Beyond the Summit (44 page)

The air hung heavy and foreboding around Dorje. Anxious to get off the mountain, he drove himself and Marty staggering down the summit ridge. They reached the Hillary Step in only 25 minutes where Dorje lowered Marty down the gap and then wedged himself between the rock and cornice as before. Fast-moving storm clouds darkened the sky making the knife-edge Cornice Traverse even more perilous. At risk of blundering off the edge in the flat, dimming light, they went one at a time belaying each other. Terror gripped Dorje every time Marty pitched left or right in a hypoxic stupor.

By the time they reached the South Summit, the American was reeling and falling every few feet. Resting a moment to check their tanks, Dorje guessed about two hour’s worth—enough to make High Camp where the Mark, Sean, and the climbing Sherpas would be waiting with fresh supplies. Short-roped again, Dorje led Marty around the rocks below the South Summit in waist deep snow, never knowing when it would give way and swallow them whole. Progress was slow with Dorje having to pull his partner out of every snow pocket and hold him upright. By the time they stood at the top of the Southeast Ridge, his strength had deserted him. The Darjeeling Sherpas were right. Ferrying loads to and from the lower camps had taken too much out of him and ill prepared him for this. Barely able to concentrate on where to place his foot next, Dorje couldn’t carry Marty another step. His thoughts had climbed in and out of so many places that he no longer knew what was safe. Both of them on the verge of collapse, Dorje knew they couldn’t walk the long descent to Camp V. Choosing to glissade down the ridge in twenty-foot visibility risked sudden death, but it seemed the only way. Wind-whipped ice and snow lashed their faces with such violent force Dorje couldn’t see his own feet through the goggles. After dragging Marty by the harness to get him started, Dorje sailed down the slope, experiencing a strange detachment from his body.

When the slope leveled out, Dorje looked at Marty who was frantically trying to unhook himself from this madman, but his fingers were too cold and stiff. Dorje pulled him to his feet and towed his stumbling companion down to the High Camp. As if a cornice had caved in under him, Dorje’s spirit plunged when he opened the door of an empty tent. No climbers or Sherpas to help him, no fresh supplies, and a storm about to engulf them. His mind was clear enough to understand that being stranded here meant certain death. Using the two remaining oxygen bottles to replace their empty ones, he prayed more were waiting at the South Col.

“We’ll go lower tonight and wait for the storm to pass,” he said, trying to hide his fear.

Raging with a new ferocity, the storm had covered yesterday’s tracks and dropped visibility to 15 feet. With no hope of getting his bearings from a distinctive rock or ice feature and the driving snow pummeling his face, Dorje set out blindly with only memory to guide him. The sky and ground had merged in a uniform, blank whiteness. With each step, they risked falling through an unseen hole and disappearing into the void or taking a wrong turn and walking off the ridge. The Balcony, poised at the top of the Southeast Ridge, had provided a welcome rest on the way up but now whispered threats of the rocks lying immediately below. Working his way across, Dorje probed the snow searching for the fixed ropes.

“Do not move,” he shouted to Marty. Knowing that without ropes a blind descent would be suicidal, Dorje brushed through the snow with hands so frozen he couldn’t curl them into a fist. Had the storm devoured them or had he only imagined them yesterday? Confused, he was incapable of moving in either direction.

Marty robbed him of choice. Mumbling something that sounded too much like
Geronimo
, he stepped onto the rocks. In sickening disbelief, Dorje heard the crampons strike the stone and skid. Marty pitched forward and tumbled past while Dorje stood there transfixed, lassitude having robbed him of instinctive action. Seconds later, the rope plucked him from the ridge and hurtled him after his partner. Axes and crampons were useless on granite as arms, legs, and backs bounced off the boulders. Then suddenly Dorje was airborne in a deadly free fall until the rope’s springy recoil jerked him back up and slammed him into the mountain. Shocked back to reality with excruciating pain searing through his left leg, he closed his eyes and screamed before attempting to coordinate his scattered thoughts into action.

