Beyond the Summit (41 page)

As they were discussing who should take him down, Dorje spotted the climbing Sherpas about forty-five minutes below, having apparently left Camp II before sunrise to carry straight through to the South Col. Seizing the opportunity to prove himself, he said, “One of them can take Roger down, and I will move his supplies on to Camp IV.”

“I’ll help Roger too,” Henri added. “I’ve been trying to hide it, but I’m not doing well up here. I’m sick, can’t sleep, have bizarre visions. It’s just not safe. I’m sorry, Paul, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. You need to choose a new partner.”

“No need to apologize. We knew coming over here that only half of the members were likely to summit. I’m just sad to lose you.”

As they prepared Roger for the descent, the discussion turned to the cause of the flying ice and everything pointed at Marty. Under pressure, he finally admitted to having accidentally dislodged it with his axe in his eagerness to set more pitons and move up the wall faster.

Disgusted, Paul made no attempt to hide his feelings. “That impatience of yours could be fatal. So curb it.”

Without supplemental oxygen, the Darjeeling Sherpas arrived giving out short staccato whistles through their teeth to keep their spirits up. The oldest seemed relieved to hand over his porter’s duties and take Roger down. Marty and Paul each took one of the tents so Dorje could take on the old man’s share of the supplies. Feeling a bit cocky, Dorje removed his mask but was soon humbled as he tried keeping up with the other two Sherpas who had come all the way from the Cwm while he was only carrying the load of a man twenty years his senior. After an additional short climb up the face, the route veered left and traversed the Yellow Band: a series of steep, broad ledges of brittle sedimentary shale, limestone, and sandstone. The crampons that had provided secure footing on ice and snow now skittered on the rocks and twice Dorje lost his balance. Finally reaching the Geneva Spur, the party climbed directly upwards on the huge, strenuous rock ridge. Once on top, they followed a long but gentle traverse across rocky terrain to Camp IV on the South Col at 26,300 feet.

Sinking onto the bare surface, Dorje shrugged off the load and slapped on his oxygen mask. Listening to the now-comforting hiss, he surveyed Camp IV, the final staging area for the assault. It was a desolate, inhospitable plateau of wind-swept black rocks and bluish ice. Its flatness with a 7,000-foot drop off into Tibet on the east and a 4,000-drop to the Western Cwm on the west was how Dorje had imagined the edges of the world as a child before a westerner convinced him the earth was round. The heat reflecting of the black rocks surrounding the Cwm now seemed inviting with freezing temperatures and a gale-force wind tearing across the exposed col. Deep snow covered the adjacent slopes but everything not frozen into place appeared to have been blown off into Tibet.

Removing his mask, Paul spoke within inches of Dorje’s ear, “This is the windiest spot on the earth. It never stops blowing here. It’s also the world’s highest garbage dump,” he added, referring to the hundreds of empty oxygen canisters, shreds of frozen canvas, bent metal poles, and empty food tins. “We have to get the tents up so the Sherpas can sleep here tonight and then set fixed ropes towards the summit tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell them” Dorje shouted back. Although completely spent, he couldn’t lose face in front of two who had carried all the way from Camp II in one day. Offering to help, he had no idea how daunting the task was. Gripping the edges with gloved hands, they wrestled flapping canvas that knocked them off their feet and bent the poles. In desperation, Dorje threw himself on top to hold a tent down while the Sherpas anchored it with rocks, poles, and climbing ropes. Marty and Paul took refuge in the first one while the Sherpas erected the second with an even greater struggle. Exhausted, the Darjeeling Sherpas and Dorje crawled inside and collapsed with the tent walls slapping and whipping about them.

When he could finally breathe without thinking he’d faint, Dorje spoke to the Sherpas for whom he now had the greatest respect. “How could you come all that way in one day and without oxygen?”

Zopa, whose name meant patience, answered, “We didn’t tire ourselves carrying from Base Camp like you, foolish boy. But you are much stronger than I thought.”

“And have proven yourself worthy,” added Namkha whose face was worn by wind and sun. “But be careful. I have seen accidents when decisions are made in haste.”

“Then you’ve been here before?” Dorje asked.

“Many times,” said Zopa. “We came with the large American expedition in 1963. Nine hundred porters carried 27 tons of supplies to the Base Camp. We set the ropes but only six Americans reached the summit.”

The three talked for half an hour while Paul and Marty rested for the return trip. Dorje learned Zopa and Namkha were from Phakding and had carried and set lines for several expeditions. They and other Sherpas had moved to Darjeeling many years earlier seeking work and had been on the mountain from the Tibetan side as well. Now that the climbing ban had been lifted, they were home again. Dorje wanted to spend the entire night learning from them but Paul raised the tent flap to say it was time to descend in order to reach Camp II before dark. Giddy with the prospect of the Sherpas’ support of his ascent, Dorje emulated them by making it all the way down to the Cwm without oxygen and felt stronger with every step.

Dorje, Marty, and Paul slogged into a nearly deserted camp after dark. Jarvis joined them in the dining tent for hot tea, soup, and noodles. He explained that Henri, Roger, and the Sherpa pushed on down to Camp I and he’d heard the Americans had descended to Base Camp to rest for a few days because Sean was sick.

“That leaves just the three of us for the first assault,” Marty said.

