Winter 2021: A Historic and Tragic Season
In 2021, I stood on the summit of K2, the second-highest mountain on Earth, becoming the first Arab and Lebanese man to do so. But the road to that moment was anything but straightforward. It was forged through tragedy, resilience, and an unwavering connection to my heritage—one that I had spent a lifetime seeking to understand.
That winter, I was part of an expedition alongside Ali Sadpara, John Snorri, and Sajid Sadpara. It was a historic season—K2 had never been climbed in winter, and after decades of failed attempts, a team of Nepalese climbers achieved what was once thought impossible: they became the first in history to summit the world’s deadliest mountain in winter – with supplemental oxygen. But their success was overshadowed by devastating loss.
Ali Sadpara, John Snorri, and Juan Pablo Mohr disappeared during their summit push, never making it back down. Sajid Sadpara, Ali’s son, was the lone survivor. I had made the ultra-conservative decision to turn back at lower camp 3 with my film team, a decision that likely saved my life. We had assessed the risks and realized that we did not have enough supplemental oxygen—not only to stay alive but also to film John and Ali’s expedition, which was our primary objective. The conditions overall were unacceptable.
As the weeks unfolded, I worked closely with the Pakistani pilots and my shadow team behind the scenes in a desperate search to find our missing friends. After an extensive air search operation, our friends were declared dead. When summer arrived and the Pakistani climbing season began, I had plans to return and assist in the recovery mission, with the support of strategic partners who had committed to backing the film which was the only way I could finance the expedition. But in a cruel twist, I was left hanging. The financial backing I had relied on vanished, and I was left with a decision—walk away or risk everything to return.
A Gamble for Honor: The Summer 2021 K2 Expedition
With only two weeks’ notice, I made an extreme decision – I cashed in every chip I had, borrowed money at sky-high interest rates, and assembled a bare-minimum expedition. I had no guarantees, no safety net—only a singular purpose: to support Sajid Sadpara in finding his father, support the families of the deceased and help bring closure to a painful chapter in mountaineering history.
That season, I not only conducted a high-altitude forensics investigation at 8,000 meters to uncover what had happened, but I also stood beside Sajid as he buried his father just outside Camp 4 with my Sherpa brother, one of the greatest unsung heroes of 2021, Pasang Kaji Sherpa. We encountered and covered Juan Pablo Mohr‘s body. We also encountered John Snorri’s body and, with the permission of the family, recovered the camera and various devices which held footage and other pertinent information that would later reveal key details related to the K2 winter ascent.
And on that very same day, out of necessity, for reasons I will reveal in time, I stepped onto the summit of K2.
A Summit Marked by Loss
But my summit was a devastating moment. I envied those who stood triumphant, stepping over the bodies of our friends to claim their victory. The winter summit of K2—marred by ego, death, wounding and deep systemic complexity spanning 100 years —was, contrary to what one might expect, one of the most disappointing moments of my life. There I was, standing atop the world’s deadliest mountain, looking down at the trail of bodies left behind. More than a dozen children lost their fathers that season, wives became widows overnight, and my own life had taken its share of hits in order to complete this mission.
K2 transformed—from the savage mountain trying to kill me to the mountain that eventually saved my life.
Rebirth Through the Mountain
With every tragedy across the years that I’ve documented and witnessed —including the loss of my father in 2018—a part of me died as well. It was only through the mountain that I was able to piece it all together: my life, my father’s life, our cultural reality as a Lebanese family, the generational wounds, my own attachment and our resilience in the face of adversity.
How fitting it was that I, too, at the time, was unrecognized and unseen, burdened with the weight of belonging, identity, and the search for my place in the world.
The mountain was me.
The Journey Back to My Roots
My father was born in Kfarmishki, a small village in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon. Like so many Lebanese before and after him, he left his homeland at the age of 20 in search of stability, chasing the dream of a better life in Canada. It was an uphill battle, one that I came to understand only later in life.
I was raised in a Lebanese family, steeped in our traditions, but I also grew up navigating the complexities of being an outsider—an Arab child in Canada, raised in a Jehovah’s Witness household. It was a difficult upbringing, one that left me questioning my place in the world—one that led to rebellion and wounding that would be the driving force of my determination in the mountains.
In 2008, my father and I traveled to Lebanon together. It was a journey of reconciliation—a chance to see my father through new eyes, to understand our family’s history, and to heal the wounds of the past. That year, I also became a registered citizen of Lebanon, acquiring my national ID card—a symbolic acknowledgment of my cultural heritage.
Carrying Lebanon to the World’s Summits
Since then, I have carried the Lebanese flag to the highest peaks on Earth. In 2009, I stood atop Aconcagua, the highest mountain in South America, with the red, white, and green of Lebanon in my hands. In 2010, I summited Everest, leading a virtual expedition that connected 20,000 Canadian students to the journey in real-time—an unprecedented feat at the time. I’ve summited four times since – for a total of 5 successful ascents.
That expedition led me to Beirut, where I was welcomed by the city’s mayor and formed partnerships with Climb for Lebanon, a nonprofit dedicated to elevating the sport in Lebanon.
Mountaineering remains a novel sport in the Arab world, and over the years, I have done my best to elevate voices from the region through my camera lens, supporting climbers from Morocco to Lebanon, Saudi Arabia to Qatar, Kuwait to Egypt, Oman and beyond.
For me, this thread of my life and career, has been about connecting with my roots, honouring my heritage, and showing others that the mountains hold something far greater than a summit—they hold the power to transform, to heal, and to reveal who we truly are.
A memoir in the making
A part of me died up there—losing friends senselessly, watching an industry I once took pride in erode into spectacle. The mountains, once sacred, have become stages for ego and exploitation. The essence of this sport—honor, courage, ethics, and camaraderie—seems to be fading. And in the race to summit K2 in winter, the cost of winning has become immeasurable.
On K2’s summit, I wasn’t alone. I carried the spirit of Ali Sadpara, John Snorri, my father’s journey, and my family’s history. Becoming the first Arab and Lebanese man to stand atop the world’s deadliest mountain was a historic milestone, but reconciling it has been anything but simple.
The book I am writing will unveil the untold truths of that tragic winter, the forensic investigation at 8,000 meters, and the deeper reckoning I faced within myself.
The hardest summits aren’t always the ones we climb with ice axes and ropes—but the ones that force us to confront who we truly are. And perhaps, the greatest victory is not standing at the top, but finally understanding why we had to climb at all.
