Peak (5 page)

The camera cut to a shot of the mayor getting into the back of a black limo. He turned to the reporter and said: "This should put an end to people climbing skyscrapers in the city of New York. This illegal activity will no longer be tolerated under any circumstances."

"Peak Marcello and his family were unavailable for comment," said the reporter, "and it is believed the boy has left the state of New York for an undisclosed location."

Not yet,
I thought, turning away, grateful they hadn't run a photo of me.

"Peak!"

Finally. My father was pushing a huge cart with a mountain of gear piled on it. I trotted over. "Give me a hand."

I helped him push the cart up to the counter. "What is all this stuff?"

"I don't get to New York very often and thought I should stock up on some supplies. Give me your passport."

He put it down on the counter along with his own battered passport, which looked like it had been through the wash a couple times.

"You're cutting it a little close, Mr. Wood," the attendant said.

"I know," my father said. "Family emergency."

The attendant pointed at the cart. "This exceeds your baggage limit."

My father took a credit card out of his pocket. "Just put it on this."

By the time we had everything checked we had only minutes to catch the flight. We were the last ones down the Jetway.

"I couldn't get us seats together," he said as we stepped onto the airplane. "But at least we're both in business class." He pointed out my seat, then took his own, which was three rows behind me, and that's the last time I talked to him for thirteen hours.

We had a three-hour layover at the Narita airport near Tokyo, but I didn't get a chance to talk to him there, either, because he spent the entire time on his cell phone speaking in what sounded like Chinese, but it could have been Thai or Nepalese, as far as I knew. He was still jabbering on the phone when we boarded the plane for Bangkok, where I was disappointed again to see that we were in separate rows.

Another six hours passed.

On the way to customs in Bangkok, I finally caught him between calls.

"I'm really sorry about all this, Dad you having to come all the way to the States, the money, being stuck with me—"

"Whoa," he said, holding up his calloused climbing hand. "First, you don't have to call me Dad. I don't deserve the title. For the time being, let's pretend I'm your big brother. Just call me Josh like all my friends do. Second, don't worry about the money. Rolf and your mom put a big chunk of change in. I'll get my portion back. And finally, I'm not stuck with you. I couldn't be happier to have you with me. I just haven't had much time to show it because I'm trying to put something together."

"What?" I asked.

"A surprise, but in the meantime, no worries."

We continued down toward customs, where there was another little problem. I didn't have a visa to enter Thailand. [[strike out]]My father Josh took my passport and disappeared into a room with a couple customs officers and came back out ten minutes later.

"We're in the clear," he said, hurrying through the airport toward the terminal, bypassing baggage claim.

"What about your gear?"

"We'll get it tomorrow. No worries."

Outside we climbed into the back of a cab.

"We're not going to Chiang Mai?"

"Not yet. We'll get there eventually."

It was well after midnight, but Bangkok was wide awake. The cabbie crazily swerved between bicycles, motorcycles, and cars for twenty minutes, finally coming to a stop in front of a hotel.

Josh paid the driver and we walked into the lobby, where the concierge beamed at us.

"Mr. Wood, I have your rooms all ready."

He handed each of us a key.

"Okay," Josh said as we got into the elevator, "I have some more errands to do tomorrow. In the morning I'll have a driver waiting for you in the lobby. Nine o'clock. He'll take you to the clinic for a physical."

"Physical?"

"Yeah ... Uh ... an immigration formality, and I want them to check your face and ear." He took my hands and looked at my damaged fingers. "We'll need to get those fixed, too. Anyway, I'll come by the clinic and pick you up when you're finished, and we'll be on our way. If I'm late, just wait for me there. Try to get some sleep. I don't want you to flunk the physical because you're tired."

WHEN I WOKE UP
I didn't even know what day it was. Couldn't remember if you lost a day or gained a day in Thailand. I ate breakfast, went for a walk, and got back to the hotel and waited for my driver.

The clinic turned out to be a huge hospital and it took a while for me and the driver to find Dr. Woo's office. He was expecting me. In fact, it turned out I was the only patient he had that day.

