The Himalayan E-Book

Ronald Bagliere

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Taken in by the Himalayan Sherpa as a child, Mountaineer Frank Kincaid grew up following the ways of the mountain people.

When Sarah Madden came to Nepal in 2011, it was for her son’s expedition, which nearly took his life. Now, Sarah has become part of Frank's world. The lama in Khum Jung calls it destiny.

But the lama doesn’t know his part to play in the death of Sarah’s husband twenty-five years ago, or his role in a recent accident on the Everest Icefall.

With Sarah getting closer and closer to his heart, he finds himself at the crossroads. But can he come to terms with a fateful decision in his past, to find their future together?

Leseprobe

THE HIMALAYAN

HEARTS OF NEPAL BOOK 2

RONALD BAGLIERE

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Notes From the Author

ForEward

The Himalayan

Transitions

1. Mount Everest, Nepal

2. Khum Jung, Nepal—April 25, 2014

3. Los Angeles, California

4. Namche Bazaar

5. Los Angeles, California

6. Namche Bazaar

7. Kathmandu

8. Kathmandu to Lukla

9. Lukla

Rain

10. Kathmandu

11. Kathmandu

12. Mankha

13. Mankha

14. Lukla

15. Khum Jung

Into the Land of Apple Blossoms

16. Besisahar to Chamje

17. Dharapani

18. Dharapani

19. Dharapani to Chame

20. Chame to Pisang

21. Pisang

22. Pisang

23. Manang

24. Manang

The House at Thorong-La Pass

25. Yak Kharka

26. Yak Kharka

27. Thorong-Phedi

28. Thorong-Phedi

29. Thorong-La Pass

30. Thorong-La Pass

31. Thorong-La Pass

Genesis

32. Thorong-La Pass

33. Jomsom

34. Jomsom

35. Pokhara to Kathmandu

36. Kathmandu

37. Kathmandu

38. Lukla to Khum Jung – January 24, 2015

39. Los Angeles, California – June 15, 2016 – one year later

Epilog

Glossary

For Further Reading

Next in the Series

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2020 Ronald Bagliere

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Edited by Paul Baxter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not be possible if not for all the people who have generously given their time, expertise, and friendship to me. They kept me moving forward on the right track and when I veered into trees, they gently dragged me back with thoughtful critiques, questions to consider, and brainstorming creative ideas with me. A few of them went well beyond what anyone could expect, and I want to both thank them, and shine a light on their contributions in bringing this novel to life.

First and foremost, I want to thank those in Kathmandu, Lukla, Namche Bazaar, Khum Jung, and all the Himalayan villages for showing me the beauty of your world. I am forever changed, and in love with your land. You’re the best! To Binod Thapa, Sila Kc Thapa, and all the rest of you who live and work in the mountains, I wish you happiness, long lives, and prosperity.

To my critique group: Martin Meiss, Mary Fancher, Millisa Morrow, Paul Baxter, Julie Stuetzle, and Debbie Panebianco, who kept me honest with my characters’ thoughts and feelings; I could not have done it without you. To the local Chapter of the CNYRWA, who cheerlead me on: much appreciation. To Jim Block, who traveled the Annapurna Circuit, and was kind enough to provide many of the photos in this book along with suggestions and comments regarding the trail, I am forever grateful. To my editor, Paul Baxter, and my proofreader, Martin Meiss, who both methodically checked every little detail to make sure there were no typos, misspellings, plot holes or gaps, thank you, thank you, thank you!

To my amazing award-winning narrator, Holly Adams, who knows my characters so well and breathes life into them, I am in awe of you. When you render their words, you draw me into their world so completely I forget where I am. And finally, to my life partner, Linda Ortola, who put up with my long hours away from her in the researching and writing of this novel, I want to let her know how much it meant to me to have her support. I can’t thank her enough. I couldn’t have done it without her.

And as always, many thanks to my beta readers and my publisher, Next Chapter Publishing; as always you are right there to take care of all the little things and bumps in the road.

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

Much of Nepal’s economy depends on tourism from adventure seekers and hikers. Permits issued by the government for climbing Mount Everest and other peaks can amount to tens of thousands of dollars for each individual. On average, between three and five hundred climbers per year flock to Mount Everest, and there are as many more heading to other mountains in the range. Therefore, the potential loss of revenue for permits and expedition company fees is enormous. Further exacerbating these catastrophic event is the resulting lack of tourists, who provide a substantial chunk of commerce to this tiny country.

This novel is based on three events that occurred in Nepal in 2014. The first was an avalanche on Mount Everest in April, which took the lives of sixteen Sherpa men who fix the lines on the route up though the perilous Khumbu Icefall. The second, a monstrous monsoon causing flash floods and landslides throughout the country displacing hundreds of thousands of Nepalese and killing hundreds more. And finally, the Annapurna Circuit blizzard in the fall of 2014 that stranded trekkers and guides, taking many lives.

I’ve taken several liberties in folding my characters into these actual events. My intent is to be faithful to the spirit of what happened, while at the same time keeping with the ongoing ‘Hearts of Nepal’ series. That said, I sincerely apologize for any slights I may have made during the writing of this work to the survivors and families who have lost loved ones to any one of these tragedies.

Namaste

FOREWARD

Based on three disasters that occurred in Nepal in 2014, this adventure story is actually about the people, culture, and landscape of this amazing part of the world. Ronald Bagliere does a superb job of bringing his characters to life and conveying a sense of being in this beautiful country. I know; I have trekked there four times, including through each of the locations where the disasters later happened.

The three key locations of the book—Everest Base Camp, the small Sherpa village of Khum Jung, and the Thorong-La Pass—will be forever etched in my memory. I only spent several hours at Base Camp and Thorong-La, but I have stayed five nights in Khum Jung during two trips. It is one of my favorite villages in Nepal and an appropriate home for Frank Kincaid.

Memories of peoples and places are at the core of many peoples’ lives and the foundation of any good book. There are lots of memories here, even for those who have never ventured to Nepal.

