Negative 20°C to negative 30°C — this is what a person must endure when they venture out onto this unpredictable and hostile environment. Uneven terrain, poor visibility, or lack of experience. Undertaking such a non-essential activity can have dire consequences.

The human body starts undergoing hypothermia when its core temperature starts dropping below 35°C. Shivering, confusion, and poor coordination soon follow. Believe it or not, you can even get hypothermia in the rain, when the wind is cold enough and you don't have enough protection on your body.

Now imagine the cold in an ice mountain. Even the smallest injury can prove fatal in such a place, let alone getting confused with little to no coordination of where you are going or what your body should be doing.

It sounds harsh enough to deter any living soul to go up these mountains, not even wild animals live here. That is why it is baffling to think that a civilized human being would want to climb this grand temple of ice.

It would make no difference pondering as to why some people do this, but to find out, I will try to be in the shoes of those who have been there before.

Basing it off of the accounts of survivors and eyewitnesses, we will now climb: Everest.

Endurance pacing, Muscle Memory, Fueling, Mental Stamina. These are the requirements for the human mind and body to successfully conquer a monumental task such as climbing Everest. I am a cyclist and have ridden multiple 100km rides in succession as cycling is my passion.

Though not obvious, the climb on Everest and cycling has important things in common. Acclimating my body and breathing in the mountain requires endurance pacing like my high altitude cycling experience in mountains. Knowing how much food to fuel the hike from camp to camp is fuel management. Knowing when to push and conserve my energy based on muscle memory which I've honed many years of my life. And then the mental stamina to push through this very taxing and physically demanding task.

I've trained for more than half of my life in cycling, and over the years I have developed all of these.

That’s why Everest caught my eye. Not because I thought I was stronger than the mountain — but because I understood what it meant to pace myself, to stretch suffering into endurance. A mountain, I thought, isn’t so different from the road. Both demand patience, both punish arrogance.

Similar to cycling, these are only the most basic requirements to climb such a mountain. The other requirements are more mechanical and natural rather than physiological. The knowledge about your gear, the terrain, the weather, the distance from one destination to the next. All of which is stacked on top of the basic requirements, all needed to be fully understood and prepared beforehand.

I've trained religiously eighteen months before my planned expedition date. Cycling at least 20 kilometers every morning. After work, I spend at least an hour in the gym lifting 20–30 kilograms in sets over twenty minutes, with appropriate rests in between. Jogging at least 5 kilometers in the evenings an hour after dinner. All these while managing my breathing and calorie intake. I had to ensure that pacing myself properly and conserving my energy should be second nature to me.

On top of all these, comes the paperwork. You cannot climb Everest anytime you want. A climbing permit from the Nepalese government is mandatory, and without it, you won’t even be allowed near the mountain.

The permit alone costs thousands, plus extra fees for liaison officers, garbage deposits, and going through a registered agency for guides and logistics. It feels like red tape, but it keeps climber numbers in check, ensures proper support, and protects the mountain. In a way, the paperwork is the first real climb—one you face before even setting foot on Everest.

The ideal climbing season is spring, late March to late May, when weather windows are most favorable. Autumn, late September to early November, is possible but harsher and less popular.

Permits are limited each season. Spring is crowded—sometimes 300–400 climbers plus Sherpas share the route, causing infamous “traffic jams” near the summit.

Unfortunately for me, I applied for a permit too late and the spring season was already fully booked. However, I didn’t want to wait another whole year. That left me with autumn — a season less forgiving, with colder nights, harsher winds, and a much smaller margin for error. Climbing in autumn meant fewer people on the mountain, but it also meant battling unpredictable storms and stretches of near-zero visibility. Still, I accepted it.

Preparation had carried me this far, and waiting was not an option. The paperwork was stamped, the dates were set, and the decision was made. My path to Everest would not be through the crowded spring caravans but through the thin, volatile air of autumn.

