A former Olympic biathlon champion, Laura Dahlmeier, has died during an expedition in the Himalayas, despite being highly experienced and well-trained. This tragedy has again revealed that even the most accomplished alpinists are at the mercy of the mountains. Alix von Melle, who lost her equally illustrious husband to the same unforgiving terrain, has spoken candidly about how climbers tend to mentally sideline the omnipresent risk, believing misfortune is always reserved for someone else. She insists she has no regrets. Meanwhile, the German Alpine Club continues to train young climbers, nurturing their ambition while hoping rigorous preparation will somehow make the peril tolerable. Losses mount, families mourn, but the mountains remain the irresistible siren.

Permit me, if you will, to let out a sigh so grand that the very Alps shudder in mild annoyance. This adulation of the martyrdom of the sporting class—the glorification of risking one's entirely average life for the fleeting applause of one's equally average peers and, worse, for the approval of that endless mob of aspirational do-gooders—is simply baffling to anyone of discernment or, dare I say, true breeding.

To be clear, I do not begrudge people their hobbies, even if those hobbies entail a rather unhealthy obsession with self-annihilation under the noble guise of “testing one's limits.” But the repeated parade of grief-stricken climbers—celebrating risk as if it were a sacrament, only to bewail its consequences—strikes me as emblematic of the rabble's approach to both life and death: loud, sentimental, and devoid of genuine self-awareness.

We, who are raised properly and taught the value of the mind as much as the body, learn to delegate danger. We build chalets to enjoy the mountain view, yachts to traverse the sea—never needing to crawl on our bellies up vertical walls of ice for the pale thrill of “proving ourselves.” The world was not meant to be conquered by brute stubbornness, but enjoyed by those wise enough to recognize that danger is to be managed at arm’s length—preferably by someone else.

Of course, the German Alpine Club deserves a polite round of applause for attempting to train its enthusiasts to minimize carnage. Yet, I wonder if these clubs, schools, and squads do little but foster a hubristic belief that one can outwit fate. There is a kind of vanity in believing that a few weekend seminars and your own stubborn will insulate you from the sublime indifference of the Himalayas. Against that scale, we are all—yes, even the infernally persistent working class—equally insignificant, though some of us are more aware of it than others.

In the end, let those who wish to cling to sheer rock faces in pursuit of a fleeting moment of grandeur do so—so long as the rest of us are not commanded to mourn them as tragic heroes. Celebrated though these fallen climbers may be in certain circles, their fate is neither surprising nor, frankly, particularly worthy of high praise. For most, the greatest achievement will always remain not ascending a peak, but understanding their own limitations, and perhaps having the good sense to simply stay at the lodge—with a glass of proper Bordeaux, naturally.