Beyond the Summit (27 page)

Thirty minutes later, they reached a steep slope covered with fresh, loose snow—optimal conditions for an avalanche. At the base loomed a rocky cliff. Folded over with her elbows on her thighs, Beth was breathing heavily and still feverish. “I will cross first,” Dorje said.

That image he understood. She was coming with him. Knowing his weight could trigger a slide, Dorje stepped gingerly and motioned for Beth to remain a few feet behind and not speak. Watching the slope above them, he prayed it would remain stable. A silent, thin line at first, the fracture widened and the ground slowly moved beneath them. Too far across to turn back, Dorje signaled Beth to run. Gathering speed, the avalanche tossed him with such ferocity it was impossible to stay upright. She was down too, swept along by the current. Another thirty feet and they would be hurled off the rocky precipice. “Swim,” Dorje shouted as he scrambled on hands and knees trying to reach the edge of the slide. Snow lashing his face, he couldn’t see a thing but suddenly he felt the ground stop moving. He’d made it. Turning, he thrust an arm out and grabbed Beth seconds before she went over. With his last strength, he dragged her to him and held her, panting as they watched the avalanche disappear in a valley 500 feet below.

He was pleased she could find some humor. Leaning forward to kiss her, Dorje felt how hot she still was. Though exhausted, they had to keep moving lower. He insisted she eat more snow to cool her temperature. His hand applying pressure to his side, he rose and stepped onto the crust hoping it would hold them, but it was too soft in the late afternoon. He succeeded in staying on top only momentarily before it caved and he sank thigh deep. The constant, excruciating pain in his side having become a part of him now, he yelled for Sangbu and Royd every fifteen minutes, praying they would arrive with tents. To go back looking for them was too dangerous and time consuming.

Shadows stole across the landscape as ominous clouds forebode another storm. It would soon be dark. With no trees for shelter and finding no overhang, Dorje dug a small snow cave and spread the pads and bags on its floor. Twice in the late afternoon Beth had experienced bouts of dry heaves and was now shivering uncontrollably in spite of her fever. He crawled in the bags with her and zipped them together. She had eaten only a few crackers two mornings ago, and he couldn’t remember when food last crossed his lips. Everything was becoming a daze. Although their snow consumption hadn’t replenished as much liquid as they lost in the heat, to eat more after dusk would drop their temperatures dangerously low.

“Hold me tighter,” she shuddered. “And never let go.”

Confident that their body heat in the confines of a small cave would keep them warm, he tried to reassure her. “If we leave early while the snow is still frozen from the night, I can move much faster. And soon we will be making love in a warm bed with full stomachs.”

With her wrapped in his arms, Dorje tried to stay awake prolonging the feeling of closeness, but physical exhaustion claimed his thoughts and emotions. With a tremulous breath, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into sleep thinking of the Norwegians, Sangbu, and porters. His travel had been slow with Beth and they should have caught up by now. Hearing the wind howl, he dreamed of his companions struggling to reach him, perhaps dying in the cold. Trying to ignore the pain in his leg, he prayed for clear skies and help in finding Sangbu and Royd.

At dawn, the first shafts of snow-filtered light stole through drifts surrounding the door. Leaving Beth still sleeping, Dorje crawled through the opening to search for the others. Struggling against violent gusts that knocked him onto his injured side, he shouted repeatedly to Sangbu and Royd and waited for an answer. After 30 minutes of digging himself out of one hole after another, he decided to turn back, afraid of never finding them and risking the loss of too much time. With the wind pushing from behind, he had only gone a few yards when it cast a muffled cry over his shoulder. He stopped and listened but heard only his heart echoing in his head. Yelling their names again, he waited and still heard nothing. Dehydration, exhaustion, and hunger must have made him delirious.
Forget it. Keep going
. He lunged forward again in the ever-deepening drifts. A second cry, louder this time, made him turn around and spot Royd moving toward him. “Are you all right?” Dorje gasped.

Beth was coughing uncontrollably when they reached her. Royd felt her forehead. “She’s severely dehydrated and burning up. We can’t wait.” While Dorje prepared the bags and pads for travel, Royd asked Beth if she could walk.

“I’ll try.”

Despite her effort, she was too weak and dizzy to bear her own weight. Supporting her on both sides, the men departed in a whiteout with nothing to guide them other than continuing in a slow and cumbersome descent. An hour into their trek, Royd tripped on a rock lurking beneath the snow and tumbled downhill pulling Dorje and Beth off balance in a head-over-heel, arm-and-leg sprawling freefall behind him. Striking his back, shoulders, and injured side, Dorje fervently sought to grab anything that would brake his descent, but it was all happening too fast in a dizzying blur. “Beth, Royd,” he screamed and heard nothing but the swish of his sliding parka. Suddenly the pack with sleeping gear tore loose and whizzed past, disappearing only seconds before Dorje’s legs were airborne after it. In a desperate reach, he caught a rock on the edge of the precipice and hung on as his legs slammed against the wall.

