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Our team climbs steadily through the fresh white powder that reflects our headlamps, illuminating the night. Steps and breaths go uninterrupted for hours. My toes are numb, but I can still move them. Am I willing to sacrifice a toe to get to the top? Depends on which toe. I focus on maintaining the rhythm.

A dark red sun rises in the sliver of horizon that remains unclouded. The color and light energize me at the perfect time; we’re approaching a rock wall that looks extremely difficult. I clamber up, breathing with deep and frequent intensity. I feel like I’m going to suffocate. When I finally surmount the obstacle, I’m forced to my knees. Something is wrong. I can’t slow my breathing. The ambient-air valve on my oxygen mask is clogged with frozen spit. I rip out the valve. Thin air mixes. I can breathe again.

Approximately eight hours after leaving the South Col, I reach the South Summit (28,700 feet). Gaining a view of the last 300 feet—the cornice traverse and the Hillary Step—I can’t help but think that my father must have been crazy. A foot to my right, the Kangshung Face drops 10,000 feet to the Tibetan plateau. An inch to my left, the southwest face drops 8,000-feet to the Western Cwm. I can hardly imagine my father straddling this ridge 47 years ago and ascending the Hillary Step without the fixed-lines that we now rely on for safety. Only now do I truly understand what an amazing feat he performed.

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