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The Citizen, 2015-06-18, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, JUNE 18, 2015. PAGE 5. “Having people pay $65,000 to be led up a mountain by a couple of guides isn’t really mountaineering at all.” – Sir Edmund Hillary The Chinese name for it is Chomolungma. Nepalis call it Sagarmatha. To the rest of the world it’s Mount Everest, named after an otherwise forgotten British surveyor during the days of the British Raj (Nepalis and Chinese didn’t get a vote). Its summit is as barren as Mars, wind- whipped, blizzard-lashed and highly toxic, being almost devoid of oxygen. It is taller than 20 Empire State Buildings, standing nearly six miles above sea level. As the highest piece of real estate on the planet, Mount Everest is a mighty metaphor for human challenge and a magnet for adventurers. No one managed to make it to the top and live to talk about it until a Sherpa named Tensing Norgay led a Kiwi mountaineer named Edmund Hillary to the peak in 1953. In 2012, 234 climbers made it to the summit in a single day. Since Hillary and Norgay made the ascent more than 4,000 people have climbed Everest. But not quite the way Hillary and Norgay did. The pioneers subsisted on tinned sardines and dried dates. When today’s climbers reach Base Camp they can purchase sushi, wine, beer – even take a yoga class. Hillary and Norgay made the climb with nothing more than what they could carry on their backs. Today’s ‘mountaineers’ find camp facilities, climbing ropes – even ladders – already in place as they ascend. They’ve been installed by Sherpas weeks before the two- month climbing season. The truth is, the ‘summiters’ aren’t mountaineers at all – they’re tourists. Very rich tourists, it must be said. Each of them will have ponied up anywhere from $30,000 to $100,000 US for the experience. They are also slobs. The mountain that challenged Norgay and Hillary was pristine and unsullied. Today, it is the world’s highest garbage dump. Experts estimate that climbers have left behind more than 50 tons of garbage over the years – everything from empty oxygen bottles to dirty socks. Oh yes – and poop. There are no Porta- Potties on the slopes of Everest. All those climbers have to squat behind rocks and scoop ice or snow over their deposits. Those deposits leak into streams and rivers fed by the melting glaciers. And that crisp and biting mountain air that is the very essence of mountain climbing? Not on these slopes. Mount Everest stinks. Authorities are conflicted over the problem. True, clean-up teams have hauled out nearly 17 tons of trash and climbers who fail to return with at least eight kilos of trash will lose their $4,000 deposits, but that’s a drop in the non- existent bucket. Nobody really knows how much crap is still up there. And the government of Nepal does make more than $3 million a year from issuing climbing permits. Precious little of which trickles down to the Sherpas who risk their lives as guides. Last year, 16 of them were killed in one avalanche. The Nepali government offered the victims’ families $400 each. But the Nepali people have a splendid sense of irony. In 2012, a group of Nepali artists got together to sculpt several works of art that now greet visitors to their country. The sculptures are crafted from nearly two tons of trash taken from the slopes of Everest – an ever-so-polite reminder that visitors to the world’s highest mountain should leave behind only their footprints. Arthur Black Shawn Loughlin Shawn’s Sense There are a lot of times when I see the sayings, the mantras and the mottos of today’s youth that I’m worried about how the world will be run when I’m looking at retirement, but last Tuesday afternoon was not one of those days. A young relative of mine had shared a post online. It was a picture of a Letter to the Editor in an unknown newspaper from an unknown time. It spoke to the fact that this newspaper (and supposedly the school the writer, a school principal, came from) was in a small town where young offenders, when brought to court, claimed they got in trouble because there was nothing to do. I heard that a lot when I was growing up. Heck, there’s even a great little cliché based around it: idle hands are the devil’s playthings/tools/workshop etc. I’ve always thought it was a great cliché. The letter had a statement, which my relative (and my apologies about referring to them as relatives, for some reason folks have no problem talking about themselves to the Nth degree on Facebook or Twitter, but the second you identify them in a local paper, they get all antsy) had echoed when she posted it: “develop a backbone, not a wishbone.” The entire letter was full of advice for students who find themselves with nothing to do (cut the lawn, visit the infirmed, study) and pointed out to the students that their community doesn’t owe them recreational opportunities in the same way the world doesn’t owe them anything. Now, I guess I’ll have to say that, if things in that small community are as dire as we’re being lead to believe, then I had a golden upbringing by comparison. I played hockey and soccer (or refereed soccer) for most of my childhood and, if I wanted to find something to do, my mother would be quick to tell me to go find someone to play with and not be back until dinner time. Growing up in Goderich, even before the new gym, pool and rink were built, gave me lots to do. But the sentiment was something that rang true with me. I’ve never been the brawny type. Most of the muscle I’ve ever had has been in my legs (soccer was a dead giveaway, but in hockey, I was a defensive defenseman and I seldom touched the puck). So, when I got a job working for a construction crew one summer and had to go through some testing to make sure I wouldn’t hurt myself on the job, I was a little befuddled to find out my back was weaker than it should have been. Seeing that headline reminded me of what I did that summer. Swinging sledgehammers, demolition work, pouring and flattening concrete, hauling materials around the area, always with the idea that I needed to make my back stronger. I guess that, while I was physically doing all that work, mentally, I was strengthening my backbone as well. I