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on the opposite side of the mountain, which meant the summit of Mount Everest was always in view, rising above the Lhotse-Nuptse wall. The higher we climbed, the more we saw of Mount Everest, but as we saw more of the mountain, we saw less of our teammates. So forbidding was the steepness and the difficulty of the route that all the climbers except Tim, Andy, and I packed up and went home.
    Our base camp had been very close to the bottom of Ama Dablam’s North Ridge. This proximity meant that from the lower reaches of the climb we were within shouting distance of camp. On the day we came down from the mountain, it was well after dark as we carefully rappelled the last of the ropes. We had drunk very little during our long descent from the summit, so Tim called out for drinks in the hope that our Nepalese base camp crew might hear his request. We gingerly descended the steep grass slope in the dark until we saw a small light bobbing up toward us. We did not know whether it was Mingma, Tenzing, or Narayan who was bringing us a thermos of tea, until we recognized Mingma’s voice as he approached us.
    Our 1981 expedition to Ama Dablam was one of my most enjoyable Himalayan adventures, partly because of the superb climbing offered by the North Ridge but also because of the great friendships that we developed with our Nepalese crew. Mingma and Narayan followed Tim and me on a climb of Trisul in India the next year, then Narayan and Tenzing played vital support roles during our climbs of Annapurna II in 1983 and Everest in 1984. The attitude to life held by these three men set me on the path of Buddhism, although it was a dozen more years before I embraced the Buddhist creed religiously.
    The values held by Sherpas certainly work well in the mountains, where being aware of the fullness of the present moment minimizes the inattentive lapses that lead to fatal accidents. I also learned from them that this same attitude—of simply getting on with what has to be done—is the best way to deal with uncomfortable situations. I remember arriving one afternoon at a clearing on a forested mountain ridge during gentle but continuous rain. We had stumbled upon an unexpected camp site, grass-covered and level, the perfect escape from the weather, so I called it an early day. The members of my trekking group huddled under a tree, not complaining but looking miserable while they eagerly waited for the Sherpas to finish pitching the tents. I was out in the clearing with the Sherpas, who were working busily as if the rain was not there. Suddenly the drizzle became a torrential downpour. Water ran down into my sleeve as I held up a tent pole. I cursed while the Sherpas laughed and shouted at each other, stimulated by the force of nature and not annoyed by it. Half an hour later I was in my tent when the flap was unzipped by two kitchen boys, who offered me tea and biscuits. They were still soaking wet but still laughing, this time at the waterlogged biscuits on the tray.
    Many people who visit Nepal are deeply inspired by the Nepalese attitude to life and vow to find pleasure in the simplest of things. However, after a week or two back in a modern city, with the cut and thrust of office politics and not enough time at home to do the many apparently important tasks, it is easy to overlook a promised subscription to the values and priorities of the people of Nepal. For me it was much easier, as I was working with deeply religious Buddhists and Hindus and at the same time climbing mountains—both powerfully centering influences.
    I came to realize that the common ground of both climbing and spiritual practice is the state of being “in the here and now.” Essentially, this is a focus of mind, which offers a simpler but somehow deeper and clearer appreciation of reality. During the most intense passages of climbing, the “here and now” keeps you alive. There is no analysis of what is happening, no judgments, and no