In an age where the summit of Everest has become less a triumph of human endurance and more a tick-box for narcissistic thrill-seekers, the dramatic rescue of a stranded guide after six days serves as a grim reminder of our collective folly. The operation, a vertical ballet of helicopters and Sherpas, speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, but let us not pretend this was an unavoidable tragedy. It was, rather, a predictable consequence of the commodification of the world’s highest peak.
We have turned the mountain into a circus, where queues form at 8,000 metres and inexperienced climbers pay exorbitant sums to be led to their potential doom. The guide, a victim of unforeseen weather? Perhaps.
But more likely, he was a participant in a system that prioritises profit over prudence. The rescue itself, a triumph of coordination and courage, cannot mask the rot at the heart of mountaineering’s new golden age. We applaud the rescuers, but we must also question the culture that made the rescue necessary.
This is not the first such incident, nor will it be the last, until we learn that Everest is not a ride at a theme park. It is a deadly adversary, and one that does not care for our Instagram likes.
