IT'S NO SECRET that during the past decade or so, Everest has become an experimental theater for the sort of behavior that any self-respecting alpinist finds repugnant—and 2006 offered as vivid a reminder of this as you'd ever want to see. The 45 expeditions on both the south and north sides included a pair of Bahrainians hell-bent on setting a new world record for the fastest ascent of the mountain (this despite having no previous high-altitude-climbing experience whatsoever); a 62-year-old Frenchman who'd had a kidney removed just prior to leaving for Nepal; a young British climber who perished next to the north side's main climbing route after reportedly being passed by more than 40 people; and a stricken Australian who was abandoned high on the North Col and later rescued—but only after his guide had descended safely and telephoned the man's wife to tell her the false news of her husband's death.

Those stories underscored the notion that, on the tenth anniversary of what is still the most notorious disaster in Everest history—the storm of May 10, 1996, which claimed the lives of eight people in 24 hours—things were more out of control than ever. And as the climbing world once again took note of the self-indulgent grandstanding and pointless absurdity of it all, a fresh wave of outrage poured forth from mountaineering deacons like Sir Edmund Hillary, who told reporters in New Zealand that "the whole attitude towards climbing Mount Everest has become rather horrifying—people just want to get to the top; they don't give a damn for anybody else who may be in distress."

When McBride and I left for Nepal, of course, most of these events had yet to unfold. Our arrival at Base Camp on May 9 coincided with the lull that settles in just before the summit rush. The Sherpas who perform the grunt work that enables commercial clients to ascend the mountain had already prepared the four camps along the South Col route—hauling up tons of food and bottled oxygen and rigging miles of ladders and fixed rope. By then, almost every client had completed several acclimatization trips to Camps II and III (at 21,000 and 23,500 feet, respectively), and several of the more opulent expeditions had even taken helicopter rides back to Kathmandu to enjoy a "recovery break," which involved splashing in the pool and playing roulette at the Hyatt Regency before returning for their summit bids. This meant that more than 500 jittery climbers and jaded Sherpas were now sitting in Base Camp with nothing better to do than drink, gab, and wait for a 72-hour window of clear weather so the summit assaults could start.

It seemed like the perfect time for McBride and me to start cataloging the excesses that, supposedly, had corrupted the world's noblest mountain beyond any hope of redemption. Having dutifully done so, I am now able to report that, during the following three weeks, we witnessed a number of things that merited Very Deep Concern. However, we also discovered something that's often lost on those who rush to condemn the Everest circus but that is gloriously evident to the intrepid tribe of fit, motivated people who come from all over the world each year to partake in this Himalayan version of Burning Man.

Namely: In addition to presenting a rather grotesque perversion of pretty much everything that alpinism is supposed to represent, Everest Base Camp also happens to be—and I'm afraid there's just no other way to put this—an absolute fricking blast.