Rising

by Sharon Wood

  Albi shouts, “Jim, think about it, man! You can’t pull the pin now!”

  “No,” I say to Dwayne and Colleen, “this can’t be happening.”

  Dwayne speaks into the radio. “Barry, Albi, remember what we said, everything’s in place. You’ve got to go for it!”

  “I need time to think about this, Jimmy,” Barry says. “Sorry, but I’m feeling the pull. Do you know how hard this is for me? Over and out.”

  That evening at Camp One, Dwayne, Colleen and I walk up the hill for the radio exchange. The call is already underway when we turn the radio on.

  Barry’s voice breaks. “I’m not happy about this, Jim. I’ve decided to come down because I love you, brother, and I’m going to stand by my word.”

  I can tell Jim is crying. “You don’t know how hard—this is for me to do. I love you too, brother.”

  “This can’t happen,” I say, and I push the transmit button.

  Dwayne lays his hand over the radio and pushes it down. “It’s done. They’re fucked.”

  I want to feel grateful for how the team has helped Dwayne and me—and for what we have all accomplished. Against all odds we made it to the top through sheer bloody-mindedness, their noble efforts and talent, and have been granted safe exit from the highest point on earth. But instead, guilt and despair weigh on me for our teammates who are being denied their own summit bid.

  Dwayne spits, “Fuck! I can’t believe this! What the fuck? Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He shrugs Colleen’s arm off his shoulder. “I gotta deal with this.” And he strides off. I have never witnessed such vehemence in him before.

  I sleep alone for the first night in a long time, and I wish Jane was here. I wake in the night in a panic, half out of my sleeping bag and with my head pressed up against the door of the tent. I have to get up, get out, keep moving, get down from here! It takes a few minutes to shift from this dream to where I am now. I lie awake, telling myself I’m safe but still, I am not able to relax. Despite my exhausted state, I sleep poorly.

  * * *

  The next morning, I step out of the mess tent after breakfast to see Carlos across the meadow, dismantling the last of the American team’s tents. Instinct draws me to him—someone who knows me, knows that harsh world above, knows what I have been through. He meets my eyes for a long minute as if to get a good read before he walks over. We embrace, and it is a warm and soothing comfort. Tears stream down my cheeks.

  “Congratulations, I knew you could do it,” he says. “I’d like to hear all about it, if you’re willing to tell me. How about we walk to Basecamp together?”

  “I’d like that.”

  As I begin recounting the story of the last few days to Carlos, I feel as though I’m finally coming down and everything will be okay. Talking to him is so familiar—so comforting. He is interested in every detail: what kept us going, the rock climbing through the Yellow Band, the sound of the clock in my head, my magical thinking that we would beat the darkness, and the loneliest feeling I’ve ever experienced at the top. He listens intently. But when I get to my dilemma at the bottom of the ropes, over whether to wait for Dwayne or move on, he tells me what I already know but don’t want to hear: “You never abandon your partner on a mountain. Never.” And I crash. I will wrestle with that decision for years.

  As we near Basecamp, I see Jane bounding up the trail to greet me. I know by the look she gives Carlos that I will be giving her a full report by day’s end.

  Homecoming at Basecamp is anticlimactic. Everyone is subdued because of Barry and Albi’s defeat. My focus on their disappointment and the part I played in it dampens any sense of accomplishment I might feel. There’s nothing left to do now but remove the ropes and the camps and pack up. Yet my mind and body lag days behind: I am shell-shocked and exhausted, still trying to catch up with all that has happened between ramping up for the summit and this letdown. Yet when Albi and Barry return a few days later, they appear to be excited about a victory party. They’ve moved on, and I haven’t.

  Laurie can tell something is up with me, and late that afternoon he seeks me out for a walk to the memorial cairns. On our way, he tells me I should feel proud of what I’ve accomplished.

  I say, “I do feel proud of what we’ve accomplished, but I’m not sure how Barry and Albi see it.”

