The Yeti: A Novel Page 7

  “Dr. Hitchens,” Lake said. “I’m sorry but...”

  Zack looked up at Tashi, straining to pull him up. Over Tashi’s shoulder was the bright Himalayan sun, shining like a searchlight in Zack’s eyes. He looked back down at the porter.

  “Hold on,” Zack said again, as the glowing white frame around the porter’s face advanced inward, nibbling the edges of his dark brown skin, threatening to blanket his nose and eyes.

  Zack reached down and found a sudden surge of strength. He pulled, lifted the porter high enough to grab his arm.

  Next thing Zack knew, he was standing on the far side of the bridge, his veins pulsating, his breathing labored. It was a strange, awful yet awesome sensation. Kind of like the first and only line of cocaine he was coaxed into in college.

  “All right there, Hitchens?” Ian stood next to the doctor, studying Zack as though he’d never seen him before.

  Zack glanced back at the suspension bridge. Somehow it seemed innocuous from this vantage point. He nodded his head. He might even have smiled. But now, as he left Gorak Shep, all he remembered doing was looking Ian in the eye and saying, “I’m fine.”

  * * *

  The final leg of their trek took only a few hours, but involved navigating over the rubble-covered surface of the Khumbu Glacier.

  “Finally,” Dustin said, staring at the ground.

  The crushed beer cans and stamped-out cigarette butts meant they were close.

  “People are such pigs,” Francesca muttered.

  The Austrian, Kurt Egger, jogged up beside her. “My mates and I are considering an environmental expedition next season. You’re welcome to join us, luv.”

  Zack caught Dustin rolling his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed Egger get under Dustin’s skin. Back in Tengboche, Egger had boasted endlessly about his plan to summit Everest without supplemental oxygen. Even though he’d never attempted the mountain before.

  “It’s just not pure mountaineering with a tank of O’s on your back,” Egger had argued. “In fact, using supplemental oxygen, I don’t see the purpose in climbing at all.”

  The blonde-haired, blue-eyed Egger was, according to Ian, an elite athlete. An Iron Man competitor, whose weekly training included biking five hundred miles, running eighty, lifting weights and walking with a two-hundred pound pack.

  “He seems to me like a Sherpa,” Ian said back in Dingboche. “Wee in height but plenty of mettle.”

  Actually, Egger wasn’t all that short, maybe just an inch or two shorter than Zack. But since Namche, he’d be forever measured by the picture he passed around during dinner: a photo of him and his fiancée, a skeletal Danish supermodel who stood a full three inches taller than Egger.

  “I will give it some thought,” Francesca told the Austrian now. Then she heaved her pack higher and rushed ahead.

  Dustin grinned. Then Zack and he paused to rest. Gaston Vergé grunted in their general direction as he passed them.

  “Now there’s a friendly guy,” Dustin cracked. He waited until Patty the Base Camp manager was out of earshot, then said, “It would’ve been nice if we’d been able to meet our guides before we made it to Base Camp.”

  Zack swallowed hard to alleviate his thirst. Ian’s two main guides had gone ahead to Base Camp days before he and Dustin arrived in Kathmandu. They, along with the cook and some Sherpas, were setting things up, getting camp ready for the long next two months.

  “You’re concerned?” Zack asked.

  Dustin bowed his head. “It’s our lives up there, not Ian’s.”

  Yours, Zack thought wistfully. Not mine.

  They started back up. In less than an hour, they watched the group ahead of them stop. They hustled toward the front, where the rest of the team stood, looking out over a great barren expanse.

  Their eyes met with no fewer than five dozen tents, scattered about Base Camp like a nylon metropolis. People were everywhere. Blasting music, shouting, cursing, chugging beers.

  Zack took a whiff, was sure he picked up the distinct scent of marijuana. Smells just like Bloesch Hall on campus, he thought.

  To his left stood Jimmy Melonakos, with a wide excited grin on his face. Jimmy looked over at him, draped his arm across Zack’s shoulders. Squeezed him closer and said under his breath:

  “Welcome to the highest party in the world, Professor.”

