But before we dive in, let's give a quick informat…
But before we dive in, let’s give a quick information about the location where this testimony occurred.
The Mount Everest.
Mount Everest is the highest mountain in the world, rising more than 8,848 m above sea level.
Its beauty attracts climbers and treers from across the globe.
But the mountain is also dangerous.
At high elevations, the air is thin.
The weather can change quickly and a familiar route can become difficult to recognize beneath snow and ice.
Sherpa guides who know the region help visitors travel through this demanding landscape.
But even experience cannot control a sudden storm.
Scientists also depend on people already traveling through the Everest region to help study the mountain.
Through citizen science projects, climbers, treers, and local guides can collect simple samples along established routes.
These may include snow, water, or air samples gathered with small kits and sent to laboratories for study.
This work helps researchers learn about the environment without sending a costly scientific expedition up the mountain every season.
In May 2024, 15 volunteers, most of them from Europe, set out from Everest base camp to collect environmental samples.
Their leader was a Nepalese Sherpa called Dawa.
He had spent years guiding people through the region and believed he knew the mountain well.
The volunteers trusted his judgment as they carried their sample kits along the route.
Their expedition had a clear purpose and nothing about the beginning of their journey suggested that it would become a fight to find their way.
Then the weather changed.
A powerful wind swept across the mountain.
Heavy ice came down, striking the group and knocking the volunteers off their feet.
In the confusion, the team was scattered.
Da was thrown against the ice, hit his head, and lost consciousness.
To give you a context of how dangerous the situation was for these scientists, Mount Everest has claimed more than 300 lives since climbing expeditions began.
Though the number of deaths varies from year to year, rather than following a fixed daily or annual pattern, avalanches, falls, altitude sickness, exposure, and sudden storms have all taken lives on the mountain.
At extreme altitude, a serious injury, a lost route, or a sudden shortage of oxygen can quickly become life-threatening.
Da and his 14 companions were now facing that kind of danger.
While Dawa laid unconscious, he says he saw something that no one else could explain.
Himself and all 14 volunteers lost on the mountain, wandering through a vast landscape as their strength and oxygen ran low.
In Dais’s vision, the volunteers were exhausted and afraid.
Some were crying, others blamed their misfortune or blamed him for leading them into danger.
They could not find a familiar route and hope was fading.
Then they saw a huge statue of Jesus Christ standing before them.
The sight astonished them.
They wondered how such a statue could be on Everest, far from any place they expected to find it.
The figure began to move.
Da says he and the others followed it across the mountain, unsure where it was leading them.
The route looked dangerous and strange, but the statue continued forward.
Then Dao awoke with a jolt.
His companions were beside him calling his name with fear in their voices.
They were still struggling to navigate and they needed his guidance.
Da told them about the vision and the route he remembered.
One volunteer, a Christian from Spain, urged the group to follow it.
Some were doubtful, but they had no clear alternative.
The volunteers gathered close as Da tried to match the path from his vision to the mountain around them.
Ahead lay unfamiliar ground and signs of past tragedies.
They had to decide whether to trust his memory and keep moving.
Would the 15 volunteers trust Da and follow the route he remembered? What dangers awaited them along the way? And would they survive the journey? Most importantly, had his vision truly shown him the way home.
This is Da’s story.
Let us hear him.
My name is Dawa.
I am a Sherpa from Nepal and the mountains of the Kumbu region have been part of my life since childhood.
I grew up hearing stories about climbers who came from other countries to see Mount Everest.
As I grew, I learned that the mountain was more than a peak.
It was a home, a workplace, and a place people had to treat with care.
I became a guide because I knew the trails and wanted to help visitors travel through them safely.
By May 2024, guiding had become my work and a source of pride.
Over the years, I guided trekers through the Everest region and learned how to read the land.
I knew where paths became steep, where loose stones could shift beneath a boot, and where the weather could change.
I learned to watch clouds, wind, and the snow around us while remembering that no guide could control the mountain.
My work required patience as much as strength.
I carried supplies, checked that visitors stayed together, and helped them move at a pace they could manage.
Many visitors had trained for months, but the thin air could still surprise them.
