"Into the Maw of Denali":
I never imagined a mountain could become my worst nightmare. My friend Piotr and I, both from Poland, had dreamed of climbing Denali, the highest peak in North America, for years. We picked the Muldrow Glacier route, drawn to its wild beauty and the challenge it promised. With our gear packed and spirits high, we roped up and began our ascent, probing the snow with long poles to check for hidden crevasses. We were ready for an adventure. But Denali had other plans, and what started as a dream turned into a horror I’ll never forget.
The first few days felt like a victory. The glacier stretched out before us, a dazzling expanse of snow and ice, its surface cracked with deep fissures. We moved carefully, tied together by a sturdy rope, each step deliberate. Piotr was ahead, his broad shoulders steady as he tested the snow. “Looking good so far,” he called back, flashing a grin. I nodded, my breath puffing out in clouds, my heart light with excitement. We were doing this—climbing one of the world’s great mountains.
Then it happened. We were crossing a snow bridge, a thin crust over a crevasse, when my foot broke through. The snow gave way with a sickening crunch, and I plummeted. Darkness rushed up as I fell, the cold air biting my face. The rope snapped tight around my chest, knocking the wind out of me. I dangled in the void, my boots scraping the icy walls, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Piotr!” I shouted, my voice echoing, sharp and desperate, off the crevasse’s jagged sides.
“Hold on!” Piotr yelled from above, his voice tight with effort. I could hear him grunting as he braced himself, digging his ice axe into the snow to stop my fall. My body swung gently, the rope creaking, the blackness below me endless. I fumbled for my ice axe, trying to jam it into the wall, but my hands were shaking too much. “I’ve got you!” Piotr called. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled, the rope cutting into my harness. My arms burned as I tried to help, clawing at the ice. After what felt like forever, I scrambled over the edge, collapsing onto the snow, gasping.
“You okay?” Piotr asked, kneeling beside me, his face pale.
I nodded, too shaken to speak. My hands trembled as I checked my gear, my body aching from the jolt. “That was too close,” I finally said, my voice hoarse. Piotr forced a smile, but his eyes were uneasy. “Let’s keep moving,” he said, standing up. We brushed it off, telling ourselves it was just one mistake. But the mountain wasn’t done with us.
Over the next few days, the crevasses kept coming. Each crossing felt like a gamble. We fell again and again, the glacier seeming to toy with us. One time, Piotr stepped too close to an edge, and the snow collapsed beneath him. He vanished with a shout, the rope yanking me forward. I stumbled, nearly falling in myself, but managed to dig my axe into the snow, anchoring us. “Piotr!” I screamed, leaning back against the rope’s pull. He was down there, dangling, his breathing ragged. “I’m here!” he called, his voice faint.
I pulled with everything I had, my muscles screaming, sweat soaking my layers despite the cold. My boots slipped on the snow, but I held on, inching him up. When he finally climbed out, he collapsed beside me, his face gray. “I thought I was gone,” he whispered, his hands shaking as he clutched his axe. We sat there, hearts pounding, the crevasse yawning behind us like a hungry mouth. “We need to be more careful,” I said, but the words felt hollow. The mountain didn’t care about careful.
Our food began to dwindle. We had packed enough for the planned climb, but the falls slowed us down, eating up days. Hunger settled in, a constant ache in my gut. We rationed our meals, splitting tiny portions of freeze-dried pasta and granola. Every bite felt precious, but it wasn’t enough. My body weakened, each step heavier than the last. My fingers started to numb, the tips turning pale and waxy—frostbite setting in. Piotr’s toes were worse; he winced with every step, his boots rubbing raw, bloody patches.
At night, we crammed into our small tent, the fabric flapping wildly outside. We pressed close for warmth, but the cold seeped through, chilling my bones. Sleep was impossible. The wind howled, a relentless roar that shook the tent poles. Sometimes, I heard something else—low whispers, like voices carried on the wind. They were faint, almost words, but not quite. “Piotr, do you hear that?” I asked one night, sitting up, my heart racing.
