A Message from the Peak of Everest

Hello world.

As I stand here about twenty feet from the summit, a sense of accomplishment washes over me. It's an undertaking few have conquered. Still, at the same time I feel a sense of dread. I made it here, but what about the trip on the way down? Supplies are lower than expected, the crew is tired, and the nights have been getting longer and longer. There's a small chance we might not even have enough oxygen for the next two days, I haven't had the chance to do the math.

Why are we even up here?

What hubris drove us to try to conquer this majesty of nature?

What were we looking for?

Looking out across the broken and jagged Himalayas, I feel contemplative. It's about 6:34 am, and the darkness is starting to lift. Wind is strong, but no snowfall. We dug ourselves a little crevasse to shield ourselves from the wind, and we're on the east side of the mountain.

2 more minutes till sunrise.

It was a difficult trip up. It was lonely and sad and cold and quiet. Even with the roaring winds it was still too quiet. Maybe it was just because I couldn't hear the others as well. Maybe it was because I was already feeling isolated. I don't remember what drove me to push my way up here, to join this crew on their way up.

And then the sun rises. And it all makes sense. Beautiful pinks and reds and yellows stream out across the jagged rock formations, fragmenting the light like a giant kaleidoscope. The light is clear and there's so little pollution up here that it looks like a flood washing across the landscape. And it's worth it.

It's so worth it that I forget about the oxygen mask on my face, about the shortage of food and water, and I just sit there.

Maybe the trip down will be worth it, too.

Signing off,
Colonel Michael Mandanas