A Memoir

The wind crashed over mounds of icy, greying snow, sweeping glistening, glass-like snowflakes up into the air and down into the abyss below. The wind was chill and cruel, slapping against the faces of angry climbers and beating them down. It blew with the strength of a hurricane. The wintry day was cold and brilliant. The sun shone out just over the mountaintops of the Himalayas and something about oxygen deprivation always made the air seem crisp and clear. Beka sank down onto her knees, overcome with exhaustion. “Will we ever get there?” she moaned, placing her gloved hands (three pairs of them and then mittens on top) into the thin, powdery blanket covering the ice below. They’d be traveling for about an hour, staying in the middle of the trail to stay away from any (unavoidable) dangerous encounters with the vengeful mountain. It was 20 degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. “Look,” answered Rachel in reply. She pulled Beka up by her shoulders and turned her coat-covered body in the direction of the Khumbu Icefall, resting her chin on Bek’s shoulder and looking past her into the mountain. The Khumbu Icefall is magnificent in its terrifying challenge; it is a river of turquoise ice, constantly in motion. Nineteen-hundred feet above sea level. And the hardest part of the climb to the summit. It was glorious. Back in base camp that morning, Skylar, Beka, Rachel, and the rest of their climbing expedition had spent the hours before dawn replacing oxygen bottles, rolling up heavy sleeping bags, and eating plates of spam just to keep the calories. Mountain climbing is hard, hard work on the body. They did not take the tents down, as they would be back later on in the day. The body needs time to acclimate to the high altitude, something that can only be achieved by retracing one’s steps from the day before. Climb high, sleep low is the mountain climbers’ rule of survival. The snow had fallen the night before, leaving a dusting on the tents’ surfaces. The wind would whip it off soon. As the sun slipped over the peaks at 5:15 that morning, the climbing expedition was under way. The Sherpas were already in the falls, checking for secured screws and ladders to cross the crevasses and ice walls. Rachel, Skylar, and Beka clung to the face of the mountain as they moved upward at an agonizing pace. On every breath clung the fervent prayer that the avalanches they were hearing were not coming any closer. Other climbers passed on the way back down. They were returning from Camp One. Solemn nods and brief glances exchanged. Why are you climbing, one asks the other in his mind. What are you up here for? Sir Edmund Hillary of New Zealand summited Mount Everest on May 29, 1953 with Tenzing, Norgay, the Sherpa who accompanied and guided him. Unfortunately, many others were not so lucky. Back in the Khumbu valley, hundreds of memorials mark the lives of those who have lived and died on Mount Everest. 208 men and women, between the ages of fifteen and seventy-one, the oldest man to ever summit. No matter the precautions you take, the gear you carry, or the trust you have for the weather report, the mountain gets the last say in whether you will be coming back down again with a heartbeat. Avalanches, thousand-foot crevasses, weather, frostbite, heart attacks, cold, exhaustion, brain hemorrhages, altitude sickness, exposure, rope accidents… just disappearing… Why are you up here? each climber asks the other as they pass and their eyes lock. What answer would he, she, they give you? What answer would you give? “Why are we doing this?” Beka whispered quietly, looking up at the Icefalls, their destination for that day in April. Her sister could just see the words she uttered before they were sucked away in a gust of wind. She paused, but did not say anything for a while. They only stood staring up at the breath-taking Khumbu Falls, a monument to the wonders of nature in, and of, itself. “Because it’s beautiful. And it’s hard. And we’re almost there.” Over hills and crevasses, boots sinking into thigh-deep snow, gripping to the edge of the mountain with iron crampons so the wind would not pull them away from fragile existence, they made it. Through frostbite and angry winds and avalanches, they reached the top in time for the May window, when the weather was at its best. The summit was glorious and, at that moment, they were tallest people on the earth, almost the closest to touching the sun with outstretched fingers. “Can we just walk home?” asked Skylar, tired of the slow progress and ready for a good movie. “Sure,” answered Rachel. She hopped down off of the heap of snow that had been pushed off of the road and onto the little island of dead grass in between the sidewalk and the edge of Forest Road. It was getting a little cold and windy, after all, and homemade hot chocolate with candy canes in it sounded pretty good. “Wasn’t it fun?” she asked. The girls nodded, but Skylar still looked a little unsure as she eyed her pink and frozen finger tips in alarm. Was it possible to get frostbite on a thirty-two degree day? Rachel laughed and hugged her to warm her hands. “I think my toe fell off,” said Beka to nobody in particular. “Next time, let’s actually go to Mount Everest,” she added, as they walked back down the sidewalk. “Sounds good,” answered Rachel, skipping a little bit. They all agreed then ran the way home.