Jim Block

THE HIMALAYAN

གོམ་པ་རྒྱག

TRANSITIONS

The child is not the same when he grows up and becomes a young man, nor when the latter turns into an old man.

The seed is not the tree, though it produces the tree, and the fruit is also not the tree, though it is produced by the tree.

-The Buddha

1

MOUNT EVEREST, NEPAL

On the morning of April 18, 2014 a blazing sun straddled the shoulder of Everest, scorching the tips of the sleeping Khumbu Icefall. On the fractured glacier, sixteen men worked, fixing the ropes under a ridge heavy with ice and snow. Some four hundred meters south, Base Camp Khumbu nestled itself into the barren arms of a rock-laden landscape. Men and women who’d spent the better part of two weeks acclimatizing were going over their gear.

When the first loud crack echoed over the land, all eyes went upward.

Every heart came to a thudding halt.

The sleeping Goddess of the Himalayas woke, shrugged her mighty shoulders and sent fifteen thousand metric tons of ice barreling down to the doorstep of Base Camp. An eerie silence followed and people clawed and stumbled out of their torn and battered tents. A hasty search for the unaccounted began, but nothing could be done for the sixteen men roping the Icefall.

They were lost.

The mountain had spoken.

No one would be standing on her crown looking out over the world this year.

2

KHUM JUNG, NEPAL—APRIL 25, 2014

Frank stabbed his ice axe into the steep snow-laden slope and stopped to gaze at the swirling gray clouds clinging to the Western Cwm far below. He looked up at the jagged ridge of the mountain cutting into a slate-blue sky and switched his carabineer over onto the fixed line running up the face of the mountain. The yellow rope doubled and tripled before him as it writhed in the wind. That he barely felt the bitter cold biting his body was a harbinger of things to come.

He planted a foot on the ledge flanking the ridge and felt the teeth of his crampon scrape the rock. Gripping the line, he stiffened, then moved forward one step at a time. The leading edge of the ridge dipped to waist height a few meters ahead. He plodded to it, climbed up and sat.

From here, the whole world opened up before him. To his right, the serrated knife-edge summit of Lhotse and the spiked teeth of Nuptse and Makalu waded in the cloud cover. But neither the panoramic view, nor the summit of Everest drove him. There was something else, something riding on the edge of his mind.

To his left, the spine of Everest went ever upward. “Not that way,” a voice whispered inside him. He scanned the sweeping snow and ice-frosted landscape running down to the distant plains of China. A small orange speck clung to a rock not far away. He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward it. A man was sitting in knee-deep snow on the edge of a treacherous rim where a large menacing crack in the snow zigzagged off to a guess.

Suddenly the crack yawned and the mountain groaned, shedding its skin from under his feet. Snow rocketed into the air and swallowed him. Frank clung to the rope, battling the undercurrent dragging him over the edge. He tumbled down, over and over in a white world, cartwheeling, and spinning out of control until—

Frank Kincaid’s heart lurched and he shot up in bed. Breathless and in a cold sweat, he ran his hand through his hair, pulling a knot of it back from his bristled face. As the dream faded, he flipped the heavy woolen blanket off and swung his bony legs over the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress. The cold plank floor met his bare, calloused feet as he sat in the shadows cloaking the room. Standing, he squinted into the sliver of sunlight sliding through the clouded window.

His expedition lead guide, Dawa, was dead.

He shook his head. He’d lost his friend on the mountain, and for what: to improve his client’s chances of a summit? This was the third bad decision he’d made during his life regarding the mountain and it had claimed yet another friend. He dragged his pants from the foot of the bed, stepped into them and shuffled barefoot out to the privy, coughing. It’d been a week since the disaster on the Icefall. Sixteen men—friends he’d known for years—were dead. But the death of his Sirdar Sherpa was on him. He owned it all.

He zipped up and tromped out to the main room where he lit an oil lamp hanging from a hook next to the fireplace. The old stone house he’d lived in for the last forty-five years was a mess. Laundry was draped on the backs of chairs, dirty plates and mugs were scattered about the tables. An empty bottle of wine lay on its side by the stone hearth. He set the bottle back up, stirred the banked embers in the hearth and added a handful of kindling to them. Pulling a heavy wool shirt off the floor, he put it on then slipped into his sandals lying nearby.

As he waited for the flames to gain strength, he yanked a ragged curtain back and peered outside. It was a typical Himalayan morning in the sleepy mountain village: clear skies with hardly a wisp of cloud. Down the lane a rhododendron flanking the whitewashed walls of the monastery was putting out buds. A pile of smoldering juniper boughs lay by the front gate, sending resinous smoke up into the blue dome of the world.

He let the curtain fall back, feeling like a criminal. Guilt traveled with him like a shadow lately and he covered it with silence. Silence that had once turned a woman he loved away and now threatened another who loved him more. He reached beside him, grabbing a handful of pine kindling stacked near the fireplace and added it to the tiny fire in the corner of the hearth. As he did so, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and saw Sarah’s number flashing on the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Well, hello. You were supposed to call me over the weekend…remember?”

He scuffed his feet on the floor and shuffled over to the dining table. Sitting, he kicked his legs out and crossed them. He’d met Sarah Madden three years ago on the mountain when she came to support her son’s ascent of Everest. Well, not exactly to support it. She was against the whole thing, and what was more, he hadn’t wanted her there any more than he wanted her son there. How had he fallen in love with her? They were nothing alike, and yet when he was with her, he couldn’t imagine not being with her.

At last, he said, “There’s been an accident,” and waited for the expected gasp. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Accident?” she said, alarm in her voice. “Are you okay?”

He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m fine, but…”

“But what? Frank, talk to me.”

“It’s Dawa…he…umm…there was an avalanche on the Icefall, and he was roping the course.”

“Oh, my God. Is he…?”

All the spit left Frank’s mouth. “Yeah. Look, I can’t talk about this right now.” He paused, wanting to end the call.

