Peak
Authors: Roland Smith
Tags: #Miscellaneous, #Young adult fiction, #Family, #Action & Adventure, #Juvenile Fiction, #Bildungsromans, #Survival after airplane accidents; shipwrecks; etc, #Sports & Recreation, #Fiction, #Coming of age, #Mountaineering, #Parents, #Boys & Men, #Everest; Mount (China and Nepal), #General, #Survival, #Survival skills
Roland Smith
Table of Contents
A COUPLE OF STITCHES & THE SLAMMER
HARCOURT, INC.
Orlando Austin
New York San Diego
London
Copyright © 2007 by Roland Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be
submitted online at
www.harcourt.com/contact
or mailed to the following address:
Permissions Department, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
First Harcourt paperback edition 2008
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Smith, Roland, 1951–
Peak/Roland Smith.
p. cm.
Summary: A fourteen-year-old boy attempts to be the youngest person to reach
the top of Mount Everest.
[1. Mountaineering—Fiction. 2. Everest, Mount (China and Nepal)—Fiction.
3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Coming of age—Fiction.] I.Title.
PZ7.S65766Pe 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006024325
ISBN 978-0-15-202417-8
ISBN 978-0-15-206268-2 pb
Text set in Plantin
Designed by April Ward
H G F E D C B A
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this book are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any
organization, event, or actual person, living or dead, is unintentional.
This book is for Marie, for giving me all the things that matter
MOLES KINE #1
THE ASSIGNMENT
MY NAME IS PEAK.
Yeah, I know: weird name. But you don't get to pick your name or your parents. (Or a lot of other things in life for that matter.) It could have been worse. My parents could have named me Glacier, or Abyss, or Crampon. I'm not kidding. Accordin to my mom all those names were on the list.
Vincent, my literary mentor (at your school this would be your English teacher), asked me to write this for my year-end assignment (no grades at our school).
When Vincent reads the sentence you just read he'll say:
Peak, that is a run-on sentence and chaotically parenthetical.
(That's how he talks.) Meaning it's a little confusing and choppy. And I'll tell him that my life is (parenthetical) and the chaos is due to the fact that I'm starting this assignment in the back of a Toyota pickup in Tibet (aka China) with an automatic pencil that doesn't have an eraser and it's not likely that I'm going to find an eraser around here.
Vincent has also said that a good writer should draw the reader in by starting in the middle of the story with a
hook,
then go back and fill in what happened before the
hook.
Once you have the reader hooked you can write whatever you want as you slowly reel them in.
I guess Vincent thinks readers are fish. If that's the case, most of Vincent's fish have gotten away. He's written something like twenty literary novels, all of which are out of print. If he knew what he was talking about why do I have to search the dark, moldering aisles of used-book stores to find his books?
(Now I've done it. But remember this, Vincent:
Writers should tell the brutal truth in their own voice and not let individuals, society, or consequences dictate their words!
And you thought no one was listening to you in class. You also know that I really like your books, or I wouldn't waste my time trying to find them. Nor would I be trying to get this story down in the back of a truck in Tibet.)
Speaking of which...
This morning we slowed down to get around a boulder the size of a school bus that had fallen in the middle of the road. In the U.S.A. we would use dynamite or heavy equipment to move it. In Tibet they use picks, sledgehammers, and prisoners in tattered, quilted coats to chip the boulder down to nothing. The prisoners smiled at us as we tried not to run over their shackled feet on the narrow road. Their cheerful faces were covered in nicks and cuts from rock shrapnel. Those not chipping used crude wooden wheelbarrows to move the man-made gravel over to potholes, where very old Tibetan prisoners used battered shovels and rakes to fill in the holes. Chinese soldiers in green uniforms and with rifles slung over their shoulders stood around fifty-gallon burn barrels smoking cigarettes. The prisoners looked happier than the soldiers did.
I wondered if the boulder would be gone by the time I came back through. I wondered if I'd ever come back through.
THE HOOK
I WAS ONLY TWO-THIRDS
up the wall when the sleet started to freeze onto the black terra-cotta.
