The most famous story in Everest history should be the
first ascent
, by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay
in 1953.
You may be more familiar, though, with the events of May 1996. That was when a storm came down on several climbing teams, stranding them in a whiteout that left 8 dead. It was easily the worst day on Everest. You have likely heard about this fatal day because of Jon Krakauer's
Into Thin Air
.
In this book, Krakeuar describes the lead guide of another company as reckless for not using bottled oxygen, among other things. That lead guide, however, was the only person to go back into the storm, rescuing two climbers, and led the only commercial group that didn't lose any clients.
That lead guide was Anatoli Boukreev. He wrote
The Climb in response to Krakauer's version of the Everest tragedy. Prior to that Everest season, Boukreev had already established himself as the most accomplished Russian mountaineer. He won Soviet climbing competitions on Mt. Elbrus by running up the solid snow in sprinting cleats. You know, those thin little shoes that have small spikes on the sole and are designed for track sprinting events? Most climbers would be in waterproof, double-insulated boots with a steel shank in the sole. Boukreev redefined hard-core.
I have been dreaming about Elbrus ever since I read that book in college.
And now I can finally say "Here I am."
On a hike in Rio de Janeiro last February, we happened upon a pond with these tiny fish that nibbled at our feet. It tickled and was an odd sight. Later that day, we researched the fish online and discovered that they were feasting on our dead skin. Yummy.
One year ago, Kristin and I were in Los Glaciares National Park. The park is world renown for the impending spires of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre. 
After our two "exciting" backpacking trips in the Caucasus Mountains (see posts 1 and 2), we knew that it was time to hit the road again. Or tracks, as is often the case in Russia. Train tracks.
Unfortunately, I don't know if I can do this story justice . . .