Kham, 2004

The pass near Jara Lhatse was behind us, but the valley below it led the wrong way. We climbed for four hours through thorn bushes beside a half-frozen stream, and at one rest I nearly fainted: for days I had eaten little more than butter tea. At the top there was no way down, only a high plateau at 4,500 metres, and the fresh snow on it was crossed by wolf tracks. Not paths: whole roads.

The sun dropped behind the ridge. Each time I stopped to catch my breath, I simply fell into the snow. My head filled with questions: what am I doing here, who would ever find us? Down in the valleys there is always another way out. Up there, there was none.

Then I remembered that the most common cause of trouble in the mountains is losing composure. I stopped winding myself up, walked faster, rested less, and kept going into the dark.