Rising

by Sharon Wood

  Jane tells me one day that I’m more available.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She replies, “You’re kinder and gentler with yourself and it shows on the outside.”

  While out climbing another day, James tells me, “You’re less intense.”

  I balk. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re more fun to be around.”

  I laugh.

  “See,” he says, “that’s what I mean. You might’ve bitten me if I told you that in the past.”

  Laurie tells me I’m more confident. “You don’t put yourself down so much anymore, Sharon. Don’t worry, though, I know you’re still in there.”

  I realize that twenty years on from the climb, it still comes up every day. Although it never ceases to amaze me, I am growing to accept that the mountain is a part of my life and here to stay. And I am content and grateful.

  I realize my perspective on Everest has shifted dramatically as I stand amidst about a hundred students, aged ten to seventeen, in the gym of a small independent school. As I bring up pictures on the screen, the kids’ hands shoot up, some pumping their arms with urgency. Everest is the platform for what feels like an intimate chat about life—mine and theirs.

  A little boy asks me, “What’s it like to be famous?”

  “What does famous mean to all of you?” I ask back. After the kids shout out several definitions, I give my own slant: “Being famous can be lonely. Or it was. I’ve learned that it is most important to feel famous in the eyes of the people who matter most to me: my family and close friends. I don’t recommend fame unless it happens because you’re doing what you love to do.”

  “I want to be an astronaut cuz I love space science,” says a little girl. “Just like Roberta Bondar!”

  “Fair enough!” I say. I ask half a dozen other kids what they love to do. If they tell me what they want to be, I ask them again what they love to do. “Don’t do something to become someone. Think of getting there another way. Love what you do, then become.”

  I know by now that the kids nearest to me, those whose hands pop up and who are most vocal about their passions, will be fine. I look for the ones who sit quietly with their hands tentatively wavering by their ears. I catch the eye of a teenaged girl whose hair hides half her face, and I nod. She asks, “Where did you find the confidence to climb Mount Everest?”

  “Hmm, confidence. I struggled with that. Does anyone else?” I get a resounding agreement in reply. “I’ve learned that confidence has to come from the inside, in believing whatever you’re doing is really important to you. Love what you do, practise and have people in your life who want you to succeed. We will all have moments of doubt and need to remind ourselves of this, won’t we?”

  “Yeah!” they all sing. And my heart sings as I rejoice over how at home I feel these days, on stage or off.

  Chapter 22

  Reunion

  At dawn on this day in October, my mind is already awake and churning over all that I hope the day may bring. Tonight the members of our Everest Light team will gather, some of whom I have not seen since we parted at Vancouver International Airport twenty years ago. The reunion was Dr. Bob’s idea, and Jim suggested my house because of its big country kitchen. What was I thinking when I agreed to host the event in the house that Everest bought me? As I shrug into my housecoat I think, as I do often these days, about how I feel more grateful than guilty to own this home.

  I spend the morning in the kitchen, pushing around tables and chairs, pulling out glasses and plates and preparing food. By early afternoon, I am rearranging furniture in the living room when the phone rings.

  “Hi, it’s Jane. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m looking forward to this event and oddly nervous,” I tell her. I flop onto the couch, relieved to settle into a conversation outside my head. “My dad used to say, ‘If you think you’ve evolved, spend time with your family.’ Well, these guys feel that way to me, and the thought of stirring up stories of our expedition might be like pulling scabs off old wounds. I’m afraid I’ll revert to my twenty-eight-year-old self again. I’ve worked hard to get here, Jane.”

  “What a way to be thinking about a reunion! Look at it this way, Sharon. Think of surprising yourself,” she says. “Have you decided on a story?” Jane has suggested that everyone bring a story to tell.

  “Nope. Oh, Jane—do you think everyone is just going to stand around with their hands in their pockets wondering what to say?”

  “Hell, no! Not me, anyway. I’ve been waiting twenty years to do this! I’ve shipped the kids out and am leaving the lot behind. I’m coming early to help set up.”

  “When?”

  “Should be outta here by three.” She lives in Golden, two hours away.

