A British mountaineer has been plucked from the death zone after nearly a week clinging to the slopes of Everest. The rescue, a harrowing operation conducted under the gaze of a billion smartphones, reminds us that the world’s highest peak remains an unforgiving mistress. But let us not pretend this is merely a story of luck and pluck.
It is a parable of our age: a civilisation so fat with comfort that it seeks self-annihilation at 29,000 feet for social media bracelets. The Victorian explorers who first surveyed this mountain did so with a sense of imperial wonder and scientific rigour. They did not queue for permits, pay Sherpas to carry their oxygen, or livestream their bowel movements from Base Camp.
We have turned Everest into a theme park for the middle classes, a place where the word ‘adventure’ has been stripped of its meaning. The rescued man will no doubt write a book, appear on morning television, and be hailed as a hero. But the real heroes are the Sherpas, the nameless men who risk their lives so that rich Westerners can tick a box.
This is not chivalry. It is the final gasp of a culture that mistakes risk for virtue. The mountaineer survived.
But our collective addiction to audacious stupidity? That remains firmly trapped in the ice.
