The Himalayan

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The Himalayan - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Mount Everest, Nepal

On the morning of April 18th, 2014 a blazing sun straddled the shoulder of Everest, scorching the tips of the sleeping Khumbu Icefall. On the fractured glacier, sixteen men worked, fixing the ropes under a ridge heavy with ice and snow. Some four hundred meters south, Base Camp Khumbu nestled itself into the barren arms of a rock-laden landscape. Men and women who’d spent the better part of two weeks acclimatizing were going over their gear.

When the first loud crack echoed over the land, all eyes went upward.

Every heart came to a thudding halt.

The sleeping Goddess of the Himalayas woke, shrugged her mighty shoulders and sent fifteen thousand metric tons of ice barreling down to the doorstep of Base Camp. An eerie silence followed and people clawed and stumbled out of their torn and battered tents. A hasty search for the unaccounted began, but nothing could be done for the sixteen men roping the Icefall.

They were lost.

The mountain had spoke.

No one would be standing on her crown looking out over the world this year.

Chapter 2

Khum Jung, Nepal - April 25th, 2014

Frank stabbed his ice axe into the steep snow-laden slope and stopped to gaze at the swirling gray clouds clinging to the Western Cwm far below. He looked up at the jagged ridge of the mountain cutting into a slate-blue sky and switched his carabineer over onto the fixed line running up the face of the mountain. The yellow rope doubled and tripled before him as it writhed in the wind. That he barely felt the bitter cold biting his body was a harbinger of things to come.

He planted a foot on the ledge flanking the ridge and felt the teeth of his crampon scrape the rock. Gripping the line, he stiffened, then moved forward one step at a time. The leading edge of the ridge dipped to waist height a few meters ahead. He plodded to it, climbed up and sat.

From here, the whole world opened up before him. To his right, the serrated knife-edge summit of Lhotse and the spiked teeth of Nuptse and Makalu waded in the cloud cover. But neither the panoramic view, nor the summit of Everest drove him. There was something else, something riding on the edge of his mind.

To his left, the spine of Everest went ever upward. “Not that way,” a voice whispered inside him. He scanned the sweeping snow and ice-laden landscape running down to the distant plains of China. A small orange speck clung to a rock not far away. He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward it. A man was sitting in knee-deep snow on the edge of a treacherous rim where a large menacing crack in the snow zigzagged off to a guess.

Suddenly the crack yawned and the mountain groaned, shedding its skin from under his feet. Snow rocketed into the air and swallowed him. Frank clung to the rope, battling the undercurrent dragging him over the edge. He tumbled down, over and over in a white world, cartwheeling, and spinning out of control until—

Frank Kincaid’s heart lurched and he shot up in bed. Breathless and in a cold sweat, he ran his hand through his hair, pulling a knot of it back from his bristled face. As the dream faded, he flipped the heavy woolen blanket off and swung his bony legs over the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress. The cold plank floor met his bare, calloused feet as he sat in the shadows cloaking the room. Standing, he squinted into the sliver of sunlight sliding through the clouded window.

His expedition lead guide, Dawa, was dead.

He shook his head. He’d lost his friend on the mountain, and for what: to improve his client’s chances of a summit? This was the third bad decision he’d made during his life regarding the mountain and it had claimed yet another friend. He dragged his pants from the foot of the bed, stepped into them and shuffled barefoot out to the privy, coughing. It’d been a week since the disaster on the Icefall. Sixteen men—friends he’d known for years—were dead. But the death of his Sirdar Sherpa was on him. He owned it all.

He zipped up and tromped out to the main room where he lit an oil lamp hanging from a hook next to the fireplace. The old stone house he’d lived in for the last forty-five years was a mess. Laundry was draped on the backs of chairs, dirty plates and mugs were scattered about the tables. An empty bottle of wine lay on its side by the stone hearth. He set the bottle back up, stirred the banked embers in the hearth and added a handful of kindling to them. Pulling a heavy wool shirt off the floor, he put it on then slipped into his sandals lying nearby.

As he waited for the flames to gain strength, he yanked a ragged curtain back and peered outside. It was a typical Himalayan morning in the sleepy mountain village: clear skies with hardly a wisp of cloud. Down the lane a rhododendron flanking the whitewashed walls of the monastery was putting out buds. A pile of smoldering juniper boughs lie by the front gate, sending resinous smoke up into the blue dome of the world.

He let the curtain fall back, feeling like a criminal. Guilt traveled with him like a shadow lately and he covered it with silence. Silence that had once turned a woman he loved away and now threatened another who loved him more. He reached beside him, grabbing a handful of pine kindling stacked near the fireplace and added it to the tiny fire in the corner of the hearth. As he did so, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw Sarah’s number flashing on the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Well, hello. You were supposed to call me over the weekend…remember?”

