Photo by Calum Robinson CC-BY SA 2.0

There’s an image that’s been seared into my mind for a few years now. It’s the face of a man I barely knew but considered a friend nonetheless. I can still see him in the night when I close my eyes. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t scream. He just looks at me from beneath a layer of frost-covered flesh. When he visits me, I don’t sleep. He remains as I left him, seated near the top of the world, trapped in the Death Zone.

At The Walrus, read an excerpt from The Escapist: Cheating Death on the World’s Highest Mountain, by Gabriel Filippi with Brett Popplewell.

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