  “Well, get over what others think,” he says. “Believe me, I know. All kinds of shit was going down when I came back from Everest in ’82: the grief over the deaths, the conflicts, some of the team members’ resentment toward the leader or me being the one to reach the summit. I had to rise above it all to serve a higher purpose. Now it’s your turn.”

  “What’s the higher purpose?”

  He laughs. “Well, for starters, quit feeling sorry for yourself! That doesn’t do anyone any good. People want to hear about the courage, endurance and teamwork that will inspire their own stories. Your world is about to change, Sharon, and I want to make sure you’re ready for it. The media will ply you with questions. Let’s talk about that.”

  When we get to the memorial cairns, we stand quietly with our own thoughts. On our way back, Laurie pretends he is an interviewer and fires questions at me. He laughs when I stumble over my answers and says, “Ask them to rephrase the question, or you repeat it in your own words to give yourself time to think.” Once again Laurie makes me feel I have something to rise to.

  That night, the Spaniards and the half-dozen remaining Americans join us to celebrate our victory. Someone on our team got a sponsor to donate a case of White Horse whisky, and the amber elixir softens the edges. A boom box blares tunes in the background. We dance, laugh and chat late into the night.

  The party and the anticipation of the trucks arriving in the next few days help to improve everyone’s mood. One afternoon while I am lying in my tent reading, Barry comes by. “Hey Woody, Albi and I have been talking about going to Nanga Parbat next year. It’s the highest vertical face in the world. Wanna come?” I marvel at the way these men can move on so quickly.

  Chapter 20

  Lost

  We are on our way home at last. I am looking forward to getting back to Canada, but we first spend a night in Shanghai before catching our flight. The phone is ringing when Jane and I reach our room—and it doesn’t stop. One of the first callers is Jane Sharpe from the Continental Bank. She lists off a string of calls to expect from national networks and radio stations requesting interviews.

  I try to sound gracious with each caller, but it isn’t until I get off the phone each time and take great gasps that I realize I am holding my breath. I think of the letter I wrote to Chris just before our summit bid: “I’m yearning to return to you and a normal life back home, but I fear it will be completely different if I make the summit.” I only have to look at the stack of messages for interviews, public appearances and presentations I was handed at the hotel’s check-in to know that “completely different” is beginning to unfold.

  One of the last messages I read is from John Amatt, the business manager of the Everest ’82 expedition and now the owner of a speakers’ bureau in Canmore. He told me before I left for Everest that a lucrative speaking career awaited me if I summited, and that he’d be glad to help. For a girl with no fixed address and whose entire belongings fit into a duffle bag, “lucrative” sounds appealing, and help fielding requests now sounds even better. I call him and sign on. I’m terrified of public speaking, but that fear fades to make way for a new one—one that niggles at me. Who am I to be personally rewarded for our team effort? Am I becoming an opportunist?

  * * *

  Chatter and laughter echo off the walls as we stride down the arrivals corridor at Vancouver International Airport toward our families, lovers and friends. After three months away, all we can talk about is the first things we’ll do when we get home. Most of us are dreaming of food because we all weigh eight to ten kilograms less than when we left.

&nbs
p; I am daydreaming about soaking in a steaming bubble bath and sipping on a cold glass of Chardonnay, when ahead, the exit doors slide open. I stall, causing the other travellers to eddy around me. Jim bumps up against me and leans in. “It’s show time, Woody.” I catch a whiff of shaving lotion and notice he has changed into a clean white t-shirt and his Everest Light team jacket for the occasion. Jim is bringing everyone home alive, and it dawns on me that this is his summit day.

  As our team steps across the threshold, the clapping begins. Flashbulbs pop. A woman reaches out, clutches Jane’s arm, thrusts a microphone in her face and asks, “Are you the woman?”

  Jane looks back at me. “No, she’s the one.” She shoots me a raised eyebrow as if to say, “Are you ready for this?”

