Rising Read online

  Mr. Yu speaks as if reciting an old Chinese proverb. “The laces,” he says, “there are none. You see, then he will not have laces for his shoes.”

  I huff, “Oh, come on, he’s done fuck all since we’ve been here!”

  They both stagger backwards. Mr. Yu says, “Mr. Leo says he won’t take orders from womans.”

  “That’s it, I’ve had enough!” Jane stomps to the door, throws back the flaps and yells for Jim. Moments later, he dips deep to clear the threshold of the cook tent door and I stand back to watch everyone talk at once: Mr. Yu in English, Mr. Leo in Chinese and Jane in an escalating pitch.

  Jim asks us all to step outside and we all wait to see what he will do next.

  “Well,” he says, “it sounds to me like Jane needs a little help.” Jim bends down, picks up the buckets and hands them to Mr. Leo.

  Mr. Leo spans his fingers wide open, palms down, in refusal. Then he picks up a rock, the size of volleyball, and hefts it above his head. Red-faced and with arms trembling, he looks straight at us. While Jane and I back away, Jim stands firm, snatches the rock from Mr. Leo and turns to Jane. A sly smile ripples and he rasps in his best Clint Eastwood imitation, “Jane. I’m going to go ahead and make your day.” In one smooth motion, Jim drops the rock, grasps Mr. Leo’s waist between his big hands, picks him up and holds him with his toes just skimming the ground. Mr. Leo kicks and squirms. Jim sets him back down gently. As we watch Mr. Leo scoot off, Jim says to Jane, “I think it’s time for us all to move to Camp Two.”

  Jim can’t know how much his defending Jane means to her. Their relationship will shift to a better place as of today.

  The next morning the wind pats and tugs at our tent, waking me before my watch alarm goes off for the 7 a.m. radio call. I bundle up and go fetch the radio from Jim’s tent. Keeping my head tucked deep inside my hood as I talk into the radio, I say, “Hello, anyone awake?”

  Albi responds, “Ah, it’s so nice to hear a melodious feminine voice through this noise box. I’m the only one up so far, but once Chris, Dave and Dan rise from their beauty sleep, we’ll be heading your way today. Any gossip to report from down there?”

  I tell him about the showdown with the Chinese yesterday and Kevin and Barry eating an eighteen-egg omelette between them. They plan to head up to Camp One today, and Kevin claims they might feel good enough to make it all the way to Camp Two.

  “Dwayne here at Camp Two. Good to know someone’s sticking up for Jane. There’s been no new snow since yesterday, so Dave, James and I decided it hasn’t amounted to enough to worry about. We’re going to try to make it to Camp Three today. Then I’ll probably head to Camp One for a couple of days of rest.”

  * * *

  It is too cold and windy to relax in the tent that day so I go for a walk up to the memorial cairns. On my way back I see someone in the distance, bundled in a down parka, striding toward me. As we draw closer to one another, I realize it is Annie. What to do? Before I can decide on a course of action, she looks up and beams me a warm smile.

  “Hi,” she says. “Sharon, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I say. “Hi, Annie.” Her soft and placid expression puts me at ease.

  “You and Jane look alike. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Lucky me,” I reply. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “How’s it going?” she asks. “You guys on the route yet?”

  “Yep,” I say. “The boys are hoping to make Camp Three today. How about you?”

  Annie says, “We’re heading up tomorrow, and the next day we’ll wander up to the base of our route to see where to put our Camp Two. Pretty big face to get much sleep below, huh?”

  We turn to face the mountain, standing side by side with our insulated parkas zipped to our noses and our hands jammed into our pockets. “What route did you try when you were here before?” I ask.

  “The West Ridge from Nepal. Longer story, but we got up high into the Hornbein Couloir and then my teammates made a route-finding mistake in the Yellow Band and lost too much time. Doesn’t take much. Turned around and that was it. I frostbit my fingers and we were too wasted to go back up for another try.”

  I am reading Everest: The West Ridge, a book by American climber Tom Hornbein, who was part of the first American expedition to summit Mount Everest in 1963. Tom and his teammate Willi Unsoeld were the first climbers to find a line up through the North Face. I tell her the Hornbein will be our Plan B if we run out of time or steam to climb the ridge direct.

