Thirty-Nine

The body of the Englishman isn’t totally alone: one of his trekking poles remains by his side. The other has hurtled away, irrecuperable. He’s wearing his helmet, the ice axe sticking out from underneath his ribs. His rucksack is still strapped to his back, arching his dorsal vertebrae.

Perhaps the contemplation of that disheartening posture reminds the young Sherpa a little of something disquieting he has read online: as it turns out, Everest isn’t necessarily the highest elevation on the planet. There is, say geologists, a divergence of criteria. The highest mountain in Nepal is, yes, the one that holds the record when measuring distance between summit and sea level. Those universally renowned 8,848 metres. But if, instead, with a different, more rigorous, less ground-hugging perspective the height were measured from the centre of the Earth, the giantess would lose her throne, be forced to abdicate in favour of the Andean magnificence of the Chimborazo volcano in the mountains of Ecuador. In other words: the South American peak, and not Everest, is the closest point on earth to outer space, to the celestial spheres, to Giordano Bruno’s Renaissance dream. Because of the fact that the planet flattens at its poles and widens at the central parallel.

Even worse, the young Sherpa knows: not only is Everest not the undisputed highest peak on Earth, but also it is not – not by a long shot – the most difficult to climb. Annapurna, K2, Nanga Parbat present much more complex challenges in this same Himalayan range. Even more humiliating: the modest alpine heights of the Eiger and the Matterhorn are more feared by mountaineers than Everest.

Which is why, while looking at the Englishman splayed out on the rock, head cocked, helmet hiding his eyes, the young Sherpa says to himself: International relations, why not? What would be the point in staying here?