"That is rather unimpressive, don't you think?" The question was to me, on the cushy seat in the lobby of the Hotel Tibet in Kathmandu. But I wasn't expecting it and had to scramble a little to catch up with the idea."Excuse me?"

And so Elizabeth Hawley repeated herself and put it in context for me. She pointed out that we had plenty of people listed on our Everest permit and that we didn't have many at all on the latest list of those who had been to the top. I could only nod my head in awe of her legendary forthrightness and I meekly volunteered, "Well, we tried pretty hard." But trying hard doesn't get one on Liz Hawley's good list. She, as most of those who follow Himalayan climbing are well aware, is the one who tracks down and interviews every expedition that goes through Kathmandu. She keeps meticulous records, stretching back through the decades as to who climbed what, when and whether they died in the process. And even, "were they living with their girlfriend?" I'm convinced now that my good friend Liz has no space for "tried hard" in her records. Which is ok by me, but still I hadn't been expecting the "unimpressive" verdict.

I was already impressed with my team when we got ready to leave the South Col at 10 in the evening on May 17. Clunking around in big expedition boots at 26,000 feet in the cold, cold night, I was genuinely pleased with the way things were going. The mountain had been climbed for the first ascent of the season the day before, the route was in, the ropes were fixed, the trail was broken, and broken in a big way, since 56 people had made the top. Some had been from our larger expedition, Eric Simonson's IMG trip, of which we were a subgroup.

Logistically, with those folks trying for the top, we couldn't be occupying the same tents at the same time, so the first opening for our bid was going to be on the night of the 17th. And that was fine with me. I hadn't wanted to be in a gathering of 56 people working up and down the Hillary Step. And my judgment was that our guided team needed a few advantages on summit day, not the more difficult opportunity that comes with leading the charge.

The weather forecast was for continued good stuff with, as best as anyone could tell, a storm coming in on the 19th. That would work well for us. As I pulled tight the straps of my crampons and stood back up to get a little oxygen in my brain, I looked around at my team, blinding a few sleepy climbers with my headlight. I gulped hot chocolate, flicked off my light and looked up at the dark summits of Everest and Lhotse and the 2 billion stars stretching between them across the South Col. It was a beautiful night, calm and clear, and everybody had their spikes on and appeared ready to ramble, right on time.

It was to be a team of five "middle-aged women" as one newspaper report had tagged it, shocking my clients a little in the process. They hadn't previously viewed themselves that way, but then I doubt that the papers had referred to Ed Hillary or Jim Whittaker or Chris Bonnington or any number of other noted Everest enthusiasts as "middle-aged" or "elderly" when they'd gone for the top at similar ages.

I got a kick out of the label and reminded my climbers of it often, ignoring the fact that I was 40 years into my own childhood. I was the lead guide for the group, and I'd brought in a couple of spring chickens to help in the effort. Ben Marshall and Lisa Rust had been with me through plenty of storms and sunny days and cold nights on other mountains on other continents but this was their first work on Everest. They'd been up to the task in every way during the six weeks leading to the summit bid. And that was reflected well by the presence at the Col of four of our five climbers.

Midge Cross had needed to turn back the day before at 24,000 feet. It was her first time to big altitude. She hadn't used supplemental oxygen previously and was shocked by the claustrophobic mask and the way her glasses kept fogging up. The steep ice of the Lhotse Face is a rough place to learn. She'd made a difficult, but sound decision to descend.

The four other climbers had chosen to go on and had climbed well and strong into the South Col, earning a shot at the summit that night. Alison Levine, Lynn Prebble, Kim Clark, and Jody Thompson might have been a little nervous that night, but they were ready to go. At least, I hoped they were a little nervous. I had no interest in guiding people toward the top of Everest who were calm and detached and confident and clueless. I, myself, was properly jittery before the big event, and wondering just what the mountain and the day had in store for us. "Middle-aged" makes the grand assumption that one will live as many years after an Everest summit day as before, but I'd seen far too many people end their years on such days. I couldn't be blasè about the dangers; I wanted every advantage for my climbers. Our Sherpa team gave us just that.

We had one Sherpa "allocated" for each climber that night. There were seven of us, four climbers and three guides, plus Jake Norton, who was going to be trying to take pictures of it all, and so there were eight Sherpas.

