Ascent

by Roland Smith

  “What does everyone think?”

  “Plenty of light,” Josh said. “Shouldn’t be too hard with fixed ropes.”

  I looked at Zopa. “Better campsite and closer to your route down. It would be best to see it before we try for the summit.”

  “Yogi, Jack, any opinion?”

  Yogi said something. Josh and Zopa laughed.

  Josh interpreted. “He says Yash only wants to camp there because he doesn’t want to come back and carry the heavy pack.”

  “I thought his pack was heavier than Yash’s.”

  Yogi chose to respond in English. “I took ten pounds from my pack. Put it into his pack. He wasn’t looking.”

  Which meant I’d been carrying the heaviest pack.

  “I say we go for it,” Jack said.

  We reached Yash’s col just before dark. He had spent his long wait smoothing out a level area about fifteen feet square. We could see my escape route in the waning light. It looked terribly dangerous. A huge avalanche let loose while we were looking.

  “Maybe the shadows are making it look more ominous than it actually is,” Josh said. I think he was trying to make me feel better. It didn’t work. I had led my team into a dead end. I knew it. We all knew it. We ate very little at dinner, saying we were full, which was a lie. We had burnt thousands of calories that day. I was hungry enough to eat my boots. So was everyone else. The brothers set up the green tent in the middle with four small tents around it. They said they would sleep in the big tent so they could wake up and get breakfast prepared for an early start.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “But which way are we going?”

  He wasn’t being a jerk. He was just voicing what we were all thinking.

  For an hour we discussed aborting the summit attempt and taking our chances on the glacier. The thinking was that if we left at first light and ditched some of our gear, we might be able to get down to the glacier in one horrendous day.

  For the next half hour, we discussed the possibility of Chin picking us up off the mountain. Helicopters could certainly land at 18,000 feet. In 2005, Didier Delsalle, a French helicopter pilot, landed on the top of Everest, 29,030 feet. He tried to do it again the following day and wasn’t able to complete the landing. No one has ever tried it again. But the problem with Hkakabo Razi was not the altitude; it was that there was nowhere to land, which led us back to the tumbled glacier. If we failed, we could call in the Burmese army to rescue us by hovering and roping up to the cockpit. I was certain that Alessia’s mother could, and would, arrange a rescue with the government if we needed it.

  “So we’re not going to die out here,” Jack said, with some relief.

  “That depends,” Zopa said. “A helicopter is useless if the weather is bad.”

  These were the first words he had spoken since we started the discussion.

  “Is the weather going to get bad?” Josh asked.

  Zopa nodded. “Very bad. Not tomorrow, but the day after on this side of the mountain, and it will last for several days. The south side will be relatively clear. Our descent should be into Tibet.”

  “The plateau?” Josh asked.

  Zopa nodded again.

  The Tibetan Plateau is the largest and highest plateau in the world, covering nearly a million square miles.

  “We drop down from here?” I asked.

  Zopa shook his head. “It would be a shame to come all this way and not summit. We can top the mountain, then drop down onto the roof of the world.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Josh was already up drinking tea when I walked into the green tent. It was still dark, with millions of stars in the clear sky. It was fifteen degrees out, and the wind had picked up as Zopa had predicted. I had slept well after I stopped worrying about the roof of the world.

  “Beautiful day to summit,” Josh said cheerfully.

  Yash poured me a mug of tea.

  “What do you think of Zopa’s plan?” I asked.

  “It’s just as viable as our other choices, none of which are good. How about you and me heading out before the others and fixing some ropes?”

  I asked Yogi and  Yash what they thought of the idea. They both gave a Zopa shrug, then Yash said, “Go light. We will carry the packs.”  Yogi nodded in agreement.

  Twenty minutes later, Josh and I were headed up a steep pitch, loaded down with rope and hardware, wearing headlamps on our foreheads and crampons on our boots. We took turns with the lead, the person in front fixing the rope and the person behind checking protection. We didn’t talk. We didn’t have time. But we did pause an hour after we started to watch the sun peek out from behind Hkakabo Razi.

