This dramatic tale of the storm that hit Mount Everest in the spring of 1996 will resonate with anyone fascinated by life on the outer edge of physical and psychological limits. Before the killer storm subsided, some climbers reached the summit, others abandoned their quest, and twelve people froze to death. Matt Dickinson, a filmmaker and a novice climber, chose that fateful May for his first ascent of Everest, up the treacherous North Face. His story is one of discovery, tragedy, and personal triumph--told, literally, from the other side of the world's tallest peak. It will be cherished by all readers eager to experience adventure, from their armchairs to their own base-camp bivouac. "White-knuckle time on the summit ridge." -- Newsweek "Dickinson has an eye for meaningful detail and storytelling talent -- a rollicking, insightful and harrowing ride." -- The New York Times Book Review . Gripping -- the action more than lives up to its promise. Dickinson takes the reader through the steps of his climb with humor, wisdom, and a minimum of bravado -- a thought-provoking exploration of nature and man's will to master it. -- Los Angeles Daily News "Dickinson brings the fresh perspective and wide eyes of the novice to mountaineering's most enduring saga -- the result is an absorbing narrative that vividly portrays, step by agonizing step, his slow climb to the summit." -- Mercator's World This dramatic tale of the storm that hit Mount Everest in the spring of 1996 will resonate with anyone fascinated by life on the outer edge of physical and psychological limits. Before the killer storm subsided, some climbers reached the summit, others abandoned their quest, and twelve people froze to death. Matt Dickinson, a filmmaker and a novice climber, chose that fateful May for his first ascent of Everest, up the treacherous North Face. His story is one of discovery, tragedy, and personal triumph--told, literally, from the other side of the world's tallest peak. It will be cherished by all readers eager to experience adventure, from their armchairs to their own base-camp bivouac. "White-knuckle time on the summit ridge." -- Newsweek "Dickinson has an eye for meaningful detail and storytelling talent -- a rollicking, insightful and harrowing ride." -- The New York Times Book Review . Gripping -- the action more than lives up to its promise. Dickinson takes the reader through the steps of his climb with humor, wisdom, and a minimum of bravado -- a thought-provoking exploration of nature and man's will to master it. -- Los Angeles Daily News "Dickinson brings the fresh perspective and wide eyes of the novice to mountaineering's most enduring saga -- the result is an absorbing narrative that vividly portrays, step by agonizing step, his slow climb to the summit." -- Mercator's World Matt Dickinson is a filmmaker and a writer who specializes in documenting the world's wild places and indigenous peoples. He is also the author of a novel, High Risk. He lives in England with his wife and their children. Feeling more dead than alive, I staggered the final few steps into Advance Base Camp just as darkness swept across the Tibetan Plateau and chased the last glimmer of light out of the Himalayas. It was 6:35 p.m. on May 20, 1996. I stood alone, swaying unsteadily on my feet, trying to work out what I should do next. For a few moments I was dimly aware of the snow-covered tents around me. There was a shout from the darkness. A glowing headlamp bobbed up and down as a shadowy figure emerged from somewhere and picked its way toward me across the rocks of the glacier. Then, with all the suddenness of a power cut, both my knees collapsed. I found myself lying on my back, staring at a sky full of stars, with a jumbo-jet pilot named Roger kissing me on both cheeks and calling me a bastard. We held each other in a bear hug for what seemed like ages as Roger's words of congratulation worked their way through the fog that shrouded my brain. For the first time in many weeks, a half-forgotten sensation overwhelmed me to the edge of tears. The feeling of being safe. It was over. The summit of Everest was behind me. I opened my mouth to reply to Roger but all that came out was a gabble of unintelligible words. Confused by a mixture of euphoria and shock, my brain scrambled by the effect that extreme altitude and dehydration had wrought, I was unable to string two words together. It didn't even occur to me to wonder where my fellow climber Al Hinkes had disappeared, even though we had descended from the North Col together. As far as I was concerned, he had simply vanished. (In fact, as Roger later told me, he had gone to his tent to sort himself out before searching for food and drink.) Roger pulled me to my feet, helped me out of my rucksack, and unstrapped my climbing harness. Then he supported me into the unbelievable warmth of the mess tent where our Sherpa team was sitting around two steaming pots of food in a haze of kerosen