“Don’t shut me out! I’ve been through that once with Greg. I can’t do it again.”

“I…I won’t, I promise.” He sighed. “Umm…hey look, I need to get around. Tshe and I are heading for Namche in a bit to meet the chopper taking Dawa home.”

“Call me later?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” He ended the call, knowing where her head was going right now. And how could he blame her for being worried? He looked up at the five-by-seven framed photograph of Sarah and him on the mantel. The photo had been taken just before she left in 2011, and as he sat looking at it, he thought about a decision he’d made long ago that had altered their lives. Over the years, he’d convinced himself it had been Sarah’s husband, Steve Madden, not listening to Pasang on the mountain, when in truth, it was he not wanting to wait ten more minutes for an updated weather report. Had he waited, he would’ve seen the tiny shift in the jet stream, which he would’ve warned Pasang about, which would’ve meant his best friend would still be alive. Steve Madden would’ve then returned home, and Greg would’ve had his father. John would still have his leg, and Sarah would’ve never come here.

But Kate had been waiting in the tent next door that fateful night, and he’d wanted her. It was karmic that while he was tangled up under the blankets with her, the storm had gathered 3,300 meters above, killing his best friend. He blamed the American for not listening, Kate for not trying hard enough to understand, then blamed her again when she left. But it had never been Kate’s fault. She was the innocent in all of it, yet she was also part of all that had happened, and in the end, her loving him simply hadn’t been enough.

He got up, ignoring the sting in his chest and struck out through the front door to the old, cut-stone barn housing his chestnut mare. The barn, put up by people he never knew, sat in the far corner of the skewed lot. He pulled the door open, retrieved a couple of carrots from the bin just inside, and took Me-to’s halter down from the walled-off alcove next to his shop.

When the mare heard him, she bumped the front gate of her stall. He picked a brush up off the shelf and went to her. “Hey there,” he muttered in Lhasa as he ran his hand over her shoulder. She bent her head into him, nosing his shirt pocket. He smiled and gave her neck a pat. “You looking for something?” He slid one of the carrots out of his back pocket. “This what you want?”

The mare snatched the carrot, and after brushing her down, he placed the halter over her head and led her outside just in time to see Lhakpa and his little sister, Pema walking down the narrow village lane. When the girl saw the mare, she let go of her brother’s hand and ran over to the fence.

Frank walked over to her, and in Lhasa said, “Good morning, Pema. You want to sit on Me-to?”

She glanced up at him with large brown eyes and flashed him a toothy smile.

Opening the gate, he picked the girl up as her brother, Lhakpa, shuffled over. The boy looked off over the yard, then turned back to Frank. “Momma say, you bring Dawa home today.”

“That’s right,” Frank said, carrying Pema over to the mare. He set her on Me-to’s back and considered the fourteen-year-old boy, who was the son of Bibek and Lhamo. The family was related to Dawa through a maze of marriages he couldn’t keep track of.

Lhakpa gazed across the yard. His jet hair flitted over his shoulder. “I will miss him. When he stayed with us during the climbing season, he used to take me with him when he went down to Namche for supplies. He would tell me all about the mountains. How beautiful they are, how he loved doing what he did. He said to me once when I asked if he was scared sometimes on the mountain that death is not to be feared. That it is freedom from suffering, a journey to another life.” He paused, watching Frank, then added, “You think he’s suffering now?”

Frank considered the young boy as Pema leaned forward and ran her chubby fingers through the mare’s thick mane. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

Lhakpa nodded, then reached out and swept his hand over Me-to’s neck. “Papa said Dawa would not know me, nor would I know him when he comes back again, but I think, maybe, some day.”

Frank put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He wanted to tell Lhakpa the things he knew the boy wanted to hear even though he didn’t believe them himself. “The ways beyond the Gate are mysterious and unknowable.”

The boy looked off toward the lane. Frank knew there was more on his mind. Finally, Lhakpa spoke up. “I heard people say government not help much.”

“I know, Lhakpa, not much…not much at all.”

Just before noon, Frank saddled Me-to up and led the mare to the monastery. Outside the entrance to the courtyard, he watched a long line of trekkers march past. A few of them greeted him with a “Namaste,” which he returned. But his mind was on his sending Dawa to rope the Icefall.

“Nieodm,” said a soft clear voice beside him.

He looked down at Tshe, the village lama, who was watching him with an enigmatic smile on his thin, mottled face.

“And to you also,” Frank answered in Lhasa.

The lama leaned on his walking stick. “Hmm…someone have big thoughts on their mind.”

Frank didn’t want to talk about Dawa. “Just thinking.”

Tshe nodded. “Ah…hō, much to think about these days.”

“Yeah…much,” Frank said. “Ready?”

The lama nodded and handed Frank his stick and travel bag, then hobbled over to Me-to. When Frank went to help him mount, he shooed him away. “I may be old but I can still mount a horse,” he said. He grabbed the horn of the saddle, swung a foot into the stirrup and with surprising grace launched himself onto the mare’s back.

Frank peered up at the old man, whose lithe body threatened to scatter to the four winds. Sometimes he believed the red-robed lama would outlive them all. He tied the travel bag to the saddle and offered the lama his walking stick.

Tshe gathered the reins and swept his hand across his waist. “Do not require. You keep. Maybe you need.” He winked, then turned the mare toward the lane winding through the village. Frank followed behind the clip-clop of Me-to’s hooves, passing homes that sidled up to the age-old stone fences cloistering the properties, and felt the eyes of the village upon him.

It was just after noon when Frank and Tshe arrived on the bluff above Namche that was used as a staging area for incoming goods and services to the village below. On the soft, sloping ground lay a scattered herd of yak that had been settled in by their Sherpa masters the night before. Frank stared out over the field, watching the village folk go about their errands on the bluff. A disquieting peace lay on the land. A moment later, he heard chopper blades slicing the air. He turned his eyes northward and saw a helicopter coming in for a landing.