I'd had physicals before, but nothing like this. Dr. Woo and his nurse didn't speak English, so they had to pantomime me through the battery of tests. I was X-rayed, CAT-scanned, and jabbed with countless needles. They put me on treadmills and stationary bicycles with so many leads attached to my body and tubes jammed in my mouth, I wouldn't have been able to ask them what they were doing even if I spoke Thai. They must have drawn a quart of blood over the course of the day. They checked my eyes, ears, mouth, and other holes I don't even want to think about. They took the stitches out of my ear. Another doctor came in and looked at my feet, knees, shoulders, hips, elbows, wrists, and finally my fingers, which he put some salve on and bandaged, then gave me instructions on how to do it myself, which I barely understood. By the time they finished with me, it was late afternoon, and I was so exhausted I wanted to check myself into the hospital as a patient.

The nurse led me to the waiting room and I promptly fell asleep on an uncomfortable chair. And that's where Josh woke me sometime after dark. Apparently, he had been there for a while talking to Dr. Woo because he had a thick file in his hand, which I assumed were Dr. Woo's findings.

"Am I going to live?" I asked groggily.

"No worries," Josh said. "I'm not surprised you're in such great shape with my and your mother's genes. Let's go; we have an airplane to catch."

I was looking forward to Chiang Mai, where I could finally get some rest.

His gear was waiting for him outside the airport, guarded by a porter the size of a sumo wrestler. He paid the porter, wheeled the cart to the counter, and said, "We're booked on the flight to Kathmandu."

I wasn't sure I had heard him right.

"Did you say Kathmandu?"

"Right."

"I thought we were going to Chiang Mai."

"We will," he said as he transferred gear to the conveyor belt. "But we have a stop to make first."

He must have bought the gear for someone in Kathmandu.

"Actually, a couple of stops," he added as he threw on the last box.

"Where's the second stop?" I asked.

"Everest," he said.

I stared at him. For a climber, saying that you are stopping by Everest is like saying you're going to stop by and see God.

Josh was grinning at me. "I didn't want to tell you until I had it all worked out. Your physical was the last hurdle, that and the Chinese visa."

"Kathmandu is in Nepal," I pointed out.

"Right," Josh said. "But we're not going up the south side in Nepal. We're going up the north side in Tibet. You have to be sixteen to get a permit to go up the Nepalese side. The Chinese aren't quite so picky. They don't care how old you are as long as you pay the fee. And then there are the twenty-five clients I have waiting at—"

"I'm climbing Everest?" I asked, more stunned than I've ever been in my life.

"I don't know if you'll make the summit," he said. "But if we get you up there before your fifteenth birthday you'll be the youngest person in the world ever to stand above twenty-nine thousand feet." He picked up the tickets and started toward the gate.

I followed him numbly. He didn't have to ask if I wanted to go. Every climber in the world wants to summit Everest, or at least give it a try.

On the airplane Josh waved me into the window seat and sat down in the seat next to mine. The plane backed away from the Jetway.

"Does Mom know about this?" I asked.

"Uh ... no, but I'll give her a call. No worries."

THE SUMMIT HOTEL

WHEN THE MESSAGE
about my arrest reached Josh he had been in Tibet on his way to Base Camp on the north side of Everest. With him were twenty-five clients, fifteen Sherpas, and about fifty porters and their yaks.

Twelve of the clients were trying for the summit, the other thirteen had signed up for one of the four lower camps along the northern route. The higher you climbed, the more it cost.

"I caught a truck heading back to Kathmandu and sent the others on to Base Camp," he explained. "That's why I've been rushing around. I don't want to lose my acclimatization, and I need to get back to my clients. They weren't too happy about me abandoning them on the way to the mountain."

"Thanks again for bailing me out," I said.

"Forget it," he said, leaning his seat back and pulling his cap over his eyes. Within a minute he was sound asleep.

Why had he done it? That was the question bouncing around in my jet-lagged brain. He was my father, but that was a technicality more than a fact.