I respected their courage and tried to make sure they understood the need to follow advice.
Experience had taught me to plan carefully, stay alert, and put the safety of the group before my own pride.
People trusted my knowledge, and I took that responsibility seriously.
That spring, I joined a team of citizen scientists.
Their project used climbers and trekers who were already traveling through the Everest region to gather information for researchers.
Instead of sending a scientific expedition up the mountain every year, researchers could provide instructions and equipment to volunteers.
The volunteers would collect samples during their journeys and send them for study.
I liked the idea because it connected visitors with the place they were exploring.
They were not only taking photographs or trying to reach a camp, they could also help scientists learn about the environment.
The project could gather information in different seasons and local guides could help volunteers work safely.
For me, this was a chance to support research while doing the work I already knew.
I was proud that the knowledge of local people could help answer questions about the mountain.
Some researchers wanted to understand how human activity and a changing climate were affecting Everest.
Snow, water, and air could carry signs that were difficult to notice with the eye.
A sterile vial could hold a water sample for testing.
An air filtering bag could help collect particles that scientists wanted to identify.
In a laboratory, researchers could examine material from the samples and look for traces of pollution or living things.
The work did not require a volunteer to understand every scientific result.
Our responsibility was to follow instructions, avoid contaminating the samples, write down where and when each item was collected, and carry it carefully.
Those simple steps mattered.
If a sample was handled carelessly, it might tell scientists more about the person who touched it than about the mountain.
The project depended on patience, accurate notes, and respect for the instructions.
At Everest Base Camp, I met the 14 other members of our team.
Most came from European countries, and several had traveled a long way to take part.
They were not all professional scientists.
Some were trekkers with an interest in the outdoors, and others had experience recording observations or supporting research projects.
They had all received training and knew that our task was to collect samples, not to take unnecessary risks.
I introduced myself as their sherpa guide and explained how I would lead them along the planned route.
They asked questions about the trail, the equipment, and how to protect the materials they carried.
I could see that they were excited, but they also understood that being part of a research project did not make the mountain safer.
I was glad to lead a group willing to listen and work together.
I explained that the samples had to stay sealed and that every label had to match the notes.
We checked our kits, making sure each person understood the instructions.
The vials were protected from dirt and the filtering bags were folded so they would not tear in our packs.
We carried the items needed for our journey along with food, water, warm clothing, and safety equipment.
The science kits were not heavy, but I reminded everyone that even a light pack became tiring at high altitude.
We agreed that nobody would leave the group to collect an extra sample or ignore a change in conditions.
The project was important, but our safety came first.
I had guided many visitors before, yet leading a group with a research purpose felt different.
They depended on my judgment and I wanted their work to be done.
Before we left base camp, I made sure each person understood that our work had limits.
The samples were important, but they were not worth risking someone’s life.
We would stay together, follow the route, and collect only the material the researchers had asked for.
I checked the team’s packs and listened as the volunteers discussed their preparations.
Most of them had never worked at high altitude, so they depended on me to set a safe pace and explain what to expect.
I felt responsible for all 14 volunteers beside me.
I reminded them that experience on the mountain came from patience, not from rushing.
They nodded and checked their equipment once more.
I looked at the white slopes above us and felt proud to lead a team helping scientists learn about Everest.
In May 2024, our citizen science work was ready to begin.
At first light, we left Everest base camp and began our work along the Nepal side of the mountain.
I led the group on the route we had planned, keeping us together as we moved through the rocky ground and patches of snow.
The morning was cold, but the sky looked clear above the Kumbu Glacier.
We stopped at points chosen for collecting samples, checking each location before anyone opened a kit.
The volunteers followed their instructions carefully.
I watched them work and made sure no one wandered away to get a better sample.
A few took notes about the place and the conditions while others prepared their containers.
Nothing about the morning seemed unusual.
We moved at a steady pace, giving everyone time to adjust to the altitude and rest when needed.
I felt confident because the group was listening and the route was familiar.
We used the notes supplied by the project leaders to record where each sample came from.
I checked the labels and times, then watched as the volunteers gathered small amounts of snow and water at the approved stops.
The air filters were used only where our instructions allowed.