The chopper swooped down a short distance from the waiting assembly of men and landed. Frank steadied Me-to while Tshe dismounted. As Frank untied Tshe’s travel bag from Me-to’s saddle, the lama spoke up. “Life is impermanent, you know this,” Tshe said over his shoulder, “yet even after all this time you struggle with this truth.”

“I should’ve seen the serac,” Frank said, his tone brittle to his ears.

The lama grabbed his arm, gripping tight. “You blame yourself for things you have no control of; as if you can say this or that and things will be as you order them. Karma and destiny do not work that way…they have no master!”Tshe paused, looking toward the chopper. “To grieve the loss is expected…Dawa was your friend and he is gone now, but who is to say he is not in a better place, hmmm? We cannot know this…it is beyond us. All we can know is the presence he held in our world, and in our memories. Do not allow the guilt gnawing you to devour the beauty of his life.”

While Frank knew the old lama had been right to remind him, the lama didn’t know the whole truth.

3

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SARAH

Sarah sat in her car as it idled in her driveway. The day had gone from bad to worse. One of her eighth-grade students had told her his mom had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and now, Dawa’s death. She was stunned. How could this be? She hadn’t known the man very well, but that didn’t matter. He was Frank’s friend, and right now the man she loved was going through this alone. She stared out through the windshield, wishing there was something she could do. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway caught her attention. She peered up at the rear-view mirror and saw Jack Drummond get out of his car. The young Realtor, whom she’d contacted earlier in the week to discuss selling her house, had a young couple with him.

You’ve got to be kidding me! She got out of her car as he walked up.

“Hey, hope you don’t mind, but I thought I could show a buyer around. Stir up some interest,” he said, and grinned sheepishly.

Sarah watched the young couple standing outside of Jack’s car. Both of them were wearing cashmere sweaters and pressed khakis. Tanned, blond, slender, and in their early thirties, one might be forgiven to peg them as twins. She decided they were preppy dot-commers.

Jack waved the couple forward, “This is Phil and Vivian. They’re relocating from S. F.”

Sarah smiled as they walked up. “Nice to meet you.”

Vivian flashed one back and looked at the house impassively. Phil put his hand out. Sarah shook it and shot Jack a reproachful glance as she handed him her keys. “I’ll wait out here. Jack, when you’re done; a moment?”

His face colored as he cleared his throat. “Sure.”

She watched them go up to the front door, then went back and parked herself in her car. She’d called Jack to explore the market and get the house in shape for selling when the time came—not now! But her mind was on Dawa. She took her phone out and scrolled through her pictures. When she came to the one of the Sherpa and her standing in front of Frank’s home in Khum Jung, she stared at it a long time.

That damned mountain.

She clenched the phone, fighting the urge to whip it at the passenger side window. The absurdity of climbing a freaking mountain to prove you mattered to the world, that you were special, infuriated her. And all on the backs of men like Dawa risking their lives for you. And to what end? She scoffed as the front door of her home opened. The couple returned to Jack’s car with the young woman peeking back at it once or twice.

Jack waited until they were out of earshot. “Hey, they liked it. Perhaps they could come back later when you’re not here? They didn’t want to put you out.”

Sarah gritted her teeth, restraining herself from the powerful urge to vent her displeasure at Jack. “Didn’t you hear what I said over the phone? I’m exploring right now, not selling.”

“Sorry, I just thought—”

“Next time think harder,” Sarah snapped. “Anyway, it’s done.”

“Right…umm, okay…I left a listing contract inside for you to look over, unless you—”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll look it over.”

Jack tried to smile but failed miserably. “Okay, and sorry, I was just trying to be proactive.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s time to be proactive, okay? Now, I need to get inside. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, sending him slinking back to his car. When he drove off, she went inside and tossed her bag on the couch.

“I need a drink,” she said to no one as she entered the kitchen.

After pouring a glass of wine, she drifted to the island countertop and perused the paperwork Jack had left. Beside it was the application for permanent residence in Nepal. She picked the application up and stared at it. She was planning to bring it with her next month when she went to see Frank for the summer. It was going to be a surprise for him, but now….

She tossed it back on the counter and leaned against the wall as her phone chimed. Digging it out of her pocket, she saw Roxanne’s name on the screen.

“Hey.”

“You around? I need to blow off steam,” Roxanne said.

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”

“My darling husband volunteered us—meaning me—to help out with the annual Police Benevolent Baseball Bash…AGAIN,” Roxanne said. “I’d told him last year it was time for someone else to take a turn. I know it’s for a good cause with the kids but it’s a crap-load of work. But does he listen? NO!”

Sarah switched the phone to her other ear. She really wasn’t in the mood to listen to anyone’s problems, but she knew if the roles were reversed, Roxanne would be there for her. “I’ll get another glass down.”

“Thanks, Bones. Ta!”

Sarah ended the call and eyed her laptop on the counter. Pulling it toward her, she flipped through web pages regarding the tragedy on Everest. Why was she doing this? She had no idea, other than the compelling, morbid need to know the details, to ask questions that made no sense.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard her front door open. “It’s me,” Roxanne called.

Sarah shut her laptop with a thunk as the feisty redhead strutted into the kitchen wearing one of her husband’s tattered gray LAPD pullovers. The look on her friend’s large, puffy face was akin to a pissed-off feral cat trapped in a cage. Sarah pushed away from the counter and pulled down another wine glass as Roxanne launched into a rant about her no-brain husband. When Roxanne was finished, she pulled a stool up to the island and sat.

“Feel better?” Sarah said, pouring a glass of Riesling and setting it in front of her friend.

“Some,” Roxanne replied, picking the glass up and taking a gulp. They both went quiet, sipping their wine as the humming of the refrigerator filled the space between them. Finally, Roxanne looked at her hard. When Sarah averted her gaze, Roxanne said, “What’s wrong?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

“Oh, shit! Something’s happened. Is it Greg, is he okay?” Roxanne said, getting up and coming around the island to Sarah. She knew Greg was over in Nepal, working with the Hillary Trust up in the mountains. “He didn’t fall into some crevasse or something, did he?”

