Just Another Mountain

by Sarah Jane Douglas

  She talked at length, and I was touched that she had told me about her boyfriend so I decided to tell her my whole story: that I had brought my mother’s ashes with me.

  ‘That’s amazing. You should write a book!’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I laughed.

  Dingboche village was still a further two hours away. The thinning air was cold, dry and causing shortening of breath. The going was hard. We all wore neckerchiefs over our noses and mouths to protect our skin from the ultraviolet rays, and also to help prevent the dusty, dry air from giving us the renowned Khumbu cough. It was a relief finally to see a modest collection of teahouses come into view; we would have an extra day and night’s acclimatisation here – and I for one was grateful for the rest. That evening dinner was pizza, chips and spaghetti with a tomato sauce followed by delicious apple, and for the first time in ages I was actually able to enjoy what I had been given. The antibiotics at last seemed to be working.

  As I lay in my sleeping bag I said a silent and wholly selfish prayer: Dear God, Please let me get a great sleep. I’ve been running on empty and haven’t had a non-trekking day since I’ve been ill. I really need to be fit and well so I can take my mum to Gerry. Amen.

  God must have been listening. I woke up the following morning feeling awesome. Even the skies were a cheerful blue. I took photos of the mountains; like wintry queens, they were resplendent in their glittering white cloaks. Icy fluting thrust upwards like giant folds while plumes of spindrift from the highest peaks blew from summit crests like delicate trains. Clouds were being born: the sun their sire, and the mountains their dame!

  At breakfast I ate all my porridge and had a pancake with lots of apple jam then chilled out on a chair in the dusty courtyard to take in the view. Straight ahead, soaring to 6,812 metres, was Ama Dablam – possibly the most perfect mountain I’d ever seen. Its lower reaches were blocked from sight by the green, corrugated long-drop toilet that was built on top of eight stone steps, and in front it, piled up high, was a giant, dome-shaped mound of yak dung drying in the sun.

  ‘It’s an incredible mountain, isn’t it?’ said Paul as he came and sat on the chair next to me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied, nodding towards the toilet and dung with a smile, ‘But there’s always gotta be some kinda shit to spoil things . . . yak shit . . . get it?’

  ‘You’re obviously on the mend,’ he said with a broad grin.

  My hand in his, we took a leisurely walk up the main street of Dingboche, a precarious, pot-holed thread of dirt. A narrow channel of none-too-clean-looking water ran its length. It was piped up from the river below, and locals were using a bucket to scoop out water to use for cooking, washing and drinking. Busy at work behind a low dry-stone dyke wall, a large woman in a long pink skirt, apron, blue top and headscarf was flinging yak muck across her land, and as we ventured further more mountains revealed themselves. Island Peak with its brown triangular face looked dwarfed by its neighbour, Lhotse.

  ‘Gerry climbed Island Peak in one day. Maybe we could come back here to climb it too?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ said Paul.

  I felt excited. I wanted to go everywhere Gerry had been, to see the landscape as he might have seen it. As I had felt in the Scottish hills, and on the rock in North Wales, it somehow made me feel closer to him and therefore my mum.

  Returning through the village, we found an open kiosk. It was the largest store there and only the size of a two-door wardrobe, but among its variety of useful items, and with Mum and Gerry in mind, I purchased a set of prayer flags.

  At eleven o’clock Paul, Harry, Dawa and I hiked over the hill to Pheriche while the rest of the group went higher up into the hillside to aid acclimatisation. We were planning to attend the Himalayan Rescue Association (HRA) talk on mountain sickness and how to recognise signs of pulmonary and cerebral oedema. A chorten-splattered hilltop separated the two settlements of Dingboche and Pheriche, and as we approached Pheriche, Dawa spotted a lammergeier, its wide wings stroking the air in an effortless glide. Feeling emotional to have my first sighting of Gerry’s favourite bird, I took its sighting as a good sign. Having threaded our way down steep scree to the wide valley floor, we continued along winding dirt paths to the Himalayan Lodge, where we had lunch. Soon after eating Paul was out of sorts.

  ‘That went straight through me. My guts are rank,’ he groaned.

  ‘Start on the antibiotics. Here, take mine just now,’ I told him firmly.

