The Yeti: A Novel

by Rick Chesler

  Zack chuckled. “You two are starting to sound like an old married couple. You sure you never met before this morning?”

  Dustin clicked his fingers. “Just twenty minutes before we met you, pal.”

  Zack glanced at his watch. “Well,” he said, “I’d love to stick around and watch the fireworks, but it looks like you two have some packing and planning to do.”

  Dustin shot off the couch. He shook Zack’s hand. “It was a real pleasure, Zack. I’m sorry you’re not coming with us.”

  Zack turned and extended a hand to Francesca, who held out her arms, insisting on a hug. He pulled her to him and embraced her warmly, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

  “Thank you for helping me today,” she whispered.

  She rewarded him with a warm, wet peck on the cheek.

  Back in his room, Zack slumped into a chair. He sighed and lifted the receiver. It felt heavy in his hand. He squinted to read the instructions and dialed. The phone rang five times. He was about to hang up when she answered. She sounded frantic, out of breath.

  “Jesus, Zack, what the hell took you so long? I’ve been worried sick.”

  He collected himself, moved the receiver from his right ear to his left and held it there with his shoulder. “Time difference, Ma. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Wake me? I’ve been up all night, sitting by the phone.” She coughed, the loud, abrasive hacking of a longtime smoker. “When are you coming home?”

  He eyed the room’s luxurious appointments and frowned. One of the joys of mountaineering, Nadia always said, was roughing it. She’d enjoyed hunkering down in their crudely built igloo on Denali nearly as much as she did reaching the summit of Rainier. And here Zack was, turning down a two-week trek to Base Camp, to lounge around a world-class hotel.

  “Soon,” he said. “Soon.”

  “Why did you hesitate?” she demanded. “Did you hire someone to take those ashes up the mountain?”

  Those ashes, he thought, and felt his face redden. He switched ears again. “Not yet. The expedition leader’s being a bit stubborn. He wants me to trek up to Base Camp.”

  “Well, tell him you can’t,” she said flatly. “Tell him you’ve got to come home.”

  Zack exhaled. “I’m going to speak to him again in the morning.”

  “Good,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m telling you, Zack. Don’t even think of going near that goddamn mountain. Not even to Base Camp. I have a bad feeling, the same kind I had just before your father died. If you go near that mountain, you’ll never come back again.” She paused for effect. “I’m sure of it, Zack.”

  “I’m not going,” he said softly.

  “Well, don’t. You’ve made enough mistakes in your life. Don’t make another one. Because this one you won’t be able to take back.”

  Zack took a deep breath and crossed his legs. He looked over at the minibar, suddenly craving one of the miniature bottles of J & B.

  His mother’s voice cracked. “You have no idea what you and that woman put me through when you climbed that mountain in Alaska. You can’t do that to me anymore, Zachary. I’m getting old. And you’re all I have left.”

  Zack stood and reached for the minibar. “So you’ve told me.”

  Chapter 7

  Tenzing-Hillary Airfield

  Thirty-two minutes after take-off, the tiny Lukla airstrip came into sight. Ian Furst turned to Patty, his Base Camp manager, and held out his hand. She stared at it, then huffed and began to dig in her bag. Ian sighed. This would be Patty’s ninth season with him on Everest; the bird knew bloody well just what he wanted. He watched her lightly freckled, middle-aged face scrunch up in concentration as she fished around in her purse. Then her bright blue eyes lit up, and he knew she’d found it.

  “You’re terrible,” she said, handing him her compact.

  Ian opened it, dusted off some crumbs of make-up, and raised the small mirror just slightly above his head, so that he could watch his clients’ faces during the descent. By far, this was his favorite part of the trip. To hell with the fact that the plane was a relic, that the passengers and their gear were packed like bloody sardines in the cramped, foul-smelling cabin. To hell with the incessant noise. This moment made the whole bloody flight worthwhile.

  He yawned. The dull headache he’d woken with was all but gone. Just a few nips off the ol’ morning-after flask had seen to that. But the older he got, the longer it took the rest of him to recover. He felt tired, and his damned stomach still wasn’t right. No worries, he thought. The brisk mountain air would give him a lift. Anyway, it’d be quite some time before he could catch some shut-eye. Once they touched down, they’d trek eight hours straight to Namche Bazaar. No excuses, Furst. He’d have to suck it up. Sleep would have to wait until tonight.

