The weatherman lied to us. We’d been promised a window of good weather; instead, the roaring wind sounded like a whining jet engine—all subtler sounds were erased—and constant rain drove parallel to the land. Any exposed skin felt the full brunt of the vicious elements. Our ears were bitterly numb with cold. Our teeth chattered. But we marched on regardless, grabbing at shrubs for balance as we relentlessly moved up the mountain on a poorly maintained trail that had been transformed into a treacherous slush of mud. One misstep could spell serious injury or death. And with our boots balancing on precarious edges, or slipping on loose scree, every footstep felt tedious and slow, made worse by the harsh reality of hauling backbreakingly heavy loads and grappling with cumbersome gear. I questioned why I was here, and my mind wandered to a more comfortable, peaceful place.
I’ve been chasing highliners around, and documenting them,