I had written him at least a dozen letters over the years, but I had never gotten a letter (or even a postcard) in return. Mom said that Josh wasn't much for letter writing, and that there was a good chance he never got my letters. There weren't too many post offices in the places he hung out.

So why, after all these years, did he show up? Guilt? Not likely. That emotion didn't seem to fit him. My mother told me once that Josh always slept like a baby because he had no conscience to keep him awake. He was demonstrating that right now, quietly snoring as we winged our way to Kathmandu.

KATHMANDU.
For me the name conjured up mystery, adventure, possibilities, but the reality was somewhat different. The city is noisy, grimy, and polluted. My eyes burned and I started choking as soon as we stepped outside the airport.

"Takes some getting used to," Josh said as our taxi sputtered into an unbroken line of traffic. "You'll be staying at the Summit Hotel."

"Me?"

"Just for a couple days," Josh said. "I need to get up to Base Camp before there's a revolt. I don't have time to stay with you while you acclimatize, and you need to acclimatize slowly. You know the routine."

I did know the routine. I'd read at least a dozen books about conquering 8,000-meter peaks (peaks above 26,000 feet), including the three books my father had written. There are fourteen of these peaks in the world.

It can take at least two months to get to the top of Everest, which is actually 8,850 meters tall. The long climbing time is not because of the distance, which is less than five miles, but because it's up.

Most of the climbing time is spent sitting in the six camps along the route, letting your body get used to the thin air. If you go up too fast you might get mountain sickness, or high altitude pulmonary edema (HAPE). Here's how HAPE works: Your lungs fill with fluid, you can't breathe, you go into a coma, then you die.

The only way to treat HAPE is to get to a lower altitude where there's more oxygen (or "Os," as climbers call it). It doesn't matter what kind of physical condition you're in. If you climb up faster than your body can adjust, you'll get HAPE and your climb is over—maybe forever. The only chance you have of reaching the top of Everest (or any 8,000-meter peak) is to "climb high, sleep low" until your body is ready to make the push to the summit. In other words, you have to make sure your lungs keep up with your legs—it's a very bad idea to leave your lungs behind.

The other problem with Everest is that there is only a small window when the weather is good enough to get to the top. Two weeks, maybe less. (Some years, the window is only two days.) You have to be positioned in the right place, at the right time, in the right physical condition, or you'll never make it to the summit.

Because Josh has spent most of his life training and climbing at high altitudes he could almost jog up to Base Camp (18,000 feet). Well, not really, but he could certainly get up there in half the time it was going to take me coming from sea level in New York City. Without me he would be at Base Camp in four or five days. If he waited for my lungs to catch up with his it would take him ten days to two weeks to get to Base Camp.

What he hadn't explained was how I was going to get to Tibet on my own, and he didn't get a chance to tell me right then because the taxi had just pulled into the courtyard of the Summit Hotel, where we were immediately surrounded by a swarm of laughing, smiling Nepalese.

"Hotel staff," he said.

They obviously knew he was coming and were overjoyed that he was there. We got out and he introduced me. Not speaking Nepalese, I didn't know if he told them I was his son or his little brother. Regardless, by their expressions they were very happy to make my acquaintance.

They unloaded the gear and we followed them into the lobby, where we encountered more pandemonium—this time from the guests. Women, men, trekkers, mountain climbers, old and young, gathered around Josh like he was a rock star (no pun intended). He signed autographs and answered questions until the concierge, politely but firmly, dispersed the crowd.

"Please, please ... Mr. Wood needs to rest after his long journey."

Mr. Wood had no intention of resting. When we got to the room he started sorting through the gear and stuffing what he wanted into his backpack.

"You're leaving now?" I asked, trying not to sound too whiny.

"Have to." The last thing he jammed into his pack was a box of energy bars.

I didn't say, "What about me?" because there is no way to say this without sounding pitiful, so I just stared at him.

"Zopa will be taking you up to Base Camp," he said. "Aside from myself, he's the only one I trust to do it. He knows all about you."