“No, Greg’s fine,” said Sarah.

Roxanne let out a breath. “Thank God!”

Sarah debated whether she should say anything. Roxanne had come to her to be listened to, not the other way around. But the expectant look on Roxanne’s face told her she wouldn’t get away with saying nothing. “One of Frank’s friends, Dawa… he was in an avalanche and he… he died on the mountain.”

“Who?” Roxanne said, knotting her brow.

“One of Frank’s Sherpa guides. I told you about him before.”

“You told me about a lot of them,” Roxanne said going back to her stool. She drained the rest of her wine. “I need another refill.”

Sarah went for the wine bottle on the counter. When she turned back, Roxanne was perusing paperwork on the island.

“What’s this?” Roxanne said picking up one of the papers and holding it out.

Sarah sighed. “It’s a visa application.”

“I see that,” Roxanne said, staring back. She picked up another sheet and held it up. “And a listing contract, too? Last we talked, you said you were still on the fence about moving to the ass-end of the world. And if I recall, you told me you’d let me know before you made any decisions.”

Sarah’s heart drummed. “I know. It’s just preliminary, right now.”

Roxanne rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth. “Looks like more than ‘just preliminary’ to me.”

“I’m exploring, Rox. Besides, it’s not like I can jump up and leave. These things take time.”

Roxanne looked away. Finally, she turned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I think we both know it’s more than just exploring, Bones.”

Sarah sighed. “I love him.”

Roxanne nodded. “I know you do. I assume he’s excited about this?”

“He doesn’t know yet. I plan on bringing it up when I see him this summer. Why don’t we go outside and sit,” Sarah said, picking up the wine bottle and her glass. She pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped out onto the patio. A flowering wisteria climbing the latticework peeped down from the open rafters above.

Roxanne followed her out and they sat at the table. “Anyone else know about this?”

Sarah poured herself another glass. “No, I haven’t told anyone except you.”

Roxanne looked off over the back yard. The burbling water in the kidney-shaped pool murmured around them. Finally, she said, “More like I found out, than you telling me.” She sipped her wine. “I thought we were best friends, Bones.”

“We are.”

“I don’t know. In my world, best friends share things like this. But, whatever.”

“I get to make my own decisions without anyone’s approval, Rox.”

“Yes, you do. I just thought I mattered enough that you’d want to share, but I guess not.” Roxanne took another a swig of wine and set her glass down. “But if you want to pull up and go halfway around the world for someone you’ve only seen a handful of times, be my guest.”

“It’s more than a handful of times, Rox. I’ve spent months with him over the last three years. Why am I defending myself to you?”

“I don’t know, why are you?” Roxanne said. They frowned at each other. Finally, she said, “I only want your happiness, you know that. But what about us? Your decision affects me, too, you know.”

“I know, and that’s what’s making this so hard,” Sarah answered.

“Not for nothing, but living there is a lot different than vacationing there. From what I’ve read, it’s not an easy world over there. And yeah, I get it. You’ve told me over and over how the mountains are so beautiful and Frank is great, but what happens when all that wears off, when the honeymoon’s over? What happens when one day you wake up and find yourself trapped? How much do you really know about him?”

“Enough to know he makes me happy,” Sarah replied more forcefully than she intended. She dropped her voice. “I know what I’m getting into.”

“I hope so because you’ll be walking away from a lot here.”

Sarah knew exactly what Roxanne was getting at. She reached out to her. “I’ll never walk away from you unless you want me to.”

“Yeah, but it feels like it to me,” Roxanne said, and ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

“If I go,” Sarah said with some emphasis, “we can Skype and phone each other all the time. And I’d come back every year. It’s not like you’d never see me again.”

Roxanne sucked her lip. “I know that’s what you believe.” She paused. “Can I ask you something? What about your goddaughter? Brielle adores you, you know.”

Sarah’s mouth dropped. She hadn’t thought about Brielle.

Roxanne nodded. “Forgot about her, didn’t you?”

The speaker on the rafter above them buzzed, announcing someone at the front door. Sarah frowned. Now who? She got up. “Be right back.”

“That’s okay. I should be getting home. I have to finish frosting a birthday cake. You’ll be joining us tomorrow night, right?”

Sarah looked away. “Of course.”

4

NAMCHE BAZAAR

FRANK

Namche’s roots, like Khum Jung’s, were deeply embedded in Frank’s life. When he first came to Namche in ‘67, the settlement was a hodge-podge of cut-stone buildings clinging to the shoulder of the Himalayan highlands. Life back then revolved around the hardy, stern-faced men and women connected to the land.

Now, so many years later, he looked out over the plunging Bhote River valley. A thin white mist shrouded the treed slopes in the distance. The sun was still behind the hills, but already its rays lit an ultramarine sky. He drank the last of his butter tea and set his mug on the wooden rail in front of him. In the hush of the early morning, he thought back to when his world consisted of working the mountaineering shop his father managed. The old stone building, now replaced by an Internet café, had stood not a hundred meters away from him down a flagstone footpath.

He thought back on the days of his youth. They’d sifted through his hands like the powdery soil of the terraced fields below. Memories of him, Pasang, and their friends in long sheepskin chhuba robes planting potatoes, garlic and barley rushed back. They didn’t know they were poor by the standards of the Western world, and it didn’t matter. They were content just hanging out together, playing games, and doing the things they loved.

Now all his childhood friends were gone or dead, and he was the last. How ironic, he thought as he looked out over the land that he should still linger in a place he had no claim on, and those who were its heirs had fled. A large black gorak cawed overhead. He looked up to see it circling in the upper drafts swirling over the haze obscuring the vale below. The scavenger stretched its wings out and floated on the currents as it searched for a morning meal. He watched it, thinking Namche had all the cheer of a funeral home.

