are we there yet?

“Not far,” my guide said when I asked him for the thousandth time in four miles whether we were close to our camp yet. “We’re nearly there.”

I put my head down and continued slogging forward, counting each labored breath in and out. One, two, three...

Trekking in the Everest region of the Himalayas is hiking at the edge of space, with so little oxygen above you in the atmosphere that the sky stays deep, indigo blue all day, even as the sun hits its bright white peak. At 17,000 feet in elevation, you have keep your sunglasses on so your eyes don’t burn. Each gasp of air delivers only about half the oxygen of sea level.

In this critical situation, your body introduces extreme measures to keep you alive. It isn’t comfortable and everything inside you is telling you to panic. But you have to trust. You have to stay calm.

My heart beat so fast I could hear it drumming in my own ears every time I stopped moving. My legs were heavy and clumsy, each sluggish step an intentional effort. My mind was thick and slow. At one point, I paused at the edge of the trail to look down and admire some eagles that soared through the wispy fingers of cloud that reached out of the canyon below. It was magnificent, but it makes me shudder now to recall myself teetering unsteadily there, with my toes hanging over the edge of a cliff.

I was not alone in my discomfort. At one point, my traveling companion stumbled toward me, excited and breathless, to tell me that the late Sir Edmund Hillary had greeted him on the trail. I carefully escorted him down to a lower elevation and sat him down with some water while he regained his faculties.

Four, five, six... Somehow keeping a tally of each empty gulp of air gave me the courage to continue forward even while the rest of me wanted nothing more than to stop. It was as if, by counting each hollow breath, I could convince the rational part of my brain that I was filling my lungs with oxygen — even though it felt like I was drowning.

Hospitals in hard-hit New York are starting to warn of pending shortages on critical items. Doctors and nurses are reporting that they are being instructed to re-use disposable protective gear. The situation is becoming critical.

To restock American hospitals, the federal government has floated the idea of enacting the Defense Production Act, a law introduced in 1950 at the start of the Korean War. It gives the government powers to force American industries into production of scarce goods. The President has been on the fence about using it since Wednesday and is saying now that it probably isn’t necessary, since companies have been stepping up voluntarily.

These are extreme measures not seen in my generation. The Stallion says his father, a surgeon, treated patients in hotels converted to provisional medical facilities during World War II. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers announced a couple of days ago that it is planning to convert hotel and college dorm rooms into makeshift medical centers. New York’s governor on Saturday identified the Javits Convention Center as a potential site for a temporary hospital. Before all this, I had planned to be there in three weeks for the New York Auto Show.

The National Guard has so far deployed nearly 5,500 troops to 32 states. We’re being reassured that they’re tasked with mobilizing aid, but it is hard not to think their duties might change if stay-at-home enforcement becomes necessary. Based on the images of spring breakers still packing Florida beaches, the rational part of my brain is telling me that time may be now. It’s unthinkable. But you can’t panic. You have to stay calm.

If we don’t get on top of this, we’re in real trouble. Less than two weeks ago in Italy, the government was urging its citizens to voluntarily restrict travel and lock themselves down. Social Italians enjoyed their last moments together at bars, cafes and shops. They rushed from region to region to visit loved ones. Now, the pictures on CNN are showing convoys of military vehicles carrying virus victims to cremation. Spain seems to be the next emerging hot spot. And New York.

Ten, eleven, twelve... I always lost count before 20. And each time I would ask my guide if we were close. “Not far,” he would repeat. “We’re nearly there.”

I was too tired and confused to do anything but keep going, even as I knew he was telling me both the truth and a lie at the same time. He was just another parent on a road trip, responding, “Just about” to the child in the back seat who had started asking, “Are we there yet?” minutes into the road trip.

Asking the question doesn’t change the answer. We have no choice but to keep going, no matter how far it is or how long it takes us.

Not far. We’re nearly there.

Me on the edge of the Khumbu Icefall at Mt. Everest Base Camp. Made it!