He lifted his head, listening. “Hear what?” he said, his eyes darting to the tent’s entrance.
“Whispers. Like someone’s out there, talking.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “It’s just the wind. You’re exhausted.” But his voice trembled, and I saw him glance at the zipper, as if expecting something to burst through. I lay back down, but the whispers lingered in my mind, creeping into my dreams when I finally dozed off.
The real horror came when we realized we were lost. We had been following our planned route, but the glacier’s endless white expanse confused us. The crevasses looked different, deeper, more treacherous. I pulled out the map, my frostbitten fingers clumsy, the paper crinkling. “Piotr, this doesn’t look right,” I said, my stomach twisting. He leaned over, studying the map, his breath quickening. “We should’ve passed that ridge by now,” he muttered, pointing to a landmark. We scanned the horizon, but there was nothing—just snow and ice, stretching forever.
“We’re off course,” I said, the words heavy. Piotr’s face tightened. “How did this happen?” he asked, his voice sharp with fear. We tried to backtrack, but every direction looked the same. Panic clawed at me. We were alone, lost on a glacier, with no food left and frostbite spreading. “We have to find a way out,” Piotr said, gripping his ice axe like a lifeline. But his eyes betrayed his doubt.
We kept moving, driven by desperation. Every step was agony, my frostbitten toes screaming with each crunch of snow. Piotr limped, his face drawn, his hands blackening at the tips. We shared our last square of chocolate, letting it melt slowly on our tongues, savoring the fleeting sweetness. “This can’t be it,” I said, my voice cracking. Piotr met my gaze, his eyes hollow. “We’re not giving up,” he said, but it sounded like a plea.
Then I started seeing things. Shapes in the distance—tall, human-like figures moving across the snow. They appeared and vanished when I blinked, like mirages. My heart pounded, but I told myself it was the hunger, the exhaustion. One day, I stopped, pointing. “Piotr, look! There’s someone out there!” He turned, squinting. “Where?” he said, his voice sharp. I pointed again, but the figure was gone. “There’s nothing,” he said, but he sounded unsure, his eyes scanning the horizon.
The whispers grew louder at night, more distinct. I heard words—help, come, here—but they faded when I listened harder. “Piotr, you have to hear it now,” I said, shaking him awake. He sat up, listening, his face tense. “I don’t hear anything,” he said, but he didn’t lie back down. We sat in silence, the wind shrieking, the whispers taunting me. I wondered if the mountain was playing tricks, or if my mind was breaking.
Days blurred into one endless slog. My body felt like lead, my vision blurring at the edges. Piotr stumbled more, his strength fading. “I can’t keep going,” he admitted one day, sinking to his knees. His hands were swollen, the skin splitting. I knelt beside him, my own pain forgotten. “We’re getting out of this,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Together.” He nodded, but his eyes were distant, like he was already giving up.
Just when I thought we were done, I saw movement—a figure in the distance, pulling a sled. I blinked, sure it was another hallucination. But it didn’t vanish. As it approached, I saw a ranger, his dogs barking, their breath steaming. “You two okay?” he shouted, his face etched with worry. We tried to answer, but our voices were weak, barely audible. He rushed over, helping us onto the sled, wrapping us in thick blankets. “You’re in rough shape,” he said, his voice gentle. “Lucky I found you.”
As the sled carried us away, I looked back at Denali. Its slopes rose, vast and silent, like a predator watching its prey escape. My body was broken—frostbitten fingers and toes, scars I’d carry forever. But the mountain left deeper wounds. The whispers still echo in my dreams, and sometimes, I wake up gasping, feeling the rope pull tight, the crevasse’s darkness swallowing me whole. We survived, but Denali’s shadow follows me, a reminder of how close we came to never coming back.
