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Would the situation have been different if the sadhu had been a well-dressed Western woman? Why or why not?

After encountering a dying pilgrim on a climbing trip in the Himalayas, a
businessman panders the difference between individual and corporate ethics.

Last year, as the first participant in the new six-month sabbatical program
that Morgan Stanley has adopted, I enjoyed a rare opportunity to collect my
thoughts as well as do some traveling. I spent the first three months in
Nepal, walking 600 miles through 200 villages in the Himalayas and climbing
some 120,000 vertical feet. My sole Western companion on the trip was an
anthropologist who shed light on the cultural patterns of the villages that we
passed through.

During the Nepal hike, something occurred that has had a powerful impact on my
thinking about corporate ethics. Although some might argue that the experience
has no relevance to business, it was a situation in which a basic ethical
dilemma suddenly intruded into the lives of a group of individuals. How the
group responded holds a lesson for all organizations, no matter how defined.

The Sadhu

The Nepal experience was more rugged than I had anticipated. Most commercial
treks last two or three weeks and cover a quarter of the distance we traveled.

My friend Stephen, the anthropologist, and I were halfway through the 60-day
Himalayan part of the trip when we reached the high point, an 18,000-foot pass
over a crest that we’d have to traverse to reach the village of Muklinath, an
ancient holy place for pilgrims.

Six years earlier, I had suffered pulmonary edema, an acute
form of altitude sickness, at 16,500 feet in the vicinity of Everest base
camp–so we were understandably concerned about what would happen at 18,000
feet. Moreover, the Himalayas were having their wettest spring in 20 years;
hip-deep powder and ice had already driven us off one ridge. If we failed to
cross the pass, I feared that the last half of our once-in-a-lifetime trip
would be ruined.

The night before we would try the pass, we camped in a hut at 14,500 feet. In
the photos taken at that camp, my face appears wan. The last village we’d
passed through was a sturdy two-day walk below us, and I was tired.

During the late afternoon, four back packers from New Zealand joined us, and
we spent most of the night awake, anticipating the climb. Below, we could see
the tents of two other parties, which turned out to be two Swiss couples and a
Japanese hiking club.
During the late afternoon, four back packers from New Zealand joined us, and
we spent most of the night awake, anticipating the climb. Below, we could see
the tents of two other parties, which turned out to be two Swiss couples and a
Japanese hiking club.

To get over the steep part of the climb before the sun melted the steps cut in
the ice, we departed at 3:30 A.M. The New Zealanders left first, followed by
Stephen and myself, outporters and Sherpas, and then the Swiss. The Japanese
lingered in their camp. The sky was clear, and we were confident that no
spring storm would corrupt that day to close the pass.

At 15,500 feet, it looked to me as it Stephen was shuffling and staggering a
bit, which are symptoms of altitude sickness. (The initial stage of altitude
sickness brings a headache and nausea. As the condition worsens, a climber
may encounter difficult breathing, disorientation, aphasia, and paralysis) I
felt strong my adrenaline was flowing, but I was very concerned about my
ultimate ability to get across. A couple of our porters were also suffering
from the height, and Pasang, our Sherpa sirdar (leader), was worried.

Just after daybreak, while we rested at 15,500 feet, one of the New
Zealanders, who had gone ahead, came staggering down toward us with a body
slung across his shoulders. He dumped the almost naked, barefoot body of an
Indian holy man, a sadhu, at my feet. He had found the pilgrim lying on the ice,
shivering and suffering from hypothermia. I cradled the sadhu’s head and laid
him out on the rocks. The New Zealander was angry. He wanted to get across the
pass before the bright sun melted the snow. He said, “Look, I’ve done what I
can. You have porters and Sherpa guides. You care for him. We’re going on!” He
turned and went back up the mountain to join his friends.

I took a carotid pulse and found that the sadhu was still alive. We figured he
had probably visited the holy shrines at Muklmath and was on his way home. It
was fruitless to question why he had chosen this desperately high route
instead of the safe, heavily traveled caravan route through the Kali Gandaki
gorge. Or why he was shoeless and almost naked, or how long he had been lying
in the pass. The answers weren’t going to solve our problem.

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