Dead Lucky (38 page)

“No,” he said.

“So what do you think?”

He paused for a moment, then smiled and said, “That you are a real man, after all.”

A real man in the Russian sense—vodka-swilling, ice axe-wielding, bride-selling. I had to laugh with him.

Mingma continued to answer questions on behalf of the Sherpas, but I only became more confused. I thanked everyone, and then we closed the meeting with some group photos.

WE HAD FIVE full days at Kathmandu, and by the evening of the fifth day I had still not been able to track down Andrew or Myles. I figured the best thing to do was to be at the Kathmandu Guest House at breakfast time the next day, in the hope of catching Andrew before he went out. Ang Karma came with me, and to my delight my plan worked. At a table in the outside eating area, I spotted not only Andrew but also Dan Mazur and Andrew's wife, Jennifer. With them was a man whom I did not know, taking notes.

We were flying to Bangkok that afternoon, so I was not looking for a long conversation. What I really wanted to convey to Andrew were the important omissions from my spaced-out conversation at Advance Base Camp a week earlier. I explained to him that, now that I was thinking more clearly, I wanted to thank him personally for looking after me and for giving up his summit climb for me. It seemed to go down well. The man with the notepad took photos of the four of us.

My next task was to find Myles Osborne. They were able to name his hotel but could not tell me where it was. This was where Ang Karma helped greatly. He spoke to the shopkeepers who were opening up but hit a few dead ends. We hired a cycle-rickshaw in the interests of both speed and resting my foot. Gradually, we eliminated all alternatives and reached another dead end, which was where we found Myles's hotel.

But first I noticed Elizabeth Hawley, legendary chronicler of Himalayan expeditions, at an outside table with Dan's associate, Phil Crampton. I greeted Miss Hawley and introduced myself to Phil.

“Myles is inside,” said Phil. “He had a big night at the casino, so he could be feeling a bit seedy.”

He called out, and one of the hotel boys appeared. Phil asked him to fetch Myles. It was a few minutes before he arrived—hair tussled, T-shirt inside-out, but pleased to see me.

“So glad to catch you,” I said. “I'm flying out in a few hours so this was my absolute last chance. What a rabbit warren these alleys are.”

He smiled and said it was good to see me looking much better. “Thanks to you,” I said.

“Not really, you got yourself under way when the time came.”

“After you guys kept me alive.”

I also thanked him for giving up his summit for me.

That had to be the end of the conversation because I had to get back to the hotel and out to the airport. Karma took a photo of us, and we were on our way.

THERE WAS QUITE a farewell on the steps of the Radisson Hotel. Graeme Lade was there, along with Ang Tshering Sherpa and his manager, Dawa Sherpa, who between them ran Asian Trekking, the very successful expedition outfit engaged by Alex. Ang Karma and Kunga were there, of course, along with Lakpa and Uma, who managed different aspects of the World Expeditions trekking groups that stayed at the Radisson.

Mike snapped a couple of quick photos, then we were bundled into the embassy's van and were weaving through the traffic to the airport.

AS WE FLEW from Bangkok to Sydney, Barbara and I sat at the front of the plane. I had decided to devote the entire nine-hour flight to relaxing completely. My seat was tilted back, my feet were elevated, and I drifted into a deep sleep. When I awoke, Barbara was reading Salman Rushdie's
The Ground Beneath Her Feet.
Back at Wentworth Falls, while waiting to hear if I was dying, Barbara had been forced to put the book down. She had reached a phase of the story that had been full of death and loss, but she was well past that section now.

I turned to my left and looked out the window. The Java Sea looked metallic, a fluid mercury made yellow by the angle of the sun. The sharp-edged shadows of huge towers of monsoon cloud turned sections of sea to the gray-blue color of slate. The clouds themselves could have been progeny of benign nuclear explosions. It was an amazing sight. The sun shone onto me through the window, warming me and making me feel a part of the scene.

It was so beautiful that tears filled my eyes. I began to sob softly, and then without control. The scene was blurred by my tears.