  From all directions camera-ready reporters shout questions at me:

  “How does it feel to be the first woman from the western hemisphere to climb Mount Everest?”

  “Did you ever think you were going to die up there?”

  “When did you know you were going to reach the top?”

  “Did you see any dead bodies?”

  The arrivals lobby clamours with media teams and I am pulled from one interview set to another. “Jim, will you hold a corner of this flag? Hold the other end, would you, Dwayne? Sharon, would you please get in the middle? Don’t look into the camera, just pretend you’re having a conversation with Monica.” I look beyond this sphere of frenzied hubbub and lights and see my teammates reuniting with friends and family.

  A hand grasps my bicep and a man says, “Hello, Sharon, I’m Michael with the CBC.” Keeping his grip on me, he says, “Congratulations. There’s someone who has been waiting to welcome you home.” He steers me to where my mom, my dad and stepmom are waiting. The camera is rolling as my dad steps forward and we embrace.

  It seems no more than seconds before I feel a hand on my shoulder, pulling me toward another set. “Can we get you over here beside Dwayne; he’s the one that went to the top with you, isn’t he?”

  I catch sight of Chris standing at the edge of it all, dressed in a suit and holding a bouquet of red roses. He gives me a nod as if to say, “Keep doing what you’re doing. I’ve waited this long.”

  Later, I will regret how these first days unfolded: I will wish that I had paused to look into my mom’s tearful eyes and lingered to hear what my father whispered after he said, “Welcome home, Mouse.” I will wish that I had greeted Chris. But, wide-eyed and stunned, I comply with the media’s requests, swept up in their urgency to show and tell.

  * * *

  From the airport, the entire team and our families are taken to a four-star hotel to spend the night before attending a welcome-home party the following day. My parents, who live in Vancouver, return to their own homes for the night.

  Chris and I are treated to an extravagant suite. We open the door into a main room filled with bouquets of flowers, a stack of cards, a fruit basket, a bottle of champagne and a separate bedroom with a king-sized bed. Chris closes the door behind us, reaches for me and kisses me deeply. I slip out of his embrace.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for—dreaming of. What’s wrong with me? I look at this prince of a man who stands by the door, gazing at me in adoration. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I think I’m just a little rattled by it all.” I can’t explain then that I’ve just spent the last couple of months in a secluded world of rock, ice and snow, lived intimately—intensely—with twelve people, and moved only as fast as we could walk. From that to this is too much.

  What I do know is that Chris feels like a stranger to me. For weeks, I have been looking forward to the feel of soft satiny sheets and of him. But I shut my emotions down at the airport to manage the onslaught of media attention. I yearn to debrief this day with Jane as we have over the past few months. Instead, I lie awake churning over the week-long blitz of appearances, events and interviews ahead of me.

  The next morning I sit with Chris, watching my teammates trickle into breakfast with their partners and families and sit at their own tables. They are drifting away and I miss them. I know they would rather be with their friends and families than the media—so would I. Never has normal looked so good, and I envy them.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve spent any time in this city I once couldn’t wait to leave. Vancouver is at its best on this June day, saturated with sun and oxygen, dripping with blossoms—and so verdant the place feels like it breathes life and moisture into me. We make our way to Vancouver Harbour where the Continental Bank is hosting our welcome-home party on a luxury yacht. They invite our full entourage, as well as our sponsors, and prominent business and community members, including the mayor. My sister, Barb, is dressed in a diaphanous pastel-pink silk pantsuit, which in its entirety could fit into the palm of my hand. I marvel at how she kibitzes and sidles up to the men and flirts her face off. Chris and my parents beam as we chat with the guests. My parents adore the notion of Chris and me as a couple. Jim is beaming too, and comes over now and then, resting his hand lightly on the small of my back to escort me to meet another guest. The expectations make me swallow hard and step back.