was trying to make sure that my family wouldn’t be able to joke about the whole weak back thing by getting stronger which, in turn, would allow me to let their insults roll off my now-strengthened back. Back to the article, however. I liked what it said. Kids need to find things to do to strengthen themselves, both body and mind and that seems to be getting tougher and tougher as the years go on and new generations are born. Whereas I spent my times buried in good stories in my youth, feeding my brain to make it more responsive and giving myself a wealth of lore and stories to talk to people about, I see more and more kids on Facebook or other social media sites consuming the intellectual equivalent of popcorn. Whether it’s fictional masterpieces like Tolkien’s work, horror like Stephen King or even pulp fiction stories, them being on paper are better than the vignettes that children see on YouTube as far as enriching ones self goes in my opinion. I suppose that painting the entire YouTube website with a brush that unflattering may be a stretch. There are certainly some very entertaining, educational and informative videos available, however most of what goes popular, or viral, isn’t going to leave viewers with any kind of experience that is relatable to their real-world experience. Joining a local sports team, taking part in local service groups or clubs, getting outside and enjoying the weather (even if it is a bit rainy) are all ways to strengthen one’s self and, to be honest, a great way to see what the world is all about. Local community groups make all sorts of things happen everywhere The Citizen covers and none of it is made possible by people wishing it would happen – it all happens because people have developed, over their lives, an outlook that includes a desire to influence positive change on the world around them. That attitude is infectious. If you get involved in a group or an organization, odds are, when you tell your friends and family how much fun it is, you’ll find someone else who is intrigued by the idea and wants to join you. That’s how this kind of activism spreads. So the next time someone (of any age – this isn’t just a lesson that needs to be heeded by the young) complains of being bored, suggest a change of pace to them. Tell them to head to the community garden in Blyth and help while learning about gardening. Tell them to get in touch with someone in charge of a fundraising committee and offer to pitch in. Tell them to grab a whistle and coach a team or even grab the lawnmower and start offering to cut people’s grass for a nominal fee. Encourage people to stop wishing for change and tell them to put their back into it and make it happen. Someday, they will thank you. Denny Scott Denny’s Den The end of the road If anyone who reads The Citizen even semi- regularly was not yet aware of the Fire Riders and their quest to take on the Ride to Conquer Cancer, I would be surprised – but here is one last column about it. I suppose it wouldn’t be right to write numerous times about the Ride, only to not write about it the Monday after it happened. Well, it’s done. The Fire Riders completed the Ride to Conquer Cancer and we all finished as a team. We each had our own personal goals and stuck to them. There were personal challenges we had all established for ourselves and there were internal struggles that happened in a split second on the bike, if I can speak for myself. Central Huron Councillor Marg Anderson suffered a rather serious injury somewhere along the way on day two of the Ride, but at no time considered quitting. Jeff Elliott ended up on his back more than once, which may have bruised his ego, but little else. Jeff Josling ended up on his shoulder once, hurting the same muscle as the other Jeff. And they were far from alone. I definitely wasn’t kind to one of my muscles when I had to emergency-rip my left foot out of my pedal more than once. It was a muscle pull or end up on my butt (or my chamois, if you want some bike talk) – I took the muscle pull. But back to our team triumphs and not our blooper reel. The old adage of “what do we do when we fall off the horse?” came to mind, as many of us literally fell off our bikes, but as instructed by said adage, we all got back on again. My personal goal for the weekend wasn’t to finish first (not that it was ever a possibility), but it was to never get off the bike. Of course, I got off the bike at pit stops, but I challenged myself never to get off my bike on the course. Anyone who has driven to Hamilton before knows that there are hills involved in such an endeavour. (There is a legitimate mountain in Hamilton – keep that in mind.) Many riders (not many of the Fire Riders, mind you) would admit defeat on those hills and walk their bikes up, but I told myself I wouldn’t do it. And I didn’t. I made it up every hill on my chosen mode of transportation. And while my legs, at the time, and even as I sit and write this, weren’t quite as thrilled as my mind was about my success in this arena, I felt a true sense of accomplishment when I knew I had tackled the last hill on the 220- kilometre course – staying true to what I had committed. We rode as a team, did our best to stay together and left no rider behind. As the Fire Riders, completing the course together was more important than completing it at all. We had taken the challenge on as a team, and we were going to complete it as a team. And while I learned to live without certain things to which I had grown accustomed – sleeping on a bed, going to the bathroom in a toilet, being able to feel the area normally covered by boxer shorts, being dry (it poured rain for the final half of Sunday’s leg) – it was certainly worth it. Whether it was the smiling faces on those cheering for us along the route, the outpouring of thanks from those battling cancer or the proud looks on the faces of our family and friends when we crossed the finish line, it was easy to have your enthusiasm renewed every time you thought about stopping. The Ride was a great experience for a number of reasons, but in the end, it was all about the cause and why we all decided to ride in the first place. Other Views Need a backbone, not a wishbone World’s highest garbage dump