  Jane and I remained close until we started having children. Pregnant with her second child, she was confined to bed rest in a Calgary hospital for six months. By that time I had an infant and a toddler, was juggling a career in public speaking and battling chronic depression. Although she was an easy hour away, I didn’t visit her once. Why would she want to come early and help?

  My heart somersaults when the doorbell rings at four. I open the door a crack, prepared to shoo a solicitor away, and see Kevin standing on the front porch, beaming with his arms stretched wide. “Woodeee!” He envelops me. “Sorry, I couldn’t wait, I thought you could use some help. That okay?”

  Kevin is the last person I expect to see at my door—early. He should be one of the disappointed ones. After schlepping loads for two months on Everest and supporting Dwayne and me all the way to Camp Six, I expected he might have become bitter, even though when I asked him if he resented that effort, he said, “Woody, I wanted to be a part of the team, play a role in doing something great, and I’m proud of it.” He’ll joke, though, when people ask him about his role. “I tell them I carried lunch for the first North American woman to climb Mount Everest.”

  Kevin steps back to look at me. “You’re looking gorgeous as ever.”

  “Ditto to you, handsome!” I say, holding myself back from running my fingers through his thick thatch of chocolate-brown hair.

  “Yeah, check this out.” He unzips his jacket and pats his belly. “Here’s what I’ve got to show for twenty years of beer.”

  I pull him into the house. Kevin’s head swivels. “Nice pad you’ve got here.” I start prattling to fill nervous space as I think, The work you did bought this house. But I halt, reminding myself that it’s an old story. I leave Kevin scrubbing potatoes while I go and shower.

  At five, we greet Jane at the door. “Ha, another gorgeous woman!” says Kevin. “Don’t worry, Woody, there’s enough of me these days to love you both.”

  Jane brandishes a bottle of scotch and says, “Let’s wet some glasses with a wee dram to ease our fretting selves, shall we?”

  Kevin says, “Who, me? Fretting? I’ve been looking forward to this for months! But I’ll have that scotch anyway.”

  While we work, we joke and laugh as the smell of roast beef wafts through the house. Outside, the temperature plummets and a storm blows in. By 6 p.m., a finger or two of scotch and a layer of new snow soften the edges. By 7 p.m., comers are streaming in, leaving a trail of coats, boots and bags that leads to the kitchen. Crammed back to back, people huddle in clusters to catch up. The counters, island and table are laden with casseroles, pots of soup, salads, bottles and bread.

  The doorbell chimes one final time and as the chatter pauses, Dan says, “That’s gotta be Skreslet! The guy’s on Skreslet time again.”

  Of course he is late. He is always late. Cold air and snowflakes rush in behind Laurie as I greet him at the door. His big hands encase my ribs as he pulls me into the solid wall of his chest in a vice-like embrace. It feels so familiar. He held me like this twenty years ago when he met Dwayne and me on our return from the summit. His co
ld, wet face presses against mine as he plants a kiss on my cheek. I expel a breathy whisper into his ear: “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Everyone shows except for Chris Shank, who is in Afghanistan on a bird study. We are twelve team members, various partners, my two boys and our major cash sponsor—forty in total. Jane, Kevin and I bustle fetching glasses, opening bottles, collecting abandoned offerings and filling dishes with food. Jane sidles up mid-flurry and tilts her head toward the scene. “Can you believe this?” Being together again feels like we’ve never been apart.

  After dinner, Dr. Bob steps up onto the fireplace sill, cups his hands into a loudspeaker and shouts over the chatter, “Now that Skreslet is finally here, we can get started.” He flashes a smile in Laurie’s direction and proceeds to arrange us around the fireplace for the twenty-years-later picture. Once we are all in place, Kevin says, “Look at us! Holy shit, here we all are—and still looking good!”

  We laugh, cameras click and flashbulbs pop.

  After the photo, everyone pulls up chairs, upturns rounds of wood to perch on, leans into the wall or their partners and settles in. I panic in a sudden flush of deficit, and then spy Robin patting the place beside him on the couch. I wedge in beside him and my seventeen-year-old boy drapes his arm over my shoulder and pulls me in.

