The Ascent (8 page)

She was right, of course. That hollowness continued to spread through me. At the end of each visit with Marta, I found myself fearful to return to my apartment. And I hated myself all over again for being such a coward.

As the tram bumped along, I leaned over to the man next to me—an Indian fellow with streamers of white hair sprouting from his large, brown ears—and asked him if he had ever heard of the Canyon of Souls.

He responded, but in his language it meant nothing to me.

2

FORTY MINUTES LATER. THE TRAM LET ME OFF AT

the lodge. It was cool, not cold, and I slid the zipper of my jacket down. The air smelled smoky. The sky was dense and gray to the east, but the west was a vibrant blue, uncorrupted by clouds, and the sunlight glittered like fire on the frozen peaks of the distant mountains. Down the valley stood the monsoon forests, heavily green and like a canopy over the land.

My room was small but adequate, furnished in alpine furniture and with a full wall of windows that faced a stand of evergreens and a dilapidated shed. Two young men helped carry my bags to the room, and I paid them in rupee I’d exchanged at the airport. I proceeded to unpack with the lethargy of someone submerged in water. Exhaustion weakened my muscles and brought my eyelids lower and lower. Finally I succumbed and climbed onto the bed where I napped for a few hours.

When I awoke, the wall of windows was black. I took a long shower, then dressed in a pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I grabbed the book on George Mallory I’d brought, then crept out into the night.

The lodge was comprised of one main building and several smaller four-bedroom units scattered in no discernible fashion about the property. The buildings looked run-down and forgotten, but I could tell they weren’t cheap. This trip must have cost Andrew a fortune.

I entered the main building and crossed the lobby to an iron stairwell that wound down to a subbasement. It wasn’t a bar per sebut a small eatery, poorly lighted, with a bar along one wall and large wooden tables and chairs spaced out along the floor. At the far end of the room, a fire blazed in a stone hearth.

There was no alcohol at the bar. A dark-skinned woman with horrible teeth served me a mug of hot tea, which I carried over to the fire. Situating myself in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, I thumbed through my book while sipping the tea. It was scalding hot and tasted like pine needles. My mouth watered for some liquor.

As I read, a few people shuffled in and out of the room. They whispered in a language I couldn’t comprehend. A few times I craned my neck to see them; their shadows, amplified by the proximity of the fire, danced along the stone walls.

I returned to my book, skipping all the way to the final chapter, which described Mallory’s demise on Everest’s north face. I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, and I couldn’t help but recall that night nearly two years ago when I’d almost died in that cave in the Midwest.

Andrew’s voice popped into my head—
What were you doing in that cave by yourself?
—and it was simultaneously Marta’s voice as well. A good question.

Someone appeared behind me. When he spoke, his voice startled me, and I sloshed some hot tea into my lap.

“It’s a good book,” the man said. He had a low, meaty voice.

I looked up and found he was less bulky than his voice had me believe but in good shape. His face was sunburned and creased with ancient gray eyes, though he looked about my age.

“Course, you skip to the end like that and you miss all the details.”

“How’d you know I skipped to the end?”

He sat in one of the empty chairs and held his hands up to the fire. “You were on the tram with me from the airport this afternoon. I noticed by your bookmark you were only about halfway through the book. Unless you’re a speed-reader …”

I closed the book. “No, not a speed-reader. Just a cheater.

Caught red-handed.”

“I’m John Petras,” he said, extending his hand. “But just call me Petras. No one save for my mama calls me John.”

I shook his hand. It was a firm grip. “Tim Overleigh.”

“Where you from?”

“Maryland.”

“Wisconsin, myself,” said Petras. “Land of cheese.” “Are you here with a tour?”

“Nope, no tour. I’m here for the same reason you are.” I grinned, thinking he was putting me on. “And what’s that?” Petras returned my grin and said, “Because Andrew Trumbauer told me to come.”

3

MY EXPRESSION CAUSED PETRAS TO CHUCKLE. IT

was a rumbling sound, reminiscent of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down an empty desert highway.

“How do you know Andrew?” I said.