A few hours earlier the Sherpas, under Panuru's capable leadership, had divied up the climbers and had eagerly set about helping their individual assignments. I laughed as I realized that their plan had Danuru watching out for me, but I certainly didn't argue with it. Danuru is one of the strongest humans on earth, just 23 and already a three-time Everest summitter. His third time had come just a day before and now he was raring to go for it again.

I pondered for a moment whether Panuru figured that I needed the most help, but I like Danuru and I was all for teaming up with the big, good-natured, slightly shy farm boy from Phortse. At 10pm, the Sherpas had already worked like crazy helping to get the climbers and themselves ready.

I had spoken to Lisa and Ben and had pointed out that I wanted them taking full advantage of the Sherpa assistance. As experienced and capable climbing guides, neither of them had ever dreamt that somebody would be helping them to put their pack full of oxygen on over a big and bulky down suit. Lisa and Ben were normally the helpers, not the "helpees," but I wanted them to use all available help. I reasoned that every ounce of energy they, and I, could save would be an extra ounce we could devote to guiding, to keeping track of the bigger picture and to making the right decisions at the right times. I was convinced that would give us the best chance for a safe and successful day.

We got walking out over the big broad saddle that forms the South Col. Sixteen people out in the dark, one behind the other, breathing cold and steady oxygen through masks, crunching into the ice with heavy steps and sharp crampons. Jake was a little ahead with Karma Rita and that was fine with me. He liked to be ahead to have the opportunity to set up camera shots, but that wasn't going to make any difference for the next six hours of pitch darkness. He simply liked to be free, unencumbered and in the lead. I, for one, didn't mind having a "scout" out there that I could trust to let me know if we were going to have trouble with the route or the ropes.

I didn't really expect either. Even so, almost immediately, I was uncomfortable at the head of my group of 14. Something just didn't feel right. It is difficult to communicate well with others when fully rigged for high-altitude climbing. For starters, the neurons supposedly at work up in one's own brain don't get along as well as they might down on the beach. Contrary to popular belief, sucking bottled oxygen at 26,000 feet doesn't bring your neurons anywhere close to the sea level. So the thoughts take a little more effort to form up and it is physical work to devote air and lung power toward expressing them verbally. Speaking into a rubber oxygen mask does very little to enhance delivery. Loudly repeating whatever it is you have to say might get through to the person standing two feet from you, that is if the wind isn't blowing and their hat or down hood allows a bit of sound into their ears which they register as important over the noise of their own breathing.

Alternatively, if they are farther away from you, you can say it through your mask into the mike of your radio. Then a bunch of folks will stop what they were doing and dig out their own radios wondering what it was you just said, who you said it to, and in what language it was meant to be.

In daylight you might raise your arms or give a thumbs-up to enhance this radio traffic, pointing here or there if it helps, but in the dark, if you looked back at 14 climbers in all their gear and tried to figure out what was going on, you might be uncomfortable like I was.

I stepped out from in front of the column before we got to the steep Triangle Face and Danuru looked at me. I explained that I wanted him to stay out in front and to go SLOWLY. Which is actually to suggest that I wanted him going the normal pace for a climber above 26,000 feet setting off on a big day — a snail's pace compared to the rate he himself would normally choose.

The Sherpas believe very strongly in getting these days done and over with. Not that they don't like going for the summit. They do, ours had volunteered for the day, they were not ordered to go up, but they like to stay businesslike on such days. They know they don't have unlimited oxygen. They know that storms come in and bad things happen the longer one stays up high. They know that climbing up in the dark with daylight coming on is good, but that climbing down with night coming on is bad and that those who spend nights out end up dead or living with difficult injuries. And they are absolutely correct in all of this.

Everest summit days are best accomplished without delay. On the other hand, there is no use in our attempting to guide people up there if we just burn them out in the first 30 minutes by going too fast. Guiding does mean that greater risk is accepted in being out longer on a summit day, but that greater risk may be offset by sticking together and watching out for one another.

[The tough journey wasn't over for Hahn and the Women's Expedition, read about their harrowing descent through the Khumbu Icefall.]

— Dave Hahn, MountainZone.com Columnist