Paul peered at him over a cup of tea with the steam rising in his face. “You should join your American friends who have enough sense to go down when they’re not well.” When Marty shot an accusing look at Dorje, Paul added, “He didn’t have to say anything. I heard you last night and we’ve all been listening to you cough for weeks. Plus you look like a walking cadaver with bones showing through your clothes.”

“I always lose weight at altitude,” Marty announced with an impatient edge in his voice. “We all do. It doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve never been more ready.”

“Well, you’re not climbing with me,” Jarvis said reaching for more tea. “I don’t trust you.”

“Nor do I,” added Paul. “Try your countrymen. Maybe they’re used to the likes of you.”

Marty slumped in the chair, staring at his fidgeting hands. “They’ve been climbing buddies since high school and already said they’re going alone.”

Paul pushed away from the table to leave. “Sorry, but can’t risk it. Not with you or Marty. I’ll take my chances with Jarvis here. Right now, I’m exhausted and need to grab some sleep. Suggest you do too.”

When the others left, Dorje stayed behind to ponder his choices. He had promised Beth to only carry, but he was so close to turning his dream of standing on Everest into a reality. And it might be his last chance if he goes to America with her. How could he not try even if it meant climbing with the only man left—Marty? Once again they were forced to share a tent. Dorje tossed his bag inside. “We must talk.”

“And they don’t want you along either because you don’t know what you’re doing.” Marty pulled his bag over his chin and his hat down over his ears. “Since neither of us can go alone, I figure we’re stuck with each other. When we come down, Beth can choose the better man and it will be me.” Trying not to explode, Dorje rustled in his bag to get comfortable. “Then it is decided?” Marty asked

“I have no other choice.”
Freezing, Dorje curled in on himself and imagined Beth was lying in his arms. He could feel her warmth and smell her skin and hair. Taking a long, deep breath, he was at ease with himself once more and confident of their future.

The next day Dorje began his new role as climbing member and no longer had to carry. He, Jarvis, Paul, and Marty rested in the Cwm while the Darjeeling Sherpas moved food and oxygen to the South Col and finished setting the fixed ropes above it. Fresh from Base Camp, the Americans chose to acclimate and be the third assault team. When the weather looked promising four days later, the first team of Jarvis and Paul prepared to leave for Camp III the following morning.

At sunrise, clouds with a crisp, red glow outlining their frayed edges hung over the camp as Sherpas conducted a
puja
. Having returned to the Cwm, Zopa and Namkha tied blessed
sungdis
around every piece of equipment and passed them through juniper smoke to bathe them in protective incense. Sitting cross-legged before prayer flags fluttering in the breeze, Zopa asked the gods for understanding and tolerance of their actions. Eyes closed, Dorje chanted a mantra to bring himself into a meditative state with a clear mind able to receive the wisdom of the deities in complete awareness. Once again, he sought forgiveness for his sins of quarreling and being guilty of too much desire. At the conclusion, everyone chanted in unison in a long rising tone while tossing handfuls of
tsampa
skyward. Then they rubbed the remainder into each other’s hair and faces to incorporate the blessing.

After Jarvis and Paul departed for Camp III, Dorje discreetly asked Mark for help in composing a letter to Beth. “If I don’t come back, promise you’ll give it to her.” Mark’s smile reached all the way to his compassionate green eyes as he printed words dictated from Dorje’s heart for him to then copy with his own awkward handwriting.

To my beautiful Beth. Tomorrow I will leave for the top of Everest. Please understand why I must do this. It is my fate and I want to make you proud of me so you will never be ashamed. If I do not return, know that our spirits will always be together in this life and all those that follow. You are my sunrise and my sunset. You will always feel my arms around you and my lips on yours. I will never stop loving you. This I promise with my entire heart. From the man who loves you more than his own life. Dorje.

He wished he spoke better English so the words could express the true depth of his love, but it didn’t matter because the letter was needed only if some freak accident occurred.

Waiting for Marty the next morning, Dorje stared at the stunning 360-degree scenery around him: a series of icefalls on one side, the southwest face of Everest on the other, the Lhotse face, and the Nuptse wall with its contorted wavy lines of sedimentary rock. The mountains seemed less ominous in the early light with their forbidding faces lost in deep shadows and the sun catching their delicate snow flutings glimmering above the blue ice. Dorje felt healthy and strong again, ready to take on the mountain.

When they arrived at Camp III on the Lhotse face six hours later, Marty crawled into the tent in a convulsive fit of coughing and waved at Dorje to give him the oxygen they had agreed to conserve for sleeping. After regulating it for a low flow, the American rested while Dorje melted ice for cooking. Neither felt like consuming much.

“We’re almost there,” Marty said, breathing easier now without the mask and sipping hot lemon drink. “There’s no turning back this time . . . for any reason. I can’t fail him again.”

Dorje knew he meant the father he’d talked about months ago, and he remembered thinking what an awful person to force his son into things against his nature. Generally not caring what anyone else thought, Marty desperately sought his father’s approval and that need cast a dangerous pall over him. Nervously ruffling his hands through hair grown long and shaggy again, Marty said, “In spite of our differences over Beth, you must keep your promise to go to the top. No turning back this time.” Dorje was still too angry to give Marty the reassurance he wanted even though he intended to go because he wanted it for himself.