Authors: Linda Leblanc
Eyes closed, he leaned into her hand. “That feels very good. No one has ever done that for me.”
Pressing harder on his large, lower muscles, she said, “If you want to come inside and sit by the fire, I will rub your whole back. We call it a massage and it’s so relaxing you will probably fall asleep. Maybe you should bring your bag here just in case.”
Dorje had the eyes of a cat because he was gone and back in minutes with the moon not yet risen and no flashlight. She shone hers while he built the fire after making small offerings to
phug
lha
, the god of the home who dwelt in a pillar of wood, and
thab lha
, the god of the hearth who tolerates no impurity. The smoke fanned out along the ceiling—a dense, stagnant cloud of acrid, pungent dung fragrance that infused everything. She would smell like this for days, but so would everybody else. “It is better to sleep on the floor by the hearth,” he said, “and let the smoke go above you.”
“And what happens when the entire room is filled?”
“The wind calls to it through tiny holes in the roof, windows, and door.”
“Then I will not block its escape.” She moved her pad from the bench to the floor near the fire and pulled his beside it. “Now sit,” she said, “and I will soothe away all your cares of the day.” As he sat leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his knees, Beth slowly worked the tension out of his muscles. She wanted to explore every inch of his smooth, flawless skin. When finished with his back, Beth ran her fingers up through Dorje’s hair and massaged his scalp. Slowly rolling his head from left to right as if asking for more, he responded to her every movement.
Kneeling behind Dorje, Beth slowly wrapped her arms around him with her head resting against his shoulder. “Sleepy yet?” she whispered.
He turned and held her face between his hands, gazing at her. “You are so beautiful in the firelight. I like your blue eyes.” He kissed each closed lid, her cheek, and lips.
So ready to make love with him, she barred all other thoughts and sensations. No gnats of doubt or guilt allowed tonight. “Stay with me” she whispered. “I can zip our bags together.”
After removing his shirt and jeans, Dorje crawled in beside her. “I want to make you happy,” he said. And please her he did with a slow, gentle touch over every part of her body, taking his time, caressing her with his lips and tongue—his breath warm and sensual. She remembered the first day at Lukla when he turned and looked at her in his green cap, tight Levis, and snug blue shirt. A warm flush had swept through her and thrown her slightly off center. And she’d been atilt ever since. Afterwards, her head spinning and lips tingling, she was too enervated to move. Beth stepped outside of herself and with amusement looked at the woman lying on a mud-dung floor with a suffocating smoke cloud overhead and below zero temperature. How could anyone feel this complete or be this happy in such circumstances?
Thin shafts of light slipped through the shutters and spilled across the floor, washing over Beth’s white skin that felt as soft as the finest Indian silk. Like a sweet mist rising from leaves after a warm rain, her body had responded quickly to his touch last night. And now they were lovers . . . but for how long? To think about her leaving in a week or two cut through every nerve ending making him raw and vulnerable. Wrapped around her, he would carve this moment into his heart like a prayer chiseled in a
mani
stone and use it as his mantra forever.
The hollow-faced Norwegians didn’t reach the dining tent until after 10:00 a.m. and then only had a breakfast of tea and watery hot cereal designed to replenish liquids. Graced by an exceptionally warm afternoon, they basked in the sun, read, and played cards. By dinner, they boasted of no more headaches, nausea, or shortness of breath and were eager to start over the pass to the Everest Valley the next day. Dorje announced that he would make that judgment at breakfast and his word was final. There would be no taking off without him this time.
Eager to set out, the Norwegians awakened early the next morning. After two days of perfect weather, the skies still remained clear. Dorje agreed it seemed an auspicious time to travel. While everyone prepared to leave, he constructed a stone altar for a short
puja.
From his pack, he placed a prayer flag on top and lit two juniper boughs at the base for incense. Scattering rice and
tsampa
offerings, he and the other Sherpas chanted prayers to the mountain gods asking for their blessing, continued good weather, and success in crossing the pass. At the conclusion, they spread
tsampa
powder on their faces to mimic graying hair—a blessing for a long and fruitful life.