  The small aircraft suddenly began to shake like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. Ian tried not to laugh. Not at the young Greek’s “I-just-soiled-my-knickers” expression, not at the first B-horror film scream from the Italian lass in back.

  In fact, there had been a number of fatal accidents at Lukla’s tiny Tenzing-Hillary airfield, enough to give anyone pause. But when eighty percent of your mates - and fifty percent of your family - had died in the mountains, a little turbulence was rather easy to shake off.

  As the pilot guided the ancient plane down the steep sided valley, Ian lowered the mirror, sat back and relaxed. He glanced over at Patty, who, as usual, had closed her eyes for the ten-minute approach. Just like Liz used to do, he thought.

  Over the roar of the engine, Ian heard the young Austrian, Kurt Egger, holler something in his native tongue. Heard the American Dustin Blaisdell shout something back. Soon, every one of his six clients was yelling at once.

  Not so, Furst. Ian had raised the mirror again and caught sight of the Frenchman Gaston Vergé, who seemed as cool as a bloody cucumber. As calm as though he were sitting in a theater, waiting for the curtain to rise on his favorite play. Ian suppressed a chuckle.

  Vergé, he knew from his CV, was a middle-aged Parisian businessman, attempting Everest as part of a personal mission. A mission Ian understood too well. A successful bid would put Vergé only one mountain away from completing the Seven Summits, from reaching the highest points on each of the seven continents on Earth. Vergé had already conquered Kilimanjaro in Africa, Elbrus in Europe, Denali in North America, Aconcagua in South America, and Carstensz Pyramid in Australia-New Guinea. After ascending Everest, he’d attempt Vinson Massif in Antarctica and be done.

  The Twin Otter shuddered. Splatters of rain struck the windows. His clients unleashed a new round of shouts.

  Ian could only guess at how this lot would fare on the mountain. Could only guess at what possessed each of them to attempt to reach the tallest peak on the planet. Oh, there were so few true mountaineers left in the world. So few real climbers. Today, eight-thousand meter mountains were regularly scaled by amateurs, who paid appalling sums simply to afford their bloated egos a bloody good stroking. The summit of Everest, once among the noblest of goals, was these days reduced to the backdrop of a money shot, a photo that could be passed around a bloke’s favorite watering holes. A damn shame really, what was happening on the mountain.

  Who the hell am I kidding? I’m part of the bloody problem.

  Ian exhaled as the pilot started his final approach into Lukla - a razor sharp left-hand turn and a dive straight toward a cliff. His sickly sour stomach dropped. If he hadn’t already experienced the flight dozens of times, the descent would have seemed like a suicide mission.

  The cabin fell silent during the dive. Then, gradually, the aircraft leveled off.

  Ian watched his clients in the compact’s mirror as they held their collective breath while the Twin Otter touched down on the diminutive airstrip as it climbed a steep ten-degree slope and then quickly came to a shuddering halt.

  He winced at the usual chorus of cheers, at the deafening round of applause.

  Ian peered out the rain-soake
d window at Lukla. At an elevation of over nine thousand feet, the town served as the starting gate for most visitors to Everest, the ideal point to begin the crucial process of acclimatization.

  He handed Patty her compact, removed his seatbelt and stood, hunching so as not to hit his head on the bloody roof. He sighed. If it weren’t for the need to acclimatize, the expedition could have reached Base Camp in just a few days. But the human body needed to adjust to dramatic heights at its own pace. The higher they trekked, the thinner the air would become. In fact, once they reached Everest Base Camp, the team would be breathing in only half as much oxygen as at sea level. At the summit, only a third as much. Ascending too quickly would result in altitude sickness, which could, in turn, result in death.

  Nobody bloody well wanted that. So the team would acclimatize by ascending at a reasonable pace and spending some nights in Sherpa villages like Namche Bazaar, Tengboche, and Gorak Shep.

