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superstars with first ascents to their names and ice-climbing maneuvers named after them, but I manage to make a living and support my wife by climbing. I manage to pay for high-altitude mountaineering, my only hobby. My vanity. Another reason is simply that, after Everest, there’s literally no higher to go. You will have stood on top of the world and looked down, and you’ll have seen both a bit of humanity in the valleys and a bit of God in the clouds. That’s why, I think, I’ve made the decision. Part of it, yes, was to appease Mary, but most of it was because I wanted to end my mountaineering career on the highest possible note, in the best shape, with the best track record. After I claw my way up 29,029 feet like Sir Edmund Hillary before me, there’s nothing else worth doing.
He waits for me to continue, and, when I don’t, raises his eyebrows.
“Everything ok? Is she making you stress out?” He knows the dangers of not being mentally prepared for a climb, too. “No, it’s totally fine. She consented, so there’s nothing to do but finish packing and make it to Kathmandu. So, what do you say you get off your ass and help me load gear?” We’re at the indoor gym, and the walls echo with shouts, grunts, and thuds like the inside of a boxing ring. It’s not, though; it’s the sound of the fifty people in the gym struggling to reach a physical and emotional climax atop the walls, like an orgasm, like a victory.