  Annie says, “The problem with the West Ridge is it’s like climbing two separate mountains, with that mile-long ridge between the summit pyramid and the top of the spur where you first gain the west shoulder. Crossing that ridge isn’t hard, but it takes an extra camp and a whole lot of extra pain and time to go from twenty-four to twenty-five thousand feet.” She offers to tell us what she knows about the Hornbein, if we need to go there.

  We talk a little about our teams. Theirs has ten members, plus the expedition leader who has raised the money, got them to Basecamp and has gone home already. Annie prefers her team’s lean and laissez-faire approach compared to the large-scale Everest expedition she was on three years ago.

  Annie surprises me when she asks casually, “How do you and Carlos know one another? You climb together?”

  Carlos hasn’t told her anything about us. Strange. I say, “We were on Makalu a couple of years back and then on the South Face of Aconcagua and in the Peruvian Andes more recently.”

  I don’t give away much, and I am even more impressed when she doesn’t press me for details. She listens with innocent interest as I talk, and speaks with ease, with no rush to fill in the spaces. She is as easy to talk to as any other climber I might happen upon, but I hold fast in that neutral space of simple exchange. We will see each other in passing a few times more. And now, I want to.

  “Good luck,” she says as she turns to leave. “Dig in. It’s a bit breezy up there.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You too.”

  * * *

  On my third and last day of rest at Basecamp I spend the afternoon reading in the tent and basking in the warmth of the sun. I am stripped down to my base-layer and lying semi-reclined on two bunched-up sleeping bags like a chaise longue when Jane comes by.

  “Hey, Woody, I found us a little treat.” Her use of my nickname hints of something new. She flips open one side of her jacket, like a hawker, to reveal a shiny gold-and-red package of Dunham cigarettes. “I found these in the stash that Jim bought for the Chinese liaison officer in Chengdu. I didn’t think they would notice one pack was missing.”

  I bolt upright. “Whoa!” I flash back two months to Canmore. Jim chose Jane as our cook over Colleen, who is Dwayne’s partner and a good friend of mine. Colleen played a major role in food planning and packing for Everest, and had supported and accompanied us on the last part of our Makalu expedition. But Jim was adamant about leaving romantic partners behind to protect and build the solidarity of our team. Jane had experience cooking for large groups but she had never been on an expedition, nor did she have any high-altitude experience. I couldn’t understand why she was recruited onto our team at the last minute, in part, perhaps, because of how hard I had to fight to win the confidence of some team members before I was invited to join. While the rest of my teammates voted Jane in, I held out.

  Jim told Jane that I was her only obstacle to getting on the team, which is why she came to my house one cold February day a month before we were to leave for Everest. She sat across from me at my kitchen table, running her hands over its surface as if she was smoothing out the wrinkles. “Let’s get right to it,” she said. “What’s your issue with me?”

  I pushed my chair back and leaned forward, laying my hands on the table’s edge. I asked, “What’s in it for you to serve a group of self-absorbed prima donnas while they try to climb a mountain?”
/>   She sat tall, pressed her palms into the table, leaned forward and looked straight at me. “I’m serving something much bigger than just you and the boys, and I want to play a part in making that something happen. Helping people is what I do, and I’m good at it. That’s enough for me. What’s in it for you?”

  I pulled my shoulders back and said, “I want to be a part of this team, run with the best and get to the top. And I’m good at it.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll make a good team,” she said. “I can help you do that. So let’s get it out. Anything else?”

  “What about the men?” I said. “They’ll be after you. Married or not, three months is a long time.” I knew this factor had made some of my teammates reluctant to invite me. I was hurt when I discovered that. As if I was a temptress. But there had been romances on American expeditions that had caused conflict.

  “Come on, if you don’t think I’ve fought off my share of lonely randy mountain guides. You too, I imagine! So, where are we at?”

  It was then that she reached into one of the two identical team-issue briefcases beside her. She’d reached into mine and soon realized her mistake, but not before she discovered a package of rolling tobacco. “Is this yours?” she asked, perplexed. “You mean to tell me that a hard-ass woman like you smokes?”

  “Yes, I love the occasional puff—especially at times like this.”

  “Does anyone else smoke on this team?” she asked.

