I remember at one time being on a sheer rock face, with a good four thousand feet of vertical exposure under me. I was precariously balanced on the two small front points of my crampons, humming a Gypsy Kings tune to myself, trying to stretch across to a hold that was just beyond my comfortable reach. It took a small leap of faith to jump, grab, pray it held, and then carry on up—but it was a leap and an attitude that was typical of quite a few moments I had high up on Ama Dablam. A kind of nonchalant recklessness that isn’t always that healthy.