He scuffed his feet on the floor and shuffled over to the dining table. Sitting, he kicked his legs out and crossed them. He’d met Sarah Madden three years ago on the mountain when she came to support her son’s ascent of Everest. Well, not exactly to support it. She was against the whole thing, and what was more, he didn’t want her there any more than he wanted her son there. How had he fallen in love with her? They were nothing alike, and yet when he was with her, he couldn’t imagine not being with her.

At last, he said, “There’s been an accident,” and waited for the expected gasp. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Accident?” she said, alarm in her voice. “Are you okay?”

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m fine, but…”

“But what? Frank, talk to me.”

“It’s Dawa…he…umm…there was an avalanche on the Icefall, and he was roping the course.”

“Oh, my God. Is he…?”

All the spit left Frank’s mouth. “Yeah. Look, I can’t talk about this right now.” He paused, wanting to end the call.

“Don’t shut me out! I’ve been through that once with Greg. I can’t do it again.”

“I…I won’t, I promise.” He sighed. “Umm…hey look, I need to get around. Tshe and I are heading for Namche in a bit to meet the chopper taking Dawa home.”

“Call me later?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” He ended the call, knowing where her head was going right now. And how could he blame her for being worried? He looked up at the five-by-seven framed photograph of Sarah and him on the mantel. The photo had been taken just before she left in 2011, and as he sat looking at it, he thought about a decision he’d made long ago that had altered their lives. Over the years, he’d convinced himself it had been Sarah’s husband, Steve Madden, not listening to Passang on the mountain, when in truth, it was he not wanting to wait ten more minutes for an updated weather report. Had he waited, he would’ve seen the tiny shift in the jet stream, which he would’ve warned Passang about, which would’ve meant his best friend, would still be alive. Steve Madden would’ve then returned home, and Greg would’ve had his father. John would still have his leg, and Sarah would’ve never come here.

But Kate had been waiting in the tent next door that fateful night, and he’d wanted her. It was karmic that while he was tangled up under the blankets with her, the storm had gathered 3,300 meters above, killing his best friend. He blamed the American for not listening, Kate for not trying hard enough to understand, then blamed her again when she left. But it had never been Kate’s fault. She was the innocent in all of it, yet she was also part of all that had happened, and in the end, her loving him simply hadn’t been enough.

He got up, ignoring the sting in his chest and struck out through the front door to the old, cut-stone barn housing his chestnut mare. The barn, put up by people he never knew, sat in the far corner of the skewed lot. He pulled the door open, retrieved a couple of carrots from the bin just inside, and took Me-to’s halter down from the walled-off alcove next to his shop.

When the mare heard him, she bumped the front gate of her stall. He picked a brush up off the shelf and went to her. “Hey there,” he muttered in Lhasa as he ran his hand over her shoulder. She bent her head into him, nosing his shirt pocket. He smiled and gave her neck a pat. “You looking for something?” He slid one of the carrots out of his back pocket. “This what you want?”

The mare snatched the carrot, and after brushing her down, he placed the halter over her head and led her outside just in time to see Lhakpa and his little sister, Pema walking down the narrow village lane. When the girl saw the mare, she let go of her brother’s hand and ran over to the fence.

Frank walked over to her, and in Lhasa said, “Good morning, Pema. You want to sit on Me-to?”

She glanced up at him with large brown eyes and flashed him a toothy smile.

Opening the gate, he picked the girl up as her brother, Lhakpa, shuffled over. The boy looked off over the yard, then turned back to Frank. “Momma say, you bring Dawa home today.”

“That’s right,” Frank said, carrying Pema over to the mare. He set her on Me-To’s back and considered the fourteen-year old boy, who was the son of Bibek and Lhamo. The family was related to Dawa through a maze of marriages he couldn’t keep track of.

Lhakpa gazed across the yard. His jet hair flitted over his shoulder. “I will miss him. When he stayed with us during the climbing season, he used to take me with him when he went down to Namche for supplies. He would tell me all about the mountains. How beautiful they are, how he loved doing what he did. He said to me once when I asked if he was scared sometimes on the mountain that death is not to be feared. That it is freedom from suffering, a journey to another life.” He paused, watching Frank, then added, “You think he’s suffering now?”

Frank considered the young boy as Pema leaned forward and ran her chubby fingers through the mare’s thick mane. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

Lhakpa nodded, reached out and swept his hand over Me-to’s neck. “Papa said Dawa would not know me, nor would I know him when he comes back again, but I think, maybe, some day.”

Frank put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He wanted to tell Lhakpa the things he knew the boy wanted to hear even though he didn’t believe them himself. “The ways beyond the Gate are mysterious and unknowable.”

The boy looked off toward the lane. Frank knew there was more on his mind. Finally, Lhakpa spoke up. “I heard people say government not help much.”

