MY FIRST HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION | Yunam Peak (6,111 m)
Opening: The Rescue
“At 5,200 metres, I woke up struggling to breathe. When I walked out of my tent, eight people were carrying my teammate down the mountain on a makeshift stretcher. Two people had already abandoned the summit. Suddenly, this wasn’t about climbing a mountain anymore. It was about getting back alive.”
Then…
“This is the story of my first Himalayan expedition—Yunam Peak.”
Introduction
Hi!
I’m Konica.
I work a full-time corporate job.
I probably have far too many hobbies.
And somehow, I keep finding new challenges to sign up for.
Mountains just happen to be my favourite.
This was my first peak expedition.
I’d done several high-altitude treks before, but I’d never attempted a summit.
And honestly…
I had no idea if I was ready.
What Do Mountains Mean to Me?
I think nature is where I draw my sustenance.
I often find myself struggling with questions about the purpose of life and getting bogged down by the nine-to-five routine of a corporate job.
But somehow, whenever I am in nature, all those questions become quieter.
Everything I need seems to be right there.
There is a deep feeling of belonging—as though I am simply another small part of this incredible ecosystem.
That feeling is what keeps calling me back.
Being in the mountains humbles me. They constantly remind me how small I really am, and strangely, that is incredibly comforting.
I think that is also why I love climbing mountains.
Not just because they are beautiful.
But because they constantly remind me of how fragile and temporary human life really is.
If someone asked me today what the purpose of my existence is…
I would probably just say:
To witness nature.
To become one with it.
And honestly…
That would be enough.
How Did I Decide on the Expedition?
I had been thinking about attempting my first expedition for months.
I’d spent years trekking in the Himalayas, and one region had become my favourite—Lahaul.
There’s something about it that feels like home. Every time I return, I feel strangely safe.
Hence, Yunam Peak seemed like the perfect introduction to mountaineering.
At over 6,100 metres, it was high enough to be challenging, but it is not technically demanding.
It felt like the right mountain to start with.
So…
I chose Yunam.
Preparation
I’d decided on Yunam nearly six months earlier.
Although I wasn’t training exclusively for it, almost everything I did contributed towards it: running, strength training, climbing, and hiking.
My focus was on building endurance and strong legs.
Just the basics—and being consistent.
Three runs every week.
Two lower-body strength sessions.
But fitness was only half the challenge.
The real challenge at Yunam is the altitude.
Unlike many expeditions, Yunam’s very first camp is already close to 4,800 metres.
That leaves very little room for acclimatisation in an arid, enclosed valley on the border of Ladakh and Lahaul, with no greenery in sight and only scree and boulders all around.
And that’s exactly why its summit success rate is lower than many people expect.
I didn’t want altitude to decide the outcome before I even had a chance to climb.
So I reached Himachal almost a week early.
Acclimatisation
I stayed in Fozal Valley and spent time hiking, then moved deeper into Lahaul, gradually increasing my altitude through day hikes and an overnight trek.
I also practised gaining 1,000 metres of elevation to see how my body reacted to it—and, hopefully, to learn from the experience and apply those lessons during the expedition.
By the time we started our expedition in Keylong, at 3,100 metres, my body was relatively well acclimatised to that altitude.
I kept trying to get as much activity as possible.
Day 1: Reaching Base Camp
Bharatpur sits at nearly 4,800 metres.
Unlike many Himalayan expeditions, your very first camp is at an altitude where most people are only beginning to feel the effects of thin air.
Driving there also doesn’t help.
We drove almost 1,700 metres uphill in just a few hours.
That is a massive gain in elevation for the body to process.
The landscape had completely changed. The lush green valleys of Lahaul had disappeared.
There were no forests.
No trees.
Just endless scree slopes, giant boulders, and barren mountains stretching into the distance.
The rain, wind, and intermittent snowfall did not help at all.
Almost immediately, the altitude made itself known.
Despite all the preparation I had done beforehand, it became a struggle. Walking just a few metres left the team breathless.
The weather wasn’t helping either.
It was cold, windy, and raining almost constantly.
Usually, the best thing you can do after reaching a new altitude is walk around, stay active, and let your body adapt.
But the weather kept pushing us back into our tents.
That first night…
None of us really slept.
Every few minutes, I’d wake up a little breathless.
I kept wondering whether this was normal and whether I was going to be okay over the coming nights.