When the Norwegians were ready to depart, Hamar announced, “I’m going to walk with Lhamu and the porters.”
Grabbing his arm to pull him along, Kirk said, “Oh, no. You’re coming with us and letting her do her job. You can hump her again tonight.”
Like a wild animal, Hamar shrugged him off. “Don’t talk that way about the woman I love.”
Royd howled. “Love? You’ve known her . . . what?—a few days—and don’t even speak the same language. Are you crazy?”
“I know what I feel. Now leave me alone,” Hamar snapped and ambled past him.
Certain that Beth had overheard the conversation, Dorje wondered what she was thinking and feeling. Yesterday and last night, he had experienced with Beth the most intimate emotional and physical connection of his life. The two of them had been like beautiful gold eagles that soar in pairs high above the Khumbu, gliding endlessly on wind currents with their broad wings touching. He never wanted to part from her and tonight would again share her tent whispering words of love.
He waited for her to join him before they departed for the trail over the Cho La. The group crossed the rock and sand debris on the surface of the Ngozumpa Glacier for an hour before climbing a deep, narrow valley that eventually opened out on an ancient lateral moraine. After hiking more than three hours, the Norwegians and Beth were flushed and breathing heavily.
“We will rest here,” Dorje announced. Removing their daypacks, they lay down with their arms across their foreheads to shield their eyes. Dorje climbed a large boulder from where he could identify the pass and fix the route in his head, but he was reluctant to leave before spotting the porters behind them. Only one had crossed the Cho La before and knew the trail. Fifteen minutes later, he saw them slowly making their way up the valley. Anxious to get over the pass, Dorje waved to the lead porter, a man in his fifties who had crossed several times. When Sangbu waved back, Dorje felt it was safe to move on.
Sliding on loose rock and gaining only two steps for every three on a talus slope slowed their progress. It was laborious work requiring frequent stops to catch their breath. Bent over with her hands on her thighs, Beth rolled her eyes up at Dorje and gave a little nod saying she was okay. She only needed a minute. The Norwegians plodded upward dragging one foot after another until they reached the glacier at the base of the pass. This cold and intimidating challenge seemed to revive them.
“This calls for a fresh toothpick.” Pulling one from his pocket, Kirk brandished it like a sword before neatly slipping it into the corner of his mouth. “Now onward over the pass.”
Singing a drinking song, the men tramped up the glacier ahead of Dorje and Beth. But after twenty minutes of boisterous marching, the pace slackened as altitude and the effort of moving in ice and snow eroded their spirits. When they reached a steep, icy traverse with a 300-foot drop, morale plummeted.
“There was a path last time,” Dorje explained. “The snow has covered it. I will go first and make a new one.”
To Dorje’s great surprise, Royd stepped in behind him. “I’ll help pack it. We men from above the Arctic Circle should be good for something. I’m sorry we’ve been a nuisance.”
Battling a sudden headwind, Dorje made his way across grateful for Royd’s help and regretting his earlier hostile feelings. Negative emotions polluted the mountain which in turn polluted those who walked on it. Touchy and inclined to anger, the gods demanded respect and veneration. If he failed to nourish and worship them, they would seek revenge. As Dorje and Royd returned widening the path, he asked the gods’ forgiveness for any offensive behavior.
Kirk removed his toothpick and tossed it muttering, “This will take concentration.” Hamar followed, arms swinging and legs splaying out to the sides.
Beth was next. With a large, shaky inhale, she repeated, “I can do this. I can do this,” and started out. Half way, a gust knocked her down but she rose again with Royd’s help and slowly made her way across. Dorje was proud of her: truly a woman worthy of the mountain.
With the wind howling and battering them now, Dorje yelled into it. “We must get over the pass and down out of this. The top is not far. Royd, will you take them while I make sure all the porters are with us?”
