I could not even make out the sign of the camp I was approaching.
My warm breath rose and misted my eye-gear, as I heaved my way up the terrain. It reminded me of the dew-kissed, rusted window by the old fireplace, casting its soft light on the soot-streaked wall. The smell of fresh, crackling firewood and nutmeg. The crisp, cold sheets brushing against my skin as I tuck into bed with a warm bowl of my favourite memories.
Another bone-chilling plume swept me from the short-lived warmth back to reality. Here I was, braving one of nature’s most feared sides, trying hard to keep my human warmth intact while the unimaginable cold continues to wage a war against me. My hourly GPS readings scares yet soothes, gazing at the tiny dot I see in a vast sea of white nothingness.
Now, it’s just me and nature, a one-on-one conversation these heights are witnessing for the first time. With every trudge and heave I realise, that this is the journey of my life and the hardest test my body and mind will ever attempt.
With every cold gush of wind, I get goosebumps. It is not just the cold, but the thought of falling to a slow, suffocating death in the blank vacuum without a soul to turn to. The cold is sometimes like a hungry vine, that locks my limbs in a tight embrace and wrings my bones and nerves to exhaustion. Yet, it fills me with uncanny strength to conquer an impossible opponent, or rather befriend, I must say.
My greatest learning is that the end is not of conquest, but of graceful defeat be it atop or several feet under.
Inspired by Josh Kobusch’s ascent
(Prompt Courtesy: New York Times)
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