Every spring, the Icefall Doctors—our brave Sherpa brothers—ladder crevasse crossings and rope the entire gauntlet anew. It stays the deadliest because the mountain is alive; seracs the size of my house shift without warning, day or night. I’ve seen it swallow the strongest. Yet for me, the chaos is familiar—it's like watching my children and the boiling milk at the same time, your jigar always alert. The real danger isn’t the ice, but the hurry some climbers keep to get past it, letting fear make decisions instead of patience.
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