“Yes,” he shouted back with the wind whipping his clothing. “We’ll find shelter on the other side and wait. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of Beth.”
“And I will take good care of Lhamu,” Dorje said. Confident in the Norwegians now, he held Beth before saying good-bye. “I will join you in a few minutes,” he promised and kissed her on the cheek. Watching them stagger up the hill into the wind, Dorje hoped the day would end soon and he’d be back in her arms tonight.
The cook and kitchen boys arrived first, wearing their cheap Chinese tennis shoes traded with the Tibetans. The smooth rubber soles immediately slid on the ice. “Lean against the hill,” Dorje yelled, “and stay in the tracks.” Each praying to the god of the mountain, they crossed safely and were almost out of sight before the long string of porters came slogging up the glacier with Lhamu in the lead. All had carried in snow before and picked their way across in spite of slippery shoes and awkward loads. “That makes nine,” Dorje counted as they passed, but where was the tenth? Frustrated that everyone was getting too spread out, he stormed back looking for the last porter and found him dragging at his own pace. “Hurry up. You must stay together.”
The man simply looked at him and trudged past. No amount of scolding quickened his step. One speed only, slow. At the traverse, the porter removed the
doko
and dropped it.
“What are you doing?” Dorje yelled. “Is the Sherpani stronger and braver than you?” No answer. “You won’t get hired again,” he threatened in a wasted breath.
After crossing, the porter stopped as if waiting for Dorje to pick up the basket. What choice did he have? It contained the greater portion of their food. He hefted it onto his back, stomped across in a show of superior balance, and slammed it at the man’s feet in a sweaty rage. “Now you carry!” The porter flinched and Dorje had him. Finally, he was as intimidating as Mingma.
After spewing moist clouds across the sky, the wind finally died allowing only veins of sunlight to seep through. His jacket zipped and hands buried deep in his pockets, Dorje headed for the Cho La. Overtaking the porters first and then the cook and kitchen boys, he said, “Keep moving so we can get down by early afternoon.” With the temperature dropping as he climbed, his breath condensed. Out of sight of both groups now in an unearthly quiet, he felt strangely alone. Beth and the Norwegians were somewhere ahead but he didn’t know how far. He was but a speck in a vast whiteness and beginning to doubt his decision to cross today.
Dorje found them slumped against the rocks laboring to breathe on the 17,880-foot summit. Beth wilted at the sight of him, shivering violently. He kissed her cold, bluish lips and rubbed her arms and hands to keep the circulation going. “You will feel better once we are lower.”
Doubled over and gasping for air, Kirk said, “I’m used to cold and snow, but this damn altitude is a killer.”
“And I’m freezing just standing here,” moaned Hamar. “I need to keep moving.”
“We all do.” Dorje zipped Beth’s collar up to her chin and took her daypack. “Come on. The porters are not far behind.”
“Did you see Lhamu?” Hamar asked.
“Yes, and you don’t need to worry. She’s stronger than any of them.” Dorje glanced at the sky before departing. No streaks of sunlight, only the heavy, gray mist from which the first large flakes drifted slowly to the ground.
“Not again,” Hamar laughed, sticking his tongue out to catch them.
“You must have really pissed the gods off,” Royd snorted.
“Me? What about you?”
Walking with his arm around Beth to keep her warm and listening to their boyish banter, Dorje momentarily took his mind off the weather. Over the pass now, travel would be easier. But within half an hour, the wind picked up again bringing wetter snow that fell thick and heavy onto their hair and clothes. Royd’s red beard turned white. “You are a grandfather now,” Dorje laughed, pointing to his chin. Running his hand over his face, the Norwegian shook the snow off, but within minutes he aged again. The snow and cloud merged into one making it difficult to judge where the mountain ended and the sky began. “We must get off the ice before setting up camp,” Dorje said. “It’s too cold.”