  To kill some time before the talk we wandered around the settlement.

  ‘Have you noticed a pattern with the clouds, Paul?’ I asked, as they rose up from the lower valleys, bringing with them strong winds. ‘Mornings are often quite clear, but by early afternoon they gather and stampede upwards enveloping everything with their mists.’

  He mumbled agreement, but I could tell that he was too distracted by his stomach. And I now became preoccupied with what the clouds were doing. If I stood any chance of finding the memorial cairn my good-weather window would only last till early afternoon. I worried away to myself.

  Early evening, back in the teahouse at Dingboche, the porters, Sherpa and Sirdar crowded around a table with John Peacock’s map opened out. They pointed at the inked-in cross – where John thought we would locate the memorial cairn. Although I had no comprehension of Nepalese it was clear that Chote was explaining about Gerry and the accident on Nuptse. Many pairs of sympathetic brown eyes looked up at me, but there was something else that I recognised in their gaze, which I tried to ignore – I could tell they didn’t think that we were going to find what I was looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Deliverance

  Chukhung, 9—10 May 2014

  ‘Today is the day he died you know,’ I said to Paul.

  ‘I know,’ he said affectionately, rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand.

  We carried on in an easterly direction to Chukhung, at 4,730 metres. Low-growing shrubs were ever sparser and the trail became rockier. And, just when I thought I’d seen the most spectacular perspective of Ama Dablam, I was treated to yet another as we contoured its opposite hillside. Immense hanging glaciers and tiered fluting, luxurious folds and furls, coated the mountain like thick Christmas-cake icing. Ahead were Island Peak, Lhotse and Nuptse, its deadly snow couloir coming increasingly into focus. A continuous series of ridges punctured the skyline like ferociously sharp angular fangs, while luminous peaks stood out against the piercing blue. Studying the mountain faces through binoculars, I marvelled at the vivid creations in ice, sculpted by the elements. It was like looking through a kaleidoscope: a vision of dark, fractured geometrical lines, wedges and coils. Vapour lifted off into the air, twisting and furling like flames, changing the mood and appearance of the landscape. The scene was mesmerising; its wildness resonated within me. Did Gerry feel this same wonderment? Do you feel it, Mum? I think that you do. And tomorrow, Gerry, we’re coming to find you. We are on our way!

  We arrived at Chukhung in time for lunch. Porters had already set up tents in the earthen makeshift camping ground. Our team grouped inside a spectacularly filthy wooden shack whose tables and surfaces were covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs. It was like a scene in an abandoned railroad house from an old western movie. Soup was served. Rushing our food, Paul and I escaped the dirt and the drone of bluebottles as they bounced off the windowpanes. Out in the fresh air, we descended the stone steps and sat on the dusty wall to wait for the others.

  Following the rule of walk high, sleep low, for the first time our whole group left together for a short but steep acclimatisation hike towards the mountain Chukhung Ri. It felt warm in the sunshine when we eventually stopped, and Paul and I sat on a rock as if it were a seat with the gods, taking in the views of our grandiose surroundings. In front of us a castellated horseshoe of serrated peaks like the teeth of a saw glistened brilliantly white against a perfectly blue sky. The grey, blistered tongue of the Ama Dablam Glacier stretched its way t
o vanishing point down the Chukhung valley. The smell of heathers reminded me of home. Birds sang in the stillness, and butterflies danced frivolously.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Paul. ‘I’m a bit breathless.’

  ‘I’m okay. I did have a small nagging headache but it seems to be going.’

  We didn’t speak much. There was no need. We watched as everyone trekked back down the hillside. There was no hurry to leave so we stayed on our rock together, in contemplation of the day, before we too returned to camp. Inside our tent we addressed the ritual unpacking of our holdalls, pumped up our mats and unrolled sleeping bags. I combed through my long, knotted hair while Paul, leaning up on his elbow, watched the battle with a smile. We remained in silence.

  Fishing in my bag, I pulled out the set of prayer flags that I’d bought at Dingboche and linked them up, wishing that I was trekking my way to Gerry with them right then. I tried to console myself, as well as prepare for disappointment. What’s one more day in the scheme of things? Even if we don’t locate the cairn tomorrow, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I can make my own cairn, drape my flags, say words, and then I can send Mum to find him. I looked forward to delivering my eulogy – not least because fragments of it were on a perpetual loop in my mind, driving me to distraction.

