The idea of climbing Everest disgusted me. The mountain came to represent the opposite of everything that I loved and respected about climbing. What had once been the final mountain climbing goal became the focus of a commercial guiding industry. Over the years, the crowds at Base Camp grew, leaving behind tons of trash. Whenever I was asked whether I'd climbed Everest, my answer was always the same: not interested.
That's probably where my personal Everest story would have ended, were it not for an old friend and his obsession (念念不忘) with one of the greatest mysteries. In 1999, Thom Pollard began to explore and found the remains of George Mallory, the celebrated British climber who disappeared while attempting to be the first to climb Everest. But Mallory's partner, Sandy Irvine - and the camera he had likely carried - were not found. The mountain climbing world has been wondering whether they might have reached the top in 1924.
Pollard's story moved me. I began to pack for the climb and expected that our advanced equipment would make it manageable, perhaps easy. I was wrong. On the highest point on the planet, I was more tired than I'd ever been in any climbing. Along the way, I continuously tipped my hat, not just to Mallory and Irvine but to anyone who has the drive to push himself or herself up this route. My search was in vain, but I began to reconsider Everest.
I witnessed many climbers, who were much more than just self-centered tourists. We shared route information, weather forecasts, and family photos - all united around common goals.
I went to Everest to seek Irvine. But in the end, I found something more difficult to get: the spirit that Irvine and Mallory shared. It was hiding in plain sight, right where it has always been: inside the brave souls who risk so much to follow in storied adventurers' footsteps up Everest.
