I have been in awe of mountaineers since I can remember. These incredible explorers who venture higher on the earth than was long thought humanly impossible, who navigate such extreme weather and constant risk of avalanches and icefall. I admired their rugged faces and purposeful, solemn expressions so often depicted in photos. Sir Edmund Hillary, Tenzing Norgay, Reinhold Messner, Brigitte Muir—brave and intrepid adventurers.
Towards the end of my fifth decade, I decided I did not want to simply read another tale of mountain climbing, I wanted to live the next one. Why now, in middle age? At 46 years old I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Living with MS, there is always uncertainty, knowing that at any point in time a new lesion in the central nervous system may impact walking. If I was to become the hero of my own story, it really was now or never.
As I write this, less than four months after my attempt to climb Chomolungma/Mount Everest, and a night spent at the South Col—Camp 4–my heart is still heavy. Having spent many years in the outdoors, I know so well the feeling that can follow after a trip ends—a mix of gratitude for the experience, sadness that it is now over, anticipation for the next adventure.
But this time
