It’s taken a few weeks to catch up on life, work, and the simple routines of daily living. After six intense weeks in Nepal, I’ve finally had a moment to reflect on the experience of summiting Mt. Everest—and the long journey back home.
My return began with Fly Dubai flight FZ 576 from Kathmandu to Abu Dhabi. I shared a cab to the airport with Ryan and Tsering—Ryan headed to Spain, and Tsering, ever loyal, came to give us a proper send-off. Wearing khakis, a collared shirt, and loafers felt oddly foreign after weeks of down suits, base layers, and windproof shells. My duffel bags were noticeably lighter. Before leaving base camp, I gave away my triple-layer boots, crampons, and ice axe to my guides. It was my way of thanking them for their strength and support—and it was also a message to myself: I was done with 8,000-meter climbs. That chapter had closed.
In the lounge, I stood out among the travelers. My wind-burned cheeks, sunken face, and unmistakable fatigue told a different story. Part of me was left behind on that mountain.
A midnight layover at Dubai Airport gave me time to nap and wander through dessert trays before boarding a 14-hour United Airlines flight to Newark. I had splurged on a Polaris first-class seat—a reclining pod with high walls, pillows, and plush blankets. I crawled into that space like a cave and slept for ten straight hours, only interrupted for a three-course meal and a hot fudge sundae at 30,000 feet. As I glanced out the window, I realized we were flying at the same altitude I had stood just four days earlier. But this view—sunlit clouds, warm light—was a far cry from the gray, wind-blasted ridge near the summit of Everest. I had barely slept in the final days on the mountain, so the deep rest felt earned and restorative. I didn’t want the flight to end.
We landed early in Newark, giving me time to catch a connecting flight home. It was a sunny, warm Memorial Day when I landed at Dulles. My family greeted me with bright red signs, hugs, and looks of relief—and a bit of shock. I had lost 20 pounds, and it showed. My body had shrunk—legs, chest, neck—and I looked tired, even frail.
Driving home through familiar neighborhoods, I took in the tall green trees and blooming summer flowers in Elizabeth’s Garden. When I left in early April, the landscape was emerging from winter’s gray. That first night in my own bed reminded me why I love climbing—not for the suffering, but for the appreciation it instills for life’s smallest luxuries.
The next day, I drove to Safeway. It was my first time behind the wheel in six weeks. That boring act felt strangely new. I missed my car.
What I hadn’t expected was how concerned everyone was about me. I couldn’t feel my big toes or the tips of my small toes. The doctors in Kathmandu diagnosed “chilblains"—nerve damage from cold exposure. It wasn’t frostbite, though I’m no stranger to that either. Years earlier, I lost half of the end of my right index fingertip to frostbite on Denali. Soon, I’d be seeing wound specialists at Inova for hyperbaric treatment.
It took about a week to start feeling like myself again. My return to the gym, though, was humbling. Weights that once felt manageable now seemed immovable. My stamina came in six-hour bursts, and I often needed naps to get through the day.
Returning to the office brought a renewed sense of appreciation. It was uplifting to see my team again and reassuring to witness how well the business had run in my absence. When you build a team with the right people, rooted in purpose, autonomy, and trust, amazing things happen. Now that I'm back, I’m reconnecting with both colleagues and customers, being more available, and helping to pick up the burden they carried while I was away.
At night, I’d sleep in short intervals. Sometimes I’d wake up unsure if I was still in my tent, wondering if I’d made the summit. It felt like a form of PTSD, especially the memory of the three bodies I had passed between Camp 3 and the summit. I’ve participated in some extreme competitions and expeditions, but nothing quite prepares you for that.
But the hardest part wasn’t the cold or the fatigue—it was the guilt. During the final push, all my electronics had failed due to the sub-zero temperatures. My tracking device stopped transmitting at the Hillary Step. My phone and Garmin watch also died before the summit. For nearly 40 hours, my family and friends didn’t know where I was. Only the base camp logistics team had updates. I now realize the emotional toll they endured during that silence—and I carry that with me.
I also feel a responsibility at home. It’s like a bank account: I made some significant withdrawals by being gone for six weeks in a dangerous place, and now I’m focused on making deposits. I’m present in conversations, completing the tasks that didn’t get done while I was away, and showing my family that they’re my top priority.
Coming home from Everest isn’t as simple as flying down the mountain. It’s a gradual return—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And while part of me will never forget what it's like to survive up there in the thin air, I’ve never been more grateful to be home.
— Len