Rising

by Sharon Wood

  Some sources claim the Rongbuk Glacier is retreating more than twenty metres a year. The arid, high-altitude air and solar radiation have sculpted its surface into pointy monoliths called penitentes. What had looked like an impassable maze to Dave and me on our reconnaissance yields to passageways. As James and I wend our way through, I peer up at these formations, some leaning perilously. Others have toppled and lie in fragments like fallen ancient Roman statues, white and porous from oxidation with edges rounded by time. The more recently sheared ice surfaces refract vivid hues of turquoise. Compressed by its own weight over centuries of time, the ice mass is nearer the density of water than snow. More plastic than rigid, the glacier flows and bulldozes around or through obstacles and when forced beyond the point of flexion it cracks into crevasses. It is hard to imagine that this ice is over a hundred metres thick until we step across a crevasse. Its bottom disappears into darkness, and faint drips and trickles echo its depth far below.

  I gasp for breath and my heart drums hard and fast against my rib cage. A piercing ache strums like guitar strings in my temples to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I look out through a slight haze of stars and my thoughts linger in a dreamlike state seconds behind what I see or feel. All are usual side effects of acclimatization, but they can quickly progress to more serious and even fatal symptoms if a person gains altitude too fast for the body to adjust. Climbing at altitude for years is the best training. Work high, sleep low, gain no more than three hundred metres over three days is part of the formula. Pacing is another, adjusting to the angle of the slope and the ever-thinning air with the minimum of exertion.

  I follow James, as we have followed each other many times since we met seven years ago on a sun-dappled morning beneath a canopy of giant conifers in Camp Four in Yosemite Valley, California. He was looking for climbing partners that day and he found us, a group of instructors from Yamnuska Mountain School that included my friend Marni and me, as well as and Dwayne, Albi and Dave. Pale-faced and freckled with a shiny and prominent sun-scorched beak, James looked more Canadian than native Californian. A thick crop of curly brindled blond hair sprang out from under his cap and flowed past his shoulders. Soft-spoken with a refreshing propensity to inquire rather than disclose all he knew and had done, he assimilated into our tribe of climbers as if he had always belonged. We liked him so much that we invited him to join our crew the next summer. He remained in Canada, growing with us through guides’ certification courses and exams, climbing higher and harder routes, and becoming Marni’s partner and co-owner with her of Yamnuska Mountain School.

  I find myself looking at the familiar ragged line of old sweat stains that encircle the threadbare band of his cap. I rarely see James without a cap. Underneath it is a mind that works outside of the lines of conventional thinking—a kind of genius. He could have been a world-changer, but he has changed ours by choosing this profession instead.

  I’m testing my balance stepping from rock to rock when I’m suddenly nine years old again, trailing my brothers on a railroad trestle bridge behind my grandparents’ house in West Vancouver. We scaled rock cuts and leapt gaps from one barricade to another. I tell James about the day Randy, my oldest brother and the master diviner of unconventional fun, brought a tractor tire inner tube home. Larry, three years older than me and my sibling-rival, and I stood by while Randy inflated it and turned it into a giant doughnut. Then he stood it on end and said, “Here, see if you can fit inside this.” I’d wedged myself into the hole, with my back against one wall and my feet pressed hard against the other, and Randy had rolled me around the yard until I got so dizzy that I fell out. Soon Larry and I were competing to see who could stay inside the longest. Larry and our neighbourhood pack took the inner tube to the huge hill at the school grounds. They did a test run, and the thing made it all the way down, clear onto the soccer field. The next time they put me in it and gave it a mighty shove. Larry enjoyed that.

  James chuckles his throaty croak of a laugh. “Yep, it’s a wonder we survived those early years.” He was a loner, having spent much of his time as a kid dodging bullies and exploring the canyons in his backyard in San Diego. Then he skipped two grades in school and found himself in university by the age of sixteen, and less than a four-hour hitchhike from Yosemite. “Climbing,” he says, “was my kind of fun.”

