A frozen body in climbing gear can weigh up to 200 kilograms
For thirty years, a man has rested in a limestone cave near the roof of the world, known only by the color of his boots, his true name disputed and his family left without closure. Now Indian authorities have identified the climber as Dorje Morup and commissioned a dangerous, costly mission to bring him down from Everest's death zone before October. His story is one the mountain has told many times: the thin line between ambition and oblivion, and the long, unfinished work of grief that outlasts even the highest summits.
- A body frozen at 8,500 meters for three decades has become both a mountaineering landmark and an open wound for a family denied the right to mourn.
- A newly released Indian government tender has quietly overturned thirty years of assumed identity, replacing the name Tsewang Paljor with Dorje Morup — a shift that has left even seasoned Everest observers baffled.
- The recovery mission demands a team of at least six veteran Sherpas willing to haul up to 200 kilograms of frozen remains down treacherous, icy terrain — and sometimes amputate limbs that cannot be bent.
- The psychological and spiritual cost falls heaviest on the Sherpas themselves, Buddhist practitioners asked to handle the dead in ways that conflict with their deepest beliefs, for an estimated $150,000 and forty days of monsoon-season risk.
- With roughly 200 bodies still on Everest and helicopters unable to operate at such altitude, this mission walks the razor's edge between honoring the dead and creating new casualties among the living.
For thirty years, a climber has lain curled in a small limestone cave near Everest's summit, his lime-colored boots making him an involuntary landmark for every expedition that passed. Positioned at roughly 8,500 meters on the north-east ridge, he became known simply as Green Boots — a grim waypoint in the death zone, where temperatures drop to minus 30 Celsius and winds reach hurricane force. Climbers would radio base camp when they reached him. Some sheltered beside him during storms.
His death came during a 1996 blizzard that killed three members of an Indo-Tibetan Border Police expedition attempting the first Indian ascent from the north side. For decades, mountaineers and journalists assumed the body was that of Tsewang Paljor. But a tender document recently released by Indian authorities names the climber as Dorje Morup — a quiet, unexplained reversal that has puzzled even prominent Everest observers like American mountaineer Alan Arnette, who welcomed the recovery effort while expressing bewilderment at the sudden change.
The mission itself is formidable. The tender calls for specialist teams to retrieve the body and transport it to Delhi by October, requiring at least six Sherpas with multiple Everest summits to their names. A body frozen in full climbing gear can weigh up to 200 kilograms, and limbs locked at impossible angles sometimes must be amputated — a gut-wrenching necessity, says Tshiring Jangbu Sherpa, who has coordinated multiple recoveries. Estimates put the cost at around $150,000, with the operation potentially spanning forty days through the complications of monsoon season.
The burden on the Sherpas extends beyond the physical. Predominantly Buddhist, they carry deep spiritual reservations about handling the dead in such ways. And the danger is real: there have been recoveries where more people perished in the attempt than in the original tragedy. About 200 bodies remain on Everest, most beyond reach. What makes this mission remarkable is not just its ambition, but the thirty years of silence it seeks to end — for a family, and perhaps for the mountain itself.
For three decades, a body has lain in a small limestone cave near the summit of Mount Everest, curled as if sleeping, his distinctive lime-colored boots marking him as a landmark for thousands of climbers who would pass by. Now, thirty years after a 1996 blizzard killed him in the mountain's notorious death zone, Indian authorities have launched a plan to bring him down—and in doing so, to finally settle a mystery that has shadowed Everest mountaineering for a generation.
The climber known as Green Boots has been a fixture of Everest lore since his death. Positioned at roughly 8,500 meters, just 350 meters from the summit on the north-east ridge route, his body became an involuntary waypoint. Climbers would radio base camp to report they had reached Green Boots. Others would shelter beside him during storms. A red fleece pulled over his face, he lay under a rocky outcrop where temperatures plunge to minus 30 Celsius and winds reach hurricane force. For climbers pushing toward the summit, he was a grim measure of their progress and their proximity to the mountain's deadliest reaches.