Then he anchored himself with the axe and toe pick of his right foot before looking for Marty. What had halted their descent? Blinking and gazing upward, he saw only heavy snow falling from a gray mist. He tugged the rope that appeared to have caught on something, perhaps a rock. When it slackened, Dorje’s stomach crawled up into his throat. What was happening? This time instinct immediately took hold and he flattened against the wall when a boulder thundered past and disappeared as if consumed by an immense, insatiable beast. Sailing after it, the rope dropped and then hung limp from his harness. Where was Marty? Clinging to life as he was, or had he cut the rope deciding to die here rather than fail his father? Dorje slowly drew the cord through his gloves, hoping for resistance. Within fifteen feet of the end, he finally got it. Marty was not far below. Dorje removed his mask and yelled repeatedly. When he had called to Beth in the storm, the wind snatched his voice and buried it. Would the American hear him now? He whipped the rope and it rippled a response. Ten minutes later, Marty swung his axe into the wall beside him and mumbled, “What now. I’m scared shitless.”

The storm had escalated into a full-scale blizzard. Disoriented and in the midst of a whiteout, Dorje guessed they were on the steep slope below the ridge with heavy cornices looming above them. He signaled Marty to remove his mask so they could confer, but even then it was hard to communicate with snow pelting their faces. He motioned above them. “It’s not safe to go up.” Then he tugged on the rope and pointed at the traverse ahead. “We must cross one at a time again. I’ll go first. Belay me.” Marty nodded lethargically.

The sky and ground were indistinguishable, a grayish white. Probing with his axe Dorje inched along, holding his injured leg slightly back as he pushed off on the good leg and then dragged the other forward. The foot caught each time, sending a flare all the way through his groin until pain filled every conscious thought. When the rope was taut, he stopped and rammed his axe into the snow to belay Marty while he crossed. Then the American anchored Dorje while he continued to break trail, praying each time that the crampons would hold in soft, fresh snow. With this tedious, difficult work, Dorje’s admiration of the Sherpas’ trail preparation steadily increased. Gusting with menacing winds, the storm tried to sweep them off the mountain. Every sound that threatened a cornice collapse burgeoning into an avalanche echoed louder in his head.

Hampered by frozen hands, Dorje was slow in setting the next belay. Glancing back to warn Marty, he saw him remove his anchor and start across too soon. Before Dorje could sink the shaft, his partner slipped and plunged down the hill, arms and legs flying. And seconds later, Dorje was jerked into a tumbling dive, striking his head on a boulder on the first roll. In a state of mental confusion, he frantically tried to sink his axe, but the slope was too steep; the snow, too loose and slippery. Sliding on his stomach feet first, he made a final desperate attempt and drove the pick so hard it almost ripped out of his hand. The axe gouged a jagged scar, deeper and deeper, spraying snow in his face. He yelled and pushed harder with all that was in him until the axe finally arrested his fall. With his hands cold and stiff, unable to hold on much longer, he kicked the crampon of his good leg to brace himself for the inevitable jolt when the rope reached full length.

“Agghhh!” He bounced and held as Marty's weight tried to yank him free. His arms quivering and his injured leg on fire, Dorje couldn’t hang on much longer waiting for Marty to find a hand or foothold. The American’s weight threatening to wrench him from the hill, Dorje closed his eyes and summoned all his strength into those few seconds that meant the difference between life and death.
Just one more second, just one more. Hurry, Marty.
Suddenly the taut cord slackened. Had Marty finally dug his crampons in? Dorje yelled and shook the rope, begging for it to ripple back as before, but it remained limp as a windless flag. With mounting dread, he whipped it harder three, four, and five times before getting a response.

Cold, terrifying images of their plight surged into his aching head, but Dorje refused to look. Instead, he busied himself kicking to create a step where he could rest his weight fully on his right leg and reduce the strain. Feeling a bit more comfortable now, he was confident that Marty had done the same. Gripping the axe shaft in one hand, he pulled the cord shoulder high and snapped it like a whip. The rope coiled towards him before lashing back into the gray, enveloping mist where it met resistance reassuring him that Marty was still there.

