THE ALPINIST
“Each year brings tales of women’s adventures—at times with cloudbursts of media attention, more often as quietly as snowflakes spinning into drift.”
“When people ask about Nepal, I think of when the grey-haired Sherpa man whose house had fallen to pieces gave me a bowl of lentils and rice, his hands shaking as he wished me safety and health. I think of the night I slept on the ground in a tangle of strangers who were intertwined like sleeping puppies, my head on the shoulder of a man who is now a close friend. And I think of the cold soft wind that blew off the mountains the day we flew out of Lukla, slowly clearing the dust from the air.”
“Above me, the sky is clear. The ice-white path to the summit gleams in the moonlight. I switch off my headlamp to test the light. My eyes adjust, and my silhouette moves in a silver moonshadow.”
—“The Way Home,” Alpinist 45