Kiss the Sky

by MK Schiller

  “Yes, that’s true,” Lino said.

  Tristan adjusted his pack. “Rana is a strong climber. I’m not questioning that.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” Bjorn said, taking out his thermos of water. “I’m not so sure about everyone else though.”

  Tristan shook his head. “You’re worried about Edelweiss? Rana will watch him.”

  “His weaknesses are evident. We’ll see them easily and be able to act. I’m not worried about him. Not in the long run.” They resumed their hike. Bjorn’s eyes fixed on the path before him.

  “Is it Farah’s you’re questioning? She’s stronger than she looks.”

  Bjorn and Lino both laughed, suggesting they’d had this conversation before. “Not her,” Lino said. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s smart and methodical.”

  Tristan agreed with the assessment. They respected and admired her the same way he did.

  Bjorn stopped in his tracks and turned to Tristan. “It’s you, my boy. We’re worried about you.”

  Tristan replayed his words. “Me? Why? I’m the most seasoned climber here.”

  “Indeed you are, but I doubt you heard me just now.”

  “I heard you. It’s not about money for Rana. I get it.”

  Bjorn shook his head. Clearly, Tristan had gotten the lesson wrong. “I also said it’s not about the summit.” He pointed toward all the peaks. “It’s about this moment. About the process, not the end result. Edelweiss’s grandfather got that wrong. The mistake cost the man his life. He was so determined to summit he refused to descend with the rest of his group. It’s true what they say—you never know who will flourish or fail at eight thousand meters.”

  “Yet you predict I will fail.”

  “Young man, I fear you want this too much.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “Yes, there is. There is a difference between passion and obsession. That is not always obvious.”

  Tristan wanted to argue with him, but the man had more experience when it came to matters of life.

  “I’ll keep my wits about me.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Bjorn said.

  “While you’re at it, I suggest you keep your wits off her,” Lino said, jerking his head over the crest where Farah had just been. “This is a mountain, not a nightclub. She is strong and capable.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why do you look as if you want to carry her up the mountain when she has two perfectly good legs?”

  Shit, his thoughts had been so obvious he might as well have spoken them through a megaphone.

  He read the message loud and clear. Tristan gritted his teeth. “Understood.”

  Chapter 10

  On the third day of hiking, they came around a bend. Everyone halted. Most of them shrugged off their gear and stood in silent awe. Edelweiss sniffed, holding back tears. Rana let out a holler of excitement. Lino and Bjorn spoke at once, alternating between three or four languages, no doubt trying to find words to describe the sight. But there were no words in any language for what they were seeing. Farah fell to her knees. From the smile on her face, it clearly wasn’t exhaustion but gratitude and joy. Even Malcolm managed a smile. They had reached Concordia. Tristan was afraid to blink. He’d seen this very sight in photographs and videos, but no artificial lens could do it justice. The group stood before an enormous hub of ice where the Upper Baltoro and Godwin-Austen glaciers collided. Broad Peak and Gasherbrum I, II, and III, four of the fifteen tallest mountains on earth, surrounded them. The weather was clear today, a good omen. They had their first glimpse of K2 directly to the north. It filled up the entire sky, a gleaming giant, looming above them, breathtaking and intimidating. It beckoned every one of them. Come closer. Kiss the sky.

  He extended his hand to Farah. She took it and rose to her feet. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this view. It’s almost as if my eyes can’t take it all in.” Farah’s voice was so quiet and soft Tristan felt as if he was intruding on the conversation.

  He’d thought this moment would be all about the mountain. That he would be transfixed by it, and he was. But he was having a similar dilemma staring at the woman beside him. She looked at the pyramid of ice and rock with such reverence. What could he say to express this moment? He couldn’t. So he shut up.

  Her dimples resurfaced with her smile. “Ever had chapatti on an open fire, Everest?”

  “I have. I can make it, too. It’s one of my specialties.”

  “You cook?”

  He smacked his stomach. “I figured out a long time ago if I wanted to eat right, I better learn how to make stuff for myself. I hear we’re going to have a feast tonight.”

  “Yes, that’s the tradition.” She looked like she wanted to say more. Instead she walked past him without another word. He didn’t dwell on it. Rana called him over for a group meeting so they could all go over the maps once more. They divided up the tasks for each leg of the climb.

  Most of this trip would be done in true alpine style with fast climbs and few supplies to weigh them down. Everest was carefully plotted out with fixed ropes and ladders along the beaten-down routes to help climbers reach the summit, but K2 still had unknowns, and it tested every muscle in a climber’s body, especially the brain.

  The Korean team was setting up not too far from them. They decided to all join for dinner. Setting up the tents shouldn’t have been so difficult, but everyone was acclimatizing to the lack of oxygen, which made the simplest task take longer. Once they got a hot fire going, an excitement filtered through the air. The good vibes and adrenaline were in large supply. They would begin their ascent the next day. They dined on heaping plates of lentils and thin chapatti bread, trying to get their carb overload. In the nights to come, they would mostly eat protein mixes and freeze-dried, packaged foods.