My fingers were numb. My nose was running. I didn't have a free hand to wipe my nose, or enough rope to rappel about five hundred feet to the ground. I had planned everything out so carefully, except for the weather, and now it was uh-oh time.
A gust of wind tried to peel me off the wall. I dug my fingers into the seam and hugged the terra-cotta until it passed.
I should have waited until June to make the ascent, but no, moron has to go up in March. Why? Because everything was ready and I have a problem with waiting. I had studied the wall, built all my custom protection, and picked the date. I was ready. And if the date passed I might not try it at all. It doesn't take much to talk yourself out of a stunt like this. That's why there are over six billion people sitting safely inside homes and one...
"Moron!" I shouted.
Option #1: Finish the climb. Two hundred sixty-four feet up, or about a hundred precarious fingerholds (providing my fingers didn't break off like icicles).
Option #2: Climb down. A little over five hundred feet, two hundred fifty fingerholds.
Option #3: Wait for rescue. Scratch that option. No one knew I was on the wall. By morning (providing someone actually looked up and saw me) I would be an icy gargoyle. And if I lived my mom would drop me off the wall herself.
Up it is, then.
I timed my moves between vicious blasts of wind, which were becoming more frequent the higher I climbed. The sleet turned to hail, pelting me like a swarm of frozen hornets. But the worst happened about thirty feet from the top, fifteen measly fingerholds away.
I had stopped to give the lactic acid searing my shoulders and arms a chance to simmer down. I was mouth breathing ( partly from exertion, partly from terror), and I told myself I would make the final push as soon as I caught my breath.
While I waited, a thick mist drifted in around me. The top of the wall disappeared, which was just as well. When you're tired and scared, thirty feet looks about the length of two football fields, and that can be pretty demoralizing. Scaling a wall happens one foothold and one handhold at a time. Thinking beyond that can weaken your resolve, and it's your will that gets you to the top as much as your muscles and climbing skills.
Finally, I started breathing through my runny nose again. Kind of snorting, really, but I was able to close my mouth every other breath.
This is it,
I told myself.
Fifteen more handholds and I've topped it.
I reached up for the next seam and encountered a little snag. Well, a big snag really...
My right ear and cheek were frozen to the wall.
To reach the top you must have resolve, muscles, skill, and...
A FACE!
Mine was anchored to that wall like a bolt, and a portion of it stayed there when I gathered enough
resolve
to tear it loose. Now I was mad, which was exactly what I needed to finish the climb.
Cursing with every vertical lunge, I stopped about four feet below the edge, tempted to tag this monster with the blood running down my neck. But instead I took the mountain stencil out of my pack (cheating, I know, but you have to have two free hands to do it freehand), slapped it on the wall, and filled it in with blue spray paint.
This is when the helicopter came up behind me and nearly blew me off the wall.
"You are under arrest!" an amplified voice shouted above the deafening rotors.
I looked down. Most of the mist had been swirled away by the chopper rotors, and for the first time in an hour I could see the busy street eight hundred feet below the skyscraper.
A black rope dropped down next to me, and two alarmed and angry faces leaned over the edge of the roof.
"Take the rope!"
I wasn't about to take the rope four feet away from my goal. I started up.
"Take the rope!"
When my head reached the top of the railing they hauled me up and cuffed my wrists behind my back. They were wearing SWAT gear and NYPD baseball caps, and there were a lot of them.
One of the cops leaned close to my bloody ear. "What were you thinking?" he said, then jerked me to my feet and handed me off to a regular street cop.
"Get this moron to emergency."
A COUPLE OF STITCHES & THE SLAMMER
WHEN I STEPPED OUT
of the elevator into the lobby I was shocked by the swarm of reporters with flashing cameras. How did they get there so quickly?
"He's just a kid."
"What's your name?"
"He's bleeding."
"Why'd you do it?"
"Did you make it to the top?"
I didn't answer any of their questions. In fact, I barely looked at them. The whole point of a spectacular tag is not the artwork; it's the mystery of how it was done.
