Mount Everest, the planet’s tallest peak at 8,848 meters, is a beacon for adventurers seeking glory, but beneath its snow-capped majesty lies a chilling reality: a graveyard of over 200 bodies, frozen in time along its treacherous slopes. Since the first recorded deaths in 1922, at least 310 climbers have perished on the mountain, their remains scattered across popular routes or lost in deep crevasses, a testament to the savage indifference of the “Death Zone” above 8,000 meters. As the 2025 climbing season looms, the question persists: What happens to these bodies, and why do they stay where they fall?

The Death Zone earns its grim moniker due to extreme conditions starting around 26,000 feet (7,925 meters), where air pressure drops to a third of sea level, delivering a mere 33% of the oxygen humans need to survive. Here, the body consumes oxygen faster than it can replenish, triggering a cascade of failures. Hypoxia—oxygen deprivation—strikes first, causing dizziness, confusion, and rapid heart rates as the brain and organs scream for air. Climbers faint, their physical functions collapse, and death follows swiftly if descent isn’t immediate. But that’s just the baseline danger. Avalanches, ice collapses, slips on icy ledges, and exposure to winds hitting -60°C with gusts over 100 kph add layers of peril. Natural disasters like the 2015 Nepal earthquake, which killed 19, underscore the mountain’s unpredictability.

When death claims a climber, retrieval becomes a nightmare. At such altitudes, the air is too thin for sustained rescue efforts, and the terrain—steep, icy, and riddled with crevasses—poses lethal risks to recovery teams. Helicopters struggle above 7,000 meters, and Sherpas, the unsung heroes of Everest, face exhaustion carrying 100-150 kg loads in oxygen-scarce conditions. “It’s a death sentence to go after a body,” says Ngima Nuru Sherpa, who lost a brother to an avalanche in 2014. As a result, many corpses are abandoned where they fall, becoming grim landmarks. “Green Boots,” the nickname for an unidentified Indian climber from 1996, lies near the Northeast Ridge, his neon shoes a macabre waypoint. Others, like George Mallory (1924) and Hannelore Schmatz (1979), are half-buried in snow or crevasses, their locations debated by historians.

The preservation process is as eerie as it is natural. Subzero temperatures act as a freezer, halting decomposition by keeping bacteria dormant. Bodies mummify, skin hardening into leather-like husks, hair and nails intact for decades. Wind and UV radiation bleach them, while ice entombs some in glaciers, only to spit them out years later—melted ice revealed Schmatz’s remains in 2006. Clothing and gear, often brightly colored, mark their spots, serving as warnings to others. “You see a body and think, ‘That could be me,’” says climber Ed Viesturs, who summited in 1996.

Some are deliberately left as memorials. In 1996, eight climbers died in a blizzard; their bodies, like those of Scott Fischer and Rob Hall, remain near the South Col, covered with stones by peers. Families often consent, knowing retrieval costs $30,000-$70,000 per body—prohibitive for many—and risks more lives. Nepal’s government requires permits for recovery, but enforcement lags, and the 2024 season saw 478 summit attempts, straining resources.

Others vanish into crevasses—deep fissures in the Khumbu Icefall or Lhotse Face—where shifting ice buries them indefinitely. “They’re gone until the glacier moves,” says glaciologist Alton Byers, noting melt rates of 50-100 meters per year. In 2019, a warming climate exposed four bodies near Camp 2, reigniting calls for cleanup—yet only a handful are retrieved annually. The 2021 season saw two bodies removed, costing $200,000 total, with Sherpas risking falls.

The psychological toll on climbers is profound. “You step over them, and it’s surreal,” says Kami Rita Sherpa, with 30 summits. Guides train to ignore the dead, but newbies freeze, losing precious time. Social media amplifies the horror—2023’s viral photo of a corpse near the Hillary Step drew outrage, prompting Nepal to ban such posts. Families grapple with closure: Some, like Mallory’s relatives, accept the mystery; others, like the 1996 victims’ kin, fund searches that often fail.

Efforts to clear the mountain face hurdles. In 2019, Nepal’s government mandated biohazard suits and fined littering, but bodies aren’t trash—cultural taboos and logistics stall action. Proposals for a high-altitude crematorium or helicopter lifts remain unfunded. “It’s a graveyard by necessity,” says expedition leader David Breashears.

As 2025’s season nears, with permits issued for 408 climbers, the body count may rise. Each corpse tells a story—of hypoxia, falls, or avalanches—yet remains a silent sentinel. Everest’s dead don’t rest; they watch, a stark reminder that the mountain claims what it wants.