  Tonight, they were all in fine spirits. A few bottles of Hunza water were passed around. The drink made from fermented juniper berries tasted like gin. Well, maybe what gin would taste like with an acetone mixer. It caused even the strongest men to cough and sputter. Tristan was no exception.

  The porters clapped their hands and sang. They played music that sounded as old as the mountain itself. They taught them a dance. Lino, Bjorn, and Tristan did their best to imitate the high energy moves, but it was no use. Tristan had the same level of grace as a stampede of sloshed bulls. Exhausted and exhilarated, he took the seat next to her. The other men continued dancing and drinking spirits. Tristan was thankful for a brief reprieve.

  Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was his own weakness. Or just how much he missed talking to her. Really talking. He wanted to break through the wall between them. She stared at the crackling fire. She wore a long wool sweater, shelling a pistachio and popping it into her mouth.

  “You plan on sharing?” he asked.

  “Not sure. I’m protective of my pistachios.” Her smiled inched up into dimple range. “But since you danced, I suppose you deserve a few.” She passed him the bag.

  He took a handful. “That’s a workout,” he said. He chugged on a bottle of water and crunched on a few nuts.

  “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

  “I was.”

  “Have a good night, Tristan.” She closed the bag and stood.

  “Why are you avoiding me?”

  She paused for a moment, her entire body tensing, before turning back to him. “What? You’re being silly.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove me wrong.” He patted the seat next to him. “Sit with me just for a few minutes. Pass the pistachios, and let’s have us a real conversation.”

  She sat and handed him the bag. He cracked open a shell. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Try me.”

  “You bo
ther me by being you.”

  “That makes sense.” He threw a pistachio in the air and managed to catch it in his mouth.

  “It does?” she asked.

  “Sure, if we were in the third grade.”

  “If you really want to do something for me, you can tell me one bad thing about you. Something that will make me dislike you just a little.” She pinched her fingers together.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re handsome and sweet and kind and funny. I like you too much for my own good. I need your help to let this go. So if you want to help me, tell me one bad thing.”

  His heart constricted. He knew this attraction between them skirted the line between bad and terrible choices. He missed their talks though. He missed her company. She, being more level-headed, had called it out for what it was. “I can’t stand cats, not even cute little kittens. I think of them in the same category as large rodents.”

  She chuckled. “That’s a shame, but it’s a preference. I can’t hate you for a preference.”

  “We’re going straight for hate, are we?”

  “A dose of hate would be brilliant right now.”

  If he was honest, he’d admit she was right. Rana was full of disapproving looks these days. Not that he cared what the other man thought, but his feelings for Farah were causing a riff in the group. They both needed to stay strong and focused. “I enjoy your company, but you are not my type, Nawaz. You’re too aggressive and strong. I prefer a woman who is demure and subtle. I’m not attracted to you. Oh wait, that’s a preference, too.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “No… No, that’s perfect and exactly what I needed to hear.” Her voice cracked.

  He wanted to punch himself. “Farah…I was—”

  “Don’t. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.” She stood. “Good night, Tristan.”

  “Wait. Sit for a second longer.” Everyone always said he was an overachiever. “You’re not even going to return the favor?”

  “What?”

  “You have to make me hate you too. At least a little or maybe a lot. That’s only fair.”

  Realization flickered across her face. She caught on to the game at hand and sat down. “You need a haircut.”

  “That’s all you got? Weak.”

  “If you think that I’m attracted to you, then I have an authentic, one-of-a-kind painting I’d love to sell you.”

  He reared his head back and laughed. “Better.”

  They were on land covered in rock and shale and snow and peaks that rose like giants from the earth. He now understood what Bjorn had meant in their conversation about appreciating the journey and not just looking for the summit. This moment was special, one he wouldn’t trade for anything.

  The porters played another song. Everyone appeared in high spirits. Even Rana had stopped glaring at him. The Hunza water and having K2 in their sights had elevated everyone’s mood. Roughly five and a half miles straight up to the sky separated them from the summit.

  Rana took out a well-worn guitar. He strummed a soft tune. “Might as well get some use out of this.” He jerked his head toward the mountain. “I won’t be taking it up there.”

  The riff was familiar and brought a smile to Tristan’s face. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Feel free to sing along, brother,” Rana said.

  They were so out of tune they might just cause an avalanche. No one would mistake them for Led Zeppelin, but “Kashmir” never sounded so fucking good. It was the strangest of ironies, since they were actually in Kashmir.

  Chapter 11

  This morning they had bid their porters good-bye at base camp. Tristan, with Rana’s permission, had given each man a bonus. Farah had embraced each man and doled out gifts. The packages contained just three items—a small picture book for their children, a warm wool scarf for their wives, and a bottle of aspirin to cure minor aches and pains. The men’s faces lit up when they saw the aspirin. It may not have seemed like much, but in an area where doctors were scarce and a toothache could literally kill a man, it meant the world. They had regarded her with suspicion and uncertainty at first. But by the time they left, the men had nothing but gratitude and respect for this woman. The younger men referred to her as “sister” while the older men called her “daughter.”