  Chapter 11

  Everest Base Camp

  “Well then, Hitchens,” Ian said, stepping out of the supply tent, “you’ve made it to Base Camp. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  Zack lifted the corners of his lips. He was still sucking wind, but the sight of the massive Khumbu Icefall just past the campsite helped put things in perspective. For all but him, Base Camp was just the beginning.

  “I’ve spoken to Tashi,” Ian said, “just as promised. Said he’d be happy to lead your wife to the summit.”

  “Thanks,” Zack said, his eyes still glued to the base of the icefall. “I really appreci–”

  “It’s no small thing, you know. Sherpas have very strong feelings about death. Makes them even more uncomfortable than us in the West.” Ian glanced over at his sirdar on the far side of the camp. “But it seems Tashi has taken a bit of liking to you.”

  Zack caught sight of a large man in a bright green coat crossing in front of Tashi, carrying equipment marked himalayan skies expedition.

  “That there is Skinner,” Ian said. “One of our guides. Bloke’s probably the best on the mountain these days.”

  “Skinner, huh?” Zack said, as the guide knelt over a pile of oxygen tanks. “What’s his first name?”

  “Lenard,” Ian said. “He’s a New Zealander. But you just call him Skinner. And warn the others: Hum one bloody note of ‘Freebird’ during the climb and he’ll throw you physically off the mountain. One hell of a temper, he’s got. And not much of a sense of humor.” Ian watched as Skinner disappeared into a tent. “But he’s one hell of a mountaineer.”

  Zack followed Ian’s finger to a spot past a makeshift memorial.

  “That’s Miguel Ruiz,” Ian said, pointing to a smaller man in an orange coat, kneeling in front of a pile of stones, repeatedly making the sign of the cross. “He’s our other guide. Hails from Spain. Good chap, but a bit religious for my taste.”

  Zack coughed into his fist.

  “Speaking of which,” Ian continued, “tomorrow a lama will be arriving from Pangboche. In the afternoon, we’ll be holding a puja ceremony. Might want to stick around for that.”

  Zack continued hacking. It was becoming violent; so violent he feared he’d tear a chest muscle, or possibly even fracture one of his ribs.

  Ian slapped him gently on the back. “Got the Khumbu Cough already, I see. No worries, mate. It’ll subside soon as you begin to descend.” Ian started back toward the supply tent. “By the way,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ve hand-selected a group of porters to escort you back to Lukla. Just let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

  * * *

  Late the next morning, Zack looked on as a climbing Sherpa named Norbu lead construction of the lhap-so, the eight-foot-high rough-and-ready stone temple around which the expedition would worship.

  “No Sherpa will climb until the puja is held,” Tashi said.

  Zack hadn’t noticed that the Sherpa was standing beside him. He coughed into his hand. “The lama at Tengboche explained that it’s an important ritual.”

  Tashi nodded. “Before any new undertaking, a lama must engage the deities. Ask for their tolerance and understanding.”

  So Zack had read. The puja was described in his travel guides as a request to the gods for permission to climb, an appeal for safe passage and good weather on the mountain.

  Once the lhap-so was complete, Norbu erected a long flagpole and strung several lengths of colorful prayer flags across the camp.

  Dustin, Francesca and the others casually walked up to the worship site and placed their ice axes, crampons and other climbing
gear against the lhap-so.

  “To be purified,” Tashi said. He turned to Zack. “You bought gear in Namche, yes? You should have it blessed, too. In case someone use it.”

  By the time Zack returned with his new climbing gear, the lama from Pangboche had arrived. The elderly monk now sat cross-legged on a cushion between Norbu and another Sherpa, who took turns pouring him tea.

  As the lama read prayers aloud, Ian and others wandered over with offerings of grain and potatoes, bread, rice and barley. Patty and Aasif set down whiskey and chocolate.

  Eventually, the lama’s casual reading evolved into a chant.

  “He is praying to Miyolangsangma,” Tashi said, “the bountiful protector goddess of Everest.”

  Meanwhile, a Sherpa ignited some juniper boughs at the base of the altar. Once they were lit, Dustin and the others began passing their gear through the smoke.