This was the impermanence of this world, its ever-changing façade, and it was what he struggled against most. At last, he pulled away from the rail and hooked his mug onto his belt. It was time to check on Me-to. He’d stabled her with a Nepali who lived on the upper ridge. As he strolled beside the fence overlooking the potato fields, his phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Sarah’s name flashing on the screen. He’d forgotten to call her.

“Hey, sorry, time got away from me,” he said and waited for her to scold him.

“It’s okay. I know you’re going through stuff.” She paused. “How you doing?”

“Getting by,” Frank said, making his way toward the bisecting lane through the terraced village.

“I’m worried about you,” she said.

“I know. I’m okay; don’t worry,” he said, coming beside a long whitewashed wall with prayer wheels in recessed openings. “I just have a lot on my mind.” He spun them as he walked, then veered up the broad stepped lane into the heart of the village. Shopkeepers were opening their stores, lifting canvased canopies over their front entrances. A bearded old man with shiny blue eyes and dark, cracked skin waved to him. He waved back.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Frank shook his head and coughed. “No, but thanks.”

Sarah was quiet a moment. Finally, she said, “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” He shifted his pack and looked off toward the ridge beyond the village for sometime.

“Frank?”

“Yes?”

“The school year is wrapping up. I could scoot out early,” Sarah said.

Frank knew what that meant. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be around much for a few weeks.”

“I could come with you. I promise I won’t get in the way.”

He came to a stop. The idea of her being here with him left him with a sudden knot in his stomach. Surely she’d see the guilt in his eyes. How could he hide from her what he hadn’t been able to hide from himself? As much as he’d like to see her, he knew he needed time alone before she came. At last he said, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to see me?”

He sighed, coughed again. There was only one acceptable answer, though he was loath to give it. “Of course I want to see you.”

“Then what?”

He chewed his lip, trying to find a way out of this without hurting her feelings, or more to the point, without making her mad at him. “Like I said, I’m trying to figure out how to help my friends. I wouldn’t be much company.”

“You think that matters to me? I just want to be there for you!” She paused. “You don’t need to go through this alone.”

Frank looked down and scuffed his feet on the pavement. “I know.”

“Good! Now, what can I do? What do they need the most?”

“Right now, money, I suppose.”

She went quiet, then finally said, “What about a fundraiser? I’ve done ’em before and raised lots of money. We could do one together.”

Frank started back off. A fundraiser? It was an interesting idea, but he didn’t know the first thing about how to pull one off. He turned the idea over in his head, liking it, but feeling boxed into a corner at the same time.

“Frank, did you hear me?”

“Yes.” He paused, conflicted. Finally, he said, “All right then. You’re sure?”

“Positive!” She went quiet, and he heard faint tapping coming back on the other end. When it stopped, she cleared her voice. “There’s a flight leaving for Bangkok this Friday. I can be in Kat the next day.”

She doesn’t waste time! “Really?”

“Should I book it?”

He cleared his throat. “Sure.”

“Good, I’ll send you the itinerary later.”

When Frank returned from checking on Me-to, he went up to his room and took the first steps to dissolve Khum Jung Mountaineering. Chief among them was deciding how to bring the matter up to his Base Camp leaders. Sherpa Sangye Nawang and Sherpa Lhak-Pa Tembe had been with him a long time. They deserved to have a say in how things shook out. Seeing how his old nemesis—and lifesaver—John Patterson had passed on taking things over three years ago, maybe Sangye and Tembe would like a shot. If not, he’d start calling around and see if folks would be interested in buying him out. As a last resort, he could always auction things off. He shivered at that thought.

First thing was to start dealing with the failed expedition. He had to settle up expenditures, specifically his responsibility to his crew and porters. Only his promises to the Sherpa children superseded those to the men who faithfully worked for him carrying supplies up and down the mountains. After that, there was the matter of settling up with the teahouses, and finally, his clients. While he had no obligation to give those who’d hired him a refund, he felt at least he should give them something back for having to abandon a summit shot.

After he figured that out, he came to the task he’d put off for the last year. The thought of appraising his gear and equipment left a bad taste in his mouth. He just hadn’t had the heart to sum up a life’s work on a ledger sheet. And what was more: he had no idea what he’d do with the rest of his life, let alone how things would work with Sarah once they were together for good.

He dragged his satchel up on the unmade bed and sat with his back against the wall. Inside the canvas bag was a black leather-bound journal and a thick brown ledger. He pulled the ledger onto his lap, stared at the gold embossed KJM insignia, and opened it to the first page. The dedication rendered in his scrawling hand on a tattered yellowed page had faded over the years.

To my mother, who loved the little ones. August 12th, 1994

The pages that followed contained detailed lists of everything that comprised Khum Jung Mountaineering right down to the last piton. He went to work and when he finally looked up, the room was in late afternoon shadow. Marking a page, he shut the book and turned an eye to the clouds that had rolled in over the hills. With little light to work with, his appraising was essentially done for the day. He picked up his watch from the windowsill beside him. It was just after 6:30. His expedition leaders, Sangye and Tembe, would be arriving soon.

After he washed up, he grabbed his journal, pad, and pen and went downstairs for the evening meal. The long, dimly lit dining room hummed with conversation. A group of trekkers—Americans; he was sure—were comparing notes on their trip so far. The chief topic of conversation seemed to be Everest Base Camp. One of them—a tall man, clean-shaved with neatly parted white hair—couldn’t understand why his trip, which he’d paid so much money for, was being trimmed back.

“It’s bullshit,” the man said, splaying his legs and leaning back in his chair with arms crossed.

“David, people died up there,” a woman across from him pointed out.

“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry about that, Jean, but we came halfway around the world to see this mountain, and we’ll never get back here. I don’t see what the big deal is having a quick look around and snapping a few photos.”

“You know what I think,” said another man. “I think the guides are too damned lazy, and trying to cut corners.”

“All I can say is, we better get some kind of refund,” said the man named David.