It was my first expedition, after all.
I had nothing to compare it to.
Day 2: The Acclimatisation Hike
We had planned to gain about 300 metres in altitude.
Thankfully, the next morning, the weather improved.
It wasn’t perfect, but there was enough of a window for us to do our acclimatisation hike.
The idea was simple:
Climb high.
Come back down.
The first few minutes of the trek felt miserable.
I was sleepy.
Slow.
Heavy.
Everything felt like an effort.
But as we climbed higher and the clouds slowly began to part, the mountains opened up around us.
And almost immediately, my energy returned.
We were rewarded with a magnificent bird’s-eye view of our campsite and the surrounding area.
I’ve noticed this about myself before.
Sometimes, all I need is a glimpse of a beautiful landscape, and suddenly my body forgets how tired it is.
By the time we were ready to return to camp, I felt good and confident.
That confidence didn’t last very long.
One of our teammates suddenly began losing complete control of his legs during the descent, and his oxygen levels dropped drastically.
Within minutes, the guides recognised what was happening.
He had to be evacuated immediately.
Watching that unfold curbed my unbridled enthusiasm, to say the least.
Until then, altitude sickness had been theoretical.
I’d read about it and watched videos of mountaineers.
But seeing someone healthy deteriorate so severely in front of you…
That’s different.
Our summit team suffered its first loss that morning.
And it reminded all of us that, in the mountains, it didn’t matter how prepared we thought we were.
We had to follow their rules.
Waiting
After lunch, there was…
Nothing to do.
Bharatpur isn’t really a campsite where you can wander around for hours.
It’s a barren valley along the highway.
There are no little hills to explore.
No forests to walk through.
Just rocks, mountains, and your own thoughts.
And to top it all off, it had started raining again.
And honestly…
Too much time with your own thoughts isn’t always a good thing.
Especially after watching someone get evacuated.
I tried to keep moving.
I walked around the camp.
Drank ridiculous amounts of water.
Anything that might help with acclimatisation.
Whether it actually helped or not, I don’t know.
But it felt like I was doing something.
Sometimes, that’s enough.
Later that evening, our trek leader briefed us about the days ahead.
One thing immediately caught my attention.
He recommended that we wear snow boots on summit day.
Apparently, most of the return journey would be through melting snow. Changing boots midway at over 5,000 metres wasn’t really practical.
So we had to choose:
Regular trekking boots.
Or heavy mountaineering boots.
I kept imagining wet, cold feet and slipping through slush.
Eventually, I decided to wear the snow boots.
The evening passed with a short practice walk across the boulders in our snow boots.
Looking back…
That was probably the wrong decision.
They were heavy.
Bulky.
And surprisingly slippery on wet scree and boulders.
A good pair of waterproof trekking boots with gaiters would probably have worked much better.
Anyway, the next day was our move to Summit Camp, so I decided to go to sleep early.
Unfortunately, by midnight, there were intense winds and heavy rain. Once again, none of us managed to get any sleep.
Day 3: Moving to Summit Camp
It was still raining.
Fresh snow had settled on the surrounding peaks overnight, and dense fog hid almost everything beyond our campsite.
It had become even colder, and there was no sign that the weather was going to clear anytime soon.
I’m not a fan of cold, wet mornings on the best of days.
But after barely sleeping for two nights, all I wanted was a little sunshine.
In the mountains, the first rays of sunlight and a view of the peaks are like caffeine to me—they somehow wake me up better than any cup of coffee ever could.
That morning, though, we were going to have neither.
The day was going to be short but seemingly difficult.
Summit Camp was only about 3.5 kilometres away, with roughly 500 metres of elevation gain.
There were a couple of glacial stream crossings along the way, but we expected them to be manageable because the cold weather meant there wasn’t much snowmelt yet.
Before the start of the journey, I made the decision to hire a porter to help carry my luggage to Summit Camp.
It went against my principles, but I hadn’t slept for more than three hours over the previous two nights, I was still acclimatising, and I’d already seen one teammate get evacuated because of altitude sickness.
On top of that, my snow boots, helmet, rain gear, and other equipment added nearly seven kilograms to my pack.
I knew I had a summit attempt the very next day, and I didn’t want to waste all my energy proving a point.
Looking back, I’m glad I made that decision.
The climb to Summit Camp was short but steep.
It wasn’t particularly difficult, but the constant rain made every step more tedious.
