THE CLIMB
Viewed from the top, the shadows of the world’s highest mountains are often perfectly triangular, even when the peak itself isn’t. It’s an optical illusion.
Just the way a set of train tracks gets smaller and smaller until they form a peak on the horizon, the shadows of the mountains are so long that the human eye can’t see where they end, so to us they appear as perfect pyramids. It’s like some sort of mystical hologram.
Hallucinations must be setting in. I’ve heard about how lack of oxygen makes climbers see and do strange things, like lying down for a nap on the side of the trail and never waking up. Pressing up the stepped ledges, I try to remember where I am, how dangerous it is; wiggling my fingers inside giant down mittens, I grip the jumar tighter in my hand, slide it up the rope, and step, listening for the sound of