Unlike cycling, where I could get away with a helmet, a pair of bib shorts, and my trusty bike, Everest demanded an arsenal. The mountain doesn’t care if you’ve trained half your life — without the right gear, you’re done before you even leave base camp.

First was clothing. Not just jackets, but layers. Base layers to keep sweat off my skin, insulating layers to trap warmth, and a down suit thick enough to fight off the death-zone cold where temperatures can plummet well below –30°C. My cycling jersey had carried me through icy descents at 60 km/h, but this was a different beast.

Then boots. Double-layer mountaineering boots with crampons — spikes that bite into ice. In cycling, your shoes lock into the pedals for efficiency. On Everest, your boots lock into survival, keeping frostbite away and anchoring you to sheer walls of ice. Gloves followed the same principle — multiple layers, mittens on top, because once your fingers freeze, there’s no second chance.

Oxygen systems came next. Cylinders, regulators, masks. I had trained my lungs through cycling, but no amount of road miles could prepare them for the Death Zone above 8,000 meters, where the air is one-third of what it is at sea level. Oxygen wasn’t optional. It was insurance.

And then the tools — an ice axe for balance and self-arrest if I slipped, harness and carabiners for clipping onto fixed ropes, headlamps with spare batteries for the midnight summit push. Even sunglasses had to be glacier-grade; snow blindness was as real a threat as frostbite.

Finally, the backpack. Every piece of gear had its place — sleeping bag rated for –40°C, tents tough enough to take a beating from blizzards, high-calorie food packets, water purification tablets, radios for communication, and of course, the most important currency on the mountain: energy gels and chocolate bars. In cycling, they were fuel. On Everest, they could be the difference between life and death.

By the time I looked at the full spread of gear laid out in my room, it felt less like packing for a trip and more like suiting up for war. Everest wasn’t going to be beaten with muscle alone — it demanded preparation down to the last buckle, strap, and stitch.

And so the time has come. The day I've vehemently prepared for.

We arrived in Kathmandu and completed the final checks, gear inspections, and permits. From there, we flew to Lukla, the gateway to the Everest region.

The trek from Lukla to Base Camp wasn’t something we could rush. On paper, it’s only about 65 kilometers, but the altitude makes every step heavier. From 2,800 meters in Lukla to over 5,300 meters at Base Camp, the air thins quickly. That’s why the journey took 8–10 days—not just for walking, but to acclimatize. Towns like Namche Bazaar and Dingboche weren’t mere stopovers; they were survival checkpoints where we spent extra nights letting our bodies adjust. Skip that, and we’d be gambling with altitude sickness before the real climb even began.

The trail felt like a pilgrimage. From Lukla, we first dropped into Phakding, then pushed on to Namche Bazaar—the bustling Sherpa capital carved into the mountainside. From there, the route climbed through Tengboche with its monastery, then to Dingboche, a windswept village where we rested for days. Higher up were Lobuche and Gorak Shep, the final stone lodges and tea houses before the ice and rock dominated. Only then did we reach Everest Base Camp.

Base Camp sat at 5,364 meters above sea level. It was less of a campsite and more of a temporary village—rows of bright tents, dining halls, makeshift kitchens, and satellite communications. Sherpas and porters kept supply lines alive, with yaks hauling gear as far as trails allowed. We spent weeks here in rotation, following the rule of “climb high, sleep low”—pushing to higher camps to adapt, then retreating to recover, until our bodies slowly learned to live in thin air.

Base Camp wasn’t a place we could just leave behind and head straight for the summit. Our bodies had to be conditioned, layer by layer, to survive higher altitudes. That’s where the rotations came in—the endless cycle of climbing up, staying briefly, then returning down. It felt repetitive, but it was the only way we had a real chance at the top.

Our first push took us through the Khumbu Icefall, a maze of shifting ice towers and crevasses. After hours on ladders and fixed ropes, we reached Camp 1 at around 6,000 meters. We rested, then returned to Base Camp. That was one rotation.