“Ice climbing. Canadian Rockies. We were in the same group. There were about fifteen of us. Spent a good two weeks in the hills, then spent another week getting drunk in Nova Scotia.” I was still confused. “I mean, how’d you know …?” Still grinning, Petras said, “I heard you ask the man on the tram about the Canyon of Souls.” He scratched behind a large, sun-reddened ear with one massive hand. “Ain’t many folks come out here searching for the Canyon of Souls. Hell, most have never heard of it.” “I’ve never even heard of it myself.”

“See, this place, it’s practically Disney World for mountaineers, climbers, the whole lot. Even the amateurs come in their guided tours to say they’ve set foot on Everest or took a piss on the Khumbu Icefall and watched it freeze. I know this because I’m usually the guyguiding the tours. These people don’t care about making it to the top of anything. Most of them wouldn’t know a crampon from a tampon.” He pointed to the book in my lap. “There are very few George Mallorys left in the world. What’s become important to folks is being able to
say
they’ve done something. The
doing
it part … well, that’s just what has to happen in order to tell their friends. There’s no heart in it, no spirit. And these people sure as hell ain’t here to cross the Canyon of Souls.”

“So why are
you
here? What’s so special about the Canyon of Souls for you? Or is it just because Andrew Trumbauer mailed you a plane ticket?”

Petras’s gaze flicked toward the fire in the hearth. After a moment, he said, “I guess it’s because it’s never been done before. No one’s ever crossed it. Few that I know of have even bothered to try. The place, it’s not in any of the guidebooks or maps. Few care. Forgive me for cribbing Sir Edmund Hillary, but I’m doing it because the damn thing is there to be done.”

“That’s a good answer,” I said.

“So how about you? What made you drop everything and run the hell out here?”

“Unfortunately my reasons are a bit more complicated.”

“I hope I don’t look stupid to you,” Petras said without any emphasis or insult. I could tell it was only his way of imploring me to open up.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know. But you see, you and I are getting ready to trust each other with our lives. This little adventure ain’t gonna be no walk in the park. So before I put my life in the hands of another man, I like to know why that man’s putting his life in mine. I find comfort in what makes a man tick, and I sure as hell like to know why someone would do such a crazy thing.” He smiled warmly and his eyes twinkled. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but there was something fatherly in that smile. “I just want to know we’re not dealing with a death wish or something here is what I guess I’m saying.”

I ran my thumb along the rim of my teacup, then set it on a small table beside my chair. “I used to be an artist, but my talent died along with my wife. So I’m here because I’m hoping to find something that’ll get my life back on track. It’s no death wish coming out here. The death wish would have been to stay home.”

Petras nodded. “Fair enough. It’s as good a reason as any I’ve ever heard. Better than most, probably.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, you look awfully familiar. Any chance we’ve met before?”

“Doubt it. I’m pretty good at remembering faces. I’ve been on a couple of magazine covers a few years ago. Did several sculptures for some important people.”

“Well, then,” Petras said. “You were more than just an artist. You were
successful
.“

I shrugged. “Depends on your definition of success.”

“And,” he added, grinning, “your definition of art.”

Smiling, I rubbed my upper lip with one finger. “What is it about him?” I asked in a quiet voice, as if I were talking to myself. And perhaps I was. “What is it about Andrew Trumbauer that gets us all jumping just because he tells us to?”

“I’ll admit I don’t know him that well,” said Petras. “In fact, I was pretty surprised he asked me to come out here. In truth, we didn’t particularly like each other near the end of our expedition together.”

“He’s a tough guy to understand.”

“We’re all tough to understand. Especially to ourselves. That’s why we do stupid stuff like this. Didn’t you figure that out yet?”

I leaned back in my chair and watched the fire dance in the hearth. “There’s quite a bit I haven’t figured out about myself yet,” I said, and it was like an admission.

4

THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED CONSIDERABLY

while Petras and I talked in the lounge. Walking across the wooded clearing toward my cabin, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my cargo pants for warmth, I could smell the smoke from nearby chimneys and the alpine scent of the wilderness around me.
I’ve never seen a darker night
, I thought, pausing to stare at the blanket of stars. There were full clusters of them, too many to count.