Wet boulders are never fun to walk on, and just when I thought they couldn’t get any worse, we reached a section of loose scree.
If walking on wet boulders is bad, walking on wet scree is miserable.
Even then, the climb wasn’t physically overwhelming.
More than fatigue, it was the steepness of the terrain and trying to keep pace with the guides that made me a little anxious.
Every time I looked up, they seemed impossibly high above us, making the climb look steeper than it probably was.
It also left us very little time to stop and enjoy the view.
Admittedly, there wasn’t much of a view to enjoy because of the rain and fog.
About three hours later, I reached Summit Camp—cold, wet, and relieved.
I immediately escaped into the common tent while waiting for the rest of the team.
Some people took another two hours to arrive, so we had plenty of time to sit around.
Someone pulled out a deck of cards.
And honestly, that simple game completely changed the mood.
For the first time in days, I forgot about the altitude, the summit, the lack of sleep, and everything that had been weighing on my mind.
We laughed, joked, and got to know each other a little better.
Sitting in that tiny tent, playing cards while it rained outside, unexpectedly became one of my favourite memories from the trip.
The summit itself was still hidden behind thick clouds, but every now and then, the fog would lift just enough for us to catch a glimpse of the route we’d be taking the next night.
Seeing it made everything suddenly feel real.
Tomorrow, we’d finally be climbing Yunam Peak.
Since we were now at 5,200 metres, the altitude was beginning to affect everyone differently.
Most of my teammates had completely lost their appetite.
Some were struggling with nausea, indigestion, and even drinking water.
At this altitude, your digestive system slows down, and even eating a few bites can feel like a task.
Thankfully, I wasn’t facing that problem.
I definitely wasn’t as hungry as I normally would be, but the important thing was that I could still eat.
I could drink water without any issues, and neither food nor hydration felt like a struggle.
Seeing how difficult something as basic as eating had become for others made me realise how much high-altitude climbing depends on how your own body responds.
You can prepare as much as you want, but once you’re up there, every body responds differently.
After lunch, we went back to playing cards.
There wasn’t much else to do.
It was still raining, and stepping outside for too long wasn’t exactly inviting.
A couple of hours later, though, the clouds began to part.
For barely half an hour, sunlight broke through.
As soon as I saw it, I asked my trek leader if we could go for another acclimatisation walk.
Most of the team was too exhausted to come along, but one teammate, my guide, and I headed out.
Ever since arriving at Summit Camp, I’d noticed a magnificent glacier sitting between two towering mountains, glowing white whenever the clouds briefly cleared.
I desperately wanted to explore it.
We walked to a higher point with a clearer view of the glacier, crossed over to a small glacial lake nearby, spent a few minutes soaking in the view, and then headed back.
In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the most effective acclimatisation walk.
Ideally, we should have spent longer at the higher point before descending.
But I don’t regret it for a second.
For the first time since arriving at altitude, I felt genuinely good.
I was walking quickly.
My legs felt strong.
Apart from the expected muscle soreness from the previous days, nothing really bothered me.
The sunshine instantly lifted my mood.
Exploring a new place always fills me with energy, and I think that afternoon was proof of how much my mental state influences how I feel physically.
By the time we got back to camp, I felt the best I had since the expedition began.
I was quietly beginning to believe that all the preparation had worked.
Unfortunately, not everyone was feeling the same way.
One of my teammates had taken much longer to reach Summit Camp that afternoon.
She had spent hours climbing in the rain and, after arriving, had never really changed out of her wet clothes.
When I left for the acclimatisation walk, she was still sitting with us in the common tent, laughing and playing cards.
She seemed tired, but nothing felt particularly alarming.
When I came back, she had started shivering uncontrollably.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
All of us were cold.
We were over 5,000 metres, it was raining, and shivering didn’t seem unusual.
She eventually went back to her tent, climbed into her sleeping bag, and skipped dinner.
I assumed she’d warm up, get some rest, and be fine by morning.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
That evening, our guides also checked everyone’s vitals.
When my oxygen saturation came back at 93%, I was honestly thrilled.
At over 5,200 metres, I had expected it to be much lower.
For me, it felt like validation that everything I’d done over the previous week had been worth it.
The early acclimatisation.
The constant hiking.
Forcing myself to stay active.
Drinking an absurd amount of water.
Making myself eat even when I didn’t feel particularly hungry.