"The Bottleneck: The Day I Stepped Over a Dying Man on K2":
My boots bit into the icy crust of K2, the fixed rope taut in my gloved hands, the only thing keeping me from plunging into the black void below. The Bottleneck was ahead, a treacherous ribbon of ice and jagged rock that every climber on this mountain dreaded. It was July 27, 2023, well past midnight, and the line of headlamps snaked up the slope, a silent chain of ambition pushing toward the summit. My lungs burned with every shallow breath, the air so thin it felt like sipping through a pinched straw. My legs trembled, not just from the climb but from the weight of being here, on the “Savage Mountain,” where one in five never comes back.
I adjusted my goggles, the plastic fogging from my breath. The faint glow of my headlamp caught the frost on my balaclava, sparkling like tiny knives. Ahead, the line slowed, climbers bunching up in the narrow chute. I craned my neck, trying to see why. Then I saw him—a man crumpled in the snow, his body sprawled across the path, blocking the way. Mohammad, a 27-year-old Pakistani porter, lay there, his thin jacket no match for the cold, his legs twisted at sickening angles. His face was ghostly pale, lips tinged blue, chest barely rising. A small knot of climbers hovered around him—Kristin, the Norwegian chasing a speed record, and her guide, Tenjen, were kneeling beside him, their hands fumbling with an oxygen mask.
I edged closer, my crampons crunching in the ice. “Is he okay?” I asked, my voice hoarse, barely carrying over the wind’s low moan.
Kristin didn’t look up, her focus on Mohammad. “He’s hurt bad. Fell, maybe. No down suit, no oxygen. We’re trying to get him breathing right.”
Tenjen glanced at me, his eyes sharp behind his goggles. “He shouldn’t be up here like this. No gear. It’s bad.” He shook his head, securing the mask over Mohammad’s face. Mohammad let out a faint groan, a sound so weak it made my chest tighten. His hand twitched, reaching for nothing, then fell limp.
I stood there, frozen—not just from the cold seeping through my layers, but from the choice in front of me. Behind me, climbers were getting restless, their boots shuffling in the snow. A man in a red jacket muttered, “We need to move. Window’s closing.” Another voice, sharp and low, said, “Can’t stay here. Too exposed.” The summit was hours away, the culmination of years of training, thousands of dollars, and countless sacrifices. I’d left my job, my family, my entire life for this. If I stopped now, I might not make it. My oxygen tank was already half-empty, the gauge’s needle dipping into the red. The altitude was messing with my head—my thoughts were sluggish, my vision blurring at the edges.
But Mohammad was right there, dying in the snow.
I looked at him, then at the summit, then back. Climbers were already moving. One by one, they stepped over his legs, careful not to disturb him but not stopping either. Their headlamps bobbed, faces hidden behind masks and goggles, their focus locked on the climb. A woman in a blue parka paused briefly, her voice soft. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then stepped over him, her crampons scraping the ice. Another climber, a tall man with a heavy accent, said, “They’ve got him. Keep going.” Nobody stopped for long. Nobody could afford to.
My heart pounded, guilt and fear wrestling inside me. “They’re helping him,” I told myself. “Kristin’s team has it under control. I’d just be in the way.” But it felt like a lie. I took a step forward, then another. My boot hovered over Mohammad’s legs, and for a second, I thought I’d turn back. Instead, I stepped over him, my crampons sinking into the snow on the other side. I didn’t look down. I couldn’t. I kept moving, following the fixed line, my headlamp cutting a narrow path through the dark.
The guilt clung to me, heavier than my pack. The climb grew brutal. The ice was slick, forcing me to dig my axe in deep with every step. The slope steepened, the fixed rope swaying under the weight of so many climbers. Somewhere above, a chunk of snow broke free, tumbling past with a low, guttural rumble. My breath caught, my body tensing as I braced for an avalanche. It didn’t come, but the fear lingered, sharp and cold. The Bottleneck was a death trap—too narrow, too steep, too exposed. Everyone knew the stories: the 2008 disaster, when eleven climbers died here, swept away by falling ice or lost in the chaos.
