by Rick Chesler
“The tiger of the mind,” the Abbot had said, when Zack told him he wasn’t in the Himalayas to climb, “is far more ferocious than the tiger of the jungle.”
Finally Zack shrugged. “Who in the bloody hell knows?”
Ian glanced over at him. When Zack didn’t say anything further, he slanted his head, an inscrutable look washing over his face. “Does that mean–”
“Yeah,” Zack said, cutting him off.
Zack felt as soon as he said it as though it were the most vital word he’d ever uttered He just wasn’t yet sure why.
Ian, for his part, didn’t appear too surprised. “Right then, Hitchens,” he said softly. “Go to your tent and get a good night’s sleep.” Ian turned and plodded away from the lhap-so, taking a final pull from his flask. “Because tomorrow, we climb.”
PART II
The Mountain
Chapter 12
Khumbu Icefall
The maw of the monstrous crevasse sprawled some seventy feet in width, its teeth jagged blue spikes of ice, its gullet a fathomless chasm several hundred feet deep and blacker than pitch. As he stared into the vast rift, a palpable lump formed at the base of Zack’s throat. Several times he tried to swallow it away, but the lump remained lodged there like a stubborn piece of meat or intrusive bone. To Zack, the crevasse may as well have been bottomless; an unimpeded fall equaled certain death either way. He drew a breath and then swept his eyes from left to right. There was no way around the yawning jaws, of course. The menacing crack in the long-dreaded glacier ran for half a mile or more.
So Zack lifted his boot, held tight to the fixed rope, and slowly lowered his right crampon onto the first bent rung of the horizontal ladder that, lashed together with six others, served as a provisional bridge. The aluminum ladder wobbled under his weight but held strong. Zack took a deep breath and followed it with another reluctant step. It would be like this every bit of the way across.
“Bear in mind,” Ian Furst had told the team early that morning, “the Khumbu Icefall has claimed more climbers’ lives than any other section of Everest. Don’t let the fact that it comes first fool you. This isn’t some bloody video game with graduated levels. The icefall is the most technically challenging part of the mountain on the south side. And if you let your guard down, if you make a single misstep, the bloody glacier will, without warning and without hesitation, eat you alive.”
Indeed, the Khumbu Icefall was an ever-shifting maze of crevasses and seracs, of ice blocks that seemed like skyscrapers in the thinning, freezing mountain air. The glacier moved some three to four feet each day, making it imperative to start up the icefall early in the morning before the midday sun got its way. Once it did, the glacier became even more unstable - little more than an icy puzzle with moving pieces, anxious to drop unobservant climbers to their deaths.
“You’ll turn around at ten a.m. sharp,” Ian instructed his clients, “whether you’ve made it through the icefall or not. No exceptions. If you’re not back by noon, you’ll be spending the next six weeks with Patty and myself here at Base Camp, while your fellow climbers make their way to the top.”
The reality was, if any client failed to make it up the icefall in six hours, he or she risked being benched for the remainder of the expedition anyway. This was the first of several time trials that would help Ian determine whether each individual client was competent enough to earn a shot at the summit. The massive amount of money paid to Himalayan Skies, Ltd. bought each client an opportunity to prove him- or herself worthy of a chance at the top, not a sure spot on the summit team, and certainly not a guarantee of reaching the peak.
Halfway across the crevasse Zack made the mistake of looking down past his boots again. Into the endless abyss.
“Look close into some crevasse,” Tashi had told Zack before they started up the icefall, “you probably to see your house from here.”
But Zack couldn’t see 87 Oliphant Lane, couldn’t see Newport, Rhode Island. Couldn’t see anything but a bottomless gorge filled with an impenetrable blackness.
Despite the blistering cold he began to sweat. His red down-filled climbing suit suddenly felt too heavy, his new mountaineering boots too short and narrow. Pain coursed through his feet from heel to toe. Another step. Four deep breaths and then another. And another.
But now his left crampon was stuck. Caught on a rung of the ladder.
