Beyond the summit: An Everest adventure and Romance

by Linda LeBlanc

  Marty robbed him of choice. Mumbling something that sounded too much like Geronimo, he stepped onto the rocks. In sickening disbelief, Dorje heard the crampons strike the stone and skid. Marty pitched forward and tumbled past while Dorje stood there transfixed, lassitude having robbed him of instinctive action. Seconds later, the rope plucked him from the ridge and hurtled him after his partner. Axes and crampons were useless on granite as arms, legs, and backs bounced off the boulders. Then suddenly Dorje was airborne in a deadly free fall until the rope’s springy recoil jerked him back up and slammed him into the mountain. Shocked back to reality with excruciating pain searing through his left leg, he closed his eyes and screamed before attempting to coordinate his scattered thoughts into action.

  Then he anchored himself with the axe and toe pick of his right foot before looking for Marty. What had halted their descent? Blinking and gazing upward, he saw only heavy snow falling from a gray mist. He tugged the rope that appeared to have caught on something, perhaps a rock. When it slackened, Dorje’s stomach crawled up into his throat. What was happening? This time instinct immediately took hold and he flattened against the wall when a boulder thundered past and disappeared as if consumed by an immense, insatiable beast. Sailing after it, the rope dropped and then hung limp from his harness. Where was Marty? Clinging to life as he was, or had he cut the rope deciding to die here rather than fail his father? Dorje slowly drew the cord through his gloves, hoping for resistance. Within fifteen feet of the end, he finally got it. Marty was not far below. Dorje removed his mask and yelled repeatedly. When he had called to Beth in the storm, the wind snatched his voice and buried it. Would the American hear him now? He whipped the rope and it rippled a response. Ten minutes later, Marty swung his axe into the wall beside him and mumbled, “What now. I’m scared shitless.”

  The storm had escalated into a full-scale blizzard. Disoriented and in the midst of a whiteout, Dorje guessed they were on the steep slope below the ridge with heavy cornices looming above them. He signaled Marty to remove his mask so they could confer, but even then it was hard to communicate with snow pelting their faces. He motioned above them. “It’s not safe to go up.” Then he tugged on the rope and pointed at the traverse ahead. “We must cross one at a time again. I’ll go first. Belay me.” Marty nodded lethargically.

  The sky and ground were indistinguishable, a grayish white. Probing with his axe Dorje inched along, holding his injured leg slightly back as he pushed off on the good leg and then dragged the other forward. The foot caught each time, sending a flare all the way through his groin until pain filled every conscious thought. When the rope was taut, he stopped and rammed his axe into the snow to belay Marty while he crossed. Then the American anchored Dorje while he continued to break trail, praying each time that the crampons would hold in soft, fresh snow. With this tedious, difficult work, Dorje’s admiration of the Sherpas’ trail preparation steadily increased. Gusting with menacing winds, the storm tried to sweep them off the mountain. Every sound that threatened a cornice collapse burgeoning into an avalanche echoed louder in his head.

  Hampered by frozen hands, Dorje was slow in setting the next belay. Glancing back to warn Marty, he saw him remove his anchor and start across too soon. Before Dorje could sink the shaft, his partner slipped and plunged down the hill, arms and legs flying. And seconds later, Dorje was jerked into a tumbling dive, striking his head on a boulder on the first roll. In a state of mental confusion, he frantically tried to sink his axe, but the slope was too steep; the snow, too loose and slippery. Sliding on his stomach feet first, he made a final desperate attempt and drove the pick so hard it almost ripped out of his hand. The axe gouged a jagged scar, deeper and deeper, spraying snow in his face. He yelled and pushed harder with all that was in him until the axe finally arrested his fall. With his hands cold and stiff, unable to hold on much longer, he kicked the crampon of his good leg to brace himself for the inevitable jolt when the rope reached full length.

  “Agghhh!” He bounced and held as Marty's weight tried to yank him free. His arms quivering and his injured leg on fire, Dorje couldn’t hang on much longer waiting for Marty to find a hand or foothold. The American’s weight threatening to wrench him from the hill, Dorje closed his eyes and summoned all his strength into those few seconds that meant the difference between life and death. Just one more second, just one more. Hurry, Marty. Suddenly the taut cord slackened. Had Marty finally dug his crampons in? Dorje yelled and shook the rope, begging for it to ripple back as before, but it remained limp as a windless flag. With mounting dread, he whipped it harder three, four, and five times before getting a response.

  Cold, terrifying images of their plight surged into his aching head, but Dorje refused to look. Instead, he busied himself kicking to create a step where he could rest his weight fully on his right leg and reduce the strain. Feeling a bit more comfortable now, he was confident that Marty had done the same. Gripping the axe shaft in one hand, he pulled the cord shoulder high and snapped it like a whip. The rope coiled towards him before lashing back into the gray, enveloping mist where it met resistance reassuring him that Marty was still there.

