Warren

I’m standing in Base Camp, shivering in my worn boots, staring up at Mount Everest. It’s not the postcard version—jagged, brutal, half-shrouded in clouds that look like they’re plotting my demise. My pack’s too heavy, my lungs are already complaining about the thin air, and the guy next to me won’t stop coughing. This is it, the dream I’ve scraped and saved for, and it feels like a punch in the gut.The mountain doesn’t care that I maxed out my credit card to get here or that I’ve been training for years, hauling tires up hills back home. It’s 8,848 meters of ice, rock, and bad attitude, and it’s already throwing problems my way. The Khumbu Icefall’s a death trap—crevasses that could swallow me whole, seracs that might collapse without warning. I’ve read about the jet stream winds that’ll try to fling me off the Lhotse Face, and don’t get me started on the “death zone,” where my body will literally start dying. My Sherpa guide, Pasang, keeps saying, “Slow, slow,” but my brain’s screaming, What if I’m not enough?Yet, there’s something unreal about this place. The way the dawn light hits the peaks, turning them gold for a fleeting moment—it stops you cold. The prayer flags flutter, carrying hopes on the wind, and the Sherpas’ quiet strength makes you believe in something bigger. I saw a yak carry twice my weight like it was nothing, and yesterday, a climber shared his last Snickers bar with me, no questions asked. There’s a raw, wild beauty here, in the chaos of it all—snow glittering like diamonds, stars so close you could grab them, and the silence that feels like it’s holding its breath.I’m terrified, no lie. My toes are numb, I’m rationing my energy bars, and I’m second-guessing every choice that led me here. But when I look up at Everest, something sparks inside. It’s not about glory or bragging rights—it’s about finding out who I am when everything’s on the line. The mountain’s a beast, but it’s also a teacher. One step at a time, I’m going to meet it head-on, problems and all.