I still could not understand why everything was happening this way or why altitude illness was affecting me like this. Did it mean that I had to descend, or could I continue upwards? My head did not hurt, but I felt slightly dizzy and mildly nauseated. Everything felt wrong, and I had an overwhelming desire to sit or lie down. The dizziness grew steadily worse. In the end, I managed to reach that strip of sunlight and sat down on the snow. A strong wind was blowing, and I became cold. The sun offered a little warmth, which was better than nothing and at least gave me some chance to warm up. I decided to drink hot tea, which could not have been more welcome. It was genuinely good that the sun had appeared; perhaps it would help me recover some warmth. Yet one problem remained: I still could not understand my condition. My companions soon approached. I told them that something was wrong, and my intuition suggested that the situation was very bad indeed. The guide proposed that I try to continue because only a short distance remained. I too understood perfectly well that the summit was very close. Our altitude was already five thousand four hundred sixty-four metres, leaving only one hundred seventy-eight metres. The summit seemed so near, and the figures kept drawing me onwards. Only a little remained, but I needed strength. Higher up, on the steep slope, every step felt increasingly difficult. The summit continued to beckon and call to us, almost impossible to resist. My reason, however, was shouting that it was time to go down, and only down. I had to listen and make the right choice. The guide looked at me but said nothing. I had to decide for myself because he did not know what was happening inside me. At the time, I still did not understand whether I could simply “overcome myself”. It is important to qualify that thought now: if altitude illness is suspected, you must not force yourself to continue gaining height; you need to tell the guide and assess your condition. After weighing everything, I decided not to take chances with the mountain and to descend. My companions slowly continued upwards. I took out my camera and made several photographs as keepsakes, so the moment would survive not only in my memory but in pictures. With numb fingers, I pressed the buttons, then quickly grabbed my poles and went down. These photographs were nothing exceptional; they were simply pictures. To me, however, they meant a great deal because I had taken them at five thousand four hundred sixty-four metres, the highest altitude I had ever reached and perhaps somewhere I would never visit again. They truly felt like photographs from another world. The sun was rising there. From this cleft, we saw the most magnificent dawn of my life. On the trail from the saddle to the Kosaya Polka, the symptoms finally began to overwhelm me. I had no idea what was happening to my head. It still did not hurt, but it felt stuffed with cotton and spun. Nausea began, and it seemed that my body was functioning separately from me.
My brain seemed to be working independently too, and all of this began to alarm me deeply. I felt close to losing consciousness. At times, it seemed that one more step would make me fall. I wanted simply to close my eyes, collapse and sleep. I no longer felt in control of myself. My legs seemed made of cotton, and so did the rest of my body. That was when I became genuinely frightened. I understood that I could fall at any moment. This was no joke: I might simply collapse and never get up. My companions were far away and would find me only when they descended. Nobody below was likely to climb back up, and I was completely alone. The other climbers had their own concerns. This was the mountains, where, as I saw it then, everyone climbed at their own risk and could rely only on themselves. It was essential to understand your strength and plan every action. The first responsibility, at least, was to return alive and well.
I wondered whether anyone had ever moved down the Kosaya Polka at such speed. Calling it running would be an exaggeration; I was simply travelling as fast as I possibly could. I fought to keep my clouding consciousness under control. Every new step now felt heroic. My body kept trying to collapse, but my mind would not allow it to relax and forced it onwards. Step by step, I understood that I needed oxygen more than ever. I desperately needed air, even just a little more. The oxygen I sought was somewhere below, so I clearly had to hurry down while I could still move my legs. Every metre of altitude lost felt like another precious drop of oxygen. I descended on autopilot, following the trail. A fairly steep slope fell away on both sides. I had not only to keep walking but to avoid stumbling or falling. Tragedies often happen because a person is already severely fatigued or relaxes during the descent, so it is important to remain extremely attentive. It is naturally better not to descend alone but with a companion, ideally with an instructor alongside. Even when travelling alone, however, you must not lose your vigilance. After all, this was already the descent, and the journey home was drawing closer.
Editorial medical note. The author’s decision to descend when his condition deteriorated follows a basic rule of high-altitude safety: do not continue gaining altitude through symptoms, and tell the guide about your condition. Source: CDC Yellow Book — High-Altitude Travel and Altitude Illness.