Mt.
Everest, that rock has its reputation.
It
has claimed the lives of scores of
climbers.
It has become known as a stone
cold
killer, although it never held malice
or
intent to do harm. Nothing personal
but...
There
is no fortune, no gold, emeralds or
diamonds
to be had by scaling its granite
face,
only fame to be claimed by planting
a
symbolic flag of victory at its summit.
Many
souls have frozen, fallen or other-
wise
expired in an attempt to achieve
those
dizzying, near invincible heights.
Quietly,
that famed rock of supreme
grandeur
and solitude shall forever hold
the
names of both victors and losers who
have
stared death in the face in order
to
make that perilous trek to the top of
the
world.
I
for one, being neither a mountain goat,
Sherpa
nor adventurer, would rather extol
my
admiration and praise from a safe dis-
tance
and at a lower altitude. Preferably, I’d
feel
most secure taking the more ecconom-
ically
prudent tour from home in my living
room
while casually flipping through the
full-color
pages of a National Geographic
Magazine
cradled firmly in my lap.
Given
my aversion to the perils of moun-
tain
climbing, you may be wondering
what
on Earth possessed me to invoke
the
imagery of climbing Mt. Everest
today?
Well, I got to thinking about my
aching
arthritic hips and the two flights
of
stairs it takes to negotiate this afternoon
in
order just to get my mail. And for what,
goddamn bills?
Chris
Hanch 5-9-17
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