“What's wrong?” asked Barbara, reaching across to hug me. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” I sobbed. “Absolutely nothing.”

At last I could let everything go.

FLOODLIGHTS REFLECTED OFF the veneer of rainwater that lay across the black tarmac as we taxied from the runway to the terminal building. Unlike Singapore, Cairns, or Seattle, Sydney is not a place where it rains very often, so I pondered the odd fact that when I flew into Sydney on an international flight, it usually seemed to be raining. Of course, my assessment may have been warped by my expectation of returning home to Sydney's perfect weather, leading me to take particular notice of the rainy days. Tonight it could have been raining cats, dogs, and gremlins and I wouldn't have cared.

After calling home from Bangkok, Simon had told us that his partner, Jenny Hunter, Himalayan Foundation board member Christine Gee, and my sister, Julia, had organized a pain-free re-entry to Australia. A wheelchair had been arranged for me so that I would not have to walk a long distance within the terminal. There would be a private room where family and friends could greet us, and a strategy was in place to manage the media.

The wheelchair awaited me, and as Barbara pushed me through the crowds that flooded in from the last flights of the night, I wondered what I could say to everyone waiting in the private room. I felt I owed them all an apology for the anguish I had unwittingly caused. Yet they would be delighted to see Barbara and me together again, and to see me as more than a fading picture in a newspaper. At the same time, I felt embarrassed because in my passing I had forced them to reveal how they felt about me. And even if I could articulate something appropriate, I had only the hoarsest of voices with which to speak. I was, however, excited by the thought of seeing everyone. Meeting these special people again would pull me back into the world I had known before Everest; it would be confirmation that life and friendship could now continue for all of us.

After Barbara, Simon, Mike, and I passed through immigration and customs, we were led away from the flow of travelers and taken through an unobtrusive door to the promised private room. There was a strange atmosphere, as if we had arrived at a party in a sterile room with not enough chairs before the hosts were ready. Handshakes were on hold because of my frostbite, but there were hugs and kisses all round. Words did not seem important. It seemed that I was not the only one who didn't know what to say. Light conversation was enough, because—for everyone else at least—the issues had been resolved.

The strangeness of the evening peaked with my introduction to the Australian media. Jenny had once managed the press office for Prime Minister Bob Hawke, so she knew how to lay down the law to the media. My wheelchair wanted to accelerate down the short ramp ahead of us, but Simon kept it under control. The press were in a huddle ten feet away, facing the door as it opened onto a broad corridor. With Jenny standing sternly behind him, Simon wheeled me out. I looked at the press and the press looked at me, and I realized that Jenny must have emphasized my fragility to the point where nobody wanted to utter the first word. Her warnings to the media must have been supported by my appearance— wild hair, wild beard, and eyes so wild they had changed color. Silence was the last thing I expected, so I made an announcement.

“It's great to be home,” I said. Cameras flashed and flashed. “Thank you for the enormous amount of support I have received since I came off the mountain. It has been fantastic.”

I fielded a question about my health—one question must have been Jenny's cutoff point—and for once the limit was respected.

I thanked everyone again, then Simon pulled me and the wheelchair back through the door. My departure from the press was as unobtrusive as my arrival had been.

THE NEXT MORNING the rain had stopped and it was a beautiful day. Julia had driven Barbara and me across the Harbour Bridge. We had turned eastward toward the coast, and now we drove down past Taronga Park Zoo toward the harbor. The zoo was where Bradley Trevor Greive had arranged the media conference for Christopher's Climb thirteen weeks ago to the day. Excitement and optimism had been the tone of that morning at the zoo, but today would be very different. Our destination was Athol Hall, a beautiful, historic building set within native bushland, which was where Sue Fear's memorial service was to be held.

The hall was packed with trekkers, climbers, guides, and other outdoors people. There were Sue's friends in the media, in the outdoor equipment industry, and those involved with the same charitable works. Old friends and new friends, and of course family. It was a blur for me to be among so many familiar faces. Maybe two hundred people crowded the hall, with even the standing room taken. The only open space left when we arrived was the wide central aisle between the blocks of seats. Again I was in a wheelchair to take the weight off my feet, so I was pushed down to the front row. I did not want to be up in the front. But this was not about what I wanted: it was about Sue, so I made every effort to hold myself together.