  By late morning we are peeling off layers of clothing on this unusually calm day. We waste little energy on movement or emotion, stopping only to top up with calories and drink frequently—aiming for six to eight litres of water a day to stay hydrated in this moisture-sucking atmosphere. After a few more hours, we gain the final rise to arrive at the snowline and a cache, roughly six thousand metres above sea level and thirteen kilometres from Basecamp. We’ve been stashing supplies at this site on a pile of rubble atop the ice until the lead team can determine the location of our Camp Two.

  From here a smooth carpet of snow stretches a kilometre and a half farther, to where Everest thrusts upward out of the glacier into a cobalt sky. Crevasses, which have been visible to this point and easy to avoid on the bare ice, are now concealed under the snow the rest of the way to Camp Two, making it too dangerous to travel unroped. James and I shrug out of our packs, sit atop them and wait for Jim and Dan to arrive. A few empty fuel canisters are lodged in the cracks of the rock wall I lean against, probably left by the New Zealanders who used this area as their camp last year.

  In Canada, we studied pictures of our route and knew it from bottom to top in theory. But at close range Everest takes on a new appearance. A bergschrund, a gaping crack in the glacier, runs jagged for several kilometres across the base of the face like a defensive moat. Above it, shields of ice buckle and bulge over rock bands. Where it is too steep for the ice to cling, it has fractured into seracs, ice columns the size of semi-trailers. Some of the seracs have calved off onto the glacier below, exposing cleanly cut aqua-blue walls.

  The first 1,300 metres of our route up the mountain follows a spur of mixed rock, snow and ice that protrudes from the face like the edge of a pyramid. The angle eases near the top, where it intersects with the far end of the shoulder of the West Ridge at 7,300 metres. I search for our lead team on what looks to be a 150-metre-high headwall that leads to the spur.

  “I can’t see them. Can you?” I ask James.

  “Nope, but what I want to know is, where’s Camp Two? We should be able to see it somewhere between here and the base of the spur. You’d think those guys would have set it far enough away to avoid the run-out zone if that face ever slid.”

  Two figures appear on the glacier walking toward us, dwarfed against the backdrop of the North Face. “That must be Barry and Kevin,” I say.

  Just then, a pack lands with a thud behind us, followed by a greeting from Dan: “I feel like shit.”

  Jim arrives soon after him, ragged and puffing, and asks, “Can you see them yet?” He pulls out the radio, his eyes fixed on the mountain, and calls the lead team.

  He reaches Dwayne, who says breathlessly, “We’re maybe sixty metres up the headwall. Probably can’t see us yet. We’re tucked behind some rocks here. Albi is in the lead right now. We’re hurting a little. Moving pretty slow. Got a late start.”

  “What’s the climbing like?” asks Jim.

  “No ’schrund to deal with where we got onto the headwall. But it’s steep—in your face right off the deck. Not hard really. Just awkward. More rock than we thought. The ice is pretty bulletproof. Should get easier with more traffic.”

  We watch Kevin and Barry walk toward us across the glacier, joined by a good length of rope between them in case one of them falls into a crevasse. A few minutes later they step off the snow onto the rocks.

  Kevin yanks his hat off. “Phew, it’s like an oven on that glacier!” His face glows pink from sunburn, and Barry’s, mahogany—looking even better for the baking.

  “Good party at Camp Two last night?” I ask.

 
“Oh, yeah, tons of fun,” Kevin says as he unclips from the rope and tosses it aside. “We’ve got the splitting headaches to prove it.”

  It’s this affability that’s made Kevin and Barry ringers for the team. That and their impressive list of ascents since starting to climb together as teenagers: on our local 350-metre wall, Yamnuska, then onto bold alpine routes in the Rockies, the Cassin Ridge on Denali, multiple routes in Chamonix, France, and their alpine-style ascent of 7,800-metre-high Rakaposhi in Pakistan.

  While they settle in, I wander off to pee, which I can manage with a fair degree of discretion thanks to the design of our one-piece suits. Laurie and I worked with our sponsors to customize a base layer, mid-layer, wind suit and an insulated layer. A continuous zipper runs down the front between the legs, and clear around to the small of the back on each of them, so we can unzip—even with a harness on. I unzip just enough to expose my crotch while the rest of me stays warm. The image of Marty Hoey’s empty harness dangles in my memory.