The second climb went higher, pushing past the icefall into the Western Cwm—an oven of reflected sunlight trapped by towering walls of ice. Camp 2, at 6,400 meters, awaited. We spent a little more time there, then descended again.

The third rotation was the most punishing so far. We pushed up the steep Lhotse Face to Camp 3, perched on a wall of hard blue ice at about 7,200 meters. Oxygen thinned badly, so our stay was short—just enough for our bodies to register the altitude—before descending once more to recover at Base Camp.

This cycle of “climb high, sleep low” lasted four to six weeks. Every ascent chipped away at our energy but also taught our bodies to use the little oxygen available. By the end, Base Camp felt almost like sea level compared to the heights above. Only then could we even consider the summit push.

Between rotations, we spent hours talking with the locals and the Sherpas. They shared stories of past climbers—how sudden storms could trap the strongest teams, how avalanches struck without warning, and how the mountain could turn deadly in a single night. “Respect Everest,” our lead Sherpa would say. “It gives nothing freely. You must earn every step.”

Some Sherpas recounted climbers who had disappeared during small blizzards or whiteouts, and the cautionary tales carried a quiet weight. They told us about the infamous "Green Boots," the body that had remained as a grim landmark in the pass for years, a reminder of the mountain's mercilessness. Listening, we realized these weren’t just stories—they were lessons etched into the ice and snow.

We learned to pay attention to the whispers of the wind and the subtle shifts in the clouds. Even when our bodies felt strong, the mountain’s power was a constant presence, an unspoken warning that preparation could only take us so far. Experience, instinct, and respect would have to fill the rest of the gap.

Day 1: We left Base Camp in the cold morning air. The sun barely lit the valley as we tightened our harnesses, checked our crampons, and clipped into the fixed ropes. Each breath felt short, each step careful. The Khumbu Icefall stretched ahead like a maze, towers of ice leaning at odd angles. Crevasses yawned beneath us, ready to swallow anyone who slipped.

Every step needed full focus. We crossed ladders over icy gaps, feeling vibrations under our boots. The ice groaned and sometimes cracked loudly, making our hearts jump. Our Sherpas moved ahead with confidence, but even watching them, we knew how fragile our position was. One misstep could be deadly.

Hours passed. Faces sunburned under goggles, fingers stiff despite gloves. The rhythm of “step, check, clip” wore on us. Along the way, we saw reminders of past climbers—boots frozen mid-step, a scarf stuck in the snow. Everest didn’t forgive mistakes.

The Icefall was unpredictable. Seracs above shifted, low cracks echoed down the valley. A chunk of ice fell nearby, sending snow and ice sliding past us. We froze, hearts pounding, boots slipping on slick patches. The Sherpas shouted, guiding us to safer ground, but for a moment, the mountain had total control. Every gust of wind and hollow thud of ice reminded us nothing was stable here.

We climbed carefully, pausing to plan each move. A ladder swayed over a deep crevasse, snow blowing in our faces, the drop below looking endless. Each clip of our ropes felt heavier, our lungs begging for more air. The ice beneath us creaked, warning us how little margin for error we had.

By afternoon, exhaustion was catching up. Fingers stiffened, legs burned, but we kept moving, step by step. Shadows of ice walls shifted, tricking our eyes. One team member almost slipped into a hidden crevasse, saved only by a Sherpa’s quick reaction. Our hearts stayed high for several minutes after.

Finally, the Icefall began to ease. We could see the sunlit Western Cwm ahead. Relief was brief. The mountain was still dangerous, but we had survived the Icefall and were ready to keep going toward Camp 2.

Day 2: The Western Cwm stretched wide and sunlit, framed by towering ice walls. The snow reflected sunlight painfully, even behind goggles. Each step felt heavier as the thin air burned our lungs. Hidden crevasses and weak snow bridges waited to give way. Avalanches could sweep through in seconds, sudden gusts could push us toward deadly drops. We moved carefully, knowing one mistake could be fatal.

