That Mr Hillary would become a national hero - without revealing until years after Norgay's death that it was Mr Hillary who stepped first onto the summit - said a lot about him. For them both, it was about the adventure, and the brotherhood of the rope.
The Hillary Step, the 12-m high vertical cliff that is the last great obstacle before the summit, gave Mr Hillary, a master of cutting steps in the snow, a hard struggle.
It remains a test piece for climbers, who now ascend by fixed rope.
Just heading up the valleys of the Khumbu region toward Everest, along the wide dirt path that for Sherpas is their interstate highway, it was obvious that villagers revered Mr Hillary.
You would hear talk around the monasteries, at Thyangboche and Thame, about the good works of his family, and you could see for yourself the healthy-looking kids going to newly-minted schools and hospitals and the electricity that lit up the teahouses. Mr Hillary's photo was everywhere.
For the friendly Sherpas, and the slightly more demanding trekkers and climbers to which they cater, the change that Mr Hillary ushered in now seems inevitable.
A Tibetan who played bass in a band in Kathmandu was no stranger than an American making a phone call from Namche Bazaar or sipping milk tea and dahl bat while grabbing a bunk bed all for less than $1 (S$1.43).
For almost everyone who studied the pictures of his epic first ascent with Norgay, the Sherpa mountain guide, Mr Hillary stood for adventure.
The collective sense of triumph that seized the world with their success was etched into Mr Hillary's famous photograph of Norgay on Everest's summit.
Years later, staring at an exhibit of the padded boots, oxygen apparatus and ancient goggles they wore, it drove home just how much of an adventure was their first ascent, and how much has changed since then as people seek to break through new barriers and 'unattainable' dreams.
For climbers, there's the love of the phrase, 'I don't know.'
It's liberating to be outside, drawn out, tested, changed.
Mr Hillary seemed to know this well.
No stranger to change in his own 88 years, he was determined to give something back of the wonder he drew from the high places.
His was a civic model for other climbers to try to follow.
It took decades for others to catch up to his class act.
Where many climbers left behind trash, Mr Hillary left a legacy of education, health care and bonds of friendship.
He always seemed humble, not particularly impressed with himself, always sensing that climbers should seek new challenges, new adventures, rather than necessarily repeating something done before.
In his day, he was out there. And he passed on his passion for being in the mountains.
'To me, it's a bit like falling in love,' his son, Peter, told me in 2003, having become another famous climber and following in his father's footsteps to the summit.
'There's some special chemistry. And I think some of us go to the mountains - and it is just a wondrous thing.
We like the people, we like the experiences, we like the mountains, we like the uncertainty.' -- AP