Frank’s hackles rose, and he had all he could do to bite down the urge to launch into them. Instead, he found a table along the back of the room. He set down his journal, pad, and pen, and thumped down on the wooden bench. While he waited for the innkeep to come around with menus, he opened his book and leafed through the ragged ruled pages. The journal contained the names of everyone who mattered, along with an accounting of every summit bid over the last twenty years. This would be his last journal entry. He scrolled down the names of the expedition clients, whether they summited or not, and the dates, then the names of every Sherpa who’d ever been involved with Khum Jung Mountaineering.

When he came to the last page, he gritted his teeth. Never before had he written what he was about to. With a firm, heavy hand, he put an asterisk next to the Sherpa’s name with a note in parentheses. “TAKEN BY THE KHUMBU ICEFALL – APRIL 18, 2014.” After he put a period at the end of the entry, he sat back, his vision tunneling in as he gazed out into space. When at last he came to himself, he noticed he wasn’t alone. He started and looked up to see Sherpa Tembe’s familiar ruddy face looking down at him.

“Tembe. When did you get in?” Frank said in Lhasa as the Sherpa considered him. A tray with three mugs and a large thermos was in Tembe’s hands.

“Just a few minutes ago. Sangye getting rooms now so I come find you. You want tea?” he said. He set the tray on the table, and Frank pulled a mug off it. The old camp cook, who’d been with him for the last twenty years, eyed the open journal as he poured.

“So, camp all broken down?”

“Hō. And on the way back. Should be here by Tuesday, maybe the day after,” he said, slipping onto the chair across from Frank.

Frank studied the menu and said to Tembe, “You hungry?”

“What do you think? I’ve been walking all day. I hope you’re buying.”

Frank took a gulp of tea and set his mug down. Despite how he felt, he couldn’t help smiling. “What? With all the rupees I shell out to you?”

The Sherpa grunted as Sangye entered the room. The young tent leader cocked his head and searched the room. When he spotted Frank, he took his knit hat off and folded it in his hand.

Frank pushed a menu toward Sangye as he came to their table. “Hey.”

As the Sherpa sat across from them, Tembe nudged the thermos his way. Frank watched Sangye pour his tea. There was no doubt the thirty-year-old Sherpa could carry on KJM if he wanted it. But first they needed to eat and spend time together before getting into the heavy business of what he was going to say. He looked to the innkeep.

“We’ll start with a platter of vegetable momos and a large bowl of emadatshi,” Frank said, and he could already feel the burn in his mouth from the Bhutanese chili. But it was a favorite of Tembe’s, who was giving his menu the once-over.

The camp cook looked up. “Extra hot.”

Ouch!

Frank side-eyed the Sherpa after the innkeep left and turned to Sangye. “So, what’s your plan? Gonna head down to the wife?”

“Don’t know yet,” Sangye said softly. He sipped his tea in a meditative way. Frank knew he was thinking about his friends on the mountain. Finally, Sangye looked up. “Maybe I’ll do some porter work. I heard one of the trekking companies is looking.”

Don’t you worry about money, I’m gonna take good care of you.

But Frank didn’t want to get into that just yet, so he didn’t say anything. He turned to Tembe. “What about you?”

The old Sherpa drained his tea, refilled his mug, and sat back. “I think I’ll go see my sister. It’s been a long time now.”

Frank nodded, knowing if the old camp cook left for the village he grew up in over the mountains, he wouldn’t be back. But that was how it was in Sagarmatha. People came into your world for a time—some longer than others—then left, or you left them. But one thing always remained: the footprints they’d left alongside yours as your paths converged for a time. He glanced at Sangye. The man had a wife and family down in Tingla. Was it fair to offer him an opportunity that would consume so much of his time and take him away from them? When Frank started KJM, it was just a few Sherpa friends, a couple of guys from the other camps, and him. Later on, a few struck out on their own or moved away to start another life.

The innkeep came back with their meals, and for the next half hour the only sound at the table was food being shoveled into hungry mouths along with a bit of friendly teasing, especially when Tembe found out Sarah was coming back. When they finished, they sat back contented. Frank ordered another thermos of tea and poured for his two Sherpas. At last, he said to Tembe, “I think I’m going to pay dearly for that datshilater on.”

Tembe belched. “It was okay, could’ve used more heat.”

“If you say so,” Frank said. He pushed his plate of half-finished dal bhataside and sipping his tea, collecting his thoughts on how to introduce his proposition to Sangye. “It’s been a rough year for all of us,” he said. “In fact, the last couple years have been hardest of all, and it’s gotten me to thinking about things… about the future of KJM. As you both know, I started this company in honor of Sherpa Pasang.” He turned to Sangye and held him in his gaze. “What you don’t know, Sangye, is how Pasang and I came to be friends and how it all ties in with what I’m about to suggest, so bear with me.”

The Sherpa darted a glance at Tembe, then nodded.

Frank took another sip of tea. “My family was originally from Angola in Africa. At the time we left and came here, it was being torn apart by civil war. At first, we lived in Kat until we found an apartment near the east end of the city. We stayed there until my dad took a job working a co-op in the valley south of Lukla. But the labor took a toll on him. He’d worked with numbers—keeping the books—not fieldwork, so when an opening with one of the fledgling outfitter stores in Namche came about, he took it.”

Frank leaned forward his gaze still intent on Sangye.

“A month later your great uncle, Pertemba, took us in and gave us temporary living quarters in his house. The store’s gone now—torn down and replaced with the Khumbu Internet Café.” Frank paused to let what he said sink in to the young Sherpa. “What I’m saying here is: we were foreigners, barely able to speak Khaskura, we didn’t know Lhasa, or how things worked up here. If it wasn’t for your great uncle…well….”

Sangye blinked. Tembe said nothing.

Frank cleared his throat and smiled. “It’s true. I don’t know how much your parents told you, but your great uncle worked the mountain and it was he who got Pasang and me a spot on one of the expedition teams along with his son, Tenzin.”