  Ian, as usual, was first off the plane. As he stretched his legs in the drizzling rain, he was greeted by his sirdar, Tashi, and a throng of other Sherpas. The sirdar served as head Sherpa, and Tashi was one of the best in the business. He was strong and smart and as loyal as anyone Ian had ever known. This season, Tashi Sherpa would be making his twelfth trip to Everest’s summit. “Good to see you, boss.” Tashi offered Ian a hot cup of tea.

  Ian nursed the beverage as the first of the yak drivers approached. Tashi spoke to the driver in Sherpa, then turned back to Ian and translated.

  “He say yaks can carry only fifty kilograms each.”

  Ian smirked. Of course, the driver would make such a claim; the bugger got paid by the trip. The less weight the yaks carried, the more trips they’d have to make. The more trips they made, the more rupees the bugger earned.

  Ian eyed Tashi sternly. “You tell him that my yak back in London can carry double that. And she’s half-blind with three legs.”

  He waited while Tashi translated.

  “Now he say yaks can carry only sixty kilograms each.” Tashi shrugged his narrow shoulders. “No more.”

  Ian pointed at one of the driver’s three yaks. “What’s the bother, mate?” “Concerned she’ll be too tired to polish your knob tonight?”

  Tashi began to translate but Ian stopped him. “Never mind. Tell him eighty kilos each and we’ve got a deal. Goes for the other seven drivers as well.”

  Tashi relayed the offer, received a wink and a nod. Then the sirdar scurried off to organize the dozens of porters.

  As Ian sipped his tea, he watched his clients slowly exit the plane. First off were Vergé and Egger. Then the Greek student whose name he couldn’t quite remember, the kid whose father had written the check. Francesca Corsi was next. Right behind her was Dustin Blaisdell, the American who’d given Patty a hard time about leaving this morning.

  “Damn Yankees,” Ian muttered to himself. “Always want to dictate the bloody rules.” It was ingrained in them: customer’s always right, and all that American shite. At some point soon, he’d have to put this bloke in his place.

  Ian breathed in. He had to tolerate a large number of Americans these days; they made up a good two-thirds of his business. But that didn’t mean he had to like them.

  Speaking of Yanks...

  Last off the Twin Otter was the morning’s big surprise. The reserved New England professor with the light brown hair, the lean muscular build and pale green eyes. The bloke who reminded Ian so damned much of ...

  He took a deep breath and turned his head toward the foreboding skies. Quit it, Furst.

  ...his dead son.

  Chapter 8

  Namche Bazaar

  The expedition arrived at Namche Bazaar shortly before dusk. Zack’s legs were like wet matchsticks from nearly nine hours of navigating treacherous terrain. He stopped and glanced down. His pants were torn from repeated falls on loose rocks, his boots caked in mud from the trails. He was a mess.

  As he stretched, a searing pain traveled up Zack’s flesh. The back of his neck was raw. Little mentioned was the fact that the Khumbu region lay just beyond the tropics. In the dead of day, the sun had borne down on him and the other trekkers as though they were targets, baking their skulls and singeing their skin.

  He walked on. Earlier in the journey Zack had stared longingly at lodges in Phakding and Benkar. But Ian insisted they stick to the schedule and trek straight to Namche Bazaar. Namche, Ian said, was the hub of Sherpa civilization; Khumbu’s administrative center, complete with offices for Nepalese officials and the headquarters for Sagarmatha National Park.

  Still, as he trudged through the town now, Zack was surprised to spot a police checkpost and a post office, to see signs for an army base and a bank. Relative to the other hamlets in the region, Namche was state-of-the-art, boasting such extraordinary comforts as twenty-four hour electricity, bars and billiard halls, pizzerias, even Internet cafés. There were more stores than Zack could count.

  “Namaste!”

  A Sherpa girl no more than six or seven stood in front of Zack, her palms pressed together as though in prayer. A thin line of dirt stretched across her cheek.

  Francesca whispered in his ear. “She said, ‘Hello, how are you doing?’”

  Zack smiled, the tear in his upper lip now overshadowed by the pain in his joints. He set his heavy pack down, held his hands together and bowed. “Very well. And how are you?”

  The little girl laughed, turned and scurried away.

  “You have a way with children,” Francesca said, smiling.

