extended period since we’ve come in sight of it. Even winds along the North East Ridge have appeared to die down to a point where no spindrift is rising. The temperature on the North Col this day is in the seventies. High winds the previous week have blown much of the snow off the ridge rocks, and even the Great Couloir appears to have contracted in size.
But none of us are on the mountain today. All of us—all the Sherpas, Dr. Pasang, Lady Bromley-Montfort, the Deacon, J.C., and I—are trudging the eleven miles up the valley to the Rongbuk Monastery from Base Camp for a blessing ceremony from Dzatrul Rinpoche.
The Deacon’s anger at this self-inflicted loss of the two best climbing days of the month—perhaps of the year—shows itself through thin, pale lips and his expression of rigid control. Jean-Claude and I both are waiting for the Deacon to turn that fierce anger on us.
The Sherpas look and sound happy, as if it’s a holiday from school for them. None had seemed especially saddened by Babu Rita’s sudden death. I ask Pasang about this and the
I shake my head at this. “Then why are they so eager to get this blessing from the monastery’s holy man, Dzatrul Rinpoche? If everything’s predestined for them anyway, what difference will the abbot’s blessing make?”
Pasang smiles his small smile. “Do not ask me, Mr. Perry, to make sense of the internal contradictions that are so common in all religions.”
Yesterday we’d wrapped Babu’s body in the cleanest and whitest tent fabric we could find, the Base Camp Sherpas had put the body on a litter and strapped that litter to the back of a yak, and six of the Sherpas, led by Dr. Pasang, had ridden ponies up the valley to the monastery, escorting Babu’s corpse.
Unsure of what to do or if we’d be invited to the funeral ceremony that Dzatrul Rinpoche, at Babu Rita’s last request, might choose for him, Jean-Claude and I took loads of food and oxygen—and J.C.’s mysterious “bicycle” bundle—and carried them the eleven miles up the Trough and East Rongbuk Glacier to Camp III. Learning that Reggie and the Deacon were still on or above Camp IV on the North Col—we’d gotten word to the Deacon about Babu’s death, of course, but he’d sent back a note saying that since we weren’t going to be responsible for Babu’s burial service, he’d stay at the high camps—J.C. and I reduced our loads a bit (Jean-Claude carrying little more than his clumsy “mystery bicycle” in his oversized-load bag) and followed the fixed ropes and caving ladders up to the North Col. Feeling guilty about many things, we decided—without discussing it—not to use oxygen during this ice-wall climb, but to save it for others in the days to come. Two Sherpas followed us up.
J.C. kept the two Sherpas with him at the lip of the ice shelf and said, “Go ahead to Camp Four…I’m going to set up my bicycle here with Dorjay’s and Namgya’s help. I’ll join you when we’re finished here.”
When I’d crossed the white-burning expanse of the North Col to Camp IV, I learned from Reggie that the Deacon and four Sherpas, including Tenzing Bothia and Tejbir Norgay, had just returned to the North Col after climbing the first section of the North Ridge and pitching two tents at the chosen Camp V site, just where the North Ridge leveled out ever so slightly at an altitude of a little more than 25,000 feet.
His face burned almost black by the high-altitude ultraviolet rays of the sun, the Deacon grinned at us and said, “If this calm holds, we can make the summit bid from Camp Five tomorrow.”
Reggie—who’d just come up an hour earlier with more loads carried by four Sherpas from Camp III—looked doubtful. The North Col behind her and to every side of us was a blaze of heat and white light. I made sure to keep my goggles of darkened Crooke’s glass on.
The Deacon was ravenously devouring lunch—heated potato soup, tongue, rich chocolates, cocoa—when he suggested we retreat to Camp III this afternoon, come back up to IV the next day, and push on to spend Thursday night at Camp V. From that high camp, if the weather remained anywhere near as calm as it was this Wednesday, we could leave in the middle of the night for the summit attempt on Friday, May 15.
“So my Welsh miner’s headlamps may be of some use after all?” asked Reggie with a certain ironic edge in her voice.
Too excited to argue, the Deacon only grinned again and said, “The two Meade tents we set up today at Camp Five can hold four people, maximum. I suggest that we leave on two ropes in the early hours of Friday, Tenzing Bothia and me on the first rope, you—Jake and Jean-Claude—on the second rope. All of us using oxygen. At the lower flow rate, we should have from fifteen to sixteen and a half hours of bottled air. Time enough to summit and get back to Camp Five before sunset.”
“Where do I fit into this plan?” demanded Reggie.
The Deacon only stared at her.
“You promised that we would all look for Percival’s remains on the way up,” continued Reggie. “Well, I have to be along to make sure that we actually
The Deacon frowned and continued to eat chocolate. “Your going to the summit was never part of the plan, Lady Bromley-Montfort.”
“It’s part of
I was fighting for breath after the climb with no oxygen tanks and wasn’t part of this argument. My thoughts weren’t on the summit of Everest; they were still fixed on Babu Rita’s dead face and staring eyes.
At that moment we noticed Pemba Sherpa, traveling alone, trudging up and out of the shelf area along the marked traffic way across the North Col to our westernmost camp. No one spoke until Pemba reached us.
The news was staggering. Dzatrul Rinpoche had sent word that we were all to come to the Rongbuk Monastery the very next day, Thursday, to receive his blessing. Babu Rita’s sky burial, said Pemba, would be at sunrise on Friday, but only Babu’s immediate family would be invited to stay for that.
“God
“We’re all going,” said Reggie.
“It’s not Babu’s
“We all have to go down,” said Reggie. She sounded almost…relieved.
“I won’t do it.” The Deacon tossed his cooking pot aside, the pan clanging on ice next to the little Unna cooker.
“You’re going to do your summit climb without any Sherpa support?” said Reggie.
“If that’s what I have to do, that’s what I’ll do,” said the Deacon. He looked at J.C. and me. “It’ll be the three of us on a rope, my friends, and we haul just oxygen sets and extra clothes and food in our pockets to Camp Five tomorrow.”
Reggie shook her head. “Not only would it be an insult to Dzatrul Rinpoche, Mr. Deacon, but your attempting the summit on the day of the holy man’s blessing would cost you the loyalty of all your Sherpas. They’ve been very patient for this blessing as it is. Snub the lama and attempt to climb the mountain without Dzatrul Rinpoche’s blessing, and many of the Sherpas will leave the expedition here and now.”
“God damn it!” said the Deacon. “Jake, Jean-Claude, you’ll come with me, won’t you?”
I knew what Jean-Claude was going to say even before he spoke. “No,
It is a perfect day as we all leave Base Camp early on Thursday morning for the 11-mile hike down the valley for the lama’s blessing. Even the frostbitten Ang Chiri and Lhakpa Yishay—since Lhakpa’s frostbite was worse than first thought, the amputations of certain toes and fingers for both Sherpas were put off for another day—are riding mules led by their friends. Dr. Pasang is riding a small pony next to Reggie’s larger one. The Deacon walks alone, easily keeping pace with the plodding ponies, his face as fiercely closed as a castle’s main door with an enemy army outside.
I kick my pony’s ribs, catch up to Reggie and Pasang, and ask about the monastery and its abbot.
“Dzatrul Rinpoche is the incarnation of Padma Sambhava,” she says. At my blank gaze she adds, “You’ve seen images of Padma Sambhava along the way across Tibet, Jake. He’s the god with nine heads.”
