We will remember the fallen.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

If

For those who wear specs or are above the age of 50, or both, poem is reproduced below for your failing eyesight. Too good not to be shared, again.

If, by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

4790m later...

It was a 4 day slog, through lush temperate woodlands, frozen streams, snow-covered fields, sheer rock walls, pecarious goat paths, and windstruck passages.

It was 3 lung-fuls of thin mountain air for every step, frozen fingers, frostbitten toes, muddy boots, snow-blinded eyes, 15 kilos on my back, -15 degrees celsius atmosphere, 3 layers of protection and a stomach full of determination.

It was conversations with your teammates at 3000m, words of encouragement every 5 minutes at 3500m, whispers of encouragement every 20 minutes at 4000m, and only the 20 knot wind and the sound of your heart and breath at 4500m.

It was goat shit, yak shit, bull shit (literally and metaphorically), horse shit and 'OMG WTH did I get myself into this shit'.

It was ceaseless cursing, ceaseless yearning, ceaseless complaining, ceaseless faith, ceaseless pain, ceaseless hope.



It was worth it.