The flakes of snow was all over his face, concentrated on his facial hair. He stopped for a moment to wipe a layer of ice off his forehead and stared at the fog of ice at the distance. His face was the only part of his body exposed to the numbing cold… he had once told a porter “Pain is important my boy… Its the most true feeling of being alive”.
People had called him insane, some had laughed at him, some pitied him. The mountain was a murderer, the old people of the village at tried to convince him. The truth was that only a few had returned from it and a even fewer remained sane enough to narrate the experience. No one had ever returned from the peak.
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