It felt like all those small decisions were paying off.
Seeing how much others were struggling also made me appreciate how fortunate I felt that evening.
I wasn’t taking it for granted, but I was quietly proud that my preparation seemed to be working.
After dinner, I went to bed feeling optimistic.
Tomorrow was summit day.
If there was ever a night when I wanted to sleep well, it was this one.
Unfortunately…
Nothing was about to change that night either.
The campsite was cold, rocky, and unforgiving.
Even through the sleeping mat, I could feel the boulders beneath me.
Outside, the rain returned, tapping relentlessly against the tent.
So there was no sleep—partly because of the altitude and partly because of the anticipation of the summit.
And part of it was my own doing.
I had been drinking so much water over the previous few days because I was determined that dehydration would never be the reason I failed to summit.
I’d made that mistake on an earlier trek, and I wasn’t going to repeat it.
The downside was that I was climbing out of my sleeping bag every hour to walk into the freezing rain just to pee.
By the time I settled back into the tent, I’d be wide awake again.
Sometime during the night, I noticed my tentmate coughing.
Every now and then, she’d groan softly in discomfort.
I assumed it was the cold and exhaustion—or simply another difficult night at altitude.
I had no idea that, by the next morning, everything was about to change.
Summit Day Morning
When I woke up that morning, I was a mess.
For the first time on the expedition, I felt really weak and wondered whether I was acclimatising well enough.
I was struggling to breathe.
Walking even 50 metres left me gasping for air.
Every slight incline felt disproportionately difficult.
My body felt heavy, I had a dull headache, and after four nights of barely any sleep, I simply felt exhausted.
Outside, it was still drizzling.
The night’s rain had dusted all the surrounding peaks with fresh snow, and the glacier we’d visited the previous evening looked even more magnificent.
It was one of those gloomy Himalayan mornings when the weather somehow reflects exactly how you’re feeling.
Everything felt heavy.
I knew lying inside the tent wasn’t helping.
I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning anyway, so I decided to walk around camp and see if moving would make me feel better.
Slowly, I made my way to my favourite spot at the campsite—a small ridge overlooking the valley below.
And then, almost as if someone had flipped a switch, the clouds began to part.
Sunlight broke through.
Within minutes, the mountains around me transformed.
The fresh snow glistened in the morning light, every peak suddenly stood out against the sky, and for a brief moment, I forgot how miserable I felt.
Sunlight in the mountains doesn’t solve everything, but somehow it always gives me just enough hope to keep going.
I walked around for another 20 minutes, trying to get some fresh air into my lungs before heading back to camp for water.
As I approached the tents, I noticed everyone gathered outside.
At first, I assumed everyone had woken up and breakfast was about to begin.
I was actually looking forward to sitting with everyone, joking around, and distracting myself from how awful I felt.
But as I got closer…
Something didn’t seem right.
Even the support staff were standing outside one particular tent.
That wasn’t normal.
The closer I got, the quieter everyone became.
And then I saw my tentmate—the one who had been coughing through the night.
She was unconscious.
Her oxygen levels had dropped dangerously low.
She was already on supplemental oxygen, and her sleeping bag had been turned into a makeshift stretcher.
Within minutes, eight members of the team lifted her and began carrying her down the mountain.
The trail below Summit Camp is steep even in good weather.
That morning, it was wet, slippery, and still drizzling.
Watching them disappear down the mountain, knowing every minute mattered, is something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
Until then, altitude sickness had still felt like something that happened to other people.
Now it was happening to someone who had been sleeping beside me in the tent.
Someone who had seemed perfectly fine just hours earlier.
That image has stayed with me ever since.
It has become a permanent reminder of how quickly things can change in the mountains.
After they left, camp fell silent.
We stood there watching until they disappeared from sight.
One of her closest teammates made the immediate decision to accompany her to the hospital, even though it meant giving up his own summit attempt.
I remember thinking how instinctively humane that decision was.
He didn’t hesitate for a second.
Later, he simply said:
“Nothing is more important than someone’s life.”
I couldn’t agree more.
By then, our team of seven had become four.
And only one of those four looked genuinely comfortable at altitude.
The rest of us were struggling in one way or another.
Over breakfast, another teammate quietly admitted that he wasn’t going to attempt the summit either.
Altitude sickness had completely destroyed his appetite over the previous couple of days.