  As I rejoin the group Dan is musing. “That’s big country up there.” He is sprawled full-length with the back of his head cradled in his hands, looking up at the mountain. As a veteran ski guide, he has evaluated plenty of terrain and is good at judging angle and avalanche hazard. “It looks like that slope on the upper third above the spur kicks back more than I thought. In the perfect storm that slope could cut loose and produce one mother of a big fucking avalanche.”

  Barry and Kevin claim that Camp Two is in a better location than it looks from here, because any avalanches from above will split to either side of the spur. “No doubt you could command the parting of the avalanches, Dan,” quips Barry, “just as Moses commanded the parting of the Red Sea.”

  Dan gives Barry a sideways glance.

  Kevin adds, “But it sure would be a good show if that slope above decided to go when you were on that spur.”

  They tell us the camp is a flat area with room for several tents, a few minutes away from where the technical climbing starts. We all agree that once we pack out a good trough and mark the route and crevasses with wands, we’ll be able to travel to Camp Two without a rope and eliminate the need for the cache.

  Jim looks up at the spur and says, “Bet we could dig a tent platform into the base of that rock band, probably around 6,700 metres. Looks like as good a place as any for Camp Three, eh?”

  “Yeah, I figure,” Dan says.

  While they carry on discussing the details, I scope out the rest of our route. From where we plan to place Camp Four on the far west end of the shoulder, we will follow a hogback that tapers to a spine, which stretches two kilometres and gains another three hundred metres to where it abuts the summit pyramid at Camp Five. I imagine trying to walk that ridge, straddling what looks like the sharp peak of a rooftop that plunges over 1,400 metres to the glacier below. From Camp Five, the ridge tilts steeply upward. Our route will continue up its edge, winding through a series of rocky ramparts riddled with snow and ice another 1,200 vertical metres to the summit. Snow scoured from the upper southwest flanks of Everest roils into a plume and I shudder as I imagine myself inside that maelstrom. It isn’t so much the climbing that worries me, but all the factors combined: the altitude, the sub-zero temperatures, the gale-force winds, exhaustion, hypoxia and the flagging psychological stamina—all make for a daunting scenario.

  A loud crack followed by a rumble reverberates through the amphitheatre of the valley as a serac peels off. It shatters and billows into a white cloud as it bowls down the face. When it nears the bottom, the yawning bergschrund swallows it whole.

  Barry lurches to his feet and says, “Guess the mountain gets the last word, eh? If we’re headed for Basecamp, we better get moving. You coming, Woody?”

  “Yep. But why all the way to Basecamp today?”

  “Cuz that’s where the good food and the best sleep is,” Kevin replies. Motivated by fantasies of Jane’s cooking, Kevin takes off like a Formula 1 race car weaving around spillway zones from the afternoon melt-out. Jim and James rope up to cross the glacier to Camp Two.

  I revel at the thought of having Barry to myself on the way down. Although we both instruct at the Yamnuska Mountain School and Barry is voluble in a crowd, he is quiet around me. It is the first time we have been alone together since we left Canada, since pretty much ever, except for one rock climb—a notoriously bold rock route called Thor that is typical Barry: bold for the lack of protection on technically difficult ground. While Barry fed out rope to me as I climbed above him through the crux, he shouted encouraging words. “Wow, you’ve sure got a talent for spanning those long legs of yours wide and making it look easy!” I guess you could call that flirting, but he was funny too.

  He’s known for choosing the hardest, steepest lines and attacking. “It is about war, not beauty,” he’d say. Lacking Barry’s muscle and brawn, I think of elegance when it comes to climbing hard ground.

  The two of us suffered through our Association of Canadian Mountain Guides Assistant Ski Guide’s course along with Dwayne. Course was a misnomer; endurance test was more like it. Fortunately for us, the examiners were looking more for mountain sense than good ski technique. It was their job to sniff out weakness and stalk us to exhaustion during those twenty-one days. We saw one another in some thin times where Barry was the epitome of grace and loyalty.