We kept everything sealed and separated so dust from our packs would not spoil the material.
Each person knew that careful work mattered more than collecting a large amount.
When one volunteer asked whether we could move farther from the route to examine a stream, I said no.
We had to remain within the plan and keep everyone safe.
The others accepted my answer.
As we continued, our packs grew no heavier, but the work required attention.
I was pleased to see them taking their task seriously and trusting me to decide when we should move on.
Over the next few hours, we continued along the familiar approaches below the higher camps.
The volunteers stayed close and I checked the group whenever the trail narrowed or the ground became uneven.
Their questions were practical.
How long we would continue, when we would stop, and whether the clouds on the far side mattered.
I answered honestly.
I had spent years walking these mountains, and I knew how quickly conditions could change.
But that morning, the signs seemed ordinary.
We stopped to drink and look over the notes, then resumed our journey.
The research was not a race.
If someone felt tired or unwell, I was ready to turn back.
No one reported a serious problem, so we carried on.
I wanted them to see that responsible fieldwork depended on patience, good judgment, and respect for the mountain.
At one point, several of the volunteers asked me about the weather.
They had heard how dangerous sudden wind could be near the mountain, and they wanted to know whether our plan was still safe.
I looked at the sky, watched the clouds, and felt the air against my face.
I told them that based on what I could see and my experience as a local guide, the weather appeared stable.
I did not promise that nothing could happen.
No guide could make that promise.
But I believed we had time to finish the planned work and return safely.
My confidence came from many years on these trails, and I said so.
I could see the group relax.
I remained alert.
Yet, I did not expect the violent change that was about to reach us.
The mountain gave us no warning, I understood.
The change came suddenly.
A hard blast of wind swept across the slope, strong enough to push against our bodies and make it difficult to stand.
I shouted for everyone to lower themselves and hold on, but the roar swallowed my voice.
Snow and loose ice lifted into the air.
Then, heavy pieces broke from above and came down across the route.
I heard a cry behind me and turned, but the wind pushed me sideways before I could reach anyone.
The group that had been close together was scattered in moments.
Some volunteers fell, others were forced away from the trail and disappeared behind blowing snow.
I tried to keep my balance and call out their names.
All around me, the air turned white.
I could no longer see the people beside me, and the familiar ground seemed to vanish beneath the moving ice.
I planted my boots and reached toward a shape moving in the snow, hoping it was one of the volunteers.
Another gust struck me before I could get close.
It threw me down and I slid across the icy ground.
I tried to stop myself with my hands, but the slope carried me farther than I expected.
I heard shouts, though I could not tell who was calling or where they were.
Something struck my shoulder.
Then another blow hit my pack.
My thoughts narrowed to a single need.
Stay awake and find the others.
I forced myself to lift my head.
The wind screamed above me and ice moved past in bursts.
I could not tell whether the others were close or far away.
I tried to call again, but my mouth filled with snow and my voice failed.
Then a heavier piece of ice struck the ground beside me.
The impact sent me tumbling and my head slammed against a hard, frozen surface.
A sharp pain flashed through me.
For a moment, I could still hear the storm and the distant cries of the volunteers, but the sounds began to fade.
I tried to move my arms and push myself up.
My body did not respond as I wanted.
The snow and sky blurred together, and I could no longer judge which way was up.
I thought of the 14 people I had promised to guide safely.
I wanted to call their names, but I could not make my voice work.
The cold seemed to close around me.
My sight darkened and the last thing I felt was the icy ground beneath my face.
Then everything disappeared into complete darkness.
When the darkness cleared, I found myself standing on a snowy slope with the other volunteers around me.
I did not remember how I had arrived there.
The world looked strange and empty with ridges stretching in every direction.
I could see the 14 people I had been guiding, but I could not see the route we had planned to follow.
Their faces showed fear and confusion.
For a few moments, nobody spoke.
I looked around for a familiar landmark, hoping I would understand where we were.
The mountain seemed endless, and the ground beneath our feet was broken by ice and deep snow.
I called to the group and asked everyone to stay together.
My voice sounded weak against the great silence around us.
I did not know what had happened, but I knew we had become separated from the path.
