In 1980, the People’s Republic of China opened its border to foreign mountaineers, and I was invited to attempt a remote mountain in Eastern Tibet called Minya Konka (“Gongga Shan,” in Chinese). It is nearly 25,000 feet high, and no outsiders had been to the area since the 1930s. The chance to see such an unknown region was reason enough for the adventure, never mind the climb.
One day, descending from our camp at 20,000 feet, three close friends and I triggered an avalanche. We were swept 1,500 vertical feet down the mountain. We all suffered injuries, but Jonathan Wright’s were the gravest. I gave him mouth-to-mouth, but after a half-hour he died in my arms. Stroking his hair, I vowed to be there for his wife and parents, whom I knew, and for his one-year-old daughter as she grew.