“I know, Lhakpa, not much…not much at all.”

* * *

Just before noon, Frank saddled Me-to up and led the mare to the monastery. Outside the entrance to the courtyard, he watched a long line of trekkers march past. A few of them greeted him with a ‘Namaste,’ which he returned. But his mind was on his sending Dawa to rope the Icefall.

“Nieodm,” said a soft clear voice beside him.

He looked down at Tshe, the village lama, who was watching him with an enigmatic smile on his thin, mottled face.

“And to you also,” Frank answered in Lhasa.

The lama leaned on his walking stick. “Hmm…someone have big thoughts on their mind.”

Frank didn’t want to talk about Dawa. “Just thinking.”

Tshe nodded. “Ah…hō, much to think about these days.”

“Yeah…much,” Frank said. “Ready?”

The lama nodded and handed Frank his stick and travel bag, then hobbled over to Me-to. When Frank went to help him mount, he shooed him away. “I may be old but I can still mount a horse,” he said. He grabbed the horn of the saddle, swung a foot into the stirrup and with surprising grace launched himself onto the back of the mare.

Frank peered up at the old man, whose lithe body threatened to scatter to the four winds. Sometimes he believed the red-robed lama would outlive them all. He tied the travel bag to the saddle and offered the lama his walking stick.

Tshe gathered the reins and swept his hand across his waist. “Do not require. You keep. Maybe you need.” He winked, then turned the mare toward the lane winding through the village. Frank followed behind the clip-clop of Me-to’s hooves, passing homes that sidled up to the age-old stone fences cloistering the properties, and felt the eyes of the village upon him.

* * *

It was just after noon when Frank and Tshe arrived on the bluff above Namche that was used as a staging area for incoming goods and services to the village below. On the soft, sloping ground laid a scattered herd of yak that had been settled in by their Sherpa masters the night before. Frank stared out over the field, watching the village folk go about their errands on the bluff. A disquieting peace lay on the land. A moment later, he heard chopper blades slicing the air. He turned his eyes northward and saw a helicopter coming in for a landing.

The chopper swooped down a short distance from the waiting assembly of men and landed. Frank steadied Me-to while Tshe dismounted. As Frank untied Tshe’s travel bag from Me-to’s saddle, the lama spoke up. “Life is impermanent, you know this,” Tshe said over his shoulder, “yet even after all this time you struggle with this truth.”

“I should’ve seen the serac,” Frank said, his tone brittle to his ears.

The lama grabbed his arm, gripping tight. “You blame yourself for things you have no control of; as if you can say this or that and things will be as you order them. Karma and destiny do not work that way…they have no master!”Tshe paused, looked toward the chopper. “To grieve the loss is expected…Dawa was your friend and he is gone now, but who is to say he is not in a better place, hmmm? We cannot know this…it is beyond us. All we can know is the presence he held in our world, and in our memories. Do not allow the guilt gnawing you to devour the beauty of his life.”

While Frank knew the old lama had been right to remind him, the lama didn’t know the whole truth.

Chapter 3

Los Angeles, California

Sarah

Sarah sat in her car as it idled in her driveway. The day had gone from bad to worse. One of her eighth grade students had told her his mom had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and now, Dawa’s death. She was stunned. How could this be? She hadn’t known the man very well, but that didn’t matter. He was Frank’s friend, and right now the man she loved was going through this alone. She stared out through the windshield, wishing there was something she could do. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway caught her attention. She peered up at the rear view mirror and saw Jack Drummond get out of his car. The young Realtor, whom she’d contacted earlier in the week to discuss selling her house, had a young couple with him.

You’ve got to be kidding me! She got out of her car as he walked up.

“Hey, hope you don’t mind, but I thought I could show a buyer around. Stir up some interest,” he said, and grinned sheepishly.

Sarah watched the young couple standing outside of Jack’s car. Both of them were wearing cashmere sweaters and pressed khakis. Tanned, blond, slender, and in their early thirties, one might be forgiven to peg them as twins. She decided they were preppy dot-commers.

Jack waved the couple forward, “This is Phil and Vivian. They’re relocating from S. F.”

Sarah smiled as they walked up. “Nice to meet you.”

Vivian flashed one back and looked at the house impassively. Phil put his hand out. Sarah shook it and shot Jack a reproachful glance as she handed him her keys. “I’ll wait out here. Jack, when you’re done; a moment?”

His face colored as he cleared his throat. “Sure.”

She watched them go up to the front door, then went back and parked herself in her car. She’d called Jack to explore the market and get the house in shape for selling when the time came—not now! But her mind was on Dawa. She took her phone out and scrolled through her pictures. When she came to the one of the Sherpa and her standing in front of Frank’s home in Khum Jung, she stared at it a long time.