Damned crampons, he thought. Before Nadia introduced him to mountaineering, Zack had never even heard the word. Now this set of sharp metal spikes affixed to the bottom of each boot left him vulnerable, fastened to a worn aluminum ladder high above a deadly fissure waiting to swallow him whole.
Zack began to panic. He lifted his head and spotted Tashi and Skinner standing on the far side of the crevasse. He called out to them, just as the wind picked up and muffled his shouts.
Now what? He wiggled his left boot. His boots were covered with a hard plastic shell, the interior layered with thick insulation to keep his feet dry and warm. A lot of good the extra protection was doing him now, he brooded, as he struggled to free himself over the widening crevasse.
Cautiously, Zack lowered his left arm in the direction of his boot, holding tight to the rope with his right. Skinner and Tashi were watching him now, but could offer no assistance from where they stood. More than one climber on these fragile ladders would be an attempt at suicide, not at rescue.
Zack tugged at the strap on his crampon until it opened. Slowly he lifted his boot and stepped free of the metal spikes. He breathed a sigh a relief.
As Zack leaned back to retrieve his caught crampon, the wind picked up again. Just enough to distract him. His right leg went out from under him and his upper back struck the aluminum ladder with a loud crack.
His momentum sent him rolling to the left. Over the side of the ladder, and suddenly he was falling. Dropping like a stone into the crevasse.
To his empty stomach it felt like an endless free fall. But the safety rope he was tethered to held, and Zack’s body was brought to a jolting halt, his back bent nearly in half as gravity applied her brakes.
Frightened, Zack hung helplessly like a piñata between two colossal walls of ice, his voice bouncing like a pinball back and forth, back and forth. Until he heard it the third time he didn’t even recognize it as his. Didn’t realize he’d been shouting out for help.
Moments later, over the far edge of the crevasse, Skinner’s phlegmatic face appeared. “Are you badly injured, mate?”
Zack quickly took inventory of himself and, despite his throbbing lower back, called up, “No.” His voice cracked.
“Right then. Have you up in a jiff. Til then, keep warm.”
I’ll try, Zack thought, as sweat streamed from beneath his climbing helmet, causing his eyes to burn.
The guide then shouted some commands at Tashi and other Sherpas, all of whom remained over the lip and out of sight. Zack waited for what felt like forever, presumably as the Sherpas got into place.
Far below, Zack imagined he could hear the mountain’s stomach rumble. It was a low, guttural sound, like the hum of a mammoth engine. He attempted to tune it out, to focus only on the sounds from above: the chatter of Sherpas, the crunch of ice beneath their boots, the heavy wind howling like an animal in heat.
Finally, with the aid of several men behind him, Skinner’s large arms began hauling up the rope.
Zack allowed himself a fleeting sigh of relief.
As he gradually ascended, Zack stole one last glance down into the chasm. Imagined what hellish fate might have been waiting for him at the bottom.
If there is a bottom, he thought.
Finally he closed his eyes and felt his heart hammer against his chest. while he recalled something Ian had said earlier.
“You’d do well to remember that many of the crevasses in the icefall are hidden. Buried beneath mounds of fresh snow, but still there. Still deadly. Deadlier even, than the ones you can see.”
Because, Zack surmised, there
were no aluminum ladders lashed together over those.
Zack held tightly to the safety rope as he was lifted. Wondering all the while, with no small degree of terror, just how many of these virtual land mines in the glacier were as yet unexposed.
* * *
Because of the need to acclimatize, Zack would have to pass through the treacherous icefall a total of eight times if he hoped to ultimately make it to the summit and back. But now he had only to focus on climbing to Camp I -within the allotted time.
As the designated turnaround time approached, Zack picked up his pace. With each step he heard a sharp snap, as though he were traipsing up a steep slope of broken glass. He tried to ignore the sound as he slid his ascender up the fixed line, locking it in place. But the pain he couldn’t ignore. His feet, trapped like rats in new unyielding boots, ached more with every step he took.