The trek seemed endless. Every step required focus; the crunch of snow underfoot and the whistling wind kept us alert. Shadows from the ice walls shifted constantly, making the terrain look alive, and every sudden sound made us flinch. The Sherpas moved ahead, signaling safe paths and keeping nerves steady.

We saw grim reminders of Everest’s danger: flags marking lost climbers, boots and ropes frozen in impossible positions, and the infamous “Green Boots.” Each sight was a quiet warning that the mountain did not forgive mistakes.

Camp 2 at 6,400 meters finally appeared like a mirage. Tents clung stubbornly to the snow, daring the mountain to knock them down. We stumbled inside, drained, thankful for a short rest. The cold bit at every exposed area; even layered, our bodies ached. We sank onto sleeping pads, sipping hot tea as Sherpas recounted climbers who ignored warnings and never returned. “Respect Everest,” our lead guide said. The summit was still far, and the mountain’s trials had just begun.

We stayed at Camp 2 through the afternoon and evening, checking gear, hydrating, and resting our bodies. The wind howled outside, rattling tent poles and whipping snow against the walls. The day had taught us that patience and caution were just as important as strength and skill.

Day 3: The climb from Camp 2 was steady but demanding. The Lhotse Face rose above us, a steep wall of hard blue ice that seemed endless. Each step required effort; legs burned and lungs struggled in the thin air. Fixed ropes guided our path, and we held onto them carefully, aware a slip could be serious. The wind blew sharply at times, reminding us to stay balanced and deliberate.

The ice shifted subtly under our weight. We paused often to test each foothold before committing. Small pieces of ice occasionally tumbled from above, but the Sherpas moved ahead, signaling safe routes and steadying our nerves. The climb was tiring but manageable, demanding focus and awareness. Every step was measured, and we learned to watch both the ice and each other.

By the afternoon, we paused halfway up to rest. Fingers and toes were stiff, muscles cramped, breathing slow. The sun reflected off the ice, occasionally blinding us through goggles, but we adapted. Sweat had frozen on our faces, and the effort weighed on every muscle. The Lhotse Face tested endurance, but it was a calculated challenge rather than a deadly threat.

We stayed overnight halfway up to recover before finishing the climb to Camp 3. Tents were pitched carefully on small ice platforms. Sherpas double-checked stakes and ropes, and we hydrated and ate cautiously, aware that high-altitude rest was critical for survival.

Day 4: Camp 3 finally came into view, a small cluster of tents clinging to ice at 7,200 meters. Each step felt heavier than the last, muscles aching, lungs gasping. The wind was sharper, but manageable, enough to remind us to move carefully. The ground was icy and uneven, and we clipped into fixed ropes on steeper slopes. Sherpas moved ahead with steady confidence, guiding us and checking each step.

Reaching the tents brought relief, but we had little time to linger. We quickly set up shelter, double-checking stakes and lines. Even in calm, the mountain reminded us that nothing should be taken for granted. Frost collected on gloves and jackets, and exposed skin tingled from cold, forcing movement to avoid cooling too much.

While resting, Sherpas shared stories from past climbs—teams caught in storms, climbers who misjudged the ice, and lessons learned the hard way. We listened, respecting their experience: the climb wasn’t just physical; it was about patience, judgment, and reading the mountain carefully.

By evening, we settled into our tents, exhausted but alert. The ascent to Camp 3 had tested our endurance and focus, and while the summit still loomed far above, we felt capable of continuing. Each breath, each careful step, reinforced a simple truth: the mountain demanded attention, preparation, and respect, and the next day would bring more of the same.

Day 5: After resting at Camp 3, we packed up and got ready for Camp 4. The South Col was above us, at nearly 7,900 meters. The air was thin, making each step hard. The fixed ropes guided us across icy slopes. Every breath was short, and we moved slowly to save energy for the climb ahead.