  Chote walked over to wish me well, but his tidings came with a warning. ‘I have passed by this place many times and have never seen what you are looking for.’

  My heart sank to my stomach. As Chote left I turned to Paul and rested my head against his shoulder.

  ‘Do you think we’ll find the cairn?’

  ‘We’ll try,’ Paul said. I didn’t want to think about the possibility of failure. I had to believe that we would find it. Shuffling closer to him in my sleeping bag, I closed my eyes, but my unfulfilled business called out to me like a siren as I drifted towards sleep.

  ‘Wahsheeng waterrrrr!’ yelled the kitchen porter outside our tent as 10 May dawned. His voice was alarming, like a giant gong resonating. It was amazing how we made the small basin of tepid water meet our needs. ‘Teea!’ Dawa called five minutes later, thrusting a hand through the nylon flap and holding out a cup for Paul. ‘No tea, didi?’ he asked – every day, always addressing me using the same term of endearment, meaning ‘sister’.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I’d reply – every day. Breakfast was at six-thirty, and Chote had decided that Dawa, who spoke better English than Jangbu, was the best candidate to take Paul and me on our mission.

  Paul, Dawa and I left, kicking up orange dust with each step. I watched Paul’s head bobbing up and down ahead of me. I was glad he was here with me. Our pace was reasonably quick as we ascended the sandy trail, and clouds began to disperse as the day heated up. Contouring the hillside, we followed Dawa mostly in silence; it was taxing enough to draw breath.

  ‘Is Bibre below?’ I panted.

  ‘No, it’s over the next ridge.’

  Although I thought I’d studied the lie of the land well as we’d passed by the day before, I recognised very little: lumps, bumps and scars on the grey landscape – they all looked the same and I realised how reliant we were on Dawa to guide us in the right direction.

  ‘Do you know where we are going?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve never been up this valley before,’ he said, shaking his head. I literally couldn’t fucking believe it. When we stopped for a drink, I gave him my map as well as John Peacock’s small colour photographs.

  ‘Let’s climb up to the top of that ridge; maybe it’ll give us a better viewpoint,’ I suggested.

  We carried on along a faint path which then descended to a dried riverbed of black stones. Waves of optimism came and went. I recalled meeting John the previous summer, when he had spread his old map of the Khumbu Himal across the table in the supermarket café. It had all looked so straightforward then. But here I was, not a large fingertip on a thin contour line, but a small person enclosed in an enormous, ribbed and alien landscape. The only reference point was the mountain itself, Nuptse, towering ahead on our right. Dawa still had the map. My only clue as to where we were, roughly, was when Paul raised his hand, palm out-turned to invite mine.

  ‘High five!’ he said.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ I asked excitedly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why’d you high-five me then?’

  ‘Because we’ve reached the 5,000 metres mark,’ he answered, tapping the altimeter on his watch. ‘That’s where the cross was drawn onto the map, isn’t it?’ We checked the map against the landscape, and sure enough the geographical features looked about right, but the photographs didn’t marry up. We discussed where we thought we might be. ‘I think we should aim for the “V” shape on the horizon line at the head of the valley,’ said Paul. I felt agitated.

  ‘But according to John’s cross on the map the cairn should be somewhere around here. I want to go up higher, onto that ridge on the right; maybe we’ll see more?’ We were penned in on our left by the jagged black rock of Dingogma; its dark, brittle shards, arranged in stacks and chimneys, were a stark contrast to the white of Nuptse, which soared skywards on our right. And the return view of Ama Dablam was imposing and authoritative. I felt tiny in this gigantic arena, and Chote’s words haunted me. ‘I have passed by this place many times and have never seen what you are looking for.’

