The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I’m probably a lot like you, hoping someday to climb Mt. Everest. Because it’s there…. Or maybe because I’m willing to risk my life to ascend to those heights others only dream about, willing to camp in veritable trash dumps down below before being guided by Sherpas carrying my oxygen and food and gear past the dead bodies of my fellow adventurers who didn’t quite achieve their goal. Danger is our middle name, mountaineering is our game.

Sure, I’ve been seeing those photos of a snaking line of colorful parkas clambering toward the summit of Everest toe to heel, looks like a movie line-up around the block to get into the last episode, the prequel to the sequel, of Star Wars playing in Antarctica, everybody roped together for that final Push, probably not much time to snap a photo or leave a flag, just turn around and try to slip past the others still climbing. ‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, coming through here.

I guess we’ll need some extra oxygen, maybe a few more packets of freeze dried food, probably another Sherpa. Kinda wish there was a Himalayan maître d we could tip to get a better spot in the line, something near the front preferably, slip a few grand into his fleece lined pocket, just one more expense on top of the tens of thousands already paid for climbing fees, tour guides, expedition expenses, etc. Next year we can hit the safari circuit, add a stuffed lion to our trophy case alongside the photo from the summit, great cocktail bragging rights. “Yeah, 11 dead climbers we had to step over to reach the peak, but nobody said it would be easy. Did it bother me? No, ma’am, kinda focused on the goal. Can I get you another martini? Brought the ice back from Nepal. What? No, just kidding. A little joke we mountaineers have for you Flatlanders. Wait, where you going?”

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