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I’d be the first to admit that the kinds of rows and resentments recounted by Rowell and Ridgeway are exactly what goes down on expeditions. The question remains, whose business is it beyond the members of the team?

What my friend pointed out was that in the privacy of my diary, I’m closer to Ridgeway than I might otherwise think. K2 in 1992 was undeniably an expedition fraught with conflict. It may be that the version of the story that I told in Shortcuts soft-pedals that conflict.

From the hike in onward, for instance, one of my teammates really bugged me. Let’s call him “Joe” to protect his identity. Here’s some of what I wrote:

Joe already split to go to base camp. I’m kinda glad because he’s starting to drive me nuts. He’s always gotta pipe into a conversation and add something. He’s already “conquered” K2 in his mind. He has no patience and he can’t keep his mouth shut.

Joe went up alone today [to Camp I] and is spending the night. That is a bit stupid in my opinion. He’s in a hurry for no reason. Climbing K2 is a marathon and he’s sprinting! He’s a bit of a lost soul and I think he’s looking for recognition and attention.

• • •

Joe talks & talks & talks. Sometimes it’s nice to have peace & quiet but he doesn’t know when. Scott & I keep on reading & Joe keeps on talking. He also keeps borrowing stuff. Doesn’t have a spoon, toilet paper, shave cream, etc. Not very well prepared.

Inevitably, on expeditions, cabin fever sets in. You’re in such close proximity to your partners day and night, 24-7, and under such tension about whether you can get up the mountain or not, that every last thing some guy does or says can drive you crazy. It gets especially bad when you’re trapped together inside a small tent during a long storm. It can get so that the very sound of him chewing his breakfast or blowing his nose threatens to push you off the deep end.

This can happen even between best friends, let alone among virtual strangers you’re thrown together with on an expedition. Fortunately, in 1992 I was with Scott most of the time, and we got along great. That was a particularly good thing, since neither of us ever bonded with the Russians.

Another source of tension that summer was the perception on the part of a few that we were competing with the international team led by Rob Hall and Gary Ball. Both of our teams would be hard-pressed to find adequate campsites on the Abruzzi Ridge. It was usually first come, first served when it came to grabbing those precious sites.

It was at base camp that I first met that famous New Zealand duo—Hall & Ball, as everybody called them. They had a vast amount of experience in the Himalaya, and they’d pulled off a tour de force by climbing the Seven Summits—the highest peak on every continent—in only seven months. And this was already their third attempt on K2.

When I first shook hands with Hall & Ball, I thought, Oh my God, these guys are superstars. They’ll leave me in the dust. But Scott told me, “Take it easy, Ed. They’re just normal guys.” Then, on the mountain, I discovered that I was as strong as or stronger than these superclimbers. There were days when I broke trail and fixed rope for them and Hall & Ball trudged into camp hours after I did. That was a real revelation.

During those first weeks, Scott and I paired up with Hall & Ball to fix ropes up the lower part of the Abruzzi Ridge. (Only a few of the other members of our team contributed to this effort; the rest seemed unwilling or unable.) In general, Hall & Ball cooperated well with Scott and me as we shared the grunt work of establishing the route. I got more and more frustrated by some of the half-assed efforts of other guys on the mountain. Some of them would carry only the lightest loads; they’d claim the conditions weren’t good enough for a heavy carry. And sometimes they’d get only halfway to the higher camp so they’d just dump their loads in the snow and head down. I picked up a bunch of those loads, but I drew the line at carrying other