I passed another climber, a man slumped against the rope, his face gaunt, his breaths ragged. “You okay?” I asked, pausing just long enough to hear him.
He nodded weakly, his voice a rasp. “Just… need a minute. Go on.”
I hesitated, then kept climbing. How many of us were one slip away from being Mohammad? The thought made my skin crawl, but I pushed it down, focusing on the rhythm of my steps, the burn in my legs, the faint hiss of my oxygen mask.
Hours dragged on, each one a test of endurance. My fingers were numb, my toes aching despite the double-layered boots. The cold was a living thing, creeping through my jacket, my thermals, my skin. My head throbbed, the altitude squeezing my brain like a vise. I checked my oxygen gauge again—nearly empty. I’d have to switch tanks soon, but that meant stopping, and stopping meant losing time. The summit was close now, just beyond the next ridge. I could feel it pulling me, a promise of triumph after so much sacrifice.
Finally, I reached the top. The world opened up around me, a jagged sea of peaks stretching into the distance, their edges glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light. For a moment, I forgot everything—the cold, the fear, the guilt. I’d done it. I was standing on K2, the second-highest point on Earth. But the joy was fleeting. Mohammad’s face flashed in my mind—his blue lips, his twisted legs. Was he still alive? Had they gotten him down? The questions gnawed at me, louder than ever.
The descent was a nightmare. Exhaustion made my legs wobble, each step a gamble on the slick ice. My oxygen was gone, my breaths shallow and desperate. The Bottleneck was even worse going down—climbers were strung out along the rope, some moving too slow, others too fast. I passed the spot where Mohammad had been. It was empty now, just a patch of churned snow, the imprint of his body already fading. Relief flickered in my chest—maybe they’d saved him. But doubt crept in, cold and heavy. Where was he? Why hadn’t I heard anything?
At Camp 4, I collapsed in my tent, my body shaking, my mind racing. I peeled off my gloves, my fingers stiff and white. Sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, I lay there, staring at the tent’s fabric, replaying every moment. The way Mohammad’s hand had twitched. The way I’d stepped over him. The way I’d justified it. Outside, the camp was quiet, but whispers were spreading. By morning, the news hit like a stone: Mohammad was dead. They’d tried to bring him down, but the mountain was too harsh. He’d died somewhere on the descent, alone in the ice.
I felt sick. I’d been there. I’d seen him. And I’d walked away.
The days that followed were a blur. Back at base camp, the story exploded. Drone footage surfaced, showing the truth—dozens of us stepping over Mohammad’s body, our headlamps glinting as we moved past. The world was outraged. Social media burned with accusations. “Heartless climbers.” “Summit fever monsters.” I wanted to scream that it wasn’t that simple. Up there, time is your enemy. Oxygen is your life. Every choice is survival. But the words felt empty, even to me.
One night, by a crackling fire at base camp, another climber sat beside me. His face was haggard, his eyes hollow. “You saw him, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah. I didn’t know what to do.”
He stared into the flames. “None of us did. But we should’ve stopped. All of us.”
I looked away, the guilt twisting deeper. He was right. We’d all failed Mohammad—me, Kristin, every climber who’d stepped over him. We’d chosen our dreams over his life.
When I got home, the world felt different. I tried to move on, posting summit photos, smiling for friends who called me a hero. But it was a lie. Every night, I saw Mohammad. In my dreams, I was back in the Bottleneck, stepping over him again and again, his groans echoing in the dark. I’d wake up gasping, my heart racing, the cold of K2 still in my bones. I thought of his family—his wife, his three children. What were they doing now? How would they survive without him? All because I’d been too weak to stop.
I don’t climb anymore. I can’t. The mountains I loved are gone, replaced by a memory I can’t escape. I sold my gear, my ice axes, my crampons, but it didn’t help. The guilt is a shadow, following me everywhere. I keep asking myself: Could I have saved him? If I’d stayed, if I’d carried him down, would it have changed anything? Probably not. The mountain would’ve won. But at least I wouldn’t be carrying this weight, this stain on my soul.