For decades, the identity of Green Boots was assumed but never confirmed. Mountaineers and journalists reported that he was Tsewang Paljor, an Indian climber from an Indo-Tibetan Border Police expedition attempting a historic first Indian ascent from the north side. But a tender document recently released by Indian authorities has upended that assumption. The body, the document states, belongs to Dorje Morup—not Paljor. Both men died on the same day during that same expedition, along with a third team member. None made it down. The shift in identification has puzzled even seasoned observers. Alan Arnette, a prominent American mountaineer and Everest blogger, expressed bewilderment at the sudden change, though he welcomed the recovery effort itself.
The retrieval will be extraordinarily difficult. The tender document, which the Guardian has reviewed, calls for bids from specialist teams to retrieve the body and transport it to Delhi by October. The successful team must include at least six Sherpas who have summited Everest multiple times. An iced-up body in full climbing gear can weigh up to 200 kilograms. Limbs frozen solid at awkward angles make the work of dragging or lowering a corpse down rocky, icy terrain exhausting and treacherous. Sometimes, according to Tshiring Jangbu Sherpa, a founder of Everest Sherpa Expedition who has coordinated multiple body recoveries, limbs must be amputated because they cannot be bent—a gut-wrenching necessity, he says, but unavoidable.
The physical challenge is compounded by the psychological and spiritual toll on the Sherpas themselves, who are predominantly Buddhist and hold deep beliefs against desecrating bodies. Arnette estimates a team would seek around $150,000 for the expedition. Makalu Adventure, a Nepal-based company, projects the mission could take 40 days from start to finish, with monsoon weather between June and October—the timeframe specified in the tender—adding significant complications through heavier snowfall.
About 200 bodies remain on Everest. Grieving families make inquiries, but the cost and danger of retrieval often make it impossible. Helicopters cannot safely operate at such extreme altitudes. Guy Cotter, a New Zealand climber whose company has conducted Himalayan expeditions, coordinated a similar recovery in 1997. He acknowledges the value of returning a body to a family—the closure it provides—but warns of the razor-thin line between honoring the dead and endangering the living. There have been recoveries where more people died in the attempt than the original tragedy claimed.
Unconfirmed rumors in recent years have suggested Green Boots may have been moved or buried, but climbers insist he remains in the cave where he has always been. The question now is whether the Indian authorities will succeed in bringing him home, and whether that closure—three decades delayed—will finally allow both the mountain and the families to let go.
Notable Quotes
I'm glad that they're bringing him down, but it's going to be a gruesome task.— Alan Arnette, US mountaineer and Everest blogger
For families to have a body returned from the mountain brings closure, as long as it's not putting other people at undue risk.— Guy Cotter, New Zealand climber and expedition operator
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why has it taken thirty years to retrieve this body? Surely the Indian government had resources earlier.
The mountain doesn't care about resources. At 8,500 meters, there's a third of the oxygen available at sea level. Your thinking becomes clouded. A frozen body can weigh 200 kilograms and be locked in impossible angles. It's not a matter of will—it's a matter of what's physically possible without killing the people trying to help.
But why the change in identity? How does a body go from being Tsewang Paljor to Dorje Morup after thirty years?
That's the question everyone's asking. Both men died on the same day in the same expedition. The tender document says the identification was confirmed through a prior verification process, but offers no details. It raises real doubts about what was actually known all along.
What does it mean for the Sherpas to do this work? You mentioned they're Buddhist and have beliefs against touching bodies.
It's a profound conflict. These are men who have summited Everest multiple times, who understand the mountain better than anyone. But their faith teaches them not to desecrate bodies. They may have to amputate limbs. They'll be handling a corpse that's been exposed for thirty years. That takes a spiritual toll that money doesn't fully compensate for.
Is there a risk this recovery could kill someone?
Yes. There have been body recoveries on Everest where more people died in the attempt than in the original accident. That's why climbers like Guy Cotter say it's a very thin line—between honoring the dead and endangering the living. The mountain doesn't distinguish between the two.
What happens if they succeed?
A family gets closure. A body comes home. The mountain loses one of its landmarks. And the question of why it took thirty years, and why the identity changed, remains unanswered.