It was a beautiful service. The friends and family who spoke encapsulated the different facets of Sue Fear. I had heard the music that was played before, as the soundtracks to the CDs of images Sue had sent me, and so it took me back to those mountain scenes. Many of the images were projected as two separate slide shows by Soren Ledet, Sue's good friend and fellow guide. I could see every mountain in three dimensions because my heart and mind were still so close to the Himalaya.

Everyone was grieving for Sue in their own way. For me there were no concepts that had to be grasped, no visualized ideas. I had fallen in crevasses and rescued people from them. Thirteen days earlier—that number again—I had been stepping past bodies on Everest's summit ridge. And I could understand her spoken wish that if she were to die on a mountain, then her body should be left there. But understanding made things no easier.

Sue had always been one for a few beers and a good yarn, and it was pronounced, correctly so, that she would have preferred us all to enjoy her wake rather than mourn her passing. I saw Grahame Fear, her elder brother, and raising my weak voice as much as I could above the now noisy crowd, I told him how pleased I was that together Sue and I had managed to write
Fear No Boundary,
the story of her life and her climbs. The book was so much more important now, I said, because the inspiration that Sue delivered when she had been alive would be perpetuated in print.

With everyone standing, the aisles were now full of people, so there was no room for me in my wheelchair. Rather than having Barbara pushing me, I shuffled along with the wheelchair in front of me like a shopping cart. Many of our friends were here, but I apologized to everyone with a hug, telling them that we had flown in last night and that we needed to get home to see Dylan and Dorje.

Julia drove us to the Blue Mountains, which from the easternmost part of Sydney is a two-hour drive. Questions circulated in my mind during the journey—“Why me? Why am I the one who is alive?”—but at this stage there were no answers.

OUR TWO DOGS BARKED vigorously when Julia pulled up at our gate, as is their wont when strangers arrive. After only a week away Barbara was not exactly a stranger, but she brought with her a bevy of exotic aromas that ranged from Kathmandu streets to sanitized aircraft cabins. And although Julia had spent two days at our home when it seemed that the worst had happened, there had been so many visitors during that time that the dogs did not recognize her either. As for me, I was obviously a wild man. Quite apart from my long absence, I was different in appearance and demeanor and I was treated by the dogs as a complete stranger.

The barking of the dogs drew Dorje and Dylan out of the house.

“Hello, Dad,” said Dorje, hugging me strongly.

It was more of the same from Dylan.

“Welcome home, Dad,” he said, and hugged me long and hard.

Then all of us were laughing at Tosca, our big white Maremma sheep-dog, who was skirting around behind me, constantly barking as if I was an intruder.

As a homecoming, it was low-key. It felt strange because Barbara and I had not rushed up the highway immediately to see the boys, who had to remain in the Blue Mountains to attend school, under the care of Barbara's sister, Gaye. By staying in Sydney, I had felt only partway home. I was very glad not to have missed Sue's memorial service, as it brought me some closure to her death, but of course it took the exhilaration out of the joy I felt at returning home.

But now we were here at last, looking out over the wild uninhabited country to the south. A benign fading light led the spurs and ridgelines into shadow, leaving a dark silhouette to separate the earth from the sky. It was a quiet time of day, and finally I was at home again, with the secure, grounded feeling that I had kept the resolve I had made thirteen days earlier—to return alive to my wife, to our boys, to our big noisy dogs, and to the rest of our lives together.

POSTMORTEM

T
HE DAY I CLIMBED Mount Everest was the day I died. I lost my life, the tips of eight fingers, a toe and a half, thirty-seven pounds, and two-thirds of the energy I needed to live in my normal fashion. The tips of the fingers are gone for good, as are the toes, but I regained my life, some of my energy, and more than those thirty-seven pounds.