He’d barely managed to eat more than a few spoonfuls of rice and was vomiting despite having almost nothing in his stomach.
He knew he wasn’t fit to climb.
So now…
Only three of us remained.
Everything that had happened that morning weighed heavily on me.
I hadn’t slept properly in four days.
My oxygen saturation had dropped significantly from the previous evening.
Every muscle in my body hurt.
More than anything, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about my teammates.
Watching more than half the team either get evacuated or become unable to attempt the climb makes you question your own body.
You start wondering:
Am I next?
And honestly, if there was ever a day when my body deserved rest instead of another thousand metres of climbing…
It was that day.
At that point, I honestly wasn’t thinking about the summit anymore.
I was thinking about getting through the day safely.
One thing that made it harder was the uncertainty.
Normally, when I’m nervous, I cope by planning.
I like knowing what’s ahead:
How far we have to go.
What the terrain looks like.
What the plan is.
But our expedition leaders were all occupied with getting my teammate safely off the mountain.
There wasn’t really anyone available to brief us.
Of course, knowing every detail wouldn’t have guaranteed anything…
But I think it would have calmed my mind a little.
After spending a few quiet hours walking around camp and trying not to overthink everything, we went for a short practice walk in our snow boots.
The idea was simply to get used to walking on scree and boulders in mountaineering boots before the summit push.
The walk itself was short but surprisingly tiring.
Thankfully, I was still able to eat and drink without much difficulty—something I was becoming increasingly grateful for as I watched others struggle with even the simplest things.
Later that afternoon, we finally had our summit briefing.
Our expedition leader had stayed behind with my evacuated teammate, so another member of the support staff would now lead our summit attempt.
The plan was simple:
Wake up before midnight.
Start climbing at around 1:00 a.m.
And if we hadn’t reached the summit by 9:00 a.m., we would turn around, no matter how close we were, to ensure that we returned safely.
After the briefing, I decided that if I wanted even a few hours of sleep before midnight…
I needed to get into my sleeping bag immediately.
Summit Push Night
I crawled back into my tent at around 4:30 in the evening, hoping to finally get some sleep before the summit push.
Almost immediately, the weather changed.
The wind picked up.
Rain started hammering against the tent again.
After four nights of almost no sleep, I thought I would fall asleep easily.
But there was too much anticipation.
I just lay there wide awake.
The summit was all I could think about.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind jumped ahead to the next morning.
What would the climb be like?
Would I actually make it?
Would I even be strong enough to try?
The more I tried to force myself to sleep, the more impossible it became.
By around eight in the evening, I had reached a point where simply being inside the tent felt suffocating.
I couldn’t settle my mind.
The empty tent wasn’t helping either.
It kept reminding me of my tentmate, who had been evacuated only that morning.
The silence felt strangely heavy.
So I walked over to my trek leader and asked her if she’d mind sleeping in my tent.
She immediately agreed.
It was such a small gesture, but it made a huge difference.
Knowing someone else was there somehow quietened my mind.
Before I knew it, I’d finally fallen asleep.
I slept for about two and a half hours.
It wasn’t much.
But it was the longest uninterrupted sleep I’d had in days.
When I woke up at 11:45 p.m., I actually felt…
Relieved.
Outside, it was still raining.
The wind hadn’t eased either.
The temperature had dropped even further.
Everyone quietly started getting ready.
Rain gear.
Gaiters.
Helmet.
Snow boots.
Headlamp.
As I clipped my helmet strap into place, my trek leader walked over.
“We’re going to wait.”
The rain was too heavy.
Starting in those conditions simply wasn’t safe.
So we waited.
Still fully dressed.
Still ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Back inside the tent, I sat there listening to the rain.
Waiting.
Trying to stay warm and motivated.
I imagined what it would feel like to finally stand on the summit after months of preparation.
But underneath all that excitement…
There was fear.
Not the kind of fear that makes you want to quit.
The kind that makes you deeply aware of where you are.
This was my first expedition.
I had no idea what lay ahead.
I was standing in an unfamiliar landscape, surrounded by mountains I had never climbed, after watching teammates become seriously ill just hours earlier.
Out here, thoughts like…
“I hope I come back alive and well.”
…don’t feel dramatic.
They feel completely reasonable.
That realisation changes something inside you.
I remember making one promise to myself that night:
No summit was worth risking my life.
If, at any point, I genuinely felt unsafe, I would turn around.
The hours crawled by.
