Sacred Mountain (9 page)

Mingma must’ve sensed this. “They will return later, they left their travelling things here. I doubt they will buy everything they require in one day. It can take a week to fill up their loads and those of their porters and animals.” He stood up. “I’m afraid we will miss them however if we wish to make Thangboche today.”

Philip nodded again, rubbing his face vigorously in an effort to wake up.

“Of course,” he replied at last. “I’ll just go and splash my face and then I’ll be ready.”

By the time he returned a few minutes later he found Mingma ready to go, both their rucksacks packed and ready by the door. After saying goodbye to Mingma’s mother they walked out of the smoke-filled lodge into the crisp air of dawn. He could feel it reach the extremities of his lungs as he gratefully sucked it in, vaporising in great clouds around him as he blew it back out.

It was his first look at Namche in daylight and it looked to him like a larger version of all the villages he’d passed through over the last couple of weeks. The houses had flat stone roofs and would have looked fairly drab had it not been for the bright colours of the doors and shutters, and the prayer flags that adorned many of the buildings. Being built in a natural bowl the houses tumbled down the steep slope so each doorway has higher than the roof of the house in front. The main street was paved with large flagstone, its surface worn smooth by the feet of countless animals and men on this important trading route.

They passed a wall of prayer wheels, large copper drums covered in sacred scripts that could be spun by the devout to send prayers to the gods, all draped in a layer of fluttering flags. Philip moved to one side as a column of yaks ambled calmly past, the bells around their necks ringing in time with their lumbering gait. Each was carrying a towering load that swung wildly from side to side and threatened to spill at any moment. Tibetan handlers kept them moving with a range of guttural calls and by brandishing thin wooden sticks near the animals’ wary eyes.

After they’d passed by they continued, the smell of the animals still pungent in the air. Smoke occasionally drifted around them from one of the chimneys of houses lower down the slope and more people were emerging as the light grew stronger. Women walked by with leather pails full of water from a stream that cut through the centre of the settlement and children with armfuls of firewood stopped to watch them pass.

After only a few hundred yards the track became a trail that started to climb towards the top of one of the adjoining ridges. It didn’t look far but it took nearly forty minutes until they were standing on its crest and looking north up the valley they were to follow. The path fell away in front of them, entering thick rhododendron forest and not reappearing until it crossed the river far below on a small suspension bridge. You could then follow it as it zigzagged steeply up the far slope until it arrived on a large spur that jutted far out into the valley. Here, surrounded in a patchwork of small, stone-walled fields lay the small village of Thangboche, a huddle of stone houses and piled wood sitting under a pall of wood smoke. Its monastery stood to the side of the houses, a large building painted dazzling white and topped with a large stupa, the tip of which gleamed gold as the first rays of morning sun struck it. In the clear morning air Philip felt he could reach out and touch it, but he knew that it would take all day to get there. Looking further up the valley he saw vast forested spurs giving way to alpine meadows and then walls of glacial debris. At its head an imposing wall of rock and ice created a seemingly impenetrable barrier, and peeping over the top of this was a small triangle of black rock, a plume of white blasting from its summit.

“Sagarmartha,” said Mingma, following Philips gaze. “Mt. Everest. It’s lucky the climbers are not there today. Look at the snow being blown from its summit. They would not be able to even stand up in a wind that strong.”

Philip stared at the summit, unable to comprehend how any man would get to such a place. He pointed to the wall of rock and ice before it. “Do they have to climb over that first?”

Mingma shook his head. “They climb up a glacier that runs around to the west. It’s this ice flow they then follow onto Everest itself.”

Philips eyes dropped down to the monastery and then into the valley. Somewhere in there was Izzard. He needed to find him and discover whether he had a transmitter or not. It felt strange in such a beautiful and remote setting to be thinking about work.

“Do we know where Izzard is camping?” he asked, making himself concentrate.

Mingma pointed down into the valley, to just over half way up the far slope. “There is a spring about half way up from the river. It is in a small clearing used by the trading caravans to water their animals. That is where the runner said he was.” He looked at Philip. “That was two days ago. I asked in Namche and he has not returned there but he may have moved further up the valley.”

Philip sighed. Izzards permit had only allowed him to go as far as Namche, but who was there to stop him? Since the checkpoint at the head of the Kathmandu valley nobody had asked to see his permissions. He’d initially hoped that he might be able to get the local authorities to keep the
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journalist away from the expedition, but now he doubted that would work. There was a small police post in Namche and Philip made a mental note to call in there on his next time through.

He watched spellbound as a Golden Eagle soared down the valley, effortlessly floating on the warming morning air and passing only a few feet below them. It swung out over the valley and within moments was no more than a speck disappearing over the distant monastery.

“I wish we could travel like that,” Philip remarked with a wry smile.

Mingma nodded and started walking down the trail. “Whoever returns as an eagle must have lived very devoutly in this life,” he said, smiling. “After all that time I’ve spent in Kathmandu I think I will be coming back as a yak.”

They laughed and Philip followed. For the next few hours they descended, steadily dropping down to the river. Philip felt as if he was descending an enormous staircase; the path was a constant progression of rough stone steps built over the years to allow laden porters and pack animals to negotiate the steep gradients more easily. His knees started to ache from the constant pounding, but at least it was easy on the lungs so he and Mingma could talk.

“One time when my brother and I were looking after the goats we were high up in a meadow where the winter snow was just melting.” He stopped and turned to Philip, holding his hands wide apart. “We saw huge footprints!” he exclaimed, eye wide. “They led off across the slope and then climbed high into the mountain. We followed them for a while but we were young and got scared. Everybody knows what Yeti’s do to you if they catch you.” He pointed back up the slope. “In the village of Khame a Sherpani was found bitten in half after she went out at night to get some firewood. No scream, nothing!”