  Meeting those expectations starts at five the next morning, when Dwayne and I are crammed together in a small padded cubicle. We are talking to a camera for a remote interview. We nudge each other with our knees as we take turns answering questions volleyed at us through our headsets by an interviewer in Toronto. I cherish this last bit of teamwork with Dwayne—this last link to our expedition. Afterward, we climb into separate taxis. I ache for the life he is returning to. His car turns toward the airport and disappears, while mine takes me to the next interview. I sink back into my seat and remind myself to breathe. What have I done? I’ve long accepted myself as an introvert and I struggle to embrace the emerging expectations of this public persona.

  A short while later, I’m seated in another padded room with the host of a local radio morning show. The man operating the switches on the other side of a picture window counts down from five. The host begins, “Today, I have with me in the studio an amazing woman who has just made history. Her name is Sharon Wood, and she is the first woman from the western hemisphere to climb Mount Everest! And people, Sharon is a Canadian, and she’s from our city! Sharon, you must be over the moon about your conquest. Tell us what it was like to step onto the highest point on earth.”

  I want to bolt. Try as I might to remember Laurie’s advice, the channel between my brain and my mouth shuts down. I stutter, “It felt like a privilege. When I reached the top, I mean when my partner Dwayne Congdon and I reached the top, we were together. Well, ours was a fraction of the team effort that went into climbing that mountain…” And I blather on.

  Every interviewer, it seems, has already written my story—one about me being “over the moon” that I have “conquered” Everest. But I’m wondering if it has conquered me, leaving me bewildered. I hadn’t expected all this attention, and for people to put words in my mouth. But why wouldn’t they when I can’t find my own words? As another cab whisks me off to the next engagement, I wish it would keep going all the way to Canmore.

  I call John Amatt. “Please remind me why I’m putting myself through this?”

  “For your team, for your country and for your business!” he tells me. “Fame is fleeting and you’ve got to capture it while you can. You should feel proud!”

  Later, when I ask Laurie the same question, he says, “Snap out of it! Make it your goal to become as comfortable and articulate with this new world as you are with the mountains.”

  The cab pulls up at the Expo 86 entrance and I am escorted to stage. There I stand in front of thousands of people while the whistling champion of the world warbles “Climb Every Mountain” to me. I’d thought the simple off-white short-sleeved blouse purchased in China would be appropriate—classy, in fact. Now I wilt in the wrinkled travel clothes, two sizes too big. My eyes dart between the
audience and the whistler as I wonder how to stand, what to do with my arms, and whether I appear as terribly awkward as I feel. I can see the organizers of this special event standing off to the side. And the look on their faces tells me they suddenly realize this idea of matching the whistler and me is a bad idea, but it is too late now.

  The most fun I have that week in Vancouver is when I go shopping with Mom. Usually I buy clothes from thrift shops, which reflect my budget and my priorities, but occasionally Mom and I share a ritual of going shopping where she buys me a thing or two. So she is delighted when I tell her I need something to wear to presentations and ask her to come shopping with me. After three months without a mirror, it is still a novelty to look at myself in one. Mom sits in an upholstered chair as I strut out of the dressing room in one outfit after another, pretending to be a runway model and striking poses. We laugh at the bad ones and she oohs and aahs at the good ones.

  While I change, Mom tells me how the media ambushed her when the news broke that we had reached the summit. Two men were waiting outside her apartment building as she arrived home after enduring a root canal. She hadn’t heard the news yet.

  “One man put a camera up close to my face while the other asked me, ‘Peggy, how do you feel about your daughter becoming the first woman from the western hemisphere to climb Mount Everest?’ Were you still alive is what I really wanted to know!” She continues, “But I tell him something like, ‘Well, I’m just stunned. I don’t know what to say!’ So the interviewer told me I must be so proud of you. And he kept prodding for answers until finally I blathered something about how strong-minded you were as a teenager.”

  “Why did you even agree to talk to them, Ma—of all the times?”

  “Oh, because I couldn’t say no, of course. It all happened so fast.”

  “I know what you mean.” I didn’t feel like I could say no either.