  The inimitable Barry Blanchard is an enigma to me—warm and playful, and as guarded and masculine as they come. If there is a best time and place to get to know this man, or anyone for that matter, it is here where time and hardship bind us and expose us. As we trot down the trail together I try to draw him out, but I get little in reply and begin to feel like I am prying. I know by now that I push some people away and draw others closer to me with my questions.

  When Barry and I crest the top of the moraine at Camp One, we see Kevin, Jane and Dr. Bob chatting beside the stockpile of supplies. Once we’re within earshot, Dr. Bob says, “Jane and I heard there were some empty bunks up here so we thought we’d see what sleeping at 5,500 metres feels like.” He smiles and his blue eyes sparkle an ever-vital intelligence.

  Barry slumps, puts his arm around Jane and sighs as his visions of her cooking evaporate.

  “Come on, Bubba.” Kevin motions to Barry. “No time for crying. Let’s head down for a good sleep for a change and rustle Skres into action.” They give Jane and me a hug.

  The two of us stand and watch Kevin and Barry trot off. We listen to their fading patter for a bit before Jane says, “What’s their story anyway? Those guys are so cozy and friendly to me when they’re together, but do you think I can get to know either one of them if he’s alone with me?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “I hear you. They both seem like a man’s man with an impenetrable protocol of friendship reserved for their own kind. If banter is their invitation, it’s as good as a foreign language to me. I don’t mean that I don’t adore them. Most women can’t resist them. That, in part, is my problem. I’ve always had a crush on Kevin.”

  Jane laughs. “Has it ever occurred to you that they probably think the same thing about us? But I don’t feel that separation from the rest of the guys, other than Dan. You gotta wonder what their story is.”

  Chapter 6

  The Power of Story

  After dinner that night, Dr. Bob, Jane, Dan and I huddle in the mess tent waiting for a pot of water to boil. When Jane asks if she can join us on a carry to Camp Two, Dan scoffs.

  “The next thing we know you’ll be gunning for the summit,” he says.

  “Why not?” she replies.

  “Cuz you’re the cook, not a climber.”

  “But I can walk, can’t I? We’ve got two tonnes of stuff to get from here to there. I may as well be useful, and it’s too depressing staying down at Basecamp with just the Chinese and Laurie, who seem to keep to themselves.” I tell her I’d love it if she came with us tomorrow.

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p; Dr. Bob changes the subject. “It’s getting close to seven. Think I’ll wander out and see if I can raise anyone on the radio.”

  We follow him to the high point on the moraine. He has transformed from clean-cut, white-collar department head of clinical neurosciences at the University of Calgary to mountain man. His perfect teeth flash white against a tanned face with a week’s worth of salt-and-pepper stubble as he speaks into the radio. A conversation is already underway between Barry at Basecamp and James and Jim at Camp Two.

  Barry asks, “Where do you propose we move Camp Two?”

  James’s voice crackles out of the radio, “Out of fucking harm’s way! That’s where. What were you guys thinking? At the first sign of a snowflake, I’m outta here!”

  Jim comes on the radio. “We’re thinking of moving Camp Two back to where the Kiwis put theirs—at the cache, where we’ve been dropping our loads.”

  Barry says, “That doesn’t make any sense. It’ll make extra work to move it back, and make the stretch from Camp Two to Three at least another hour longer.”

  Dan motions to Dr. Bob to hand over the radio. He speaks plainly. “If it starts snowing hard, we’re fucked no matter whether we’re at that cache, a mile away or right under the face. James is right: look at the size of that face. I say we clear out of Camp Two at the first sign of a storm, like he suggested.”

  Jim adds, “At least until you all get a good look at the camp location and vote on what to do about it.” He reports that the lead team has made a good dent in fixing lines on the headwall and, if the weather holds, he and James will push the ropes up to the spur tomorrow. With Kevin and Barry out of the rotation for a couple of days, Dwayne, Dave, Chris and Albi are going to stay to help carry some spools to the high point.

  When we sign off, I put my hand on Dan’s arm. “Nice work, Dan. I’ve never heard James sound so chafed about something.” The jabs he made at Jane were disturbing—but now I think he has done a good job of defusing a volatile clash of opinions by being the voice of reason.