When I Start Any Book, I Have

Early On A Difficult Climb, Especially A Solo Climb, You’re Hyper-aware Of The Abyss Pulling At Your Back, Constantly Feeling Its Call, Its Immense Hunger. To Resist Takes Tremendous Conscious Effort, You Don’t Dare Let Your Guard Down For An Instant. The Void Puts You On Edge, Makes Your Movements Tentative And Clumsy. But As The Climb Continues, You Grow Accustomed To The Exposure, You Get Used To Rubbing Shoulders With Doom, You Come To Believe In The Reliability Of Your Hands And Feet And Head. You Learn To Trust Your Self-control.

I Think Part Of The Appeal Of Antarctica Is Experiencing Some Sort Of Power, The Forces Of The Natural World.

But [everett] And Mccandless, At Least They Tried To Follow Their Dream. That’s What Was Great About Them. They Tried. Not Many Do.

Getting To The Top Of Any Given Mountain Was Considered Much Less Important Than How One Got There: Prestige Was Earned By Tackling The Most Unforgiving Routes With Minimal Equipment, In The Boldest Style Imaginable.

As A Means Of Motivating People To Be Cruel Or Inhumane-as A Means Of Inciting Evil, To Borrow The Vocabulary Of The Devout-there May Be No More Potent Force Than Religion.