I counted the volunteers one by one, making sure all 14 were there with me.
Some stood close together while others had dropped down onto the snow to rest.
One woman was crying quietly.
A man nearby kept looking behind us as if expecting someone to appear.
Two others were arguing about which direction we should take.
I told them to stop and listen because fear would not help us find our way.
I tried to sound certain, but I was frightened too.
We had no clear view of the route, and the familiar features I usually use to guide people were missing.
I asked the group to check their maps and equipment, hoping something would help us recognize our location.
Everyone started searching through their things, but no one could point to a safe, familiar path.
We had no choice but to stay together and look.
I studied the ridges and tried to remember the shape of the land.
I had guided people through the Everest region for years, and I knew many trails by sight.
Yet nothing before me seemed to match the route I remembered.
The slopes looked similar from one side to another, and the snow covered places that might have helped me identify them.
I moved a short distance to look from a different angle, but the view did not help.
The others followed me, afraid to let me go alone.
I asked them to keep close and avoid stepping onto any area they could not see clearly.
I did not want anyone to slip or become separated.
Each time I thought I recognized a way forward, the trail seemed to disappear behind another ridge.
I began to accept that we had lost our route and did not know how to return.
We kept walking, hoping the next rise would show us something familiar.
It did not.
We climbed over uneven ground and moved around patches of ice, stopping whenever someone needed to rest.
I cannot explain how much time passed.
It felt like we had been wandering for days, even though I had no way to measure it.
The light changed and the mountain seemed to grow larger each time we looked ahead.
My legs felt heavy and the group became quieter.
We checked the maps again, but they did not give us the answer we needed.
Every direction seemed to lead to more snow and more unfamiliar slopes.
I tried to study the ground carefully, searching for tracks or signs that might show where other climbers had gone.
I found nothing that I trusted.
We continued because standing still felt just as frightening as moving forward.
As the hours seemed to pass, the fear inside the group turned into anger.
One man looked at me and said, “You told us the weather would be good enough for this route”.
Another said we had trusted my experience and now had no idea where we were.
I could hear the hurt in their voices and I could not blame them for being afraid.
I had led them there and I had told them I believed conditions were safe.
I reminded them that I had made the decision using what I knew at the time, but I did not argue with them.
I wanted to find a way back, not defend myself.
Still, their accusations cut deeply.
I felt responsible for every person who had followed me.
I had promised to guide them safely, and now I could not even show them which direction would take us home.
The volunteers began to show signs of exhaustion.
Some moved slowly and others seemed unable to keep their attention on the path.
Our oxygen supply was running low and every person knew we could not keep wandering forever.
We checked what we had left and tried to use it carefully.
The group spoke less and less.
I reminded everyone to stay close, but I could see that each person was fighting fear and tiredness.
One volunteer asked whether help would reach us.
I had no answer.
We had no clear way to tell anyone where we were, and I could not promise that someone would find us in time.
I wanted to give them hope, but I did not want to offer false certainty.
All I could do was continue looking for a route and ask them to follow me.
The mountain around us seemed silent and without end.
By then, even the arguments began to fade.
People had little strength left to blame one another.
One of the volunteers sat down and covered his face with his hands.
Another stood quietly, staring toward the ground.
I tried to encourage them to keep moving, but my own confidence was almost gone.
I had never felt so unable to help the people who depended on me.
I thought about my family and wondered whether I would ever see them again.
Then I looked at the 14 volunteers and felt the weight of every life in front of me.
I wanted to lead them home, but I could not see how.
The oxygen supply was nearly gone and we had found no sign of a safe route.
Some of us began to feel that there was nothing more we could do.
We had tried every direction we could manage and still the way out remained hidden.
Just as our hope seemed to be disappearing, I looked across the slope and saw something that did not belong among the rocks and snow.
At first, I thought it was a tall section of ice catching the light.
I stared at it, trying to understand its shape.
Then I realized I was looking at a huge statue of Jesus Christ.
It stood out clearly against the mountain, much larger than anything I expected to see there.
The figure seemed peaceful and strong, and its shape was easy to recognize.
I could not understand how a statue like that could be standing in such a place.
The others noticed it too.
