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):
We rise by lifting others. - Robert Ingersoll When I first visited Nepal in March 1992, I knew immediately, intuitively almost, it was a place I would return to. From the soaring peaks rising to impossible heights to deep valleys, raging rivers and elusive wildlife, ancient culture and intricate history, the fabric of the nation […]