  I think that was the point that summit fever set in. At least for me. Josh too, judging by the speed he was climbing. The top looked close enough to reach out and touch. This is the sweet spot in climbing, when every thought, worry, and dread disappears. It’s also the time when you make mistakes.

  I fell over the edge while I was clipping into the rope. Josh’s hand reached out and grabbed me by my wrist. The only thing between me and death was his strength. When you’re at the end of your rope, there is no one better than Joshua Wood. Unfortunately, he doesn’t pay much attention until you’re dangling. I had Josh’s complete attention, but he was slipping off the ridge.

  “Let me go.”

  He shook his head.

  From where I was dangling, I couldn’t tell if he was clipped in or not. “No use in us both going over.”

  “I’m not letting you die alone! Try! Save me!”

  He meant it. If I didn’t find a way to save myself, he was going down with me. He closed his eyes and focused on being my anchor. I saw the pain and strain in his face. I had my ice ax in my free hand. The wall was three feet away from me. I was going to have to swing toward it and try to plant my ax. I had one shot at this. Josh didn’t have the strength for a second swing.

  “Hang tight!” I shouted, and swung. The ax slipped a fraction of an inch, then caught. I buried my toe points into the ice. “I’m good! Let go!”

  Josh opened his eyes and looked down at me, making sure I wasn’t saving him by falling.

  “You’re sure.”

  I nodded.

  He let my wrist go. I pulled myself into the wall.

  Josh disappeared. A few seconds later, a rope came over the edge and slapped me in the back. I managed to hook it into my harness. Josh took up the tension.

  “I’ve got you!” he shouted from the ridge. I couldn’t see him. “Come on up!”

  I climbed. When I reached the edge of the ridge, I saw Josh lying on his back, belaying me with the rope through his harness. I pulled myself over the edge and sat down next to him, gasping for breath.

  “Thanks,” I said as soon as I could get the word out.

  Josh sat up. “That was damn close. Did you really think that I would drop you?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t, but it seemed like the best solution at the time.”

  “For the record, I might not return your letters, or be around very much, but I would never drop you. What happened?”

  “I fixed the rope and slipped before I clipped in.”

  Josh nodded. “You take the lead. Let’s get to the top.”

  I moved slowly, with deliberation, my summit fever gone, or at least diminished. Zopa radioed that they were on their way up. We switched the lead back and forth several more times. I stopped a hundred feet from the top and waited for Josh.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked when he caught up to me.

  “No problem. I want you to take the lead.”

  “This close to the summit? Forget it.”

  “My climb.”

  “Then climb. You need to be the first to the top, if for no other reason than for your real teammates, who couldn’t be here. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I reached the summit half an hour later. The wind was blowing fifty miles an hour. It was 12:35 p.m. The sky was clear above the mountain, but I could see dark, omino
us clouds to the south, coming our way. Josh pulled himself up, sat down next to me, and gave me a high-five. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a certified GPS unit. I hadn’t even looked at my watch to see how high I was perched. It didn’t matter. We had made it to the top.

  “Any guesses?” Josh asked.

  “All I know is that you can see everything from up here.” I pointed to the Tibetan Plateau far below. “The climb down looks pretty straightforward. I guess we aren’t going to starve or freeze to death.”

  “Zopa,” Josh said, shaking his head. “He always finds a way.”

  He switched the GPS on and looked at the screen.

  “Do you want to know?”

  I thought about this for a few moments. I did and I didn’t want to know. It was kind of cool to think there was still a mountain without an official elevation. A mystery. But everyone was going to know soon enough.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “We’re on the highest mountain in Southeast Asia. Gamlang Razi is 19,259 feet. Hkakabo Razi is 19,643 feet, give or take a foot or two.”