“And has anyone actually seen one?” Philip asked.

“Of course,” Mingma replied, waving an arm dismissively. “Many people have. My uncle has seen one on this very trail when he was heading to the monastery to make an offering. It was early morning when he saw some musk deer run across the trail, taking no notice of him in their fright. Next thing, a yeti crashed from the trees and dived into the forest after them.” Mingma shook his head. “He ran straight back home. I still remember the look of fear on his face as he burst into our house.”

Philip was silent and Mingma, clearly sensing his scepticism, spoke again. “Anyway, you can see the head of one for yourself if you wish.”

Philip looked up, stumbling on an uneven rock as he did so. “Really? Where?”

“There is a scalp of one at the shrine in the village of Pangboche.” He pointed up the valley towards the mountains. “It was brought there as an offering many years ago from herders who killed it as it tried to attack their flocks. They said it was old and weak which was the only reason it didn’t kill them all first. We will pass there on the way to the mountain.” He sped off down the trail. “Then you will believe for yourself.”

At the valley floor they rested for a few minutes by the river. Philip splashed some icy water over his head, his hands going instantly numb in the freezing melt water. They shared some food that Mingma produced from his bag, cold potatoes and dried fruit and Philip opened a bar of chocolate. Soon they were off again and their progress slowed considerably. It was now all uphill, easier on the legs but much harder on the heart and lungs. The sun was high in the sky and despite being in the shade of the forest Philip could feel its rays burning the back of his neck. He tried to get into a rhythm, steadily counting off the steps until he allowed himself short breaks and a swig of water. After a time he stopped and looked back, pleasantly surprised at how far they’d already climbed up from the river. The rhododendron trees gave off a delicate smell, the colours of the flowers vibrant in the sun. Near the river their flowers had been a deep red, but as they climbed and the air temperature fell with the altitude they’d faded to a pink and finally a pure snow white. Thick clumps of lichen hung from their twisted boughs, while the floor was carpeted in vivid green mosses and clumps of small alpine flowers clinging to crevices in the rock. They continued on to a sharp switchback and looking around the corner Philip could see a clearing up ahead.

“This is where Izzard was camping,” Mingma remarked, following Philips gaze.

As they climbed towards it, it became increasingly clear that he wasn’t there anymore. When they arrived at the small meadow it was deserted, the only noise a trickle of water that ran from a rough stone trough tight up against a rock overhang. They walked over to it and Philip could see where a small spring seeped from the rock and filled the trough.

“Well,” said Philip at last. “He’s certainly not here now. He must have moved higher into the mountains.”

Mingma had walked over to the remnants of a camp fire that lay on the far side of the clearing and reached out to touch the stones that surrounded it.

“Cold,” he remarked. “They must have left yesterday.”

“Is there anywhere else he could go?” asked Philip, looking around the clearing. “Are there any other trails around the valley?”

Mingma stood and thought. “There is only this trail. The valley is too steep for him to have climbed out of it.” He pointed up the trail. “He must have either continued higher to Thangboche or returned towards the river. It is the only crossing place. If he returned that way he must have taken the trail to the upper villages, as he has not been seen in Namche.” The Sherpa scratched at his hair. “But I don’t know why he would want to go up there as it is away from Everest.”

Philip nodded. “Well, we’ll soon know. Let’s push on to Thangboche and see James. He’ll know if he’s been there or not.”

They set off again, climbing up through thinning trees which soon became a rough juniper scrub. His mind was distracted by Izzard, trying to work out what he could be doing, and he fell into a steady pace. In what seemed like no time they suddenly crested a ridge and found themselves in small fields, divided by rough stone walls. In them grew a few small potato plants and some thin looking barley.

Two skeletal dogs ran out to meet them, baring their teeth and barking angrily. A couple of stones thrown in their direction by Mingma, together with a few choice words, soon drove them away. They passed two tall chorterns, painted white and standing like gate posts at the entrance of the village. Prayer flags hung between them, limp in the still afternoon air. The village itself comprised of squat stone houses all built together in a huddle, piles of firewood stacked in every available nook.

The only street was roughly paved, set lower than the surrounding houses, with ledges and low stone walls running down either side. Three small children sat on a doorstep, a green mucus oozing from their noses and dribbling down undisturbed off their chins. The eldest, herself no more than six or seven years old, had a baby strapped to her back that contentedly slept with its head resting on her shoulder. Their faces were grubby with soot, a consequence of sleeping in houses with no chimneys to keep in warmth during the freezing nights. Philip smiled and waved but was met only by large watchful eyes.

Looking up Philip could see the roof of the monastery, its three tiered roof topped off in the small golden spire he’d seen from the other side of the valley that morning. The street opened into a wide meadow, from which the monastery entrance, a large arch, ornately carved and covered in prayer flags and wheels, led to a wide flight of stairs. This space, Philip guessed, must be used for ceremonies and dancing during festivals. At its far side was a small band of trees and behind these he could make out a long line of tents. Most of them were small sleeping tents like his own, but a couple of larger ones were obviously designed to hold a lot of people and would only be here for one thing. The Expedition.

They started walking across the meadow, its gently sloping grass sprinkled with a covering of primulas. Philip could see people wandering around the camp, some carrying boxes and crates. He stopped and starred as two men appeared from the biggest tent, a large dome, with oxygen cylinders on their back and faces covered by full masks, slowly walking off towards the valley walls. As he got closer he noticed a group of three tents pitched by themselves, some fifty yards from the main expedition. Outside one of them sat a man at a small collapsible table writing in a large notebook, a large mug beside him from which he took frequent sips. He glanced up and Philip recognised him, changing his direction towards him.