would be carrying on his inner arms.
There had been double pneumonia in '84, tropical parasites in '82 and '79, the
anterior reconstruction of his left shoulder in '83, rabies shots for a dog bite in
Rawalpindi, Pakistan, in '80, and a spiral fracture of the right tibia in '77.
The list went on. It was grotesque. In the context of a normal sport, Daniel's
relentless suffering and compulsion would have depressed Abe. But his fascinated
him. Here was the sort of obsession he'd always associated with Himalayan ascent,
and it was written in flesh and blood. The other members might have the same
passion, but only here did Abe see proof of a heart and mind whipped by demons.
Now he knew who it was on that British expedition who had named their route for a
woman locked away in the underworld.
2
THE BEGINNING – 1992
Abe woke at dawn on the border of Tibet, flat on his back beneath a truck axle. After
a late start from Kathmandu, they had reached the border too late for crossing, so the
climbers had slept where they could, on one of the big Indian Tata trucks or under
them. Hauling himself out by one of the worn black tires, Abe squinted up and around
at this borderland in the light of day.
He had come prepared for a landscape of collision, a place where two continental
plates were warring for dominance. What he hadn't prepared for was this: a single
bridge wedged at the base of an emerald green gorge, half a mile deep. On either side,
monkeys barked in the trees and thousand-foot waterfalls threaded walls thick with
rhododendron and pine.
They had spent six days in Kathmandu, speedy with jet lag, racing to finish stocking
the expedition with food from the local bazaar and with secondhand mountain gear
from the trek shops and from other expeditions. With his partner Gus, Daniel had
already headed north into Tibet to weed through the red tape and choose a site for
their base camp at Everest. Abe was glad for that. For the time being it was enough to
get acquainted with these strangers and this new land.
From their moment of landing, Abe had been enchanted. Kathmandu was a vortex
of centuries swirling upon themselves. Electric lines threaded among thirteen-tiered
temples. Honda motorcycles wove between ambling sacred cows. Ancient stone gods
peeked out of brick walls or peered up from holes in the asphalt. There was a layering
of time here that sucked at Abe's spirit, and at every turn he felt himself pulled
deeper and harder into Asia.
Yesterday they had mounted a jitney bus and the Tata trucks and the city had
given way to countryside and the countryside to mountains. The green and red hills
with their sleepy cattle and terraced fields had slipped by. The Kathmandu highway
had turned into this mean dirt strip hugging a white river.
High in the distance, in a scoop of morning sunlight, a Tibetan village lay carved into
the stone and clouds. Down here the air was warm and sticky and crowded with nasal
childlike songs from a shopkeeper's radio. Every breath tasted like truck fuel and last
night's rice and lentils. But up there, high overhead in Tibet, it looked chilly and
remote and peaceful.
Someone came up behind Abe and pointed at the distant floating village. It was
Jorgens, Abe could tell by the hand – square and veined like a miner's, with latticed,
weather-beaten skin – and because only Jorgens had the ease to go around slapping
backs or propping his arm on shoulders. Most of the climbers were still stalking wary
circles around one another, snuffling for aggression or dominance like pack wolves. In
a fit of bonhomie at the Kathmandu airport, Jorgens had even called them 'kids,'
exposing his wish that they be one big family. Abe canted his head enough to catch the
cropped monastic tonsure and the clunky horn-rims that ex-Marines seemed to
favor. 'Breakfast,' Jorgens grunted, and then he was gone, rousting climbers from
their nooks and crannies by the roadside.
Abe looked around him as the group rose up from the ground. There were leaves in
their hair and bags beneath their eyes. The ones who had slept under the trucks
sported oil stains, and now Abe found a greasy stripe on his own jacket. Half of them
limped from old sports injuries or tendinitis sustained in training for this expedition.
They did not inspire confidence as a collection of world-class athletes coiled to strike
the highest mountain.
Their Chinese permit listed them as members of the U.S. Ultimate Summit
Expedition to the North Face of Qomolangma – or Everest. But one of the climbers –
probably Robby with his mouth or Thomas, in another fit of forlorn criticism – had
dubbed them the Yeti, and it stuck. Composed of fifteen testicles, four breasts, and
'nine too many brains,' they were indeed a creature fit for the mountains. Including
airfare, gear, food, permit fees and bribes, it was costing over a half million dollars to
stitch together this monster. Its life expectancy was a hundred days, though just now,
after a single night in the open, the team looked mostly dead.
They limped and shrugged across the Friendship Bridge that spanned the border.
All their gear had to be off-loaded here and then loaded onto Chinese government
trucks hired at exorbitant rates. And because a section of road to town was in poor
repair, the bus chartered to bring up the climbers had been canceled. They would
have to walk for their breakfast.
On the far side of the bridge, four People's Liberation Army soldiers awaited the
expedition, their pea-green uniform jackets unbuttoned and their cheeks chapped the
color of radishes. They stared without amusement as several climbers capered back
and forth across the international line for each other's cameras.
At the end of an hour of hiking, the string of hungry climbers reached the village,
walking past shacks made of radiant blond pinewood saturated with dew. A waterfall
sluiced beneath the roadway and rocketed out into free space, springing hundreds of
feet into the depths. They came to a concrete arch marking the customs entry point
and overhead a huge fire-red Chinese flag billowed in the mountain air. Abe took a
deep lungful of the dream.
Big Tibetan half-breeds with gold teeth and white cotton gloves drove them up out of
the gorge and onto the high plateau where they connected with a new Old Silk Road, a
two-lane bulldozed road that extended from China all the way to Pakistan. To Abe,
the ancient trade route promised riches and forgotten cities. But around every bend it
delivered only more mountains and more emptiness.
'A war road,' Carlos Crowell called it. He and Abe were riding side by side atop a
canvas tarp in the bed of one truck. Along this road, Carlos said, the People's Republic
kept Tibet garrisoned with occupation troops and stocked with everything from rice
to nuclear weapons. Along this road, back to China, flowed commune crops and
minerals and what was left of Tibet's forests.
'They've stripped her clean,' Carlos said. Even stating the facts depressed Carlos,
who felt he had a special connection to Tibet, and indeed most of the Third World.
This was his fourth time here.
Whippet-thin, Carlos was an ex-Peace Corps hand who had served in Rwanda a
decade ago, then drifted on to become a part-time dharma bum and entrepreneur. He
