Hornbein and Willi Unsoeld were on the 1963 American expedition, the one that put the first Americans on top by the regular route. The two of them wanted the West Ridge instead, which nobody had climbed and nobody knew if you could. They got a small crew, thin support, and permission that felt more like tolerance. On summit day they went up a steep couloir on the north face that now carries Hornbein’s name, topped out late in the afternoon, and then couldn’t go back down what they’d come up. So they kept going over the other side, met Barry Bishop and Lute Jerstad below the summit, and the four of them sat out the night at 28,000 feet with no tent, no bags, no oxygen. Everybody lived. I treasured Tom’s inscription to me of the first edition, then when downsizing I gifted to an Everest summitter friend, whom I knew would treasure it even more.