Day 87 of the climb. The appearance of a sudden storm killed our sherpa last night, as the winds hurtled him over the side of the mountain and dashed him cruelly below. Popo saw it happen, and hasn’t spoken since. He should have been tethered to us. Why wasn’t he tethered to us? God, the things we would have done differently. Sometimes I wonder why I write, or who will read these passages. No chance of mail delivery so high up on the South Slope (accursed direction! We should have taken the safer Eastern route, but it was my damned pride that demanded we climb ever more difficult paths; I feel the crushing weight of my own hubris bearing down upon the both of us.).
I have eaten our last dehydrated piece of seal blubber. Popo refused it.