By five in the morning, I was wondering whether the summit push had been cancelled.
Our original plan had been to start at around 1:00 a.m. and turn around by 9:00 a.m. if we hadn’t reached the summit.
But our trek leader hadn’t said anything.
Then, at around 5:30 a.m., we were told that we would start at 6:00.
Although it was still raining, the sun had risen, so it wasn’t as dark.
Our leaders warned us that the route would be slippery, there would likely be sections of complete whiteout, and no one really knew what conditions we’d find higher up.
It wasn’t exactly the reassuring pre-climb briefing I had imagined.
The others looked nervous.
I was terrified too.
But after everything the mountain had already thrown at us…
There was only one way to find out what lay ahead.
More than the altitude, the weather, or even the exhaustion…
What unsettled me most was not knowing what lay ahead.
I knew the elevation we had to gain.
But that was about it.
I didn’t know how many kilometres we had left.
I didn’t know what kind of terrain we would encounter.
Would it be boulders?
Snow?
Scree?
Ice?
How steep would it get?
Would we push for the summit no matter what, or would we turn around at a certain point?
As someone who likes to prepare and plan, that uncertainty was probably the hardest part.
Even if knowing the answers wouldn’t have changed the outcome, I think it would have quietened my mind a little.
Summit Push
By the time six in the morning finally arrived, we’d already spent six hours waiting.
The little sleep I’d managed to get had completely worn off.
I was exhausted again before we’d even taken the first step.
Still, I had breakfast, pulled on my rain gear, tightened my helmet strap, and stepped out into the rain.
The climb began immediately.
There was no gentle warm-up.
The very first section climbed steeply through large, wet boulders while the rain intensified, and I found myself constantly adjusting my gear.
The poncho was getting in the way.
My snow boots already felt awkward on the slippery rocks.
And I couldn’t decide whether I was wearing too many layers or not enough.
Within the first 200 metres, I was already questioning whether I should continue.
Fifty metres later, I turned to my trek leader.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
He looked at me calmly and asked:
“Do you want to turn back?”
I remember pausing for a second.
I grumble and constantly question every difficult decision I’ve ever made.
But quitting has never come easily to me.
So I told him:
“Not yet. I’ll go at my own pace, and if I genuinely feel unsafe, I’ll turn around.”
And with that…
The hardest five hours of my life began.
It wasn’t the kind of tiredness you feel after a long run.
Or a hard workout.
It was a deep, relentless exhaustion that slowly seeped into every part of my body.
The climb never seemed to ease.
Every time I looked up, my guides were already much higher on the mountain, scouting the safest route ahead.
From where I stood, they looked almost vertical against the slope.
The combination of steep terrain, constant rain, occasional snowfall, and dense fog made the mountain feel much bigger than it probably was.
I kept asking my guides the same questions:
“How much further?”
“How much elevation have we climbed?”
Normally, my Garmin would have answered all those questions.
On the one day I needed it the most…
It decided not to.
So I relied entirely on the guides.
Because of the delayed start and the uncertain weather, we weren’t taking proper breaks.
There were no long stops for food or water.
Besides, stopping didn’t even seem appealing.
The wind was cold.
The rain was relentless.
Standing still only made you colder.
So we kept moving.
Yunam has an interesting shape.
The climb is divided into what feel like three giant steps before the summit.
The frustrating part is that you cannot see the summit until you are only around 50 metres below it.
You can only see the end of the section you’re currently climbing.
And every time you reach the top of one, another steep wall appears in front of you.
It plays tricks on your mind.
Eventually, I realised that thinking wasn’t helping anymore.
So I stopped.
I stopped worrying about the summit or wondering how much was left.
I stopped trying to calculate the distance.
Instead, I simply followed in the footsteps of my trek leader.
One foot.
Then the other.
It was also necessary because, from that point onwards, the route was mostly covered in snow.
The higher we climbed, the more the snow replaced the rocks.
Soon, we were walking almost entirely on snow, with only the occasional boulder breaking through.
The final section was the hardest.
The snow was loose and knee-deep in places.
Every step forwards felt like half a step backwards.
It was colder.
The rain was interspersed with light snowfall.
Even lifting my legs out of the snow became exhausting.
By then, I had reduced the entire climb to one simple game:
Ten steps.
Pause.
Ten more.
Pause again.
Repeat.
That’s all I allowed myself to think about.