I mounted the steps to the cabin and was about to reach for the door handle when a large shape materialized at one end of the cabin, causing me to freeze. I heard the boards creak beneath the man’s considerable weight as I tried to make out his features. But it was too dark; I could only discern wide shoulders covered in a wool coat and a whitish face dense with a heavy beard. I couldn’t see the man’s eyes.

“Can I help you?” My voice shook.

“You are one of the Himal climbers?” the man said, his voice deep, his English laden with a dense regional accent. “Your party leaves at the end of this week for the Canyon of Souls?”

“Who are you?”

“You must not go to the canyon,” he went on, ignoring my question. “To do so will mean great disaster for your party. The canyon was not meant to be crossed. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. How do you know about me? How do you know where we’re going?”

“My name is Shomas. I live in the village. I am often hired to navigate climbers through the Churia Hills. I know this land very well, as I know the climbers who come here to conquer it.” He took a step out of the shadows, illuminating his face with moonlight. He was hardened, his forehead and cheeks a patchwork of creases and ancient scars, his eyes steely beneath an extended brow. “I know your party is planning to cross the canyon.”

“I appreciate the concern, but we’ll be fine.”

“It is a canyon not meant to be crossed. If you do not listen to me, you will find this out firsthand.”

I opened the door. Warm, milky light from the hallway spilled out. Shomas’s face was once again cast into shadows.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’ve come a long way to just turn around and go home.”

“Do not be a fool,” Shomas cautioned, his voice steady and without inflection. “Do not be the foolish American. I have seen many of them in a short time already.”

“Good night,” I said and quickly pitched myself through the door, closing it behind me. I hustled down the corridor to my room, glancing over my shoulder to see if Shomas would be bold enough to follow. But the door remained shut, and by the time I entered my room, I was breathing heavy, as if I’d just run a marathon.

A cold breeze froze the sweat on my brow. Across the room, I noticed one of my cabin windows was open; the gauze curtains billowed in the breeze. Looking at my bags, which I’d stacked in a heap at the foot of the bed, I realized they’d been looted while I was out.

1

TWO DAYS LATER. ANDREW SHOWED UP, HIS FACE

sunburned, his hair short, his eyes aglow with eagerness.

I spotted him when I paused to catch my breath and feel my pulse in the clearing near my cabin. I’d just come from a ten-mile run along the stretch of roadway that wound around the base of the hills. Since my arrival, I could sense tremors threatening to overtake me, like a psychic foretelling an earthquake in Asia. I hadn’t had a drink in several days, and the sharpness of the world struck me like sudden daggers.

Andrew, dressed in neon orange snow pants and a Windbreaker, stood at the opposite end of the clearing, a pair of binoculars around his neck. Grinning, he opened his arms as if to hug me, despite the fact that he was nearly twenty yards away.

I approached, still catching my breath (I was not used to running for long distances at this altitude and had suffered a minor nosebleed somewhere around the seven-mile mark), and was quickly folded into Andrew’s embrace.

“Can you believe places like this still exist in the world?” he said. “It’s enough exhilaration just standing here breathing.”

“It’s beautiful, all right.”

“The flight out was good?”

“It was horrible,” I said, “but at least they didn’t lose my luggage.”

“Did you have a chance to meet the others?”

Aside from John Petras, I’d run into Michael Hollinger, a tattooed, well-built, introverted Australian who’d received an airline ticket and an invitation from Andrew in the same cryptic fashion as both Petras and I had.

We met last night during dinner at the lodge—a meal of stewed goat and an eclectic selection of wild vegetables that I was quite certain had not yet been cataloged by mankind. I must have looked overtly American in my Gap button-down and American Eagle corduroys because he approached my table and introduced himself. I invited him to dine with me, and we ate and talked for several hours. Hollinger knew Andrew from time spent in the Australian outback. For six months in their early twenties, they’d lived together with two aboriginal women in a hut built of fronds while subsisting on marsupials hunted with bows and arrows.