It is many miles and many years that have brought me here.… To climb Everest—which my people call Chomolungma—is what I have wanted most of all in my life. Seven times I have tried, I have come back and tried again; not with pride and force, not as a soldier to an enemy, but with love, as a child climbs onto the lap of its mother. Now at last I have been granted success, and I give thanks. "Thuji chey"—that is how we say it in Sherpa. "I am grateful." So I have dedicated my story to Chomolungma, for it has given me everything. To whom else should I make my dedication?
Tenzing Norway was the first man (alongside Edmund Hillary) to summit Everest, or Chomolungma, as the Sherpa call it. He accomplished this on his seventh try. Seven times on the world's tallest peak, seven times challenging the human body's limits, six times 'failed' and the seventh a success. Tenzing is a legend but what impressed me most about how he told his story was not so much the eventual summit but the journey towards it.
Perhaps going down the "disasters on Everest" or "worst tragedies on K2" Youtube rabbit holes has made me far more cynical of the kinds of people that try and do crazy first ascents—they seem reckless, selfish, driven by an ambition that blinds them to everything outside of themselves, and more often than not, hubristic. To treat a mountain that has stood there before us, that will stand here after us, as a monkey bar to be scaled or a quest to be 'conquered' reeks of conceit to me: the mountain is certainly not issuing you a challenge, and who are you to presume that?
But Tenzing speaks of Everest so tenderly that I cannot help but be moved by his dedication to his project. Of course there is also something quite magical about the story of a man who stands at the top of the mountains whose peaks he could not see when he was a child standing in the valleys of the Himalayas, gazing up in awe and reverence. His summit, then, does not reduce Everest as yet another 'conquered' peak, but there is that moment of pure euphoria and spirituality when the man meets the mountain.
"So Everest is climbed. My life goes on. In this book I have looked back at the past, but in living one must look ahead. Once—only once—in my new life have I done what I did so often in the old: climbed up in the dawn to Tiger Hill, behind Darjeeling, and looked out across the miles toward the northwest. There are no tourists with me now; only a few friends. And no need to talk or explain, but only to stand quietly and watch the great white peaks rise up into the morning light. But as I watch, it is no longer the same morning or the same year. I am back on this hill long ago, with my seven American ladies, and I am remembering what I said to them. 'No, it is not that one. That is Lhotse. Nor that. That is Makalu. It is the other one. The small one. 'The small one."… Perhaps that is a strange name for the biggest mountain on earth. But also not so strange, and not so wrong, for what is Everest without the eye and heart that sees it? It is the hearts of men that make it big or small. You cannot see it for long from Tiger Hill. Soon the sun is up; the clouds come. It is neither big nor small, but gone. And now I go, too: down to Darjeeling, my home and my family, my new life, which is so different from the old. One of my friends asks, 'Well, what is it like? How do you feel about it now?' But I cannot answer him. I can answer only in my heart, and to Everest itself, as I did on that morning when I bent and laid a red-and-blue pencil on the summit snow. Thuji chey, Chomolungma. I am grateful."