A man recently slipped and died on a 5,588-meter snow mountain in China.
He unclipped his safety rope just to take a photo.
He slipped down the slope and never came back.
I survived and for that, I am deeply grateful for my survival.
The news shook the climbing community.

Adventure deaths are unforgettable.
I’ve seen two close calls right in front of me.

The first was on Chulu West, Nepal, 6,419 meters.
At the last checkpoint, my teammate was struck by altitude sickness.
His oxygen level kept falling below 50.

Every hour he checked his oximeter.
Every number was a step closer to fatality.
I knew if it dropped to 40, there was no turning back.
At that moment, I didn’t even know how I would break the news to his wife.

We aborted the summit.
A helicopter carried him back to Kathmandu.
His life came before the mountain.

The second was the BUTM 100 km race in Sabah mountain.
Rain poured from noon till night.
Trails turned to rivers.
One of my fellow runners, new to ultra, started shivering uncontrollably in the night. Hypothermia had set in.
The downhill was packed with exhausted runners on slippery ground.
Disaster felt only a step away.

He survived.
I still remember him begging for dry clothes and water as we struggled downhill.

My own story with death even scarly

Came Island Peak 6000 ++ meter, Nepal.
Four of us were roped together at night.
I slipped and tumbled toward the cliff.
If I had gone over, I would have pulled three teammates with me.
At the very last second, my Sherpa locked the rope and saved us.

I should not be here with my co-climber. But I am.

That’s why I write this with gratitude.
For the mountains that spared me.
For the friends who did make it with me.

And for the reminder that in both adventure and life,
survival itself is sometimes the greatest achievement.

Life is fragile.
Adventure is brutal.
Survival is grace.