The party of five roped together and plodded through knee-deep snow for two hours to the base of the 5,000-foot Lhotse wall. As Dorje stared at the near-vertical rise, a sickening dread coursed through him, but he shrugged it off because fear caused mistakes. As a precaution, he silently chanted his mantra during the four-hour climb using fixed ropes set earlier by the climbing Sherpas. Seeing Camp III perched precariously on a narrow ledge and exposed to the whims of nature and avalanches, he understood why they refused to sleep here. With no level ground to stand on, they had notched two tent-size terraces into a wall of blue ice at 23,600 feet.
The two Frenchmen and Roger took the larger tent leaving Marty and Dorje in the smaller one. Neither of them spoke as they prepared their sleeping areas. Finally breaking the long silence, Marty asked, “What are you doing up here?”
“Earning extra rupees,” Dorje answered defiantly, unwilling to give details about Shanti.
“Why bother?” Marty grumbled as he beat extra clothing into a pillow. “Beth will take you home like a souvenir.”
Souvenir was not in Dorje’s vocabulary, but he got the negative implication. “I’ll go to the top and make her proud of me.”
“You’ll never get on a team and even if you do manage somehow, she’ll have fun at first showing off a real live Sherpa from Nepal but will soon become bored and wonder how to get rid of you.”
“We are going to travel many places and write together.”
“Hah!” Marty tossed his head back and howled. “You can’t even read or write your own name. How are you going to keep a woman like Beth interested?” He was digging up all the doubts Dorje had buried under a rock and hurling them like wet dung.
Dorje wanted to hurt him back. “She loves me. We will stay together forever.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Marty said, crawling into his bag. “She’s in lust, not love.” He zipped it over his chin. “I may end up with her yet.”
“She will never love you,” Dorje muttered.
Before extinguishing the lantern, he checked the inside thermometer—ten degrees below zero. Due to the constant threat of avalanches sweeping down Lhotse, their tent was securely anchored to the ice wall. Dorje rolled over with his back to Marty and tried to sleep, knowing tomorrow he faced the long and laborious task of cutting the final steps and setting fixed ropes to Camp IV. All night the wind roared and shook the tent in violent gusts, forcing its icy breath through the fabric and into his bones. The wind buffeting the walls next to his head and Marty’s incessant coughing spells allowed only fitful moments of sleep. He had finally drifted into a sweet dream of Beth when hurried movement in the tent yanked him back.
“What are you doing?” he asked Marty who was trying to pull on his cold, stiff boots.
“Going outside to take a piss.”
“It is too dangerous. Just lean out the door.”
“Why don’t you just worry about yourself,” Marty grumbled.
“You stupid mikaru. Put on your crampons. One wrong step and you’ll slide 2000 feet off the mountain.”
“Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.”
“You make a problem for everybody. That is why no man wants to climb with you.”
“I’ll get to the top even if I have to go by myself.”
In the bright moonlight reflecting off the snow, Marty roped himself to the wall and sought a place to stand on the narrow platform. He unzipped his pants and then without warning doubled over with his hands on his knees and vomited. His body rose and fell in waves with each gasp until the last heave threw him off balance and he started sliding. Dorje held his breath hoping the piton and rope would hold when Marty bounced at the end. After being sick in the Cwm, why had this idiotic man even come up here? It was a Sherpa’s job to take care of mikarus and Marty’s carelessness would make Dorje look bad, jeopardizing his already-slim chances of going to the top. Scrambling onto the shelf above Marty, Dorje planted his axe to secure the rope and anchored himself to the wall. His hands so cold he could barely grip the rope, Dorje pulled the American up inch by inch, unhooked him, and dragged him back into the tent.
“Why did you do it?” Marty asked. “You had a perfect opportunity to get rid of me.”
“It’s my job.”
“Well, I probably wouldn’t have saved you,” he muttered and crawled back into his bag. “Remember that.” When daylight filled the tent, Marty asked him not to speak of last night. “It will keep me from making an assault team.”
“I saw you throw up in the Cwm. You will get sick like you did on Kangchenjunga.”
With the dry, hacking cough Dorje heard all through the night, Marty answered, “I already told you I’m not turning back this time.”
“Then you will die here.”
Stuffing clothes in his pack, Marty answered, “Perhaps, but at least he’ll know I wasn’t a coward.”
“That father of yours who is not here? I don’t understand you mikarus.”
“You don’t have to,” Marty answered as he fastened the clasp. “Just get us up there.” That said, he exited the tent and joined the others.
Paul suggested they all use oxygen above Camp III. Dorje wanted to prove he could climb without it but decided he’d better get used to wearing a mask. It was big, covering everything from his nose down over his mouth, and made of thick, heavy rubber that smelled. He quickly discovered that goggles and a mask were incompatible with straps competing for the back of his head. Also if he pressed down on the goggles to make them fit, the mask pushed off his face. If he pushed up on the mask, the goggles rode too high and created a gap that fogged up when he exhaled. Plus the continual hissing sound as he breathed made it impossible to hear anything outside himself. He was as deaf as Droma Sunjo’s son Dawa.
