27,890 ft

Breath has always been mine without thought, but each frigid inhale is all-consuming here. I check my oxygen tank—there is enough to summit. I breathe to full capacity, yet I am not satiated. Every minute feels like a slow suffocation, a drowning on dry land. The more thought I give to the act of breathing, the more lightheaded I become. My heart pounds a deafening survival anthem, and suddenly, I have a sickening feeling that I will die here. Panic whips over me like the thrashing snow beating against my goggles.

I cannot give up this dream!

Ignoring every warning signal my body sends as it pleads with me to turn back, I take the next calculated step on the narrow trail; my boot catches ice, and I crash to my knees. Frozen bone hits rock, sending pain coursing through my body.

Ananda, my sherpa, turns to ensure I’m ok, and I slowly offer him a weary thumbs up. Truth be told, I’m grateful for the throbbing sensation. It reminds me that I am, in fact, still alive.

Ananada nods and points to a cave off the trail where the remains of a crumpled body attached to a pair of green boots lie motionless in the blowing snow. I feel a twinge of guilt as this sight instills hope within me; his death marks the elevation of my achievement. I silently offer my respects to the trail marker as I come to my feet.

The summit is in my grasp.