The heaven-touching apex of the mountain was drenched in brilliant light. Spikes of thin light impaled the snow in a bristling, moving line. I assumed that the heat had displaced the snow from the hip of the time chiseled mountain. The tips of the mountain range stuck up like a row of thorns, swaddled around them were necklaces of powdery snow. The air became arctic cold as I came closer to my camp.
The unmistakable whiff of macaroni cheese wafted to our noses. The warm steam of the stove in camp hit me, I shivered. I put a spoonful of macaroni cheese in my mouth and I could feel it melt in my mouth, slowly the flavor became more intense as my frozen taste buds come alive. As the pasta drifted from my mouth to my stomach the monster rumbling inside my stomach became quieter and quieter until the noise vanished with the last spoonful.
The night’s sleep was far from comfortable. The never-ending hours that took me to go to sleep were followed by a disturbed sleep of continuously waking up to take in air as I suffocated in my sleep. Morning finally came and I got out of my tent to find a commotion with many climbers crying as one of our Sherpa’s died. The other Sherpa’s decided to bury him in the snow and we all gave a hand in digging tirelessly to help create a hole to bury his small, pale and cold body. The death reminded us all how dangerous this journey is.
I wonder through a disorientated path, an endless journey, leading to nowhere but the heavens. The sun scarcely noticeable as it distinguishes the small amount of warmth it can administer, a shiver of anxiety runs down my spine. I find myself in a white haven filled with