There were times when courage came on my own terms. I sought unfamiliar roads, distant places, difficult conversations and chosen discomfort after chosen discomfort. Then life handed me a different kind of invitation with an RSVP stamped as mandatory.    What are you willing to carry today? I carried a voice that no longer traveled beside me.     For days, I was surrounded by century-old dust, prayer flags, mule trains, jhopkyo bells, suspension bridges and uneven long climbs. I had come to the Khumbu to listen, gathering stories from those who know these mountains better than most people ever will. More than once, I found myself tended to by the very people I had come to learn from.    One morning between Lukla and Phakding, I missed the familiar question, “did you have breakfast yet?” and I missed the hand that would brush my cheek as he asked. For most of my life, those stories belonged to both of us. Now I carry them in the thin Himalayan air.    The People Who Carry the Mountains:...