Monday, May. 12, 2008

On Mount Kilimanjaro, Modesto doctor finds a path out of selfish ways

NORTHERN TANZANIA -- Dr. Frank Artress looked down at his fingers. His nail beds were turning blue. He was running out of oxygen near the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

A cardiac anesthesiologist, Artress knew the signs of high altitude pulmonary edema. He knew there was a

75 percent chance that he would perish on Africa's highest peak.

Artress led his wife to a rock, and they sat together above the clouds. Then it hit him. He wasn't afraid to die; he was ashamed.

He had lived only for himself -- practicing medicine in a Modesto hospital, traveling with his wife, purchasing vacation homes and collecting art. He felt as if he had nothing to show for his 50 years. He felt as if his life had been a waste.

In that moment, Artress and his wife realized they were living for the wrong reasons. In that moment, everything changed.

Some people dream of giving up the trappings of success and starting life anew, with a purpose, with a social conscience. For Artress and his wife, the idea suddenly seemed real.

That day on Mount Kiliman-jaro would lead the Modesto doctor and his wife to leave their comfortable life in California to become bush doctors, dedicated to easing the heartbreak of Africa.

Their lives might never have changed if Artress had simply followed mountain guide Kapanya Kitaba's instructions and thawed his drinking water.

Instead, on the fifth day of their six-day Kilimanjaro climb in 2002, Artress awoke early at Arrow Glacier Camp. His wife, Susan Gustafson, was cocooned in her sleeping bag. The 22 African porters were just beginning to stir.

Artress had wanted to do something big for his 50th birthday. An amateur photographer, he had a new Nikon and began photographing the sun rising over the snow at 16,000 feet.

He knew his drinking water was frozen but figured it would melt during the all-day hike up the rocky face to Crater Camp at 18,500 feet, where they would spend the night and acclimate before summiting at 19,340 feet the next morning.

The group trekked all day, but Artress' water didn't thaw.

Embarrassed at his gaffe, he didn't tell anyone how thirsty he was.

After a stop for lunch, Artress began to lose his breath. His lungs were slowly filling with fluid. It felt as if someone were squeezing his throat. He turned to his wife.

"We are in a really, really bad place," he began. He explained what was going on, and that the only cure was to descend.

But that was out of the question, Kitaba said. The climb up Shira Route's Western Breach they had taken that day was too rocky and dangerous to descend, especially at night. To make matters worse, the temperature was falling, and that increased the chance of a rock slide.

The only option was to make the 840-foot climb to the top and go down the other side. Husband and wife held each other and sobbed.

"I thought how stupid it would be to die without ever giving anything back to society," Artress said.

Desperate descent

By midnight, Artress worried he wasn't going to make it.

Shivering under a pile of blankets, he turned to his wife: "We've got to do something, or I'm going to be dead by morning." Gustafson rousted the camp, and they set off in the freezing darkness for the summit.

Kitaba and the porters took turns wrapping an arm around Artress and singing Swahili songs of encouragement in his ear. They sang about the mighty mountain and about resilience, and stopped with Artress every time he had to bend over and take deep breaths to get his heart rate below 200.