  Last to arrive but first to speak, Laurie edges his way around the crowd to stand on the raised sill of the rock fireplace. Candlelight flickers across his face as I scan him for any sign of change. His straight hair now travels farther to sweep across the expanding landscape of his forehead. Although I have seen him often since Everest, on this occasion I compare the sight of him to the one of twenty years ago.

  When conversations trail from murmurs to silence, he begins. “I don’t know whether all of you know that I went back to Everest this spring with the British military to attempt the West Ridge—the same route we did twenty years ago. They had state-of-the-art equipment, a generous budget, twenty of the UK’s best climbers, plus twenty or more Sherpa, and still they didn’t succeed. They wanted to be sure I told you that what we did then was extraordinary, and still is. Not only did we make a first ascent of that route from Tibet, no one, I repeat, no one, has successfully climbed our route since and it’s not for lack of trying. I hope you’re proud of that.”

  Are we? The room falls quiet.

  Jim clears his throat and steps up. “No one could have told me that I would be standing here twenty years later and feeling like it was one of the most important events of my life. By everybody showing up tonight”—he looks down to collect himself—“I think it’s a sign that this trip means a lot to all of us. Yeah, I feel proud.”

  “Proud, or more likely stupid!” Kevin blurts. “We didn’t know any better. It was way too windy up there. It was insane that day we climbed to Six! At one point, the fucking wind was so strong it picked a rock up off the face and hurled it at me. That rock came from below, not from above!”

  Barry says, “Yeah, and that same day, I remember planting my pick in the snow and admiring the perfectly turned bamboo shaft of my new Chouinard ice axe. So there I was facing in, right? The next thing I knew I was on my back, facing out, looking at Tibet. Then another gust slammed me back hard into the face so I was looking at my ice axe again, as if I was a door swinging open and slamming shut.” Barry slapped his hands together, “Bam! Just like that. Yep, we were either really tough or really stupid.”

  Kevin butts Barry’s shoulder and says, “Stupid! Like I said before, we didn’t know any better.”

  “Oh yeah.” Barry grabs Kevin’s arm and says, “So we’d decided to use oxygen that day for the first time, right? And ‘Wally’ here says, ‘If I’ve gotta use this shit, I’m gonna use it!’ And in classic all-or-nothing Doyle style, he cranks his regulator to full and runs out of O’s halfway across the face. But he still makes it to Six!”

  Everyone in the room is listening carefully. I realize that the partners and supporters are hearing these stories for the first time and, in a way, so are we. None of us had dared to recount the events then with such generous admission to hardship. The only way to go on was to normalize what would be unacceptable conditions at any other time.

  I shiver with the thought and feel Robin pull me in, his hand kneading my shoulder. Earlier that day I had asked him and Daniel to stay long enough to meet the team and then they could go. Daniel has slipped out, and Robin could have by now. But he stays. I want to say to him, “See, aren’t they amazing, wasn’t that something? It really did happen!” A swell of pride takes me by surprise, and with a force that I have never felt before.

  Barry’s chest thrusts out and his shoulders angle back, defying decades of carrying heavy packs that threatened to shape them otherwise. His once-cropped, jet black wavy hair is now intermingled with grey and tied into a ponytail reaching halfway down his back. I have always envied his storytelling prowess. Blessed with a gravelly purr, he turns out one story after another, winning our rapt attention by including his “contribution to science.” He says, “I was by myself at Camp Five one night feeling a little bored and found myself wondering if it was possible to ejaculate at 7,600 metres above sea level. The answer is: affirmative.”

  Kevin punches his arm. “What a stud, Blanchard!” Many people were surprised that Barry wasn’t one of the summiteers and deemed him noble for giving his spot to me. This interpretation of events used to irk me because I thought, Why not me! I deserve it as much as the next man! But I was a woman, and women were sometimes expected to walk first through the doorway and sometimes not at all. On the other hand, I thought my stepping forward to claim a spot on the first team was selfish. Perhaps it surprised us all when I stepped up, and he aside. Thinking about it now, I believe he is indeed noble.

