big mountains

I have always maintained that I would not find it pleasant to die on the side of a mountain that is covered with snow and ice. Consider that some of the tallest mountains on the planet have footnotes reading something like, “for every four people that try to summit, one dies,” or perhaps you prefer these odds, “of the 258 people who have tried to climb the mountain, 36 have died.”

At first I think that dying in this way might really suck and then I think about it and wonder if someone who is on the side of an +8,000m peak, in the middle of winter, really cares about death? It really is one hell of a way to go. So I’ve decided that I’m going to climb big, cold mountains. And yes, carrying a 50lb pack, up the side of a mountain, while wearing crampons and huffing oxygen is a bit intimidating.

I am yet to figure out why I want to climb a mountain like this. I admit, there is part of me that wants to do it so that I can say I have. I think perhaps that same part of me wants to visit amazing, beautiful, awe inspiring places because I hope that doing so will create something meaningful in my life. I imagine myself standing there, looking out over the world, feeling like I have done something.

What is this insanity that I think I have to climb to the top of a mountain to feel like I have done something? Standing in a place that doesn’t have enough oxygen for me to breathe properly and is so cold that people who make one mistake die, just a name and a memory, one more life claimed by a mountain that is in a place I should not be. I can see how crazy my idea is, but I still want to do it.

I have some work to do. It might take me a while. I better get started.