I suppose we go to Mount Everest, granted the opportunity, because—in a word—we can’t help it. Or, to state the matter rather differently, because we are mountaineers…. To refuse the adventure is to run the risk of drying up like a pea in its shell.
It was 122 years ago today that George Herbert Leigh Mallory was born.
His story is too long to recount here – especially since I’ve got to run out the door and pick up my daughter! But, I have a longer post dealing with Mallory & Irvine’s final climb and eventual disappearance, which I will post tomorrow.
For today, though, a remembrance of Mallory through his own words – eloquent, determined, nuanced, and timeless:
And, finally, “Lines to an Indian Air” – Mallory’s favorite poem – by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822):
A few weeks back, I gazed across a great gorge, that of the mighty, raging Hunku Khola. Rushing waters coursing from the glaciers of Chamlang, Baruntse, Mera, and innumerable other high peaks carved the valley below me over eons. A spectacular feat of geology and hydrology, and an intimidating one for a trekker. As I […]