You hear the titles a lot: First American woman to climb Everest without supplemental oxygen; fastest man to ever summit; first paraplegic; first non-white, Episcopalian to reach the peak with a state flag strapped to his left arm?
But at some point, it’s like, “what the hell?” Can’t we just climb the tallest mountain in the world instead of making up monikers for ourselves?
Mt. Everest, the crown jewel of Earth’s greatest mountain range, has become the ultimate stage to display our egos on. All of us. We’re all guilty of trying to bring attention to ourselves, make it about us. From the athletes seeking sponsorship to writers like me looking to report on it and gather traffic to any given site. It’s all about us. The mountain has become forgotten.
And I’m kind of f****** sick of it. Every spring, there’s a mad rush to make it to the summit and be the first whatever. But what is the point? Attention is the simple answer. Fine, go with it. Be the first whatever to climb a mountain that’s been climbed a zillion times now. Romanticism must be a close second. People have built up the climb to the top to such ridiculous levels that it’s become a holy grail of nothing: there are much more challenging climbs in much more remote locales.
Deep down, though, we all have to know this: the main reason so many barnies still try to climb Everest or be the first this, that or the other has got to have something to do with colonialism. The vast majority of climbers on Everest come from the West, where the explore and conquer mentality has literally built nations for thousands of years. I know because I’ve been there. I’ve flown into Lukla, seen convoys of mostly American and European trekkers slogging their way towards Everest Base Camp while less economically fortunate Sherpas pack pounds of gear through Namche Bazaar and on up to Base Camp. Where the poor risk their lives so the rich may thrive.
Evidence supporting my colonialism claim is so rampant that it’s fairly easy pickings to make light of. In “Manic Mountain,” a 2013 story in The New Yorker by Nick Paumgarten, Paumgarten shares an anecdote in which Ueli Steck (who died in the Himalayas this spring trying another first) and his team attempted the Lhotse Face, a steep, dangerous route up Everest even though they were asked not to by local Sherpas and guides who were working on fixing a route for clients.
Steck and his team went anyway and were forced off the route after a heated exchange with the Sherpas. They were then nearly killed in their camp by a mob of angry locals that fealt the Westerners had endangered their lives on the mountain. “To make business, you need stories,” he told The New Yorker. Steck was talking about amazing feats. To make content, or features, climbers have to come up with greater and more outlandish projects with each passing year to survive. Modern mountaineering colonization. That’s how pros make money in the business of Everest.
I’ve participated. And written about it. And become completely annoyed by it. As I watch these feats by seemingly fantastic athletes, year after year–like becoming the fastest to the top, twice–I find myself more and more enthralled by the silent shredders amongst us: the dude who roamed the Caucasus Mountains in his youth ski mountaineering, only taking a few photos to share with his children years later; or the woman who spent her life roaming the Indonesian archepelago surfing any wave not on a map, only recording her wanderings with a few brief journal entries.
These people, who you hear about in rumor, don’t need to be reassured or patted on the back or cajoled. They roam the Earth, playing hard on their chosen canvas for one reason: they freakin’ love it. Not for likes, comments or shares. Being the first doesn’t matter to people like that. They simply live their passion. Every single day.