At first, the climb was steady, but the weather changed fast. Thick clouds rolled in, and a blizzard kicked up. Snow hit our goggles, and the wind forced us to crouch low against the ropes. Visibility dropped to just a few meters. Landmarks disappeared, so we relied on our Sherpas and the ropes. Every step felt heavier and needed focus.

The blizzard got stronger. Snow built up on our boots and jackets. The wind pulled at our ropes and harnesses. We stayed calm, moving carefully. We kept close together and shouted short instructions to each other. One slip wouldn’t be fatal, but mistakes could slow us down or cause trouble.

Hours passed in the storm. Ice ridges appeared and disappeared in the snow. The temperature dropped sharply, and the thin air made each step hard. We paused behind small ridges sometimes, waiting for the wind to ease. The blizzard slowed us, but it also kept us alert. The mountain demanded attention at every step.

Finally, Camp 4 appeared through the snow, tents clinging to the South Col. Relief mixed with exhaustion. We set up tents, checked all lines and stakes, and crawled inside to rest. The storm continued outside, but inside we felt safe for now. The blizzard had tested our nerves and focus, but we had reached the South Col. The summit still waited above, far in the thin air.

Day 6: We woke in Camp 4, stiff and barely able to move. Snow drifts surrounded our tents, and the wind still howled across the South Col. Every movement felt heavy; even breathing was a struggle. We packed our minimal gear, checked oxygen bottles, clipped into the fixed lines, and started the slow climb toward the summit.

The route was exposed, steep, and icy. Ridges dropped sharply on both sides. Visibility was low in the swirling snow. We paused frequently, crouching to rest, taking small sips of water, and checking each other’s condition.

Even small movements left us winded. Frost crept into any exposed skin. The Sherpas moved ahead efficiently, scouting paths, signaling tricky steps, and keeping our pace steady.

Midway, above the Geneva Spur, we saw the frozen figure of Green Boots tucked against a rock. The bright boots were lifeless, a grim reminder of the mountain’s danger. We passed quietly, hearts heavy, knowing our own steps now mattered more than ever.

Just a few minutes later, the weather shifted suddenly. Thick clouds rolled in from below, and strong gusts whipped across the ridge. Snow blinded us, and the slope disappeared into white. The ropes felt like lifelines, but each movement now carried far more risk. One misstep could send a climber sliding down the slope.

We huddled behind a small outcrop, pressing ourselves close to the ice, adjusting oxygen, and checking each other’s condition. The wind roared past, tugging at harnesses and making every pause nerve-wracking. We stayed low, conserving energy, waiting for a break in the storm.

Every few minutes, we cautiously peered ahead, trying to see the summit through the swirling white. The climb had become a test of patience as much as endurance. Hands and feet were numb, lungs burned, and even small movements demanded full concentration.

By late afternoon, conditions showed no real improvement. Pushing higher in the blizzard would be reckless. We found a small plateau, just below the South Summit ridge, and decided to spend the night there. Setting up our high-altitude tents, we huddled inside, layering up and taking minimal sips of water and oxygen. Sleep was shallow, broken by gusts rattling the tent poles, but it gave our bodies a chance to recover before the final push.

Even in the tent, the wind reminded us that Everest was never forgiving. Every breath was a reminder of the altitude, every movement slow and deliberate. The summit was close, yet still far, and we knew tomorrow’s climb would demand every ounce of focus and energy we had left.

Day 7: We woke before dawn, the wind still howling outside our high-altitude tents. Bodies stiff, muscles screaming from the previous day, we checked our oxygen, layered up, and prepared for the final climb. The summit was close, but every step here demanded focus and energy.

We clipped into the fixed lines and started moving slowly. Each step was deliberate. Even leaning on our ice axes took effort. The slope rose sharply, and the thin air made every breath a struggle. Our pace was measured, controlled.

Visibility was better than yesterday, but the wind still gusted in bursts. Small snow drifts had formed overnight, hiding some of the usual footholds. We paused frequently, crouching to sip water and adjust oxygen. The Sherpas moved just ahead, signaling the safest path and checking our pace.

