THE CONTROVERSIES about the Matthews case and the death of David Sharp underscore a huge shift on Everest over the past ten years, one that makes it more important than ever to remember this: Buyer beware.

Until around 1996, most climbers summited on the south side, shelling out about $60,000 to do so. Only a few commercial outfitters in the early 1990s—Brice most prominently—offered trips up the more difficult Northeast Ridge. By the last part of the decade, the majority of summit attempts were made from the north side, a trend that continues still.

The south side, controlled by Nepal, remains dominated by established commercial operators, but the Chinese-governed north side now attracts growing numbers of no-frills outfitters and independent climbers—some of them sacrificing safety for a bargain. What they get in exchange is a longer, riskier, more technical climb.

High camp on the Northeast Ridge is at 27,000 feet, a debilitating altitude from which to launch a summit bid; on the south side, the top camp is the South Col's Camp IV, at 26,200 feet. Wig out from oxygen starvation on the north side and you have to traverse rocky terrain for hours before you reach thicker air; on the southern route you can get down a lot quicker. For these reasons and others, eight of the 11 fatalities on Everest this year occurred on the north side—and this during a long spell of good weather.

The deceased include semiblind German Thomas Weber, 41, and Russian Igor Plyushkin, 54, both of whom collapsed and died high on the mountain but did not summit. Both men were climbing on permits from Asian Trekking, the same company that outfitted Sharp, Negrete, and Lincoln Hall. (Officials at Asian Trekking say the business provides goods and services to many expeditions each year without incident and say the 2006 deaths were not the responsibility of the company.)

So why head north? It's cheaper. On the Nepal side, a permit alone costs $10,000. On the Chinese side, you can get a permit, a ride to base camp, lodging, and yaks to carry your gear to advance base camp, on the East Rongbuk Glacier, all for $4,000. If you can cope with bare-bones base-camp services, grim food, and no Sherpa support, Everest becomes less Bergdorf's and more Wal-Mart.

For strong climbers, bargain-basement trips can work. Austrian speed climber Christian Stangl, for instance, paid Asian Trekking even less than David Sharp did—a rock-bottom $5,300 total, including supplies—and managed to summit in less than 17 hours, without bottled oxygen. But was Sharp skilled enough to go solo? Richard Dougan, his Everest teammate in 2003, told me Sharp was "a fantastic lad, strong at high altitude." Nevertheless, without a climbing partner, guide, Sherpa, or radio, he vastly reduced his chances for survival. Resources are everything on Everest, either those you bring or those you buy.

Even when you have help, there are no guarantees. Take the case of Nils Antezana, a 69-year-old Washington, D.C.–area pathologist who disappeared on Everest shortly after scaling it in 2004, becoming the oldest American to summit. According to a lengthy investigation in The Washington Post Magazine, Antezana offered Argentinian mountaineer Gustavo Lisi an all-expenses-paid trip to Everest, including a two-Sherpa crew and a $10,000 bonus if the doctor summited. But the exhausted Antezana collapsed soon after reaching the top, leaving the Sherpas to carry or lower him down by ropes. As the afternoon wore on, Lisi himself began suffering from fatigue. He left Antezana and the Sherpas and slowly descended alone.

Lisi did not mention the doctor's plight to anyone he saw en route or at Camp IV, which he reached at 11 p.m.—and immediately went to sleep. Antezana, meanwhile, had spent the afternoon drifting in and out of consciousness at 27,500 feet. The Sherpas stayed with him until nearly nightfall, when their own lives were at risk. They propped oxygen bottles by his side and said goodbye.

The next morning, Lisi called his Web-site manager to report his summit success, the magazine reported. He waited another two days before phoning the dead man's wife.

Lisi, who works as a guide in South America, disputes this entire version of events and, in particular, denies being Antezana's guide, saying he went to Everest only as a friend. "I have nothing to hide about my expedition," he wrote in an e-mail, adding, "only true alpinists understand when things happen at such altitudes and the risks associated with a mountain like Everest."

Then there's Gheorghe Dijmarescu. The 44-year-old native Romanian, now a resident of Hartford, Connecticut, has summited eight times since 1999; his wife, Lakpa Sherpa, is a six-time summiter herself. In 2004, on the strength of Dijmarescu's reputation and the low quotes from Asian Trekking regarding services and supplies, Hartford Courant reporter Michael Kodas convinced the newspaper to send him and his wife, also a Courant reporter, on what promised to be a dream assignment to the north side of Everest, as part of a seven-member team. Dijmarescu, Kodas believed, would help people summit.

But according to Kodas's stories in the Courant, the expedition turned into a nightmare of arguments, fights, and intimidation. At base camp, Dijmarescu became angry about the critical dispatches the Kodases were filing and threatened to burn Kodas's tent down, sue him, or "whack him," Kodas wrote.

"Mr. Kodas's accusations are false," Dijmarescu wrote in an e-mail. He stressed that he is a climber, not a professional guide. "I have assisted many climbers and participated in numerous rescues, but I have never received money."

Allegations and counter-allegations like these aren't typical on Everest, of course. But the guiding scene there has always had its lawless elements, and that's not likely to change. Reluctant to undermine the Klondike on their doorsteps, the Chinese and Nepalese governments don't check credentials before letting people lead expeditions: If you pay, you're in.

Guides are left to distinguish themselves, for worse or for better. Increasing numbers on Everest have done the latter by seeking accreditation from the Switzerland-based International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations and its national chapters, a certification that requires rigorous testing, years of training, and proficiency in everything from skiing and crevasse rescues to first aid. If certified guides lose a client, they can face a professional inquiry, which might result in suspension.

Still, this is Everest, a place where consumer watchdog groups won't ever exist—what frontier has them? It's left to clients to figure out what they're getting. Even if they sort it out, unfortunately, things can always go wrong.