Stok Kangri, the tallest peak visible from Leh

The mountain had loomed over us since the day we'd set out from Stok Village. We hopscotched across glacial streams and climbed high passes, moving from campsite to campsite. Even in the night, the mountain made its presence known: a 20k foot summit blocking the starlight.

Stok Kangri is 20,187 feet. Higher than Kilimanjaro, higher than Everest Base Camp, and just 100 ft shy of Mt Denali.

Rather than scaring us, this motivated us. By summiting Stok Kangri, we would prove that we could handle the altitude of any mountain in North America, Africa, and Europe.

The team was made up of 3 clients: My dad, a young Frenchman named Coco, and myself.

Only July 20, we arrived at the Base Camp after 3 days of hiking. That night, at midnight, we left.

Headlamps on, jackets zippered, Under Armour uncomfortably compressing last night's dinner. The three of us were led by Lobi, our head guide, and Stanzen, his 15 year old assistant. Gazing into the moonless night, five flashlights were tackling the initial 1000 ft pass. We began to do the same.

My dad turned to me, "I'm not going to Stok Kangri. You go ahead." My instinct was to pressure him to go on, but I ignored it. At 16k feet, the oxygen level is about half of that at sea level, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. With a quick hug, we separated.

I could feel my pinky toe going numb in the 10F weather, but decided to wait to address the issue. We stumbled forward eagerly, confident that we could face this and any other challenge the mountain threw at us. Feeling a strong wind beating against my face, I was surprised to find that we'd reached the top. The ascent had been quick and painful.

Feeling like a sailer confronting the stormy sea, I stood at the top of the high pass, wind beating against my face. There was a rocky, downward slope in front of me that led off into blackness. We turned left, starting on a trail that cut along the side of the hill. Our headlamps illuminated only a few feet of the path in front of us. My mind flashed to hours of my childhood spent jumping from couch to table, playing The Floor is Lava. Everything but the three feet in front of me was lava.

An hour passed. The trail beneath our lamps turned from scree to snow, and by 2:30am we had reached the base of Stok Kangri's glacier. A massive figure obstructed the bright stars: The mountain's Eastern flank.

As Lobi led us on a winding path to avoid crevasses, we could hear the rush of water beneath the ice under our feet. The trail got steeper, and soon we were scrambling up rocks piled on the snow. It was dark.

For the next few hours, I lost my sense of purpose. We could see neither how much distance there was to cover nor how far we'd gone. I forgot the 23 hours of flights I'd taken to get here, I forgot the hours spent pouring over trail guides, I forgot how much I wanted the summit.

Every 15 minutes, Lobi would call out "Break." There we would collapse in place, often not having the energy to remove our packs.

Looking up drearily at the stars, my eyes drooped and I felt myself drifting.

We carried on like narcoleptic dogs, collapsing in place whenever we heard "Break!". But within a few steps after getting up, I would feel exhausted and be mentally urging Lobi to call another break.

Hallucination is a common symptom of altitude sickness. Turning to my left, I was concerned. A giant, luminous caterpillar was shuffling along 200 feet from us. Rubbing my eyes, I saw four headlamps in a line. As they moved forward, one would suddenly drop and fall back into the previous. The caterpillar, scrunched up, would then stretch out and make progress. The climbers were approaching the mountain from the ice field. As one slipped, his fall would be broken by the climber behind him. Moving so slowly, the caterpillar was easy prey for any beast of the mountain. It occurred to me that we were also a caterpillar.

At 19k feet, Lobi started throwing up. I asked if he wanted to turn back, but he assured me that it was nothing. Vomiting could be a sign of serious mountain sickness, or it could just be indigestion as Lobi said it was. Susceptibility to mountain sickness is a career killer for guides.

Regardless of his affliction, Lobi remained a steady beacon of light and leadership on the mountain. We ploughed on.

At 4:30 AM, the first rays of sunlight illuminated a dismal situation. We had reached the snow slope, however the exhausting efforts of the past two hours had only taken us up some 150 feet.

But the sun brought hope. I could see the top ridge of the mountain, however far it was. I strapped on my crampons and left the tedious rocks in favor of open snow. Crampons made my feet feel like lead, and every 10 steps have to stop to catch my breath. 1.5 hours later, we reached the top of the snow slope. Blinded by the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the snow around me, I fumbled to remove my crampons.

"How much farther?" I asked. Lobi, still sick, responded, "A few hours."

Jesus.

We traveled along the ridge at the top of the mountain, steadily gaining altitude. The trails were narrow, and we were joined by other groups. It was claustrophobic and slow and, in spite of the climbers pressed so close to us, lonely.

A steep drop-off into a snowfield 2000 ft below

Squinting in the blazing sun, I saw prayer flags ahead. The summit.

But we didn't rush forward, energized by a goal. There was no energy left for final sprints. We took another break. Leaning backwards on my pack, Stanzen warned, "Be careful...".

I turned. A sheer 2000 ft drop into a snow field was just a few feet behind us. We edged forward skittishly.

At last we took our final steps towards the top. At 8am on July 21, we summitted Stok Kangri.

Hugs, high fives, and crazed photos. This was it, the highest mountain Coco, Stanzen or I had ever climbed. A goal etched into our minds months before, and a scene replayed hundreds of times in our dreams before actually occurring. I felt happy, for the first time since I had lost feeling in my toes.

A crazed Avesh with his ice axe and snow pole

Normally, the return trip on a hike slides out of you memories like the commute to work. This one, however, is embedded in my mind as the most challenging physical and mental experience of my life.

The trail along the ridge, which I'd approached on the ascent with sheer grit, was now treacherous. It was narrow, with steep dropoffs on either side at times. The top layer of snow had melted in the morning sun, and parts of the trail were now made of slippery, compacted snow. We stayed hunched over, using our ice axes to break our falls.

I pretty much lost it, and became crippled by my fear. Stanzen, the 15 year old, marked each step that I should take and grabbed my pack whenever I slipped. The process took hours, and was exhausting for the both of us.

We reached the top of the snow slope, and found that it too was dripping. Each step had to be deliberate and powerful, else we risked skidding down uncontrollably. We marched down the slope like an overconfident colorguard. Half way down, we saw some industrious hikers "skiing" down the slope on their boots, and tried the same. It worked, and we were at the base soon afterwards.

Near the end of the glacier, I once again thought I was hallucinating. My dad, in his florescent blue shirt, was waiting for me. I hugged him, and we lingered behind the rest of the group on the way back to camp. I had intended to tell him all about the hike, but couldn't find the words. We walked mainly in silence.

The team, back at the base of the glacier

I reached camp by 1pm. Stripping off my clothes, I lay in my sleeping bag listening to my iPod, trying to process the past 13 hours.

Days passed as we hiked back, and slowly I told my dad about the mountain.

Two days later, we ran into a pair of reporters searching for the answer to a simple question: Why do people climb Stok Kangri, or any mountain?

I didn't give them an answer because I didn't have one.

In the first place, I still did not want to think much about the hike. And privately I wondered if I was doing this, and so many other things, only to feed my own ego. What was the point? Frankly, climbing the mountain had been dangerous. A slippery rock could have twisted my ankle. My numb toes could have turned to frostbite. I could have slipped on the narrow ridge leading to the summit. I would have been much safer back at camp.

I didn't have an answer, or feared that I was doing these things just to say I'd done them.

It was only once I'd reached New Delhi, a full week later, that I figured myself out. Climbing mountains, like running marathons or lifting weights, is about pushing aside mental and physical barriers. It is not in spite of but because of the inherent dangers that climbing is so appealing. They allow you to test the limits, and to become your best self.