  Now, it was just the seven of them and the huge monolith before them. Even though it was out of the way, they hiked to the Art Gilkey Memorial. Making their way there, Tristan took in the miraculous views. If the Minister of Expeditions was here, he wouldn’t need to ask why Tristan chose this life.

  Tristan had read and seen footage about K2 since he was a kid. It was the neighboring peak from his Everest, but the differences between the mountains were as vast as the topography of the sun and moon. From Everest Base Camp, a climber could walk a few hours and be lounging in a grassy area with an ice-cold beer in his hand, drinking with other trekkers as they watched the yaks go by.

  But K2 stood on its own, completely remote and barren. Even getting to the damn thing had been near impossible. The area, an imposing pile of impressive rock and solid ice surrounded by clouds and storms, resembled Mar’s surface more than that of the Earth’s. Hell, one of the reasons the mountain was commonly known only as K2 was due to the remote location. While other mountains had been renamed for the people who first surveyed them or by locals, K2 had kept the geological notation as its name because so few people had seen or lived close enough to give it a proper identity. It loomed, a fierce, tall, and unnamed giant. He could not explain it, but it was beautiful to him. It made him feel more alive to be here, standing at what felt like the edge of the world.

  The climbers stood in silence to pay their respects. Art Gilkey was a climber and geologist from Idaho who had died on K2 back in ’53 despite a heroic rescue attempt by his group. The memorial was erected in his memory. Since then, it had become tradition for climbers to place tin plates with the names of friends, who perished on the Savage, on the piles of rocks. Tristan read the inscriptions. Many of them had died on the descent. That wasn’t surprising. Most climbers gave the ascent their all. So much so, they ran out of energy and steam for the way back.

  The memorial had grown and stretched. It was meant for one man, and now hundreds of names covered it. Gilkey himself died in an avalanche. Some said it were as if the hand of God swept him off the mountain. Not far from him was a prominent plate with Allison Hargreave’s name. She had managed to summit, but passed away when a gale-force wind plucked her straight off the summit along with the five others in her group. There was a German climber named Grohs who had slipped and fallen to his death while pushing to the top.

  It was more than just an erected memorial. The pile of rocks and tin plates served as a stern warning that surpassed any words of caution. The seduction of K2 was not without consequence. Many times, the ultimate consequence.

  The wind howled today, screaming from the apex of every surrounding summit all the way down like the chorus of a million men emptying their lungs. Yet nothing about the sound felt remotely human.

  Tristan glanced at the plates once more. Drew’s name should be up there, too. The thought brought raw pain. Tristan couldn’t give the feeling a name. It was too fresh, a wound that still bled. He had not cried when his brother died. Or his mother. He had refused to let the pain and guilt consume him. He would not start today.

  Edelweiss took out a plate for his grandfather and placed it among the others. The man had died prior to the memorial being erected. They all removed their hats and bowed their heads while Edelweiss said a prayer.

  “His name was Fritz Ditel?” Farah asked Edelweiss when he stepped back.

  “We have different surnames.”

  “Fritz Ditel,” she repeated. “May he rest in peace.”

  “If we find his body, he will.”

  Tristan didn’t like the idea
of looking for bones. The climb was dangerous enough without sacrificing themselves to bury a man who had been dead for decades.

  “Relax, Sinclair,” Rana said as if reading his mind. “We’re not going to take any unnecessary risks.”

  That didn’t make him feel any better.

  Rana retreated down along with the other men. They were heading back to camp. He remained behind, wanting to spend a few more minutes with the ghosts of K2. Farah stayed too.

  “Do you feel them?” Farah asked.

  “Feel who?”

  She gestured to the memorial. “Them. I feel them every time I come here.”

  “Yeah, it’s some kind of powerful, all right.”

  Some of the plates were made of expensive stone, the words written in neat, elegant script. Others were done by punching holes into tin plates with rudimentary tools. They were written in English and Urdu and Arabic and just about every language in the world.

  One thing was clear, K2 might be too simplistic of a name, but the mountain definitely deserved its nickname.

  The Savage Mountain fit perfectly.

  Chapter 12

  In the coming days, the chess board got more use. “Let’s make it interesting,” Malcolm said on one of their rest days.

  “You want to wager?” Tristan asked. “I didn’t exactly bring money for gambling.”

  “Some things are worth more, especially up here.” Malcolm pointed to Tristan’s pack. “If I win, I get your binoculars.” They were a brand new pair and cost him a fortune.

  “And if I win?” Tristan asked.

  “I’ll give you my snack rations for the next week.” He held up the bag of chips he brought. “Smuggled these in from the States. Just the right amount of salt.” He opened the bag. Tristan could smell the sour cream and onion aroma. Malcolm popped one into his mouth, the crunch of it loud.