Hands and feet were numb. Every movement demanded calculation. One misstep could mean a long fall, even if the ropes were in place. We checked each other constantly, ensuring no one pushed too hard or moved too fast.

Above us, the South Summit ridge loomed. Clouds swirled around it, but the faint outline of the final slope gave us focus. We moved in short bursts, stopping often to catch our breath and check gear. The mountain allowed no shortcuts.

Finally, after hours of slow climbing, we reached the South Summit. Relief was immediate, but the summit itself was still just beyond. We paused behind a small ridge, adjusting bottles, taking shallow sips of water, and looking up at the last stretch. Our legs trembled, but determination overpowered fatigue.

Step by step, we climbed the final ridge. The wind tried to push us sideways, but we pressed forward, gripping axes and ropes, moving in near-perfect unison. Every few meters, we stopped to steady ourselves, to breathe, to survive.

Then, at last, the summit came into full view. The clouds parted just enough to reveal the horizon stretching endlessly. We took the final steps, hands trembling, hearts racing, and stood on the top of the world. The snow beneath us, the sky above, the distant ridges of Everest—it was all real. The exhaustion faded into a sharp, thrilling clarity.

We had made it.

For a few precious minutes, we allowed ourselves to stand and look around. The wind cut at us, the air was thin, but the achievement was enormous. Each breath was earned, each step had mattered, and the summit had finally been claimed. We took photographs, shared quiet words with the Sherpas, and absorbed the enormity of what we had done.

We have staked small flags of our own home countries onto the top of the highest mountain on the planet as a testament to our dedication and sheer willpower.

After savoring the moment, we began the careful descent toward Camp 4. Our muscles protested, the air remained thin, but we carried the summit with us. Each step down was deliberate, cautious, and slow. The glory of reaching the top stayed with us, even as the mountain reminded us to remain vigilant until we were safely back at our tents.

We clipped into the fixed lines immediately, moving in short, steady bursts. Every step was calculated. The slope was steep, and loose snow made some footholds uncertain. Our legs ached from the climb up, and the thin air made breathing a constant struggle.

Visibility was good, but the wind still gusted occasionally, reminding us not to relax. We paused behind small ridges to sip water and check our oxygen, keeping our pace measured and deliberate. Each short rest helped us regain just enough strength to continue safely. Then the teammate in front of me suddenly dropped to his knees.

He gasped, taking shallow breaths, struggling against altitude and exhaustion. We stopped immediately, offering water and encouragement. The Sherpas motioned for him to rest against a small outcrop while we adjusted our pace to match his recovery.

Minutes passed slowly. Each breath was painful, each movement cautious. Once his breathing stabilized and muscles stopped trembling, we resumed the descent.

The pace remained slow, every foothold checked, every handhold tested. The ropes felt like lifelines again, guiding us carefully toward Camp 4. Then the blizzard hit.

Snow whipped across the slope in thick, swirling sheets. Visibility dropped to just a few meters. The wind tore at our jackets and tugged at our ropes. Every movement became a fight against nature, not just fatigue.

We huddled briefly behind a small outcrop, pressing ourselves low to the ice. The Sherpas signaled safe spots, guiding us in short bursts. Each step now required full concentration; one slip could slide us down a steep, icy section.

Hours passed slowly, each meter gained painstakingly. Yet we kept going, driven by the memory of the summit and the need to reach Camp 4 safely.

Just a few meters down, the teammate in front misstepped, slipped, and dragged me and almost pulled the one in front of him down the slope.

We were hanging, hands white from gripping ropes, muscles screaming. The other teammates strained, pulling with every ounce of strength. Slowly, painfully, we managed to stabilize him.

In the struggle, I felt a sharp pain shoot through my ankle. The sudden pull from the fall had twisted it. I adjusted my weight carefully, testing it, knowing that each step from here would need extreme caution.

He lay limp against the ice, but after about half a minute, he gasped, blinked, and regained consciousness. We helped him sit up, checked oxygen, and made sure he was steady before continuing.

