Sooner or later, life brings us around to the big questions. The meaning and essence of what we are doing is what keeps us from just spinning our wheels. This piece attempts to put those questions in perspective.
THE POINT
On May 10, 1996, Scott Fischer and Rob Hall died after summiting Everest, the tallest mountain on Earth. They were among eight climbers who lost their lives in a freakish storm that swept over the summit. Their names stand out because they were seasoned professionals, familiar with the procedures and risks at altitudes above 26,000 feet. Around the world, people were intrigued and saddened by the loss.
What is it about mountain climbers? We see them in our periphery as if we were glancing at the sun, fearful of what a hard look might do. They seem to want it all and gamble everything to achieve it. In their quest, the essentials fall away. Theirs is a pilgrimage into a rarified realm that probes the upper limits of human endurance and plumbs the depths of the human soul.
A certain pointlessness surrounds an endeavor like mountain climbing. Rather than detract, it is a fundamental aspect of what mountain climbing is, and of what we are, for we all have mountains to climb. If we stop to catch our breath, the cold, thin air reveals the horizon. In those private and honest moments, knowing the distance we’ve come, we can sense the futility. At the top of this world, impenetrable nature is the guide.
Mountains give us vision and scope. From them, we can peer into the darkest reaches of the universe. The incredible vastness, in which we are suspended and cloistered, strips us of our delusions. In the end, climbing leads us nowhere and accomplishes nothing. That’s the point. We aren’t even a blip on the cosmic radar screen.
What we are, all that we can be . . . is spirit.