  “Of course not!”

  Jane drew in a breath and then laughed. “I have a package of the very same tobacco in my briefcase, for times like this. Let’s have one, shall we?” she said, and we settled.

  Now, Jane stands at the door of our tent. “What do you think?”

  I whisper, “You’re a star, Jane.”

  Her face lights up. “Well, get dressed and let’s go for a stroll!”

  * * *

  With the bulk of our high-altitude supplies now at Camp One, and Camp Three nearly in place, it is time to move up. We will only return to Basecamp on our rest cycles, which will work out to be about every ten days. With most of the climbers working at Camp One and above, Jane will move to Camp Two to help out. I relish the idea of her company as we start working our way up the mountain.

  Jane and I pay our first visit to the Spaniards on our way out of Basecamp. The five climbers who are down on a day off all stand up to welcome us into their small wall tent, which is furnished with a real table and chairs. A map and some pictures of their route lie on the table, which give us a better starting point than just gawking at the handsome men. The chickens scratch and dive for crumbs as we nibble on European pâté, hard bread and strong cheeses. At first sight, their expedition appears the most spartan of those in Basecamp, yet it is the most richly supplied with the comforts that matter here. They speak little English, and we, little Spanish, leaving us to laugh more and say less, but we luxuriate in the velvety texture of their voices and their attentions. They all stand up again when we push back our chairs to leave. When we go to shake their hands, they gently touch our shoulders and air-kiss us goodbye.

  Once out of earshot, Jane says, “Well, doesn’t that little visit make you think about what we’re missing?”

  “Yeah, and then some.”

  “So tell me something about your new guy, not the old one. I’ve had enough of him already.” She laughs. “Do you miss him?” she asks.

  “Yes and no,” I say. “I can’t afford to miss him; it would drain me. I’m pretty focused on the here and now—on the climbing. It’s a better bet than men.”

  Jane asks slyly, “Okay, but which Spaniard would you go for, if he was the last man on earth?”

  “Jerónimo,” I say.

  “Ha, you didn’t even hesitate!”

  “You?”

  “Tote,” she sighs. “Right, then! From now on, whenever you bring up Carlos, we’re going to talk about our fantasy guys. Deal?”

  Our walk back up to Camp One that day takes just three and a half hours instead of the original five. This, and the fact that we chat non-stop is a sure sign we are acclimatizing well.

  As we arrive, I recognize Dan’s tall form silhouetted on the edge of the moraine. He must have heard our laughter and caught sight of us because he gives us a wave.

  Jane holds her arms up high. “We can still dream, can’t we? It’s good to feel alive!”

  Indeed!

  Chapter 8

  One Hundred Trips

  Jane remains at Camp One to organize loads while Dan, Dr. Bob and I move up to Camp Two for our first rotation in support. I am encouraged by the ease with which we are all moving and we reach the cache by late morning on this cloudless, calm day. Well rested and eager to see new ground, we take less than an hour to reach the camp. We stand looking at the four tents pitched in a shallow dip beneath a massive rock buttress at the tip of the spur. A circle of stamped-down snow surrounds the camp, marking a perimeter where the boys have probed for crevasses. Shovelfuls of snow shoot out from a hole at the edge of the circle. We can just see the back of Dwayne’s head, and a leash that trails up out of the hole to a stake driven into the snow.

  Dan shouts, “Hey, Dwayne, you trying to make that crevasse bigger?”

  Dwayne hasn’t seen us yet, and anyone else would have been startled, but not him. “Sort of,” he says in a muffled voice. “I’m digging a shitter. Just thought I’d make myself useful until the guys get back down today.”