  Fitter and better adapted to higher altitude, Dawa raced ahead. Paul and I followed behind across the stony, egg-box terrain. But when I next looked up, Paul was pulling further away from me and Dawa had completely disappeared. Despite my best effort to get his attention Paul was too far ahead, and my voice too small to be heard. Irrationally, I felt vulnerable. Try as I might, I physically couldn’t get myself up the damn moraine any faster. Each intake of breath seemed piercing in the rarefied air, my lungs felt like they were going to collapse as they laboured. ‘Fucking-fuckity-fuck,’ I muttered. ‘This is so not cool. Not cool, at all.’ I felt panic that I’d be left behind, but had to stop to let my heart regain rhythm so that I could try to get control over my breath in order to yell out. Paul stopped and looked around. Thank God.

  ‘Where’s Dawa, did you see where he went?’ I called. But Paul shook his head. I shouted. ‘DAWA!’ No answer. I knew he wouldn’t have abandoned us and we weren’t really lost, but we were in vast surroundings – and I had an important job to do. Minutes seemed like hours.

  ‘He’s here!’ Paul called. He had topped out and spied Dawa, sitting on a rock poring over the map. Relieved, I puffed up onto the ridge and was suddenly struck by the sight of Nuptse’s south face, now in full view. For a moment my unquiet mind became still.

  ‘I think this is the area of the Base Camp,’ Dawa said, bringing me back to the present.

  I felt elated. ‘Will we find the memorial?’

  ‘No,’ he said, his soft, brown eyes looking directly into mine, ‘I don’t think so.’ The waves of optimism and deflation tormented me. Turning my head to hide my disappointment, I fixed my gaze along the ridge of lateral moraine. We’d been walking for hours. I gulped at the cold air. Early-afternoon clouds now sat across the base of Ama Dablam; it wouldn’t be long before they would conceal our views completely. Time was running out, but I wasn’t prepared to give up.

  Taking John’s photographs, Paul wandered off and so did Dawa. And I just stood and stared at the mountain that changed the course of my mother’s, and my, entire life. As I studied the route to its peak I now saw how it was possible that Gerry had fallen all 1,800 metres from its top to the bottom. I glanced around. Paul and Dawa were far enough away. ‘Please, Gerry! Show us the way!’ I implored. ‘I’ve brought my mum to you! She’s here now.’ I knew my pleas could not be answered, but it didn’t stop my own superstitious hope. And if his spirit was awakened, I hoped that it leapt with joy.

  As I followed Paul, I focused on Nuptse. I could see the bergschrund at its base and wondered if Gerry’s body might still be there, perfectly entombed in ice. I wanted to go and f
ind him, but that wish was futile too. The sweeping hands of my watch ticked on, and I resigned myself to the fact that we were not going to locate the memorial cairn. I decided then that where I stood would be as good a place as any to build my own shrine.

  I was emotional. How could something so breathtakingly beautiful have been the cause of such untold misery?

  ‘Come here a minute,’ Paul called. I turned in his direction. He beckoned me to him. His simple gesture caused another tidal wave of optimism. I tried to suppress the sensation, afraid of disappointment, as I made my way over. Resting his hand upon my shoulder, he pointed down towards an amorphous lump. ‘Look down there, can you see it?’ I strained my neck forward and screwed up my eyes to scan the scene. Others would scarcely have noticed the collection of rocks piled together against a larger boulder; anyone could be forgiven for missing it, camouflaged as it was. Tears filled my eyes.

  ‘What a wonderful miracle!’ I said, the words choking out of my mouth. Against the odds, and down to Paul’s perseverance in trying to match up the old photos against the landscape, he had found the memorial cairn.

  Already halfway down, Dawa called, ‘Be careful, didi. It’s very steep and loose rocks.’

  Swallowing back tears and composing myself, I picked a way down the scree from our high point. I staggered over to a large rock and sat down in a joyous daze. Paul handed over the tiny, crumpled pictures as he joined me: the memorial cairn with Nuptse towering behind, Base Camp with Pokalde in the distance, the Alouette rescue helicopter near Base Camp with Ama Dablam in sharp focus to the south – they all matched up. Base Camp’s position was perfectly sensible: right next to a glacial lake, lying at a low point between the big mountains, providing good shelter and situated well enough for the team to view progress on Nuptse through binoculars. Checking the map, I realised how earlier confusion over the memorial cairn’s location had arisen – we were just over 3 kilometres north-northeast, and 188 metres higher in elevation, than the little black cross marked on the map. The cairn had stood almost unchanged for thirty-nine years; all that was missing was the aluminium cross.