  “For protection,” Tashi said. Then he stepped up to the altar to make certain his own gear was bathed in the protective wafts of incense.

  Skinner stood a few feet away, an intense yet stoic expression on his face.

  The other guide, Miguel Ruiz, lingered farther away, staring down at the ground, softly kicking rocks with his boots.

  “Going to join us?” Vergé called to him.

  Zack was surprised to hear the Frenchman speak.

  Ruiz shook his head. “The First Commandment, my friend. Thou shalt not worship any other gods but Me.”

  Vergé chuckled. “Because your god is real, correct? Not at all based in myth.”

  Ruiz nodded, his hand moving to the crucifix around his neck. “That’s right.”

  “So,” Vergé said, “the puja is just silly superstition, but the Catholic mass, ingesting the body and blood of the Christ, that’s a sane ritual grounded in scientific fact. Am I right?”

  Miguel Ruiz stepped forward. “What is your problem, Senor? Suddenly you’re a Tibetan Buddhist?”

  “I am an atheist,” Vergé said evenly. “All thinking men are. But the puja is important to these people, just as confessing your sins to some stranger in a collar is to yours, so the least you can do is show some respect.”

  Ian intervened. “Please, gentlemen,” he said, stepping between them. “This is no time for a row.”

  Vergé held his tongue as Ruiz sauntered off toward the tents.

  Zack released his breath.

  A few minutes later, Jimmy nudged him in the arm, pointing at the smoking lhap-so. “Kinda looks like a giant bong, doesn’t it, Professor?”

  Zack didn’t respond.

  “Hey,” Jimmy said, “you know all the Sherpas names yet?”

  Zack shook his head. Jimmy, he’d learned, was heir to a fortune. More than eight and a half billion dollars, in fact. His grandfather Stavros Melonakos had been a notorious shipping magnate in Greece, a rival to the baron Aristotle Onassis.

  Jimmy motioned to one of the Sherpas with his chin. “That’s Happy over there, smiling,” he said. “The one with the tissues, he is Sneezy. See the one with the bags under his eyes? That’s Sleepy.”

  Zack put a finger to his lips, even though the ceremony was informal and other people continued talking.

  “The one standing over there all by himself,” Jimmy said, “that’s Bashful. And that one with the goofy look on his face, that’s got to be Dopey...”

  Skinner’s head swung suddenly in their direction. “One more word from you, Melonakos, and you’re going to be spending the next six weeks here in Base Camp, waiting for your legs to mend. Understand me, mate?”

  Jimmy’s face turned pale as paste. He appeared to swallow hard. After a moment, he nodded his head, then mumbled under his breath. “Guess we found our Grumpy then, eh, Professor?”

  Zack folded his arms across his chest.

  Jimmy looked at him and smiled. “Or should I call you Doc?”

  * * *

  Zack set down his fork as Ian Furst stepped into the mess tent, his teeth clenched, his cheeks glistening with tears.

  “The mountain has claimed her first victim of the season, I’m afraid,” Ian said, standing before the team.

  Everyone stopped eating at once.

  “Was a mate of mine,” he continued slowly. “A tough, brazen bloke, name of Elliot Wyle. Was trying to accomplish a solo ascent before the mountain became too crowded.”

  Zack’s stomach sunk, as he recalled the man introducing himself at Rum Doodle. He glanced around the table; everyone seemed to be suffering a similar sensation.

  Ian gripped the back of an empty folding chair. His voice was soft, as he battled through the emotion. “A good lot of my mountaineering buddies have expired on this or another mountain these past thirty years. Mind you, every time you strap on your crampons and start up a mountain, you’re putting your lives at risk. Each of you needs to remember this.” He stood up straight and looked each of his clients in the eye. “I realize you’ve heard it all before. Still, when you’re working your way up Everest and you come across your first frozen corpse, I assure you, you’ll experience some degree of shock. Even if your guide tells you beforehand precisely where the body will be. Make no mistake; mountaineering is a gamble, mates. And the stakes are your lives.”

  Zack shrunk away from his yak meat, feeling sick.

  “When you’re up on the mountain,” Ian said, “you follow orders. You follow orders or you die. Simple as that.”

