周二因为贪睡错过了我最爱的勇登珠峰，失望之馀也很无奈。结果今天无意中发现晚上会有重播，兴奋啊!

满足之馀只能再次感谢探索频道这麽人性化的安排。

边看重播的同时，我又想到10年前看到的那本有关96年珠峰惨剧的书。记忆中除了金老师的小说外，还只有这本书曾经让我手不释卷。 假如我当年读大学课本时有读这本书的一半劲头，估计奖学金和博仕学位早到手了。

艾妈曾问我，最喜欢看的是哪一本书，我毫不犹豫的向她推荐了。但可惜在北京我怎麽找都找不到。今天不服气，我又 GOOGLE 了一下，又一个惊喜！

大家一定以为我买了GOOGLE和DC股票所以老替他们做广告，老实说，我还真後悔啊!

一天里面2个失而复得，满足啊! 反正博客码字不收费，有兴趣的朋友不妨看看我的转载。

True Everest - Into Thin Air
Everest deals with trespassers harshly: the dead vanish beneath the snows. While the living struggle to explain what happened. And why. A survivor of the mountain's worst disaster examines the business of Mount Everest and the steep price of ambition.

By Jon Krakauer
 
Straddling the top of the world, one foot in Tibet and the other in Nepal, I cleared the ice from my oxygen mask, hunched a shoulder against the wind, and stared absently at the vast sweep of earth below. I understood on some dim, detached level that it was a spectacular sight. I'd been fantasizing about this moment, and the release of emotion that would accompany it, for many months. But now that I was finally here, standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn't summon the energy to care.

It was the afternoon of May 10. I hadn't slept in 57 hours. The only food I'd been able to force down over the preceding three days was a bowl of Ramen soup and a handful of peanut M&M's. Weeks of violent coughing had left me with two separated ribs, making it excruciatingly painful to breathe. Twenty-nine thousand twenty-eight feet up in the troposphere, there was so little oxygen reaching my brain that my mental capacity was that of a slow child. Under the circumstances, I was incapable of feeling much of anything except cold and tired.

 
I'd arrived on the summit a few minutes after Anatoli Boukreev, a Russian guide with an American expedition, and just ahead of Andy Harris, a guide with the New Zealand-based commercial team that I was a part of and someone with whom I'd grown to be friends during the last six weeks. I snapped four quick photos of Harris and Boukreev striking summit poses, and then turned and started down. My watch read 1:17 P.M. All told, I'd spent less than five minutes on the roof of the world.

After a few steps, I paused to take another photo, this one looking down the Southeast Ridge, the route we had ascended. Training my lens on a pair of climbers approaching the summit, I saw something that until that moment had escaped my attention. To the south, where the sky had been perfectly clear just an hour earlier, a blanket of clouds now hid Pumori, Ama Dablam, and the other lesser peaks surrounding Everest.

Days later—after six bodies had been found, after a search for two others had been abandoned, after surgeons had amputated the gangrenous right hand of my teammate Beck Weathers—people would ask why, if the weather had begun to deteriorate, had climbers on the upper mountain not heeded the signs? Why did veteran Himalayan guides keep moving upward, leading a gaggle of amateurs, each of whom had paid as much as $65,000 to be ushered safely up Everest, into an apparent death trap?