Roped together, the party continued up the Lhotse face. More conscious of the dangers now, Dorje focused on each movement. After knocking his hands together to get the circulation going, he grabbed the fixed rope, kicked the crampon toe spike into the ice, and shifted his weight onto the step. Then he moved the ascender up the rope and let the teeth lock into place. Slowly repeating the process, he climbed the wall with Paul in the lead followed by Henri and Marty, with himself and Roger last. Having never been part of a group setting new ropes, Dorje didn’t realize how tedious it was. As he stood waiting for Paul to hammer the next anchor, Marty's comment that Beth would quickly lose interest gnawed at him again. It was even more imperative now that he reach the summit while he imagined her beaming face as he paraded triumphantly into Base Camp, waving his ice axe over his head like the old ladies with their walking sticks. Lost in his reverie and isolated from outside sounds, Dorje didn’t know what made him look up at the very instant an ice block came tumbling towards him. Yelling at Roger immediately below, he clung to the wall as it flew past and struck the Brit who fell backwards, losing his grip on the fixed rope. Jamming his axe into the wall, Dorje braced for the inevitable jolt and held tight. Then quickly removing his goggles for a clearer view, he saw Roger hanging limp and blood-splattered. Dorje tugged on the harness rope to alert those above him because he didn’t know what to do next. The Darjeeling Sherpas were right about his inexperience being a hindrance. The harness rope slackened as the Frenchmen and Marty descended. Moving lower in advance of them, Dorje reached Roger who was dazed but conscious. After securing him to the wall, Paul checked for injuries and elicited a shrill cry when he probed the Brit’s ribs. Roger would have to return to Base Camp and relinquish all plans for making the summit.
As they were discussing who should take him down, Dorje spotted the climbing Sherpas about forty-five minutes below, having apparently left Camp II before sunrise to carry straight through to the South Col. Seizing the opportunity to prove himself, he said, “One of them can take Roger down, and I will move his supplies on to Camp IV.”
“I’ll help Roger too,” Henri added. “I’ve been trying to hide it, but I’m not doing well up here. I’m sick, can’t sleep, have bizarre v
isions. It’s just not safe. I’m sorry, Paul, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. You need to choose a new partner.”
“No need to apologize. We knew coming over here that only half of the members were likely to summit. I’m just sad to lose you.”
As they prepared Roger for the descent, the discussion turned to the cause of the flying ice and everything pointed at Marty. Under pressure, he finally admitted to having accidentally dislodged it with his axe in his eagerness to set more pitons and move up the wall faster.
Disgusted, Paul made no attempt to hide his feelings. “That impatience of yours could be fatal. So curb it.”
Without supplemental oxygen, the Darjeeling Sherpas arrived giving out short staccato whistles through their teeth to keep their spirits up. The oldest seemed relieved to hand over his porter’s duties and take Roger down. Marty and Paul each took one of the tents so Dorje could take on the old man’s share of the supplies. Feeling a bit cocky, Dorje removed his mask but was soon humbled as he tried keeping up with the other two Sherpas who had come all the way from the Cwm while he was only carrying the load of a man twenty years his senior. After an additional short climb up the face, the route veered left and traversed the Yellow Band: a series of steep, broad ledges of brittle sedimentary shale, limestone, and sandstone. The crampons that had provided secure footing on ice and snow now skittered on the rocks and twice Dorje lost his balance. Finally reaching the Geneva Spur, the party climbed directly upwards on the huge, strenuous rock ridge. Once on top, they followed a long but gentle traverse across rocky terrain to Camp IV on the South Col at 26,300 feet.
Sinking onto the bare surface, Dorje shrugged off the load and slapped on his oxygen mask. Listening to the now-comforting hiss, he surveyed Camp IV, the final staging area for the assault. It was a desolate, inhospitable plateau of wind-swept black rocks and bluish ice. Its flatness with a 7,000-foot drop off into Tibet on the east and a 4,000-drop to the Western Cwm on the west was how Dorje had imagined the edges of the world as a child before a westerner convinced him the earth was round. The heat reflecting of the black rocks surrounding the Cwm now seemed inviting with freezing temperatures and a gale-force wind tearing across the exposed col. Deep snow covered the adjacent slopes but everything not frozen into place appeared to have been blown off into Tibet.
Removing his mask, Paul spoke within inches of Dorje’s ear, “This is the windiest spot on the earth. It never stops blowing here. It’s also the world’s highest garbage dump,” he added, referring to the hundreds of empty oxygen canisters, shreds of frozen canvas, bent metal poles, and empty food tins. “We have to get the tents up so the Sherpas can sleep here tonight and then set fixed ropes towards the summit tomorrow.”
