Part 2 A BOY CALLED EVEREST
I DON’T REALLY remember my father. He was away a lot, climbing mountains, and then guiding a tour group on a trek through India and Nepal. I had just turned five when he left for Everest. It’s ironic that he named me after the mountain that killed him, but I don’t think he would have changed my name if he’d known. There’s probably nowhere else he would rather have died.
He knew the risks. There are plenty of graves in those mountains. High-altitude mountain climbing probably has one of the highest fatality rates for a sport, if you consider it a sport, which I don’t. I think of it more as a religion.
Climbers have slipped from ropes, and they have frozen to death. They have died of edema, the worst form of altitude sickness. They have dropped into crevasses and been covered by avalanches.
