I didn't dare look behind me. I didn't want to see how high I was, how far I'd walked. The blanket of snow crunched beneath my boots, leaving behind trails of nervous footsteps. Sometimes I had to pull myself up onto snowy platforms, sometimes I had to climb over ice caps, and sometimes I had to trudge through seemingly endless tunnels in the crevices of the mountain. The air was crisp, stained with the scent of wet mud. I drew my trenchcoat closer around me, pulling down my hat further over my face and readjusting my oxygen mask over my face. Despite the layers of cold, I was freezing. Unfairly, the wind would pick up here and there, sending plumes of snow to cascade all around me and push me back. It was a long journey, I'd run through my memory on the days I'd already been on the mountain. I just had to reach the top. I thought of my family and friends, of warmth, of comfort and it spurred me on. I couldn't turn back now. I called on these thoughts in moments of desperation like now, where everything seemed so hopeless. My physical strength, even mental, was sapping by the hour and so I needed some form of escape. I rested now and then, setting up a makeshift tent for a few hours or so, but I couldn't move slowly. My oxygen tank was running out so taking my time meant certain eventual death.

I clenched my teeth as my legs burnt with the up-climb but I surged on. I felt perspiration bead my forehead under my thick hat despite the cold. I trained my eyes up ahead but chanced a glance behind me. The breath caught in my throat. The view was unrecognisable. I was too high so I could no longer see the bottom of the mountain, only miles of air. I turned my head quickly, afraid that it would bring me down.