  I edge toward the lip of the crevasse where he has been digging. Dwayne stands a metre and a half lower on a sunken snow bridge that blocks the section of the hole he is standing in like a cork. When I peer down, I feel the rope come tight on my harness as Dan backs up to keep it taut between us. The vertical walls on either side of the snow bridge disappear into a deep black cavern big enough to swallow our camp whole. An involuntary shiver ripples through me as I look into that icy maw. It takes an instant to replay the first and only time I’d fallen into a crevasse. I was nineteen years old when Marni and I and three of our six clients slid down a mountain face into a bergshrund. We were lucky on two counts: the bergshrund didn’t pinch closed and compress us between the walls, and we landed on a stopper much like what Dwayne is standing on now; and our otherwise hard landing was slowed by the drag of my own team who remained above. We were ten metres down inside the hole. We did not have crampons. Sheer smooth ice walls flanked us on either side. The dripping melt water soaked us within minutes. Trapped in that hole with no one above knowing how to rescue us, we would soon be hypothermic. Left with no choice but to act fast, I fashioned foot stirrups and attached them to the only two old, dull and bent ice screws we had, and proceeded to aid climb my way out. Splayed against the ice and the cold seeping into my chest, I remember best the intense infusion of purpose and that came over me. Strangely, this experience was one of the most formative in my climbing career in terms of the confidence I gained in knowing I could perform when a situation went sideways. The near miss was a hard lesson learned, and a mistake I wouldn’t make again.

  Why Dwayne is so comfortable working inside that hole alone today, I can’t understand. I say to him, “Good thing you’ve got a leash on there, boy scout, but really—.”

  Dwayne climbs up the steps he has carved, pulls the surgical mask he wears to protect his lips from sunburn off his face and snaps it on his forehead. He ambles over to where we stand by the tents and unclips his leash, which was tethered to a snow stake. He’s got a new beard since I’ve last seen him as well as the usual high-altitude hack from working in the thin, dry air. I spin him around for examination, keeping a gentle grip on his arm. “I see you’re on that high-altitude weight-loss program again, eh?” I say, noting his stick-like legs. On Makalu, our expedition doctor ran some tests to measure our fat-to-muscle ratio. Dwayne started at 9 per cent fat, and after three months of living between 5,800 and 7,900 metres, he was d
own to 4 per cent.

  He taps his sunburned lips and says, “I’m looking forward to getting out of this tanning booth and low enough to get a few good sleeps.”

  I realize that I still have my hand on his arm. I treasure my freedom to be tender and admire in a way men aren’t allowed to with their own kind.

  Dwayne was one of the first of the crew I met when I started work at the Yamnuska Mountain School in the summer of 1976, but it takes time for two quiet and reserved people to get to know one another. In 1979, we lived together in the mountains for five weeks while teaching a climbing course, and still, after all this time, I don’t know him as well as some of the other men on our trip. But I feel comfort in his presence where others might feel unsettled by his silence. He observes more than he speaks, and when he does say something, people listen.

  * * *

  Our original work teams are permanently scrambled, and it’s difficult to keep track of who’s coming and who’s going from what camp. Kevin, Barry, James, Dave and Chris spend the day pushing to set up Camp Three for the next team to move into. Tomorrow, I will join Albi, Dave and Chris in carrying loads to Camp Three. In preparation, I file the ten downward-pointing and the two frontward-pointing spikes on my crampons, which I’ll need on my feet any time I’m above this camp. I remember that Dwayne said the ice was bulletproof, and I always sleep better when I am as prepared as I can be for the next day.

  For my first trip, I pack a couple of sleeping bags, a water bottle, food and extra layers of clothing. Once we’ve loaded our packs, Albi hefts and holds one in each hand like an old-fashioned scale. “Good boys and girls,” he says. “Not too heavy. We’re here for a long time, not a good time. Just a hundred more loads like this and we’ll be ready to take a crack at the summit, eh?”

  We set off together and it takes us less than five minutes to walk to the headwall, which starts around the corner of the rock buttress above our camp. The first rope runs up a steep ice slope to a rock outcrop about thirty metres above us. Then, ropes continue upward, weaving through patches of ice and fractured rock. To give myself a chance to find my breath and my feet on my first time up, I hang back to let the boys get ahead. I clip an ascender to my harness. Once the last man clears the first rope, I clamp my ascender onto it, slide it up the rope and fall into line. Whenever possible, I flex my ankles to weight all my downward-pointing spikes and sidestep up the ice. On higher-angle snow and ice, I will kick my two frontward-pointing spikes into the ice, which is faster but more strenuous because all my weight is levered off my toes. I will alternate one foot sideways and one toe in to climb most of the headwall. On each step upward, I push one hand against the face of the mountain for balance. With my other hand, I grip my ascender and tug just enough to unweight my lower foot and place it above the other foot.