  Zack heaved the pack back onto his shoulders. After making the decision to join the expedition fairly late last night, he took a taxi back to Thamel to buy some gear. Just enough to last him through the trek to Base Camp and back. Over the past nine hours there were a number of times he regretted the decision, usually as he traversed over steep jagged rocks. But now, as the bustling Sherpa village bombarded his senses, he felt at peace with it. Perfectly at peace.

  Minutes later they arrived at their lodgings, a large dusty structure that, according to Zack’s guidebooks, underwent perpetual renovation. A far cry, Zack thought, somewhat satisfied, from the Hotel Yak and Yeti. Nadia would be proud.

  Because Namche stood at an elevation of over eleven thousand feet, the expedition planned to stay in the village two days to adjust to the altitude before moving on. The team doctor, Aasif Kapoor of Mumbai, had stressed the importance of acclimatization several times since meeting up with the expedition in Lukla.

  “If you ascend too rapidly,” Aasif said to the group, “you’ll develop acute mountain sickness. If you develop acute mountain sickness, you must stay where you are and acclimatize. Or, if the symptoms are severe, you must descend. If you continue to ascend with acute mountain sickness, you risk high-altitude pulmonary or cerebral edema. In other words, you risk death. So, if at any time you feel sick, you tell me straightaway. Remember,” he added, “there’s no shame whatsoever in developing altitude sickness. Only in dying from it.”

  Ian had chosen the accommodations. The hotel, though aging, was the most pleasant in Namche because each room, he said, had its own attached loo.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Ian told the team. “You’ll be squatting in the woods once we leave.”

  * * *

  “What’s that smell?” Zack asked, as he unpacked his things.

  His roommate Dustin turned and grinned. “Could you be more specific?”

  The room was Third World, but Zack could deal with it. It was the stench that was making him ill. “I don’t know. Smells like manure.”

  “Ah, they’re cooking our dinner.”

  Zack grimaced. “Dinner?”

  “Yak steak.” Dustin dropped some clothes in a heap and tossed himself on the thin foam mattress. “Don’t worry, it’s not the meat that you smell; it’s the stove they’re cooking it on. It’s fueled by yak dung.”

  Zack frowned. He’d just hiked alongside two dozen of the long-haired bovines on the endless trek from Lukla. During
the trek, Tashi had explained that because of their relation to cows, the slaughter of yaks in Nepal was prohibited. Although Sherpas were devout Buddhists, Nepal itself remained a Hindu nation. And to Hindus, cows were sacred.

  Dustin cleared it up with a wink and a timely pair of air quotes. “Sometimes a yak ‘accidentally falls’ off the trail.”

  Lifting his shirt over his head, Zack thought about the yaks grazing outside in the pen. Without another word, he went to the loo to scour his hands and face.

  “Coming down to dinner?” Dustin said, when he returned.

  Zack shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

  Dustin nodded. “Well, I’ll have them stow a yak burger, in case you change your mind.”

  Once Dustin left for dinner, Zack lay down on his flattened piece of foam and listened to the sudden hard rain pelt the lodge’s crude rooftop. The back of Zack’s head ached. He felt tired but knew he couldn’t sleep, desired a shower but was instantly too fatigued to leave the platform. He began to sweat. His breathing slowed. On the backsides of his eyelids appeared images of Officers Keith Stinson and Jay Lake, of Arnold Peavy pacing outside his classroom door. Then he heard Marvin Combs, Marvin telling him - no, yelling at him - to go to Nepal. Next Zack’s mother appeared. “You’ll burn to death,” she said, “just like your selfish father.”

  There were footfalls out in the hall. Heavy footfalls. And then a loud knock.

  Zack shot up on the foam.

  The door flew open. It was the young Greek, Dimitri Melonakos, who’d insisted that everyone call him Jimmy instead.

  “Sorry,” Jimmy said, in a way that made Zack believe he was anything but. “Did I wake you?”

  The Greek’s accent was thick, his English fine. Tall and lean, dark with sharp features, Zack had a hint he’d be a hit with the girls on Bristol’s campus.

  Zack shook his head. Jimmy stepped inside and closed the door.