Beyond the Summit (7 page)

Jealous, Dorje didn’t want his money and told him so, but Marty insisted on stuffing it in the pocket of his Levis. “See you in the spring Buck, buck,” he said and then boarded the plane.

While porters packed the duffels, Dorje couldn’t take his eyes off the goddess. She was like the sweet mist rising from leaves after a warm rain. When she noticed him watching her, the corner of her mouth turned up in a self-conscious smile and he felt himself soaring above the hills like a giant Himalayan griffon gliding endlessly.

On their third attempt to reach Lukla, Beth looked directly over the pilot’s shoulder at the runway set on a small shelf halfway up a mountain at 9,350 feet. Noticing it was considerably higher at one end than the other, she wondered how he would ever calculate the correct angle for landing. Eyes closed, she gripped the armrests as the ground rose up to meet them and then felt a slight bump when the STOL touched down. As Eric kissed her cheek and whispered, “We’re here, Babe. We made it,” all the tension flowed out in one long breath. Never had she been so happy to disembark a plane.

While Eric searched for their contact, Beth watched a string of porters head out on the trail. Their bodies lean and muscled, they stooped under heavily laden bamboo baskets supported by a jute tumpline worn over the tops of their heads that appeared to evenly distribute the load along their spines. Each man carried a short T-shaped stick for balance. Their bare feet toughened with thick, dry calluses were of the earth. Constantly seeking stable footing by slipping around pebbles and conforming to solid ground, their wide-splayed toes had the dexterity of fingers. She surveyed the other Sherpas smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, their hair unkempt and clad in dusty, ill-fitting clothing presumably donated by trekkers. Only half wore anything on their feet, mostly flip-flops or light canvas shoes from China that offered no support for tramping over rocks.

Hearing giggling and catching movement out of the corner of her eye, Beth spotted a trekker with frizzy hair that stuck out in all directions and grew down his neck. He and a Sherpa were engaged in a rollicking hand-slapping, elbow-thumping contest, their bodies in wild contortions as the tempo increased. Exhilarated, the Sherpa suddenly yelled, “I did it!” and threw his hand into the air for a high five. Certainly not the meditative Buddhist culture Beth had anticipated, yet the man’s behavior intrigued her. When he turned and looked at her in his green cap, tight Levis, and blue shirt, a warm flush swept through her that knocked Beth slightly off center.

Finger combing his disheveled hair, the trekker swaggered towards her wearing a ridiculous grin and socks that didn’t match. “Welcome to Lukla, the land of perpetual wait-ness” he said in a singular voice rippling across his tongue. “I’m Marty and would remain here for the sheer pleasure of following you wherever you go.” His lower lip turned out in a sad puppy-dog expression. “But woefully I have to work to pay for all this fun-ness.”

“So do I, but I’m paid to come here and write about Nepal and the Sherpas.” Looking back at the man in the blue shirt, she expected the unsettling emotion to have passed. When she realized he was watching her, a spontaneous smile danced on her lips, one she could not have restrained it if she tried. “Like your companion over there,” she said trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I was just entertaining him. The Sherpas are easily amused with so little to do here. They can’t even read or write.” He inched slightly to the left impeding her view as he asked, “Where are you from?”

“Denver.”

“Fate-ness. I’m from Boulder, and we had to come half way around the world to meet.”

He was making uncomfortable assumptions. “I need to find out what happened to my gear,” she said in an attempt to gracefully end the conversation.

“If you’re writing about Sherpas, I could keep a journal about them on my climb up Everest next spring.”

Damn
. Chin resting in her palm, she thrummed her cheek. “You’re really going up there?”

“To the top. I’ve climbed all the fourteeners in Colorado plus Kilimanjaro two years ago and McKinley the one before that. I would have made it to the top of Kangchenjunga here last year but weather turned us back.”

Although doubting if any of it were true, Beth let out a long, disgruntled sigh, knowing she couldn’t resist the opportunity for a first-hand account. “Here’s my card. Call me if you really decide to do this.”

He took her hand and held it much too long. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“Get on the plane now,” shouted the Sherpa, coming to her rescue. So unlike the others in clean clothing and hiking boots and not dangling a cigarette between his fingers, he did high fives and spoke English. Surely he was the sirdar the ladies spoke of—the best in the Everest region. Approaching the ladies, Beth asked, “Have you met your guide?”

Ruth shook her head. “Not yet.”

About to state her suspicion, she saw him run his fingers through thick, black hair and saunter towards them. “I am Dorje, your sirdar,” he said to the ladies. His dark eyes gazed at Beth before quickly darting back to the other women. “You ladies must not worry. I will take care of you. While the porters pack your bags, we will begin our walk for today. It is not far but you must go slowly,
bistarai, bistarai
.” The taut edges of his face softened as he instructed the women to drink plenty of water and rest often. “We will camp at Phakding tonight,” he pronounced so clearly Beth felt he was communicating it to her.

Both trekking parties consisted of a cook, a kitchen boy, and nine porters: one to carry their personal gear and eight to transport sleeping tents, a dining tent, latrine tent, folding table, two chairs, pots and pans, and food. Everyone started out together. This late after the monsoon, a deep, luxuriant green had washed over the land and trails of delicate white mist floated along distant valley walls. For the first forty-five minutes, the groups descended a gently sloping path. Too steep to cultivate, the contoured hillside rose in flat terraces 20 to 30 feet deep with rock retaining walls that looked like dark wrinkles ascending the mountain. With most of the land cleared for farming, occasional groves of deep-blue pines still dotted the velvet-green slopes imbuing them with a density of light and shadows. Scattered here and there, dry-mortar stone houses with heavy rocks weighting down their roofs made of thin wood slats or bamboo perched like birds nesting on the branches of a large leafy tree. In the yards stood elevated platforms piled high with maize and on the ground, stacks of wood for the hearth. Overcome with excitement, Beth constantly asked Eric to photograph this house, that mountainside, even the intricate construction of a rock wall.