Each step now required even more care. I shifted my weight, avoiding strain, leaning more on the ropes and my ice axe. The blizzard still raged, and the slope remained treacherous. Step by step, in cautious bursts, we carried on toward Camp 4, fully aware that Everest demanded respect until the very last meter.

Blizzard came stronger and so does our will to keep going.

We leaned on the ropes, trusted the Sherpas, and pressed on. Each cautious movement brought us closer to Camp 4, step by step, breath by breath.

Then finally, we have reached camp 4.

Night of Day 6: We huddled inside our tents at Camp 4. The blizzard raged outside, battering the thin fabric, and the wind screamed across the South Col. Every gust made the stakes and lines groan. We layered up, sipped water, and rested as best we could, knowing the descent tomorrow would be slow and exhausting.

My ankle throbbed with every small movement, a constant reminder of the earlier struggle. We kept it elevated and wrapped tightly, testing occasionally to make sure it wouldn’t worsen overnight. Sleep was light and restless; every howl of wind outside made us tense, ready to react if the tent shifted or snow piled dangerously.

The teammate who had fallen earlier was exhausted but stable. The Sherpas checked on everyone periodically, offering reassurance and ensuring oxygen bottles were full. We knew survival meant patience and vigilance even while resting.

Hours passed slowly. The storm did not abate, and the darkness of the night seemed endless. We spoke minimally, conserving energy, focusing on breathing, and mentally preparing for the descent. Each breath reminded us how thin the air really was.

Day 7: We woke before dawn, sore and stiff. The blizzard had eased, but the wind still bit. My ankle throbbed from yesterday’s struggle. The teammate who had fallen looked pale. We checked oxygen, layered up, and started down toward Camp 3.

Clipped into the fixed lines, we moved carefully. Each step was deliberate. The slope was steep, snow uneven. My ankle protested; I leaned on the ropes and ice axe. Every movement demanded focus.

The teammate ahead still recovered. We stopped frequently, giving him space. Short sips of water, shallow breaths. The air was thin, every motion exhausting.

The terrain was treacherous. Hidden crevasses and icy patches forced careful path choices. One slip could be serious. The Sherpas guided us, signaling safe footholds.

Step by step, we descended. My ankle flared, forcing me to crouch and adjust weight. The teammate who had fallen stayed close, ropes keeping us connected.

Hours passed. Wind gusted, hands and feet numb. Each meter was earned. Short pauses let muscles recover, minds refocus.

Finally, Camp 3 appeared. Relief and exhaustion mixed. We reached the tents carefully, set down packs, and checked each other. My ankle throbbed, but we were safe. The mountain had tested us, and we had made it.

Night of Day 7: We reached Camp 3 after the long, slow descent from Camp 4. Bodies aching, lungs still tight from the altitude, we collapsed into our tents. The wind had eased somewhat, but the icy slopes outside reminded us that danger wasn’t gone.

We wrapped up the injured ankle carefully, checked oxygen, and sipped water. Each movement was slow, deliberate, conserving energy. The Sherpas moved between tents, ensuring everyone was stable and ready for the next day.

Sleep was light and fitful. Every sound outside—the shifting ice, the groan of tents in the wind—kept us alert. We rested as best we could, knowing that tomorrow would require strength, caution, and careful steps on the way down to Camp 2.

Day 8: We woke stiff at Camp 3, muscles sore from the previous day. The air was thin, but the wind had eased. We packed up carefully, checked oxygen, wrapped the injured ankle, and clipped into the fixed lines. The slope down to Camp 2 looked long and icy, each step demanding attention.

We moved slowly, in short bursts. Every foothold was tested, each handhold secured. The snow was firm in some places and loose in others. Even the Sherpas, usually steady and confident, moved with deliberate caution.

Halfway down, one Sherpa lost footing on a hidden icy patch. He slipped, sliding a few meters before catching himself with the rope. The shock ran through the team, but no one panicked. We tightened our grips, leaned on our ice axes, and helped stabilize him immediately.