“I’ll tell them” Dorje shouted back. Although completely spent, he couldn’t lose face in front of two who had carried all the way from Camp II in one day. Offering to help, he had no idea how daunting the task was. Gripping the edges with gloved hands, they wrestled flapping canvas that knocked them off their feet and bent the poles. In desperation, Dorje threw himself on top to hold a tent down while the Sherpas anchored it with rocks, poles, and climbing ropes. Marty and Paul took refuge in the first one while the Sherpas erected the second with an even greater struggle. Exhausted, the Darjeeling Sherpas and Dorje crawled inside and collapsed with the tent walls slapping and whipping about them.
When he could finally breathe without thinking he’d faint, Dorje spoke to the Sherpas for whom he now had the greatest respect. “How could you come all that way in one day and without oxygen?”
Zopa, whose name meant patience, answered, “We didn’t tire ourselves carrying from Base Camp like you, foolish boy. But you are much stronger than I thought.”
“And have proven yourself worthy,” added Namkha whose face was worn by wind and sun. “But be careful. I have seen accidents when decisions are made in haste.”
“Then you’ve been here before?” Dorje asked.
“Many times,” said Zopa. “We came with the large American expedition in 1963. Nine hundred porters carried 27 tons of supplies to the Base Camp. We set the ropes but only six Americans reached the summit.”
“Are you going up this time?”
“Only if they ask us to,” Namkha answered.
“I want to go,” Dorje said, feeling a rush of excitement.
“Perhaps you will. But choose your companions carefully.”
The three talked for half an hour while Paul and Marty rested for the return trip. Dorje learned Zopa and Namkha were from Phakding and had carried and set lines for several expeditions. They and other Sherpas had moved to Darjeeling many years earlier seeking work and had been on the mountain from the Tibetan side as well. Now that the climbing ban had been lifted, they were home again. Dorje wanted to spend the entire night learning from them but Paul raised the tent flap to say it was time to descend in order to reach Camp II before dark. Giddy with the prospect of the Sherpas’ support of his ascent, Dorje emulated them by making it all the way down to the Cwm without oxygen and felt stronger with every step.
CHAPTER 32
Dorje, Marty, and Paul slogged into a nearly deserted camp after dark. Jarvis joined them in the dining tent for hot tea, soup, and noodles. He explained that Henri, Roger, and the Sherpa pushed on down to Camp I and he’d heard the Americans had descended to Base Camp to rest for a few days because Sean was sick.
“That leaves just the three of us for the first assault,” Marty said.
Paul peered at him over a cup of tea with the steam rising in his face. “You should join your American friends who have enough sense to go down when they’re not well.” When Marty shot an accusing look at Dorje, Paul added, “He didn’t have to say anything. I heard you last night and we’ve all been listening to you cough for weeks. Plus you look like a walking cadaver with bones showing through your clothes.”
“I always lose weight at altitude,” Marty announced with an impatient edge in his voice. “We all do. It doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve never been more ready.”
“Well, you’re not climbing with me,” Jarvis said reaching for more tea. “I don’t trust you.”
“Nor do I,” added Paul. “Try your countrymen. Maybe they’re used to the likes of you.”
Marty slumped in the chair, staring at his fidgeting hands. “They’ve been climbing buddies since high school and already said they’re going alone.”
Seizing the opportunity, Dorje quickly put himself before Paul and Jarvis. “I want to go with you.”
“Have you been up Everest before?”
“No. But I am very strong and can carry much.”
Paul pushed away from the table to leave. “Sorry, but can’t risk it. Not with you or Marty. I’ll take my chances with Jarvis here. Right now, I’m exhausted and need to grab some sleep. Suggest you do too.”
When the others left, Dorje stayed behind to ponder his choices. He had promised Beth to only carry, but he was so close to turning his dream of standing on Everest into a reality. And it might be his last chance if he goes to America with her. How could he not try even if it meant climbing with the only man left—Marty? Once again they were forced to share a tent. Dorje tossed his bag inside. “We must talk.”
“No tonight. I’m too tired.”
“Now,” Dorje demanded, bent on getting the answer he needed. “We were Hillary and Tenzing going to the top.”
“Until Tenzing stole Hillary’s woman.”
“She was never yours,” Dorje snarled back, tired of having to repeat this.
“She would have been if you’d kept your pants zipped while I was gone.”
“She was only being nice to you. We were lovers last fall and she came back to me.”
“Bull shit. She had no plans to come until I asked her.”
“That is not true.”
“Oh yeah? Ask her.”
“I don’t have to.” Dorje crawled into his bag and zipped it up. “I want to talk about Everest. No one will go
with you.”
“And they don’t want you along either because you don’t know what you’re doing.” Marty pulled his bag over his chin and his hat down over his ears. “Since neither of us can go alone, I figure we’re stuck with each other. When we come down, Beth can choose the better man and it will be me.” Trying not to explode, Dorje rustled in his bag to get comfortable. “Then it is decided?” Marty asked
“I have no other choice.” Freezing, Dorje curled in on himself and imagined Beth was lying in his arms. He could feel her warmth and smell her skin and hair. Taking a long, deep breath, he was at ease with himself once more and confident of their future.
Beyond the summit: An Everest adventure and Romance Page 31