In the far reaches of the Karakoram, where maps blur and gods seem to sleep beneath ice, I climbed into a world stripped to bone and sky. Storms rose without warning, erasing sun, breath, even thought. Alone on a wind-scoured ridge, lashed by snow and silence, I felt fear and awe braid into something holy. No trail, no certainty—just the raw pulse of life against the void. Out there, I wasn’t conquering a mountain—I was being remade by it.

Image de texture