The scariest part isn’t the ice or the avalanches or the cold. It’s what I learned about myself. That up there, when everything was on the line, I chose me. I stepped over a dying man and kept going. And now, I have to live with it. What if I’d do it again? What kind of person am I?
I’m telling this story because I need to. Because Mohammad deserves to be remembered. Maybe it’ll make someone else think twice, make them stop when I didn’t. Maybe it’ll honor him, in some small way. But for me, it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough. K2 took my dream, my pride, my peace. And Mohammad Hassan paid the price for it.
"The Death Zone Whisper: A Climber’s Memory of David Sharp":
I’m part of a small climbing team on Mount Everest, pushing toward the summit from the south side in May 2006. My second attempt at this beast of a mountain, and I’m still not used to how it strips you down—physically, mentally, everything. My legs feel like lead, each step a fight against the thinning air. My lungs burn, gasping through the oxygen mask, and my headlamp barely cuts through the darkness as we climb. Our team is tight: David, my climbing partner who’s been with me through years of training; Tenzing and Pasang, our Sherpa guides, steady and sharp; and Claire, a quiet but fierce climber from our base camp. We’re roped together, moving like shadows, the only sounds our crunching boots and ragged breaths.
We left Camp IV at midnight, the highest camp before the summit, aiming to reach the top by mid-morning. The death zone—above 26,000 feet—lives up to its name. Every move feels like wading through molasses, and the lack of oxygen clouds your brain. You can’t trust your own thoughts up here. By dawn, we’re nearing the Balcony, a small, exposed ledge at 27,600 feet where climbers pause to swap oxygen bottles or check gear. My fingers, numb despite my thick gloves, fumble with my carabiner as I clip into the fixed rope.
That’s when I see him. A figure slumped against the rock, half-buried in snow, his bright red climbing suit stark against the gray stone. At first, I think it’s abandoned gear—a common sight on Everest, where climbers ditch anything to save weight. But as I shuffle closer, my stomach lurches. It’s a man, motionless, his hood pulled tight over his face.
“David, look,” I say, my voice muffled by the mask, pointing at the figure.
David stops, his goggles fogging slightly as he breathes hard. “Is he… alive?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, my heart starting to race. “Let’s check.”
We inch toward him, careful not to slip on the icy slope. Tenzing and Pasang catch up, their faces unreadable behind their masks. Claire hangs back, her eyes wide. The man’s suit is crusted with ice, his gloves torn, exposing blackened fingers curled like claws. I kneel beside him, my knees sinking into the snow, and pull back his hood. His face is pale, almost translucent, with cracked blue lips and half-open eyes staring blankly. Frostbite has ravaged his cheeks, leaving them waxy and unnatural.
“Tenzing, check him,” I say, my voice shaking.
Tenzing kneels, pressing gloved fingers to the man’s neck. “Pulse is there. Weak, but he’s alive.”
“Who is he?” Claire asks, stepping closer, her voice tight with unease.
Pasang scans the suit for a name tag or patch, his hands moving quickly. “Nothing. No ID. Maybe a solo climber.”
“We can’t leave him here,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the weight of where we are. We’re hours from the summit, low on oxygen, and every minute we spend here burns through our reserves. The death zone doesn’t forgive mistakes.
“Try to wake him,” David says, his voice steady but tense.
I lean closer, shaking his shoulder gently. “Hey, can you hear me? Can you move?”
His lips twitch, and a faint, raspy sound escapes. “Help… don’t… leave…” His words are so soft I barely catch them, but they hit like a punch. His eyes flicker, locking onto mine for a moment, desperate and pleading.
My throat tightens. “We’re going to help you,” I say, though I’m not sure how we can. He’s too weak to stand, let alone walk the treacherous path back to camp. Carrying him would be suicide—none of us have the strength, and the slope is a nightmare of ice and rock.