Meanwhile, she was ever conscious of Dorje’s presence, observing how tenderly he cared for the ladies. He retrieved water bottles from their packs when they were thirsty and made walking sticks for everyone. “This is for you, Memsahib,” he said, handing her the finest with its rough bark stripped away and then rock-sanded smooth to perfection.

“
Namaste
,” she squeaked and felt ridiculous, but it was the only Nepali she knew.

As he gazed at her with huge, his lips spread into the most infectious smile she’d ever seen reaching all the way across his broad face. “To help you down steep hills,” he added before quickly dropping back to attend to the ladies.

When the trail began to climb, Dorje made them rest and drink more water. Shouldering Helen’s pack, he headed out again, reminding them to go, “
Bistarai, bistarai.
” With each stride, Beth swung the stick forward and planted it in the natural rhythm of her gait and was beginning to feel like a real trekker. They came upon a farmer turning the earth with a simple wood plow behind a single ox and a woman thrashing grain with a long stick.

“Get their pictures,” Beth pleaded with Eric. “Shoot it all—the terraces, the farmer, the porters.”

Smiling, he ran a finger along her cheek. “You’re loving this, aren’t you, Babe. Finally seeing your Sherpas.”

Almost on the verge of tears of happiness, she nodded. The 15 years had been worth it. While he took various photos, Beth asked Dorje about the grain spread out on the ground cloth.

“It is millet. She must beat it very hard.”

Retrieving her note pad from the daypack, she wrote as he explained farmers also grew barley, maize, rye, wheat, and potatoes but not rice because it was too high there. That had to be carried in from the south. Listening to him, she remembered Marty’s comment about Sherpas being uneducated. Perhaps this man standing before her couldn’t read or write, but a brilliance shone in his eyes and he possessed a charisma that was awakening every nerve in her body. “I’m here to write about Nepal and the Sherpas. You speak very good English. Can I hire you to help me as you did just now?”

With an uneasiness in his shoulders, he shoved his hands into his pocket and looked away, his light brown face taking on a rosy hue. “You need not pay me,” he muttered, shifting his weight slightly and glancing back.

Eric interrupted with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go, Babe? I got your pictures.” As if embarrassed, Dorje returned to the ladies while Beth politely reminded Eric that open displays of affection between the sexes were frowned upon here.

Half an hour later, they reached the summit of a gentle pass, but the descent was grueling—steep and strewn with rocks too large for the ladies to manage. His shirt soaked with sweat, Dorje moved constantly from one to the other, holding their arms to lift them down. Beth marveled both at their courage and his fortitude. Grateful for the walking stick, she had discovered that transferring weight from her knees onto it greatly reduced joint stress. How porters made it down with those heavy, awkward loads was beyond her comprehension.

Dorje had been furious with Ang Tharkay for assigning these grandmothers to him, but already he had developed a fondness for both and wouldn’t trust them to anyone else. Rain the previous night had made the trail muddy. To calm their jittery nerves, he sang the rhyming lyrics he’d learned from porters who joked about conditions they dreaded most. “
Raato maaTo, chiplo baaTo.”
Giggling, the ladies asked what it meant. “Red soil, slippery trail,” he answered and glanced at Beth who smiled.

“It’s slippery enough to ski,” she commented and nodded at his cap. Rolling his eyes towards the brim, he remembered it said SKI VAIL. When he was nervous or scared as a young boy, it felt as though little field mice were scampering all around inside him. As he watched the breeze play with her hair and curl it around her cheek, the mice invited all their friends out to play and were running amok. Hopping on foot as he’d once done for Hillary wasn’t going to impress her. Perhaps this would.

Taking a deep breath to calm the mice, he bent his knees, yelled, “Geronimo,” and pushed off down the muddy hill. Arms flailing to keep his balance, one leg flying into the air and then the other as he hopped over rocks, he skied with no concept of how to stop other than falling flat on his face. And that was not an acceptable image. He took his eyes off the ground just long enough to see the trail turned sharply to the left with his momentum about to propel him straight off a cliff. With a quick prayer to the god of the mountain, he leapt up and grabbed an overhanging branch with both hands. His legs swung forward trying to tear him loose but he held fast and dropped down.
That wacky Marty made me do this foolish stunt,
he muttered to himself as he brushed mud off his Levis.
Him and all his talk of smacking life in the head. The man’s a menace.
But the clapping and cheering behind him soon turned Dorje’s mood around. He forgot about the American for the moment and slogged back up the hill with mud sucking and spitting at his heels.

When Beth smiled and said, “That was truly remarkable,” in a voice as warm and pure as the first blush of sunlight, it was worth all the aggravation.

Everyone’s mood changed when they reached a temporary bridge constructed of branches woven together and spanning forty feet over the water. Rushing wildly downstream, the river swelled in a never-ending torrent, wrenching and twisting at tree roots on the bank while enormous white waves crashed into boulders shooting water high into the air. Due to rain, the water had risen considerably since Dorje and Marty had crossed only four days earlier. Uncertain of the safety of the bridge now, Dorje stepped on to test it. As he watched his feet and carefully placed each step, the rushing water beneath him was dizzying. Instinctively, his toes spread to grip the branches as they had done all of his life but now met only the hard insole of boots that slid on mud deposited by those who had crossed before him. His confidence faltered. “
Om mani padme
hum
,” he chanted, praying to
nagi,
the river spirit, to help him. After reaching the other side, he quickly returned, noting the most slippery spots.