“I overheard my father talk about Pertemba sometimes when I was little,” Sangye said at last. “He told my mother he didn’t like Pertemba. Said he was a hard man with a quick temper. Caused trouble.”

Frank couldn’t argue with that. Pertemba did not suffer stupidity, and he’d seen him go off on a few people back then. “Yes, he was a hard man, but he had a big heart for people who helped themselves, which brings me to this: it’s time for me to let the business go. At first I’d thought to give it to John, not because I didn’t think you were worthy of it, but because the business demands so much time and you have a growing family who needs their father. But…if you want it, it’s yours, free and clear.”

The Sherpa’s dark brown eyes widened, and even Tembe stared back dumbstruck. Frank gauged Sangye as the man turned the offer over in his head, then spied Tembe. It was rare to render the irascible camp cook speechless, and he couldn’t keep from smiling. Tembe darted his gaze back and forth between Frank and Sangye.

“There’s no need to make a quick decision, Sangye,” Frank said. “I know it’s a huge surprise, so take your time. If you decide to take it, you won’t be going it alone—not in the beginning. I’ll be there to help you in any way I can.”

Sangye nodded. His face colored as he shifted in his chair. At last, he said, “I’m honored you think so highly of me. I don’t know what to say.”

Tembe stirred. Reaching out, he wrapped his strong, bony fingers around the young Sherpa’s arm. “If you take Frank’s offer, I will cook for you for two years ’til you find a new cook.”

Although Frank had avoided thinking too hard on it, he’d secretly hoped Tembe might sign on in some way. To say he was delighted with Tembe’s offer was an understatement. “And to get you started,” Frank said, “I’m going to spot you two and a half million rupees.”

As if Sangye’s eyes couldn’t get any larger, they did. “No, no, Frank. That is too much,” Sangye protested.

But Frank wasn’t having it. “In my opinion, it is way too little. And I’m not taking no for an answer,” he said as Sangye’s eyes glistened. He turned to Tembe and slid a thick roll of rupee notes in front of the man. “This doesn’t begin to cover all you’ve done for me over the years, but it’s the best I can do.”

Tembe stared at the roll of rupees then looked up at Frank. “What are you up to?”

“What’d’ya mean?” Frank said.

“I know you a long time. You’re trying to butter me up.”

Frank shook his head. “No, Tembe, not on this.” He paused, fixing his gaze on the man. They’d been together long enough for Frank to know Tembe would spread the money around his village. At last, he said, “You know what to do with it.”

Tembe covered the roll of rupees with his hand, brought it in front of him and nodded. After the Sherpa put it in his pocket, they sat for a long time, each in his own thoughts. With mixed emotions, Frank mulled over how things had turned out. He should be feeling good, unburdened, but the truth was, it all felt like blood money, trying to atone for the guilt he carried. Well, it was done. Sangye would go home and make a decision. If he accepted, Tembe would take care of incidentals and KJM wouldn’t skip a beat next year. It would run as it always had. It just wouldn’t be with him at the helm— providing there was a next year.

He thought of what it would be like, to not be in control as Tshe’s soft voice echoed in his ear that the only thing he had control of was his reactions to things out of his control.

After finishing his business with Sangye and Tembe, Frank returned to his room. The following morning would come too soon in this sleepy village. He flipped the woolen blanket back and sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment he stared out his window at the star-spattered sky and the pale bone-colored moon. Downstairs, he could hear the inn’s staff stirring as they went about shutting things down for the night. He considered rolling into bed and pulling the world over him, but knew he’d just lie there spiraling downward. He gathered his beads and headed out the door down the murky hallway. On the way, he ran into the American—David, he thought his name was—who’d complained earlier about his trek to EBC being cut short.

“Evening,” the man said.

“And to you, too,” Frank replied passing him. He was just about to head down the stairs when the man called after him. “Say, umm…saw you in the dining room tonight. You work up here?”

With his hand on the railing, Frank paused, wondering how to answer him. He didn’t want to lie, but if he told the truth he was sure he’d get drawn into a conversation he didn’t want to have. Turning back, he said, “From time to time.”

The man drifted toward him. “So…like guiding?”

“Something like that. Why?” The minute he said it, he wanted to take the words back.

The man cocked his brow. “Well, we were supposed to see Everest, and our guide cut our hike short. Maybe you could get us all the way there?”

Frank averted his gaze over the man’s shoulder, then looked the man in the eye. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m afraid not. I lost friends up on the mountain.” He took a step down the stairs, paused, and added, “If you find someone to take you, please be respectful of the dead. You have a good night.”

He turned away, leaving the man to chew on what he’d said. The arrogant son of a bitch needed to be reminded it wasn’t all about having his needs met.

5

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SARAH

Sarah sat on her living room floor with an old softcover yearbook of her seventh-grade students spread open on her lap. She hadn’t intended on digging into the past when she was cleaning this morning; it just fell into her hands and now that it was in front of her, she found it hard to set aside. She turned the page and stared down at her classroom photo with Roxanne standing beside her. A note from her best friend was scrawled underneath it. Sarah ran her finger over the text and smiled crookedly as she muttered the words:

Love you more, girlfriend. Never forget that!

Roxanne had written it shortly after Sarah’s husband died on the mountain. Sarah sat back on her heels. She could still feel the brittle reception Roxanne had given her last night at Brielle’s birthday party. Whether Roxanne’s husband Mike had picked up on it, she didn’t know. What she wanted was a do-over. She sighed and looked at her watch. It was just after 9:00 a.m. The house sitter was due in thirty minutes to go over her expectations and details for looking after things. After that, there would be notifying the bank, the post office, and last-minute errands. But as she sat with the book of memories, nothing mattered except mending the rift she’d created between her and her best friend. She glanced down at the phone lying on the floor beside her and was about to pick it up when her front door opened.

“Sarah?”

She looked up and when she saw Rox, her heart thumped.

“Can I come in?” she said, standing in the threshold.