Gilman's Point, 18,640 ft

I’m stepping up into the stars.

They’re so close I could brush them with my fingertips, if only I had the strength to lift my arm. They’re painted on a vaulted ceiling, like an astronomy book from the middle ages, like the Sistine Chapel. Every leaden step, every coppery breath, takes us closer, until we can look out and see stars below us, pinpricks of light outlining the curvature of the earth like an airport runway.

“I’m fuckin’ knackered,” says Alex, his Liverpool accent sticking in his throat. He doesn’t turn around. His jacket is a blinding white in front of me, reflecting the light of my headlamp back into my eyes. There are legends, I think, about ghosts who lead travelers up mountains and over cliffs. Still I follow his boots, cautious of the places where he stumbles on the loose scree, stepping in time with him. We set a rhythm, slow and faltering as a dying man’s heartbeat.

I'm breathing through a snorkeling mask: never quite enough oxygen. For a moment I'm back in the aquarium-blue water of Zanzibar. But here, there is only cold and dark and Alex's boots, one rocky step in front of me. And all around us, the stars.