After what felt like an eternity, we reached the final slope.
Only about 50 vertical metres remained.
For the first time all day…
I could actually see the summit.
It still looked impossibly steep.
Almost like a wall of snow rising above us.
One of my teammates had already reached the top.
The other teammate and I were still slowly dragging ourselves upwards.
By then, my body had nothing left to give.
Every muscle hurt.
My legs felt unbelievably heavy.
But somehow…
Knowing that the summit was finally visible gave me one last burst of energy.
The final few metres were probably the slowest I’d walked all day.
But they were also the most exhilarating.
And then…
We were there.
Our trek leader was so excited that, for the last few metres, he reached out, grabbed our hands, and pulled us onto the summit.
After months of preparation…
Four sleepless nights…
Watching teammates get evacuated…
Questioning whether I should even attempt the climb…
I was standing on top of Yunam Peak.
I expected to feel triumphant.
Instead…
I mostly felt relief.
Relief that all those tiny decisions over the previous week—acclimatising early, drinking water constantly, forcing myself to eat, and listening to my body—had been enough.
We’d climbed roughly 1,000 metres over just 2.5 kilometres.
It had taken us almost five hours.
We spent about 15 minutes on the summit, taking some photographs.
Because of the weather, we couldn’t really see much.
And then…
It was time to go back down.
The very first step of the descent made me realise that the journey was only half over.
The summit wasn’t the end.
My legs cramped almost immediately.
I was more exhausted than I’d ever been in my life.
And I knew the mountain still had one final test left for me.
The descent was every bit as difficult as the climb.
Wherever we could, we took the shortest route, sliding down snow slopes instead of walking around them.
It was faster and, honestly, a lot more fun.
There came a point when I genuinely felt like I had very little control over my legs.
They were cramped, shaky, and completely spent.
I wondered whether that was due to the altitude.
Still, there wasn’t much of a choice.
The only way to feel better was to keep losing altitude.
I kept eating some carbohydrates now and then, although we had run out of water.
So we kept walking.
One step after another.
Six hours later, after countless slips, falls, and a lot of very tired laughter, I finally reached Base Camp.
And something surprised me.
I didn’t feel some overwhelming sense of achievement.
I wasn’t standing there thinking:
“I did it.”
More than anything…
I just felt relieved.
Relieved that it was over.
Relieved that I was back down safely.
Relieved that I could finally call my partner and tell him I was okay.
After everything that had happened over the previous few days, the summit almost felt secondary.
Coming back safely felt like the real victory.
It wasn’t until I got home that the experience really began to sink in.
Slowly, the exhaustion faded.
The sore muscles disappeared.
The sleepless nights became stories.
And somewhere along the way, the fear gave way to gratitude.
Looking back now, I’m incredibly glad I didn’t quit.
Not because I reached the summit.
But because I now have a memory that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
It’s strange.
While I was climbing, I remember thinking:
“I’m never doing another summit again.”
And yet…
Here I am, already thinking about the next one.
Conclusion
Throughout this expedition, especially during the hardest moments, I kept asking myself the same question:
Why do I keep doing this?
Why willingly choose something so difficult?
Why sign up for something that scares me?
I think I finally have an answer.
It’s because I love discovering that I’m capable of more than I thought I was.
Mountains have a way of stripping life down to its essentials.
When you’re cold, exhausted, and struggling to breathe, you stop worrying about emails, deadlines, and all the little things that seemed important a week ago.
All you want is warmth.
Food.
Water.
Sleep.
The people waiting for you back home.
And when you finally return to those things, you appreciate them in a way you didn’t before.
I also realised something else.
Every difficult challenge quietly expands what you believe you’re capable of.
Before Yunam, a 6,000-metre peak felt like something other people did.
Now…
It feels like the beginning.
I still don’t know where my limits are.
But I know they’re much further away than I thought.
And maybe that’s why I keep signing up for difficult things.
Not because I need to prove something to anyone else.
But because, every once in a while, they introduce me to a version of myself I hadn’t met before.
A slightly stronger and more capable version.
And that’s someone I’d like to keep becoming.
So…
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for coming along on my first expedition.
I hope this is just the first of many adventures we get to share.
I’ll see you on the next mountain.
Maybe that’s why I keep doing difficult things.
I just want to become a little more capable than I was yesterday.
And if these mountains keep teaching me that…
I’ll keep coming back.