That damned mountain.

She clenched the phone, fighting the urge to whip it at the passenger side window. The absurdity of climbing a freaking mountain to prove you mattered to the world, that you were special, infuriated her. And all on the backs of men like Dawa risking their lives for you. And to what end? She scoffed as the front door of her home opened. The couple returned to Jack’s car with the young woman peeking back at it once or twice.

Jack waited until they were out of earshot. “Hey, they liked it. Perhaps they could come back later when you’re not here? They didn’t want to put you out.”

Sarah gritted her teeth, restraining herself from the powerful urge to vent her displeasure at Jack. “Didn’t you hear what I said over the phone? I’m exploring right now, not selling.”

“Sorry, I just thought—”

“Next time think harder,” Sarah snapped. “Anyway, it’s done.”

“Right…umm, okay…I left a listing contract inside for you to look over, unless you—”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll look it over.”

Jack tried to smile but failed miserably. “Okay, and sorry, I was just trying to be proactive.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s time to be proactive, okay? Now, I need to get inside. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, sending him slinking back to his car. When he drove off, she went inside and tossed her bag on the couch.

“I need a drink,” she said to no one as she entered the kitchen.

After pouring a glass of wine, she drifted to the island countertop and perused the paperwork Jack had left. Beside it was the application for permanent residence in Nepal. She picked the application up and stared at it. She was planning to bring it with her next month when she went to see Frank for the summer. It was going to be a surprise for him, but now….

She tossed it back on the counter, leaned against the wall as her phone chimed. Digging it out of her pocket, she saw Roxanne’s name on the screen.

“Hey.”

“You around? I need to blow off steam,” Roxanne said.

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”

“My darling husband volunteered us—meaning me—to help out with the annual Police Benevolent Baseball Bash…AGAIN,” Roxanne said. “I’d told him last year, it was time for someone else to take a turn. I know it’s for a good cause with the kids but it’s a crap-load of work. But does he listen? NO!”

Sarah switched the phone to her other ear. She really wasn’t in the mood to listen to anyone’s problems, but she knew if the roles were reversed, Roxanne would be there for her. “I’ll get another glass down.”

“Thanks, Bones. Ta!”

Sarah ended the call and eyed her laptop on the counter. Pulling it toward her, she flipped through web pages regarding the tragedy on Everest. Why she was doing this? She had no idea, other than the compelling, morbid need to know the details, to ask questions that made no sense.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard her front door open. “It’s me,” Roxanne called out.

Sarah shut her laptop with a thunk as the feisty redhead strutted into the kitchen wearing one of her husband’s tattered gray LAPD pullovers. The look on her friend’s large, puffy face was akin to a pissed-off feral cat trapped in a cage. Sarah pushed away from the counter and pulled down another wine glass as Roxanne launched into a rant about her no-brain husband. When Roxanne was finished, she pulled a stool up to the island and sat.

“Feel better?” Sarah said, pouring a glass of Riesling and setting it in front of her friend.

“Some,” Roxanne replied, picking the glass up and taking a gulp. They both went quiet, sipping their wine as the humming of the refrigerator filled the space between them. Finally, Roxanne looked at her hard. When Sarah averted her gaze, Roxanne said, “What’s wrong?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

“Oh, shit! Something’s happened. Is it Greg, is he okay?” Roxanne said, getting up and coming around the island to Sarah. She knew Greg was over in Nepal, working with the Hillary Trust up in the mountains. “He didn’t fall into some crevasse, or something, did he?”

“No, Greg’s fine,” said Sarah.

Roxanne let out a breath. “Thank God!”

Sarah debated whether she should say anything. Roxanne had come to her to be listened to, not the other way around. But the expectant look on Roxanne’s face told her she wouldn’t get away with saying nothing. “One of Frank’s friends; Dawa… he was in an avalanche and he… he died on the mountain.”

“Who?” Roxanne said knotting her brow.

“One of Frank’s Sherpa guides. I told you about him before.”

“You told me about a lot of them,” Roxanne said going back to her stool. She drained the rest of her wine. “I need another refill.”

Sarah went for the wine bottle on the counter. When she turned back, Roxanne was perusing paperwork on the island.

“What’s this?” Roxanne said picking up one of the papers and holding it out.

Sarah sighed. “It’s a visa application.”

“I see that,” Roxanne said, staring back. She picked up another sheet and held it up. “And a listing contract, too? Last we talked, you said you were still on the fence about moving to the ass-end of the world. And if I recall, you told me you’d let me know before you made any decisions.”

Sarah’s heart drummed. “I know. It’s just preliminary, right now.”

Roxanne rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “Looks like more than ‘just preliminary’ to me.”

“I’m exploring, Rox. Besides, it’s not like I can jump up and leave. These things take time.”