to reach across all of Tibet—maybe even drifting over to Nepal, Bhutan, and India on the other side. The losses would be quite substantial too.
But every time I’m in the tent and hear the thunderous roar of you, my dear father, suddenly rushing over like a tank, lifting my sleeping mat, my little heart just can’t take it.
You’re too free-spirited. Free to the point where I can’t help but feel a huge sense of envy—though not hate. But no worries, sooner or later, we’ll merge into one. Who knows, by then I might be even wilder than you.
Qin the Mad Poet, May 17, 2014, from the base of the Himalayas
By the way, here’s my sunburned look—the wind on Everest really did a number on me.
Also, super glue works great for fixing broken glasses.
The adorable black nose isn’t just from sun exposure—actually, the low temperatures at night played a big part too. Though it was already May, under these perpetually frozen glaciers, nights were still freezing cold. That night, I took my assistant to shoot the Milky Way above the Rongbuk Glacier, and crossing a 4-meter-wide river took nearly half an hour. Setting up the tripod, rail, adjusting equipment, test shots—all took another hour. Even though I was wearing tall rubber boots, I still couldn’t avoid water getting in while wading through the rapids. But I didn’t notice until everything was set up and I tried to crawl into the sleeping bag already covered in frost by the riverside. By then, my pants and boots were stuck together—the adhesive was ice. After pounding and prying for a while, I finally got them off, but a small piece of the pants leg tore. Halfway through shooting, when I went to check my gloves, I found they had stiffened and wouldn’t go on. The rail had also frosted over in several spots, so another round of defrosting ensued. When we got back, the sleeping bag had stiffened and I couldn’t get in either...
The Rongbuk Milky Way and Mount Everest
Also, thanks to Jiaming La for taking so many behind-the-scenes photos of me.
After this experience, when I later shot the Milky Way above the stupas at Rongbuk Monastery, I wasn’t being picky about crawling into a sleeping bag for warmth anymore. In fact, once you’ve shot a Milky Way timelapse, you know it takes nearly three hours for a 10-second exposure. Add setting up and calibrating the gear, and each Milky Way shoot basically takes an entire night. Saying you’ll sleep is just an illusion—you have to constantly check whether your lens has fogged or frosted. And if you run into cloudy weather or light pollution from passing vehicles or people in the middle of the night, the first half of the night is completely ruined. Not to mention, there are only a few days a month when you can fully see the Milky Way rise and set. So this intense, thrilling job has its perks—it generates heat, or rather, it gets you moving and generating body heat. That night at Rongbuk Monastery, my assistant and I kept jumping around non-stop, and it was pretty successful weight loss.
A warming-up starry night.
The problem is, after working all night, the next day you still have to head to Advanced Base Camp at 6500 meters. So, the next morning, a yawning me set out on Everest’s daylight hallucination trek. Whenever my teammates rested—whether on a pile of rocks, on the glacier, or on the ice river—I’d immediately lie down. Our guide Wangdui once thought I was suffering from severe altitude sickness and strictly forbade me from sleeping, threatening that if I did, I might never wake up. He made me imagine the tombstones scattered at the mountain’s foot. Come on, I was really, really tired ::>_<::
There are countless tombstones of climbers who perished at the base camp.
To keep me from falling asleep, everyone really pulled out all the stops—we rested no more than five minutes at a time. This dream-walking journey was truly the most painful one I’ve ever taken. Though the elevation gain was only 1300 meters, the whole path was jagged and uneven, and there was hardly any step where you could find even the area of a single palm to stand flat on. It was like a full-day dream-walk foot massage experience, gaining insane amounts of “experience points.” Even better, I tasted all kinds of natural ice pops—Jurassic-flavored, Cretaceous-flavored, Devonian-flavored, Cambrian-flavored. No sticks, just frozen ice rods. Actually, what I was eating wasn’t ice, but time, was years.