Usually, when people talk about me, they use big words pioneer or legend but let’s be honest, mostly, I was a man who was very, very good at walking uphill while carrying other people’s heavy luggage.
I was a young Sherpa with a dream and a very sturdy back. In the 1930s, I joined three British expeditions. Back then, high-altitude gear meant a thick wool sweater, a leather jacket, and a positive attitude. We didn't have fancy GPS or lightweight down suits. We had grit, canned mutton and enough tweed to outfit a small university.
I was a high-altitude porter. In 1951 my job was to carry the dreams (and the tents, and the stoves, and the extra tea biscuits) of British gentlemen who were convinced that if they just climbed high enough, they’d find the end of the Empire. We didn't reach the top then, of course but then came 1952 and I went with the Swiss. I liked the Swiss. They brought better chocolate. With Raymond Lambert, I reached 8,600 metres and we were so close I could practically smell the thin, oxygen-depleted air of the summit. We spent a night at that height without sleeping bags or a stove.
So, 1953 rolls around. This was my seventh time on the mountain. At this point, the rocks on Everest were starting to recognise me and the leader was John Hunt. He was a good man, very organized. He brought a whole mountain of gear and a tall, lanky New Zealander named Edmund Hillary.
One day, Ed fell into a crevasse and I jammed my ice axe into the snow, wrapped the rope, and held on like my life depended on it which it literally did.
From that moment on, we were a team. He decided I was his climbing partner of choice and I decided he was the guy I had to keep from falling into holes and on May 29th, 1953 at 11:30 AM, we did it. We stood on the highest point on Earth, incredibly out of breath and very cold.
We were there for exactly fifteen minutes. People spend more time choosing a movie on Netflix than we spent on top of the world.
I buried some sweets and chocolate in the snow as an offering to the gods, Ed buried a small crucifix and then we looked around. What did we see? More mountains. It turns out that when you’re on the tallest mountain, everything else looks disappointingly small.
As soon as we got down, the world went crazy. Everyone wanted to know who stepped on the top first? Was it the British subject or the local hero but we had a secret pact, saying we reached it simultaneously but it was actually Ed who took the last few steps first.
After Everest, my life changed. I moved to Darjeeling, became the Director of Field Training for the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, and traveled the world. I met Kings, Queens, and Presidents before i died from a cerebral hemorrhage. It wasn't a mountain that got me in the end, it was just time. But I like to think that somewhere up there, near the South Summit, there’s still a small piece of chocolate I buried in 1953 and if any of you find it, don't eat it. It’s for the gods. And honestly, after seventy years in the snow, it probably tastes like a British wool sweater.
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