Clinging to the axe with both hands and his forehead against the wall, Dorje was comforted by his only companion—the hissing inside his mask. How much longer would they have together? He checked the pressure gauge. Almost empty. Now what? Feeling his life slipping away, Dorje tried to pull things together and formulate a plan, but exhaustion and confusion reigned. His right hand, succumbing to the cold, had already lost its feeling and could no longer grip the axe. Afraid of falling, he grasped the shaft with the left and used his right arm to drape the rope over the shaft to anchor himself in case he lost consciousness. With the slope too steep to traverse, no more pitons, and a leg that couldn’t support him, his only hope of survival was a Sherpa rescue. Fierce winds battered and whipped him as if he were a tent canvas. Turning from the tiny ice splinters lacerating his face, Dorje listened for the comforting hiss but it too had abandoned him. The air tasted bad now so he ripped the mask and tank off and watched them disappear in the gaping jaws of the gray beast below.

In a limbo state, he felt his spirit leave his body again and stand apart, viewing him in a detached manner. When it turned to walk away, Dorje grabbed it by the shoulder and forced it back. He wasn’t ready to die and would never give up. With his jacket and hood zipped over his face, he breathed his own warm air and fought sleep, afraid that he might not awake. With the mask gone, the taste of his own blood trickling down his face sickened him.

His mind wandered from this cold, alien world to the warm Solu hills of his youth where marigolds mingled with wildflowers and begonias had just begun to bloom. He heard Beth laughing as she ran barefoot over the hills. “You can kiss me if you catch me” she tossed over her shoulder with her hair flying like shafts of wheat in the wind.

“Kiss you I will,” he murmured and raced after her, willing to surrender his soul for the taste of her sweet lips. Catching her in the meadow, he gently lowered her to a carpet of primrose and iris. Brightly hued rhododendrons and orchids splashed the surrounding hills with color as Dorje enfolded her in his arms and made love on a lazy afternoon. “I will love you forever,” he whispered. “As long as snow falls on the mountains and rivers run wild.”

She gazed at him with her poppy-blue eyes. “And I will love you as long as my heart beats here,” she purred and pressed his hand to her breast. Inhaling the delicate aroma of her hair and skin, he drifted off to sleep.

“Dorje,” someone shouted. He shook himself awake and saw ten-year-old Nima reclining on his elbows beside him, his legs stretched out in front. Chewing on a long piece of grass like an old yak, Nima grinned. “I saw you kissing Pasi behind the banana trees.”

Dorje pulled his brother’s long hair down over his eyes. “You are as blind as an old man out in the snow too much. We were only picking fruit.”

“No, you were kissing,” he said with that intuitive, knowing look that had arrived in the world with him. “She’s the most beautiful girl in the Solu.”

“You’re too young to notice such things.”

“But she is.” Nima touched the flower to his lips. “And I want to kiss her too.”

“Well, you can’t.” Grabbing his brother’s arms, Dorje held them over his head with one hand while tickling the funny spot that only he knew. Nima squirmed, kicked, and giggled making the freckles bunch up on his nose. He squealed for mercy but got none as they wrestled and rolled among the flowers until exhausted. Flopping onto his back with his arms thrown out to the sides, Dorje pretended to be exhausted. When Nima wasn’t looking, he plucked a handful of grass and tossed it at him playfully.

“Dorje,” their mother called from the small stone house below. “I have sweet rice pudding for my boys.”

“Come, my little brother,” Dorje said, pulling him onto his back for a ride. “Let’s go home.”

With Nima’s skinny legs locked around his waist and his arms clutching his chest, Dorje knew they were inseparable forever. His brother’s breath warm against his neck, he looked over his shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”

“Dorje,” someone called again, but lassitude, resignation, and hypothermia battled for possession of his thoughts. Sleep was all he desired, but a tall figure appeared shimmering in the mist. His long robe billowed in the wind as he approached. The striking features seemed gentler now like the softened edges of a sucked hard candy. The penetrating eyes that had always frightened Dorje were comforting when his father said, “Let’s dance together.” Putting his arm around his son’s waist, Mingma shuffled forward and backward, touching his heel here and stomping there at an ever-quickening pace. Clutching his father’s robe, Dorje matched him step for step, their spirits in harmony as they danced the rhythm of life.