  I called Alessia.

  “We’re at the summit.”

  “I am so happy! Is it the tallest?”

  “Yes. How’s Ethan?”

  “The swelling went down, and they put him back together again. I am in his room right now. I will put the phone on speaker. He is groggy, but awake.” There was some noise, then Alessia came back on. “It is Peak.”

  “Are you on the summit?” Ethan asked.

  “Yep. A beautiful day at nineteen-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-three feet.”

  “Perfect.” Ethan’s voice was weak, but clear.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “I bet. Are you there, Alessia?”

  “Yes, I am here.”

  “Did you talk to Chin?”

  “He said that he would help you in any way he could. He is flying back to Strangeland, so he is nearby.”

  “Tell him we aren’t going back to Burma. We are climbing down to the Tibetan Plateau. We’ll be down in a few days. Looks like an easy descent from where I’m sitting. I’m not sure if we’ll need him. Tell him I’ll keep him posted on our progress if the battery holds out.” I glanced at the battery icon. It was low.

  “Your mother said that she left you a message.”

  I looked at the screen. There was a message. “I don’t have much battery left. Can you call her and tell her that we’re okay? I’ll call her as soon as I can, but it might be a few days.”

  “Of course.”

  “I better cut this off. I’ll call you from Tibet. I’m glad you’re better, Ethan.”

  “Me too.  What about my spoon?”

  “Your spoon saved my life. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.” I turned the sat phone off.

  The drone appeared. Josh held the GPS up to it.

  “Are you going to be in the documentary?”

  “Looks like I’m already in it.” I smiled and waved at the camera.

  I put my arm around my dad and gave him a hug. “Thanks for coming.”

  He returned the hug and said, “No worries.”

  I smiled. I think that phrase is Josh’s version of Zopa’s shrug.

  Yash, Yogi, Jack, and Zopa joined us on the summit. We sat there taking in the magnificent view for several minutes without a word.

  “I guess we should start down,” I said.

  “Who will lead?” Zopa asked.

  “I led us up here,” I said. “I think you should lead us down.”

  Zopa shrugged and began the long climb down.

  Acknowledgments

  There are a lot more people behind this novel than the lowly author. My heartfelt thanks go to the wonderful HMH team: Catherine Onder, Mary Magrisso, Cara Llewellyn, Jim Secula, Amanda Acevedo, Diane Varone, and my new climbing partner and editor, Lily Kessinger. I would also like to thank my longtime agent, Barbara Kouts, who has blazed my book trail for over two decades. No acknowledgments would be complete without my dear wife, Marie, who does more for my books, and me, than anyone will ever know.

  The Assignment

  MY NAME IS PEAK. Yeah, I know: weird name. But you don’t get to pick your name or your parents. (Or a lot of other things in life for that matter.) It could have been worse. My parents could have named me Glacier, or Abyss, or Crampon. I’m not kidding. According to my mom all those names were on the list.

  Vincent, my literary mentor (at your school this would be your English teacher), asked me to write this for my year-end assignment (no grades at our school).

  When Vincent reads the sentence you just read he’ll say: Peak, that is a run-on sentence and chaotically parenthetical. (That’s how he talks.) Meaning it’s a little confusing and choppy. And I’ll tell him that my life is (parenthetical) and the chaos is due to the fact that I’m starting this assignment in the back of a Toyota pickup in Tibet (aka China) with an automatic pencil that doesn’t have an eraser and it’s not likely that I’m going to find an eraser around here.

  Vincent has also said that a good writer should draw the reader in by starting in the middle of the story with a hook, then go back and fill in what happened before the hook.

  Once you have the reader hooked you can write whatever you want as you slowly reel them in.

  I guess Vincent thinks readers are fish. If that’s the case, most of Vincent’s fish have gotten away. He’s written something like twenty literary novels, all of which are out of print. If he knew what he was talking about why do I have to search the dark, moldering aisles of used-book stores to find his books?

