Climbing mountains, especially the risky Himalayan variety, is a selfish proposition. Yet I believe that something of value comes from this seemingly useless pursuit.

As we sat there, the realization came that we were finished, demolished, literally blasted off the mountain. We hadn’t even sunk our teeth solidly into the climb. I felt no gratitude that we had escaped with our lives, only awe at the power unleashed on us, and a dissatisfied feeling of finality to all our dreams.

In 1963, however, when the American Mount Everest Expedition (AMEE) embarked for the Himalaya, there was no airport in Lukla, or even a dirt landing strip, and the nearest road ended a few miles outside of Kathmandu. For the AMEE, getting to the base of Everest entailed 200 miles of hard walking.

Dehydration is an important cause of deterioration above 21,000 feet.

Like pain, a mountain can be a subjective sensation; for all its solidity and fixity of form, it is more than what one sees. It is awe, pleasure, respect, love, fear, and much, much more. It is an ever-changing, maturing feeling.

In the bitter, pre-sun cold, Al and Barry departed. They carried fixed rope, pitons, ice screws, and one oxygen cylinder each. They also carried all our hopes for the following day.

Too much labor, too many sleepless nights, and too many dreams had been invested to bring us this far. We couldn’t come back for another try next weekend. To go down now, even if we could have, would be descending to a future marked by one huge question: what might have been?

The mountain way may well be a way of escape—from the cities and men, from the turmoil and doubt, from the perplexities and uncertainties and sorrows that thread our lives. But in the truest and most profound sense it is an escape not from but to reality.

As Willi and I stood on top of Everest at sunset on May 22, 1963,