He stopped for a breath. His lungs were on fire and it felt as though in the last hour and a half he’d made little progress.
Maybe it was time he turned back.
“Gotta keep moving if you’re gonna make it, mate,” Skinner called from above.
Zack looked up at the guide. Skinner couldn’t have been more than fifteen vertical feet ahead of him, but it may as well have been a football field. He swallowed hard, his mind drifting with the snow.
“And how do I get there?” Zack had asked the Abbott seated across from him back in Tengboche. “How do I follow this Path you’re speaking of?”
The Abbott’s smile broadened. “Once we are facing in the right direction,” he replied, extending his narrow arms, “all we have to do is...”
“Keep on walking,” Zack said aloud. He dug his right crampon into the ice and pushed himself forward, upward, toward the waiting guide. Beneath his feet the glacier groaned like an aged home with rotted wood floors.
“That’s it, mate” Skinner said. “One step at a time.”
Am I facing in the right direction? Zack wondered, as his legs experienced an as-yet unexplored level of pain. He straightened his shoulders and felt the weight of Nadia’s urn in his rucksack.
But there was no way to know the answer to that question. Not now. Not yet.
Skinner stood idle in his green one-piece climbing suit, waiting for Zack to trudge the few final steps to meet him. The Kiwi was indeed a hell of a climber, Zack thought, just as Ian had said.
Zack gazed past the guide. A towering white mass stood behind Skinner, blocking their path.
“Camp One is not far now,” Skinner said. “Right beyond this serac.”
The serac stretched easily fourteen stories tall, and stood at an angle like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Only it leaned forward, directly over the climbers’ heads. And this tower seemed far more prone to fall.
“How do we tackle this?” Zack said, breathing heavily, mouth agape.
Skinner took a few steps toward the mammoth structure, then lifted his ice ax and buried the pick in its side. He stared up at the serac’s crest, which appeared about ready to tumble. “As quickly as possible.” Then he stepped aside.
* * *
Skinner spoke breathlessly into his walkie while Zack crawled into Camp I. “We made it.”
Ian’s voice crackled over the radio in reply. “Good. Start back down to Base Camp in five minutes. Looks as though a storm may be rolling in.”
Zack was the last through the icefall, but he’d made it with thirteen minutes to spare. Dustin and Francesca greeted him like old school chums and led him toward a large blue tent, where his efforts were rewarded with a quick meal of rice and warm tea.
Tashi and Norbu had already started up the Western Cwm to establish higher camps.
“How in the hell do they do it?” Zack wondered, sucking down the remainder of his tea.
Dustin smiled. “They’re Sherpas. Born with three lungs, pal, unlike us mere mortals.”
The tent flap flew open and a rush of cold air blew in. Skinner’s stolid face, framed by a green North Face hood, appeared. “Time to go, mates.”
Zack set his empty cup down and wearily pushed himself back to his feet.
* * *
The descent through the icefall would take a little over an hour, and in the early goings, despite their fatigue, the climbers were more relaxed. Even Zack, who’d initially struggled back down the titanic serac. The ice and altitude seemed less of a problem as they lowered themselves down the glacier. But soon, oddly enough, the sun, which had been all but absent when they started, transformed itself from friend to foe. The intense ultraviolet rays reflected off the ice and struck Zack and the others in the eyes, stinging them like acid. Those beams that didn’t strike his retinas seemed directed at the back of Zack’s head, turning his headache into a migraine, his migraine into an agony so fierce he was all but certain he was suffering an aneurism, or something worse.
“You think the UV radiation’s bad now,” Dustin said when Zack expressed his fears, “wait until we get to the Western Cwm.”
Zack stepped over a narrow crevasse and then plunked himself down onto the ice, burying his blazing face in his snow-covered gloves. “I don’t think I can do it,” he muttered, his words far more generous than how he felt. Truth was, he knew he couldn’t.
“Nonsense.” Dustin paused beside him. “This is our first day on the mountain. I’m sure every climber thinks that at one point.”
“Not me,” said a voice just behind them.
