Threshold

For me, standing on the summit is not the highlight on an expedition.

There I’ve said it.

Yet it’s generally the most public and discussed moment when you return. Everyone grabs their gopro or semi frozen phone for a #summitselfie and panoramic 360. You’re going to 100% post that on the socials and wax lyrical about the effort, deep introspection and magical recalibration of your understanding of your place in the world. And I get it - I’ve stood there, after weeks or even months of hard slog, to finally reach that pinnacle, to soak it all in, desperate not lose a single moment.

I get it, but it’s still not my favourite.

Part of the reason is experience - I know that 80% of high altitude climbing accidents occur on the way down. Put it this way - imagine walking up a very long ladder, but to descend it you must turn around and face outwards, stepping down in boots that are too big for the rungs, you can’t really use your hands, you’ve got a heavy pack and are fatigued beyond belief. Summits are cool, but you know what’s really cool - coming home alive.

So what is my favourite moment on expeditions? Well it’s on the same day - summit day - but generally many hours earlier.

Summit day usually kicks off somewhere between 11pm and 3am depending on the conditions, the mountain and the overall team plan . With numb fingers your wrestle on boots that look more like they were designed by NASA for use on the moon than Earthly pursuits. Tighten crampons, shovel down something approximating food and step out to literally hook onto your rope team.

The fragile trail of white dancing circles on the ice and snow - cast by lumbering headlamps, begin the slow march upwards.

And at some point, a few hours later, it happens. Imperceptible at first, gradul creeping fingers of deep violet then pastel then pink hues creep into the early morning sky. Night is pushed back and the sun cascades over the horizon, which appears to be below you, and the ‘day’ has begun.

For me that’s the moment - standing on an almost magical threshold. Clinging to the mountain, exposed, breathing hard, as the world wakes up below you. You can’t stop to grab a pic or contemplate the meaning of life - the team is on the move, it’s beyond bitterly cold and you still have a long way to go. But that’s exactly it - it’s private. Fleeting. You alone know the sacrifices you made to get to that very spot, on that mountain, at that time. To stand saturated in a shower of pristine photons as the sun greets you. It’s as if the universe cast out that frozen vast vista for you and you alone. Not to be stolen and posted or shared, but to be cherished and then suddenly hidden away.

For me these moments are the pay off. Yes I’m a normal human being who loves dopamine, I’ll grab the selfies at the summit and share my successes on the socials. But the true value, the enduring wisdom, the capstone that catalyses the purpose of the days and weeks and months of hard, lonely graft that conspired to allow you to place yourself there on that mountain side, under a fresh sun, lies in that uncapturable moment.

It is here that you realise why you did it, why you took the risks and the value of that which cannot be purchased, cannot be bartered for. It must be earned - through sacrifice, graft, discipline. It cannot be taken from you, it will reside, undiminished and indelible - and when the time comes to once again step into the forge to recast yourself anew for the next adventure - you will be able to reach deep within and see that sunrise, and stand renewed.