I'm in the far future. The sun's old, swollen and unstable; it may go nova soon. Tentacles of gas and dust swirl in, hiding the sun's disc; all we see is a huge glowing spiral like the Whirlpool Galaxy--but dusky purple.

Even with that dust-veil, Earth is too hot now; most people live on Mars. It was terraformed long ago, of course; even at the foot of Mount Olympus, you can breathe without oxygen masks. But how far up? We're about to find out. I'm part of an expedition to climb the massive shield to the summit--unmasked. If we can.

An endless hike; the first days, we trudge up stairs through great lava-caves--arched and scalloped tubes, ten yards tall and wide. The first miles are settled--rest stops and cafes. But as we climb they grow sparse, then end.

At last the lava tubes end; a narrow, blasted-out tunnel full of irregular steps leads us to the surface. It's time to hike the naked slope.

The air grows not just thin but sulfurous, foul. We're skirting an active vent. Can we handle it? So far I'm hiking stubbornly along. But such a long way to go!

I can't help thinking "Our whole expedition is pointless. The air's steadily thinning, the climb's near-endless; the toughest among us will hold out longer, but every one will reach a height where we finally can't go on." I recall how the Greeks saw Death as an archer on a bridge, shooting at advancing troops; at first, he's far off and hits few of us, but as we near, more shots hit home, and with more force. Attrition! No one passes him. One by one, we drop.

And I take another step.

NOTES IN THE MORNING

• Sun unstable, gas swirls: saw a TV show on type 1A supernovas--so uniform that their relative brightness reveals their distance--useful! In type 1a, a white dwarf slurps gas off a companion star til the dwarf fattens up to Chandrasekhar's limit and collapses into a black hole, BOOM! But... surely there must be an intermediate stage, and thus two collapses/novas--dwarf to neutron star, neutron star to singularity. The show glossed over something here...
• Air gets too thin for us: Science News says Anna's Hummingbird can't settle above 2600 meters (8500')--the air's too thin. When taken higher up, the birds can fly, but tire fast, and can't hover long--vital for feeding. So as the climate warms, and plants retreat up mountains, hummingbird habitat turns exhausting--subtly unlivable.
• Sulfur stink: it's a hot night; I left my windows open. The neighbors sat on their front step to smoke the worst pot on Earth. Stank up my room. Thanks!
• Expedition where we drop out as altitude rises and air slowly thins: Covid? All those folks on breathing machines. But... I think it's old age in general. As my mom aged she got bronchiectasis--at first she only felt altitude sickness high in the Sierra, but her ceiling gradually lowered until she needed an oxygen mask even at sea level; at last, it killed her. Runs in families; I may get it. The dream's slow climb into the death zone...
• ACTION: uh... don't get old? THAT particular climb seems mandatory.
  Well, there's one alternative. You first.

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