Shaking with exhaustion, pain, and cold, Dorje slowly pulled himself on top and collapsed trying to get his breath. “Beth,” he shouted into the dense white surrounding him.

“Here,” came back, the most beautiful sound ever heard.

“Do not move.” Once again testing the ground before each step, Dorje followed her voice. “Are you hurt?” he asked before taking her in his arms.

“Then you’re both mad.” When Beth’s body crumpled as Dorje lifted her, Royd added, “Oh, what the hell. I’ll come too. You’ll never make it alone.”

He led as they picked their way down the boulder-strewn face of the cliff never knowing when the next step would cast them into an abyss. Holding onto Beth, Dorje carefully handed her down to Royd on the steepest sections. Again progress was slow and treacherous, the rock face never ending. Hours later, the clouds gradually thinned to a blue-tinged, gossamer sky. They rested on a ledge trying to get their bearings with Beth beside them still feverish and weak.

But Dorje blamed himself. He had failed Beth and everyone else: two porters dead and perhaps more by now. Sitting with his hands clasped around his knees, he closed his eyes and silently recited, “
Om mani padme hum.
”

“We’d better go before it gets dark,” said Royd.

As he repeated one more mantra, Dorje heard a sound from far away—the gentle chiming of yak bells, all at a different pitch. “Do you hear that?”

The chiming—so faint. Thinking he could be hallucinating like
mikarus
who are sick from being too high, Dorje stopped breathing and listened harder. Five or six different tones. He got to his feet, trying to determine which way. Rising from the valley below, the bells clanged with the slow, steady rhythm of yaks plowing through snow. In a frenzy, he half stumbled, half crawled to the edge and searched the valley. Nothing but glaring white. In the distance, a red spot moved. Heart pounding, he watched it move again—the blood-red robe he had waited for as a boy. Surely he must be dreaming. The unmistakable form of a yak train was climbing toward the Cho La but far to the north of them just like the helicopter.

With a dry tongue that felt swollen and his throat frayed, Dorje screamed, “Father, we’re here!” but his cries scattered like leaves rustling in the wind. “No! You’re going the wrong way!”

“Who are you talking to?” Royd asked.

“My father is down there. We must get to him.” But between them and Mingma lay a steep, snow-covered slope. Dorje glanced at Royd. “You can ski?”

The Norwegian laughed. “We invented the sport.”

“And Colorado is famous for it,” Beth added to his surprise that she was aware of their conversation. “But you’ll have to hold me up.”

Dorje lowered her over the ledge to Royd waiting below. With one on either side of her again, Royd counted, “One, two three, go.”

“Geronimo,” Dorje shouted and pushed off with his knees bent Marty style. Arms flailing for balance, he discovered skiing on steep snow was harder than he thought. But of the three, he remained upright the longest with Beth and Royd sliding on their seats and backs behind him. Then hitting a bump, he flew ten feet and landed face down before finally skidding to a stop. Are you okay?” he shouted and got a nod from each one.

He could see the procession better now: two men with six yaks breaking a trail through deep snow, the animals’ thick coats impervious to the cold. Father!” he yelled. “Faaather!” The animals stopped; their bells stilled. Dorje yelled again, waving his jacket. Mingma turned toward the mountain and raised both arms, the full sleeves hanging like enormous red wings ready to enfold his son.

“They see us,” Dorje cried. The schuss having drained her strength and spirit, Dorje’s announcement seemed to give Beth the freedom to surrender to fatigue. Carrying her on his back, Dorje made his way down by stepping in the deep prints created by Royd ahead of him. When the two groups finally converged, Dorje expected to be reprimanded for dishonoring the gods by trespassing on their abode.

When instead Mingma commented, “My son is brave and strong to survive this storm,” Dorje suddenly felt like his six-year-old self wanting his father to make everything all right.

“Beth is very sick. I must get her down.”

“And what about the others—my nephew?” asked a third voice.

Pemba? How was it that these enemies came together? “Tashi’s dead,” tumbled out like rubble in the sweep of an avalanche. “He was carrying Beth and got buried alive.”

“I knew she was a curse,” Pemba grumbled. “I warned you to stay away.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Dorje said, too exhausted, cold, and hungry to argue. “He insisted on carrying her so he could prove himself worthy of working on Everest.”

Pemba hurled and spat the words at Mingma. “Just like your brother. You blame me for his death, but he chose to carry a double load that day; he chose to cross the ice field at night.”