  Dustin coughed into his hand and apologized.

  “In all my years of leading expeditions,” Ian went on, “not one of my climbers, not one of my Sherpas, has ever died. And I fully intend to keep it that way through this season.”

  Across the table, Gaston Vergé coughed. It had been like this all through the meal.

  “I see some of you have already developed the high-altitude hack,” Ian added. “As you head up the mountain, any ailments you have will only get worse. As Dr. Kapoor has repeatedly warned you, if you develop altitude sickness, you must descend from wherever you are as rapidly as possible, or you will die. Once you leave Base Camp, the air is too thin for any sort of helicopter rescue. Bear that in mind. It’ll be your responsibility to get down the mountain yourself.”

  Ian paused, his chin resting solemnly on his chest. “I want each of you to reach the summit. But not at the cost of your lives. And certainly not at the cost of the lives of my Sherpas and guides. It’s not their duty to die with you. If you die on the mountain, you die by yourself.”

  The tent fell completely silent. Even the coughing ceased.

  “Does everyone understand that?” Ian asked.

  Every team member bowed their head.

  Then, without another word, Ian turned and stepped out of the tent.

  Once the conversation at the table started up again, Zack excused himself and followed Ian out of the tent.

  The air was crisp, the sky black as tar. Ian was standing near the lhap-so, staring toward the icefall, taking short quick sips from his flask.

  Zack waited until he set the flask down to approach him.

  “I’m sorry about Elliot,” he said quietly.

  Ian glanced over but didn’t say anything.

  “How did it happen?” Zack asked.

  Ian shrugged. “No autopsies that high on the rock, Hitchens. But according to the Sherpa who found him, it looks as though he fell.” Ian’s voice cracked. “Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

  Zack stood back and watched his breath dissipate as it rose toward the icefall. “The body, will it stay up there?” he said, his pulse quickening.

  Ian nodded without looking at him. “Too high up to bring him down.” He paced a few steps toward the mountain and back. “Hell, after eighty-five years, even Mallory’s still up there.”

  “George Mallory?”

  Nadia had given Zack a biography of the famous British climber last Christmas, but he hadn’t yet made time to read it. Now the book was buried somewhere in his pack.

  Ian half-smiled in the moonlight. “Poor
bastard’s been up there since 1924,” he said. “Didn’t find his body for three quarters of a century. Still never found his climbing partner’s.”

  Zack absently scratched at the scruff on his cheek. “They fell?”

  Ian lifted a shoulder. “So it would appear. They were last seen climbing just below the summit. Then they disappeared. No one to this day knows whether they made it to the top.”

  Zack silently shifted on his feet, trying to keep warm. His mind drifted back to when he unwrapped that package in front of Nadia on Christmas morning.

  “Because it’s there,” he said quietly after a while.

  “What’s that, Hitchens?”

  “Because it’s there,” Zack said again. “That was Mallory’s famous reply when he was asked why he wanted to climb Everest, wasn’t it?”

  Ian folded his arms across his chest. “It’s attributed to him, yes. Whether he said it is another matter altogether.” He paused. “If he did, I doubt very much he meant it in the sense in which it was taken.”

  Zack stared at him, his eyes misting up from the sharp breeze. “Then why?” he said pensively. “Why climb?”

  Ian grinned humorlessly. “For some, like myself, it’s an addiction. Easily more destructive than any drug. That feeling you get, Hitchens, when you’re high up, when you think you might fall...”

  Zack thought back to the suspension bridge on the way to Pangboche, to the rush of adrenaline he experienced as he gripped the porter’s arm, as he stared down some eighty feet at the rocks in the rushing water below.

  “...but for others,” Ian said, throwing back his shoulders, “who in the bloody hell knows?”

  They stood several moments in silence.

  “Let me ask you something, Hitchens,” Ian said finally. “Why not climb?”

  Zack hesitated. Fear was the first word that popped into his mind. He saw it plain as if it were scrawled in the dirt at his feet. Four letters, large, each meticulously drawn, one after the other like writing in the sand. His mind wandered back to Tengboche.