  Jane steps forward, her face aglow with determination. “Woody! We were so bad and so good together! But damn! I always thought I should have been the climber and you, the cook. I’d give your skinny little back those massages when you came down from carrying up high. But the worst was on our way home from Everest when they’d ask me”—her voice lowers—“‘Are you the woman?’ Christ, that bugged me!” Yes, that bugged me too. It had separated me from us.

  “Dan Griffith!” Jane’s finger rounds on him. “What an asshole! You were sick and frustrated because you couldn’t climb high and you took it out on me, didn’t you? I’ve held onto my resentment for all these years—so many years. Tonight, I forgive you. And I’m genuinely happy for you for finally climbing Everest at fifty-seven years old, and for climbing the Seven Summits in world-record time. Congratulations.” She exhales and the rest of the room does too.

  All eyes are on Dan. Everyone has stopped, mid-pour, mid-breath. I watch Dan’s head rise in an expression of surprise that I’ve never seen before. I expected that hint-of-a-sneer look that says, Do you realize who you’re talking to? Has something softened that shell? Otherwise, all he has to show for the passage of time is some grey in his full head of thick, wavy hair and lines etched a little deeper into his face. He slowly looks up from the floor, proffers a gentle smile and tips his glass toward Jane.

  As she takes a gulp from her glass, I want to jump in and credit Dan for the difference he made for me—for the team: the talk he gave me at Camp Two, the way he helped me understand that this was our climb and he wasn’t giving up when I unravelled at Camp Five. But I am still gathering my thoughts when Jane turns to Albi.

  “Albi Sole,” she continues, “I’ve got something to say to you too.” Albi has been leaning up against the wall, wedged into the overflow in the hall, and uncharacteristically quiet. He has shown up tonight in a button-down shirt and cravat with his thinning hair neatly combed back, looking every inch the devoted husband, father of three children and Mountain Programs Coordinator and Operations Manager at the University of Calgary. He uncrosses his arms then crosses them again, unable to predict whether Jane will bite him or stroke him.


  She says, “You are one classy guy. You”—she looks up and then back at Albi—“you were the only one who had the courage to stand up for me when Dan was giving me such a hard time. No one talked to Dan like that. No one! I’ll never forget that. Thank you.”

  Albi tips forward in a slight bow to Jane. He pulls at his shirt collar and cranes his neck to look at Jim. I brace myself. A few years after we returned from Everest, Albi wrote a letter in a climbing publication accusing Jim of manipulating the trip for his own fame and glory. It had cut Jim to the core. Albi says, “Jim, I really thought you were a scheming, controlling bastard for what you did to me. But I forgive you.” I think, What Jim did to him or what I did to him? A few years before, Albi told me he’d thought I was his ticket to the summit. “I’m good with all that now,” he’d said. But now I keep my eyes on him until he shoots me a wink.

  “It’s my turn to say something,” says Dave, clearing his throat. “I was down at Camp Two and Dr. Bob had just diagnosed me with retinal hemorrhages. I knew then that I’d lost my chance for the summit. Worse, my wife hadn’t been writing me so I had no idea how my son was doing. I was feeling lonely and sorry for myself. But one morning I crawled out of my tent and found all these balloons tied to it, and I remembered it was my birthday. Jane had baked me a cake at Camp Two! That was really special. You went above and beyond to look after all of us, Jane. Thank you.”

  I scan the crowd to see who else might speak. James and I live in the same town and have climbed together many times since the expedition. He rarely says a word about Everest and it’s no surprise he doesn’t tonight. He once told me he looked at Everest as just another trip. “Once you’re finished,” he said, “you unpack your bags—period—end of trip.” I couldn’t agree then, and I still don’t.

  I imagined, as recently as this morning, that for many of the members on the team, Everest left them with questions and regrets. Some, I had thought, still hadn’t recovered from Everest ’82, let alone Everest Light. Sure, you can unpack your bags, but how do you leave the effect of the mountain behind?