Zack turned his head and saw a bright yellow climbing suit coming toward them. Kurt Egger lowered his glacier goggles and smiled mirthlessly.
“Everest is not for novices, gentlemen,” Egger said in his thick Austrian accent. “If you have any doubt in your ability to climb this mountain, you probably can’t.”
“Is that right?” Dustin said sardonically as Egger stepped past him.
The Austrian stopped and turned. “This mountain is for serious mountaineers, Mr. Blaisdell. You don’t come to Everest to learn.”
Dustin took a step toward him. “You have a lot of difficulty keeping your mouth shut and minding your own goddamned business, don’t you, Kurt?”
Egger smirked. “While I am on this mountain, who I am made to share it with is every bit my business, Blaisdell. Most particularly if they are incompetent and on my team. I am not going to give up my chance at the summit to mount a rescue, and I am certainly not going to risk my life to save some American, who is only here because he had too much money to spend.”
Dustin squared off. “You arrogant little son of a bi–”
“Wait.” Zack got to his feet and stepped between the two. He grabbed Dustin by his royal blue down climbing suit and backed him off. “Save your energy for the climb.”
Dustin’s eyes remained locked on the Austrian, even as Egger turned and started down the glacier.
“What’s the bother here, mates?” Skinner said, stepping toward them.
“Nothing.” Dustin pulled himself gently out of Zack’s grip. “Just had some words with that pompous little Austrian prick.”
Skinner peered down the glacier at the vanishing yellow blur. “Told Ian that bloke was gonna cause a row sooner or later. He and that haughty Greek prima donna in pink.”
Dustin exhaled and grinned. “What’s with that hot pink climbing suit Jimmy’s got on, anyway?”
Skinner shrugged. “I’d say he was a poof if it weren’t for his picture being constantly plastered in every bloody tabloid with the likes of Taylor Swift or one of the Kardashians.”
“Tough life he’s got,” Dustin said.
“I can tell you one thing, mates. Our shipping heir may fancy himself somewhat of a stud, but he’s sure as hell not much of a climber. I saw Ruiz practically carrying him up the icefall.”
After a few moments of bowed-head silence, Skinner looked up and asked, “So what was this row between you and Egger about, anyway?”
Zack said, “He just wanted to let me know that I have no business being on his mountain.”
“And that he
wouldn’t put his life in jeopardy to rescue a privileged American’s,” Dustin added.
A chuckle emanated from Skinner’s throat, but his blank expression didn’t change. “Funny thing is, climbers who talk like that--they’re the blokes whose arses always seem to need saving come the end of the day.”
Chapter 13
Camp I
Forty-eight hours later the Himalayan Skies expedition was back at Camp I, having successfully navigated the icefall a third time. That evening, Zack lay in his tent, reading by lantern light about the life of George Mallory, one of the first ever climbers to perish on Mount Everest. Mallory’s body had been discovered over a decade ago, high up on the north side.
“Dustin?” Francesca’s voice called from right outside the tent.
“He’s not here,” Zack called back, strangely relieved. He’d thought his tentmate was with her.
“May I enter?”
Zack sat up straight in his sleeping bag and adjusted his Bristol University sweatshirt, flattening the material against his chest. Then his hands went to his cheeks, smoothing the course facial hair that had sprouted in the week since he’d arrived at Base Camp. Prior to, he’d been taking the time to shave every couple of days.
“Of course.”
She was still dressed in her deep purple climbing suit, still wrapping her slender arms around herself to protect against the cold. Her face glowed in the faint light given off by the lantern as she lowered herself in the middle of the tent. Even at nearly twenty-thousand feet in the bitter cold, her fragrance permeated the enclosed space..
“Do you know where is he?” Her warm breath rose like smoke signals to the roof of the tent.
Zack suppressed a smile. Funny, he mused, how even the most educated foreign speakers, like Nadia and Francesca, occasionally transposed two simple words. Then again, Zack thought, we’re all foreigners here in the heights of the Himalayas. All of us but the Sherpas.