  Clinging to the axe with both hands and his forehead against the wall, Dorje was comforted by his only companion—the hissing inside his mask. How much longer would they have together? He checked the pressure gauge. Almost empty. Now what? Feeling his life slipping away, Dorje tried to pull things together and formulate a plan, but exhaustion and confusion reigned. His right hand, succumbing to the cold, had already lost its feeling and could no longer grip the axe. Afraid of falling, he grasped the shaft with the left and used his right arm to drape the rope over the shaft to anchor himself in case he lost consciousness. With the slope too steep to traverse, no more pitons, and a leg that couldn’t support him, his only hope of survival was a Sherpa rescue. Fierce winds battered and whipped him as if he were a tent canvas. Turning from the tiny ice splinters lacerating his face, Dorje listened for the comforting hiss but it too had abandoned him. The air tasted bad now so he ripped the mask and tank off and watched them disappear in the gaping jaws of the gray beast below.

  In a limbo state, he felt his spirit leave his body again and stand apart, viewing him in a detached manner. When it turned to walk away, Dorje grabbed it by the shoulder and forced it back. He wasn’t ready to die and would never give up. With his jacket and hood zipped over his face, he breathed his own warm air and fought sleep, afraid that he might not awake. With the mask gone, the taste of his own blood trickling down his face sickened him.

  His mind wandered from this cold, alien world to the warm Solu hills of his youth where marigolds mingled with wildflowers and begonias had just begun to bloom. He heard Beth laughing as she ran barefoot over the hills. “You can kiss me if you catch me” she tossed over her shoulder with her hair flying like shafts of wheat in the wind.

  “Kiss you I will,” he murmured and raced after her, willing to surrender his soul for the taste of her sweet lips. Catching her in the meadow, he gently lowered her to a carpet of primrose and iris. Brightly hued rhododendrons and orchids splashed the surrounding hills with color as Dorje enfolded her in his arms and made love on a lazy afternoon. “I will love you forever,” he whispered. “As long as snow falls on the mountains and rivers run wild.”

  She gazed at him with her poppy-blue eyes. “And I will love you as long as my heart beats here,” she purred and pressed his hand to her breast. Inhaling the delicate aroma of her hair and skin, he drifted off to sleep.

  “Dorje,” someone shouted. He shook himself awake and saw ten-year-old Nima reclining on his elbows beside him, his legs stretched out in front. Chewing on a long piece of grass like an old yak, Nima grinned. “I saw you kissing Pasi behind the banana trees.”

  Dorje pulled his brother’s long hair down over his eyes. “You are as blind as an old man out in the snow too much. We were only picking fruit.”

  “No, you were kissing,” he said with that intuitive, knowin
g look that had arrived in the world with him. “She’s the most beautiful girl in the Solu.”

  “You’re too young to notice such things.”

  “But she is.” Nima touched the flower to his lips. “And I want to kiss her too.”

  “Well, you can’t.” Grabbing his brother’s arms, Dorje held them over his head with one hand while tickling the funny spot that only he knew. Nima squirmed, kicked, and giggled making the freckles bunch up on his nose. He squealed for mercy but got none as they wrestled and rolled among the flowers until exhausted. Flopping onto his back with his arms thrown out to the sides, Dorje pretended to be exhausted. When Nima wasn’t looking, he plucked a handful of grass and tossed it at him playfully.

  “Dorje,” their mother called from the small stone house below. “I have sweet rice pudding for my boys.”

  “Come, my little brother,” Dorje said, pulling him onto his back for a ride. “Let’s go home.”

  With Nima’s skinny legs locked around his waist and his arms clutching his chest, Dorje knew they were inseparable forever. His brother’s breath warm against his neck, he looked over his shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”

  “Dorje,” someone called again, but lassitude, resignation, and hypothermia battled for possession of his thoughts. Sleep was all he desired, but a tall figure appeared shimmering in the mist. His long robe billowed in the wind as he approached. The striking features seemed gentler now like the softened edges of a sucked hard candy. The penetrating eyes that had always frightened Dorje were comforting when his father said, “Let’s dance together.” Putting his arm around his son’s waist, Mingma shuffled forward and backward, touching his heel here and stomping there at an ever-quickening pace. Clutching his father’s robe, Dorje matched him step for step, their spirits in harmony as they danced the rhythm of life.

  “I’m so very cold and tired,” Dorje finally whispered.

  “Yes, sleep now, my son, and don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.” Mingma lifted him into his arms and Dorje was a boy of five again. Nestling his weary head against his father’s shoulder, he closed his eyes, feeling safe and loved, knowing he’d never had to watch and wait again. Swaddled in a snow blanket, his bloodied face whitened with hoarfrost, Dorje smiled as he drifted into a deep hypoxic reverie.

  CHAPTER 35

  As Beth watched Dorje and Marty disappear behind a tilting sérac, an ominous specter moved into her and settled down with hands clasped behind his head and legs outstretched, intending to remain until Dorje’s safe return. She tried evicting this unwelcome guest by telling herself the morning’s fight eliminated Dorje’s chances of going to the summit, and he’d already been through the icefall and Cwm, so no danger there. But her heart knew any logic professor would fail her on that bit of spurious reasoning. Slamming the door on fear, Beth strode back to camp determined to concentrate solely on how beautiful the clouds were this morning hanging above the peaks in layers of purple and pale pink.