“We need to get him warm,” Claire says, her voice urgent. “Maybe our oxygen can help.”
Tenzing shakes his head. “We have two spare bottles. If we give him one, we might not have enough to get back.”
“We can’t just do nothing,” I snap, louder than I meant. My breath fogs the inside of my mask, and I feel my chest tighten—not just from the altitude, but from the creeping dread of what’s happening.
Pasang crouches beside the man, inspecting his gear. “His bottle’s empty. No food, no water. He’s been here a while.”
“How long can he last like this?” I ask, my eyes darting between the man’s frozen face and my team.
“Not long,” Pasang says, his voice low. “Frostbite’s bad. His hands, his face… he’s shutting down.”
I look at the man’s fingers—black, swollen, useless. His nose and cheeks are mottled with frostbite’s telltale patches. He’s slipping away, and we’re standing on a razor’s edge. The mountain feels alive, its silence heavy, like it’s waiting to see what we’ll do.
“Let’s give him some oxygen,” I say, reaching for my pack. “Maybe it’ll buy him time.”
David hesitates. “If we do that, we’re cutting into our supply. We might not make it to the summit and back.”
“I don’t care about the summit,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “He’s dying.”
Tenzing nods, pulling a spare bottle from his pack. We hook it up to the man’s mask, and his breathing steadies slightly, his chest rising a little stronger. I try to rub warmth into his arms, but his suit is stiff with ice, and my own hands are clumsy from the cold.
“Stay with us,” I say, leaning close. “What’s your name? Can you tell us?”
He murmurs something I can’t make out, his voice lost in the wind. His eyes flutter, and for a moment, I think he’s going to speak again, but he just stares, unblinking.
We spend nearly an hour trying to help. Claire wraps her spare jacket around him, and Pasang tries to get him to sip water, but it spills down his chin, freezing almost instantly. We take turns rubbing his limbs, hoping to bring back some circulation, but it’s no use. His body is giving up, and we’re burning through our own strength.
“We’re running out of time,” Tenzing says finally, his voice heavy. “We stay longer, we don’t make it back.”
I look at him, then at David and Claire. Their faces are drawn, etched with the same fear and guilt I feel. “We can’t just leave him,” I say, but my voice cracks. I know Tenzing’s right. The longer we stay, the closer we get to joining him.
“He’s not going to make it,” Pasang says softly, his eyes on the man’s still form. “We’ve done what we can.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “He was talking. He’s still alive.”
David puts a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “We tried. But we’re in the death zone. If we don’t move, we’re next.”
The man’s eyes meet mine again, and he whispers, “Don’t… leave…” My chest aches, and I feel tears freezing on my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice barely audible. We clip him back to the fixed rope, making sure he’s secure so he won’t slide down the slope. Each movement feels like a betrayal. We turn away, and I force myself to take a step, then another, my legs trembling.
The climb to the summit is a blur. My body moves, but my mind is stuck on that ledge, on his face, his words. We reach the top hours later, but there’s no joy, no triumph. The view is endless—snow and sky stretching forever—but all I can think about is the man we left behind. David snaps a photo, but none of us smile.
On the descent, we pass the ledge again. He’s still there, unmoving, his red suit a bright scar against the mountain. I don’t stop. I can’t. My oxygen is running low, and my vision blurs from exhaustion.
Later, at base camp, I learn his name was David Sharp, a 34-year-old British climber who’d summited alone. He’d pushed too far, run out of oxygen, and collapsed. Reports said up to 40 climbers passed him that day, and no one could save him. His body stayed on the mountain for a year before it was removed, a silent reminder of Everest’s cost.
Years later, I still hear his voice in my head, that faint, desperate plea: “Don’t leave.” I see his eyes, frozen open, staring through me. I wonder about his family, his dreams, what drove him to climb alone. The mountain doesn’t care about any of it. It takes what it wants, and that day, it took David Sharp—and a piece of me I’ll never get back.
Tags:
Story