Our hearts raced, adrenaline spiking. I adjusted my weight carefully, testing each step, mindful of my ankle. The slope demanded every bit of attention. Even small mistakes could have severe consequences.

The Sherpa recovered quickly, offering short nods of reassurance. We all slowed our pace further, moving step by step, letting the tension sink in. The descent was still treacherous, and each careful movement mattered.

We paused occasionally behind small ridges, crouching to sip water and check oxygen. Hands and feet were numb, but the sight of Camp 2 in the distance gave focus. Step by step, we regained ground, careful and deliberate, guided by the ropes and the experience of the Sherpas.

Hours later, exhausted but intact, we reached Camp 2. Relief was quiet but profound. We secured tents, checked gear, and tended to the injured ankle. The Sherpa gave a few brief words of encouragement, and we settled into the tents, aware that the mountain’s danger was never far behind.

Day 9: We woke at Camp 2, bodies stiff, muscles screaming. The injured ankle throbbed with every movement. The wind was calmer, but the air remained thin. We packed our gear carefully, checked oxygen bottles, and clipped into the fixed lines for the final stretch down to Base Camp.

The slope was steep but less icy than higher up. Still, each step required focus. We moved in short, deliberate bursts, testing each foothold before committing weight. The Sherpas stayed ahead, guiding us and signaling hazards hidden beneath snow.

About halfway down, the combination of fatigue and my twisted ankle made a misstep likely. I leaned heavily on my ice axe and ropes, taking extra care with each movement. Every breath was shallow, every step calculated.

One teammate’s pack shifted suddenly, pulling him off balance. He slid a few meters before the rope stopped him. Hearts jumped, hands white from gripping the ropes, but we quickly stabilized him. No one was injured, but the reminder of danger was immediate and humbling.

We paused behind small outcrops, adjusting oxygen and letting muscles rest. Water sipped carefully, checking ankle and hands for frostbite. Progress was slow, step by step, meter by meter, but steady.

The Sherpas kept a close watch, offering short instructions and guidance. The snow conditions were mixed—soft in some sections, icy in others—but the ropes and careful planning kept us safe.

Hours passed in tense focus. Finally, the familiar tents and flags of Base Camp came into view. Relief washed over the team, but we remained vigilant until every rope was unclipped and every foot safely on stable ground.

At Base Camp, we collapsed into the tents. The injured ankle was tended carefully, water and food distributed, and oxygen checked. Exhaustion was profound, but there was quiet satisfaction. We had survived the mountain’s challenges, descended safely, and carried the summit with us.

Everest had demanded respect every step of the way, and we had paid it fully. But now, on solid ground, we could finally exhale and acknowledge the enormity of what we had achieved.

Back at Base Camp, the relief was tangible. Tents pitched, gear sorted, and oxygen levels checked, we finally allowed ourselves to relax. Muscles ached, bodies were bruised and battered, but the summit was behind us, and everyone had returned safely.

The injured ankle was wrapped and elevated. The teammate who had collapsed and slipped was carefully monitored, given rest and water. The Sherpas moved efficiently, ensuring everyone was accounted for and comfortable. Their experience had kept us alive through the most dangerous sections of the climb.

Conversations were quiet, voices hoarse from altitude and exhaustion. No one felt like celebrating yet; the focus was on recovery. Each step, each breath, and each decision on the mountain had mattered, and the lessons remained fresh.

Still, there was pride in the air. Photographs were taken, journals scribbled, and brief notes sent to loved ones where possible. The summit had been claimed, the descent survived, and the mountain had given both a challenge and a test of endurance none of us would forget.

As night fell over Base Camp, we lay in our tents, bodies exhausted but spirits calm. Everest loomed above in quiet menace, its peaks hidden by clouds. We had respected it, survived it, and returned intact. For now, that was enough.

And so the thrill has ended. We have Conquered, or more accurately, we were humbled, by Everest.