  (Now I’ve done it. But remember this, Vincent: Writers should tell the brutal truth in their own voice and not let individuals, society, or consequences dictate their words! And you thought no one was listening to you in class. You also know that I really like your books, or I wouldn’t waste my time trying to find them. Nor would I be trying to get this story down in the back of a truck in Tibet.)

  Speaking of which . . .

  This morning we slowed down to get around a boulder the size of a school bus that had fallen in the middle of the road. In the U.S.A. we would use dynamite or heavy equipment to move it. In Tibet they use picks, sledgehammers, and prisoners in tattered, quilted coats to chip the boulder down to nothing. The prisoners smiled at us as we tried not to run over their shackled feet on the narrow road. Their cheerful faces were covered in nicks and cuts from rock shrapnel. Those not chipping used crude wooden wheelbarrows to move the man-made gravel over to potholes, where very old Tibetan prisoners used battered shovels and rakes to fill in the holes. Chinese soldiers in green uniforms and with rifles slung over their shoulders stood around fifty-gallon burn barrels smoking cigarettes. The prisoners looked happier than the soldiers did.

  I wondered if the boulder would be gone by the time I came back through. I wondered if I’d ever come back through.

  The Hook

  I WAS ONLY TWO-THIRDS up the wall when the sleet started to freeze onto the black terra-cotta.

  My fingers were numb. My nose was running. I didn’t have a free hand to wipe my nose, or enough rope to rappel about five hundred feet to the ground. I had planned everything out so carefully, except for the weather, and now it was uh-oh time.

  A gust of wind tried to peel me off the wall. I dug my fingers into the seam and hugged the terra-cotta until it passed.

  I should have waited until June to make the ascent, but no, moron has to go up in March. Why? Because everything was ready and I have a problem with waiting. I had studied the wall, built all my custom protection, and picked the date. I was ready. And if the date passed I might not try it at all. It doesn’t take much to talk yourself out of a stunt like this. That’s why there are over six billion people sitting safely inside homes and one . . .

  “Moron!” I shouted.

  Option #1: Finish the climb. Two hundred sixty-four feet up, or about a hundred precarious fingerholds (providing my
fingers didn’t break off like icicles).

  Option #2: Climb down. A little over five hundred feet, two hundred fifty fingerholds.

  Option #3: Wait for rescue. Scratch that option. No one knew I was on the wall. By morning (providing someone actually looked up and saw me) I would be an icy gargoyle. And if I lived my mom would drop me off the wall herself.

  Up it is, then.

  I timed my moves between vicious blasts of wind, which were becoming more frequent the higher I climbed. The sleet turned to hail, pelting me like a swarm of frozen hornets. But the worst happened about thirty feet from the top, fifteen measly fingerholds away.

  I had stopped to give the lactic acid searing my shoulders and arms a chance to simmer down. I was mouth breathing (partly from exertion, partly from terror), and I told myself I would make the final push as soon as I caught my breath.

  While I waited, a thick mist drifted in around me. The top of the wall disappeared, which was just as well. When you’re tired and scared, thirty feet looks about the length of two football fields, and that can be pretty demoralizing. Scaling a wall happens one foothold and one handhold at a time. Thinking beyond that can weaken your resolve, and it’s your will that gets you to the top as much as your muscles and climbing skills.

  Finally, I started breathing through my runny nose again. Kind of snorting, really, but I was able to close my mouth every other breath.

  This is it, I told myself. Fifteen more handholds and I’ve topped it.

  I reached up for the next seam and encountered a little snag. Well, a big snag really . . .

  My right ear and cheek were frozen to the wall.

  To reach the top you must have resolve, muscles, skill, and . . .

  A FACE!

  Mine was anchored to that wall like a bolt, and a portion of it stayed there when I gathered enough resolve to tear it loose. Now I was mad, which was exactly what I needed to finish the climb.