  That strategy worked until she witnessed the doctor treating Rinji’s frostbitten feet and learned most of his toes would be amputated. Then how would this sweet, little man support his family? Was there some kind of Sherpa insurance to protect them from the dangers imposed by inane westerners who felt compelled to prove themselves? Dorje had told her none of his people cared about climbing before the mikarus came. Even now, most did it only for the money, but at what cost she wondered. Relying on these thoughts to occupy her mind, Beth added them to her journal. During the afternoon, she chatted and played cards with the doctor and reporter—anything to fill the space nightmares tried to invade.

  Shortly after lunch one day, she heard a horrendous boom and watched the very sérac that had swallowed Dorje from view crumble in a white explosion shooting powder hundreds of feet in the air. Knowing that melting in the afternoons created instability in a land already in flux, she whispered, Don’t travel then in her private conversation with Dorje. Having convinced herself he heard her thoughts, Beth was confident she’d know if something happened. Otherwise, the waiting would be intolerable.

  When Mark and Sean returned to Base Camp to recoup before the final assault, she learned that Dorje and the others were all right. Beth gave fear a shove toward the door but it braced its feet against the jambs. Unable to oust it, she consoled herself with visions of Dorje simply carrying a few more loads through the Cwm to earn rupees for Shanti and the baby and then coming back to her. However, the arrival of Henri, a climbing Sherpa, and Roger with bandaged head and ribs the following day buried all such illusions. Beth did the math. Two Sherpas had quit earlier and now this one had come down. That left only Dorje and two others to supply the upper camps. Not feeling much like eating, she joined Henri and Roger in the dining tent for details.

  “Your Sherpa’s in better health than the American,” said Roger.

  “And might end up having to be his partner,” added Henri. “Rumor is Paul and Jarvis don’t trust Marty and won’t climb with him.”

  Unprepared for this, Beth choked on the words. “But Dorje and Marty had a terrible fight the morning they left. How could they go up a mountain together?”

  “I don’t know that they will.” Henri shrugged. “It’s just my guess.”

  Beth turned back to Roger but he opened his hands in a show of equal uncertainty. Her bouncing leg unsettled her stomach even more. “When would they go?”

  Henri leaned forward and rested his arms on the table while stirring his tea. “The first team in a few days, I suppose, or whenever the weather looks promising. There aren’t many climbing windows before the monsoon.”

  “Surely Marty and Dorje wouldn’t be first.”

  Henri shook his head. “Probably not.”

  “But when will we know?”

  “Not until the first team comes down,” Roger answered and rose from the table. “I’m still dizzy and have a horrific headache. I need to go to bed so we can leave for the hospital early tomorrow.”

  Shivering alone in her tent, Beth pulled the bag over her ears to drown out the endless groaning and cracking of shifting ice. Tomorrow, she would write of Sherpa families forced to endure every trekking and climbing season knowing that a father, son, husband, or brother might not return. She didn’t know how they stood it year after year.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Mingma stood on the spot where he had carried his five-year-old son on his shoulders for his first view of the highest point on earth. His breath rising in a mist, Mingma looked at the snowy summits of Everest, Lhotse, Nuptse, and Ama Dablam etched sharply in the crystal air. “What drives my son to go where you forbid?” he cried to the mountain gods. “Why does he risk a most precious incarnation by defying you? Help me to understand.” In the high mountain air, the gods were silent because only Dorje knew the answer.

  A familiar voice rose behind him. “Droma Sunjo said I’d find you here. I have news from Everest.”

  His heart trembling, he turned to Pemba. “What do you know of my son?”

  “Only that he is alive and twice saved a porter named Rinji who arrived at the hospital two days ago. They must cut off his toes.”

  “I’m sorry for the porter. But the goddess will keep punishing us as long as we trespass and pollute her. This has to stop.”

  With a western hat resting atop his large ears, Pemba said, “You are blind in one eye, my old friend. She has also rewarded us with great wealth to build finer temples and train more monks.”

  “Who must now pray for the souls of those who died on the mountain. All your rupees can’t buy them back.”

  “We’ll never agree on this and I’m tired of arguing,” Pemba said. Turning back toward Namche, he tossed words over his shoulder. “I just came to tell you about Dorje.”

  Proud of his own inner strength and how he had survival great sorrow, Mingma found it difficult to seek help from someone he had recently considered his enemy. “You’re the only one I can turn to.” Pemba paused and looked back. “Please come to Ev
erest with me. I have a heavy feeling that danger awaits my son.”

  “As do I,” Pemba said, his shoulders slumping. “You know I care for him too. We’ll take five yaks loaded with tents, blankets, food, and water, plus have room to bring things in return.”

  Mingma found Nima on a hill north of the village. Instead of lying blissfully among the wildflowers, his peaceful, younger son was at great unrest, pacing and yelling at the animals.

  “Why so troubled?” Mingma asked.

  “The sky is not right.”

  “But it’s clear. I see no clouds.”

  “But they’ll come soon and I don’t like how it feels.”

  Learning long ago that Nima sensed things the way his mother had, Mingma trusted him. “That’s why Pemba and I are going after your brother to bring him home.”