HIGH INTENSITY
By Bel-wah
Disclaimer: Xena, Gabrielle and any other characters featured in the actual TV series are copyrighted to MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures while the rest of the story and other characters are my own.
**********
And it was that, Allison thought, as she trudged her way up the Western Cwm towards Camp II. Here in this great valley nearly a mile deep and four miles long, they were sheltered from the brunt of the Himalayan winds, with Everest on the left, Nuptse on the right, and Lhotse dead ahead. A stark contrast to the riot of noise she’d grown so accustomed to the noise over the past few weeks: the incessant howling of the winds, the groaning Icefall, and the sounds of several hundred of people inhabiting a too small space.
Here in the Cwm, however, the air was calm and still, silent but for the crunch of her crampons biting into the ice, punctuated by the sounds of her own effort. A ribbon of colorfully garbed climbers stretched out before her and behind her, creeping its way along the silken whiteness of the valley. Some climbers, she could make out, were from Peak Performance; many more were not.
Of the thirty plus teams in Base Camp, it was apparent that quite a number were making their presence known in the higher elevations. Allison idly wondered if this traffic jam would last all the way to the summit. God, she hoped not.
Time for a drink.
Allison ground to a stop and gulped down several mouthfuls of water. Feeling the heat, she decided to peel off her sweater, leaving only a thin, polypropylene undergarment on her upper body. She’d considered wearing a T-shirt, but Ricky had warned her that the intensity of the sun’s radiant heat in the bowl-shaped Cwm could potentially burn her. And then there was the chill she’d get if cloud cover and snow showers suddenly moved in.
She was moving well; all her teammates were, from what she could tell. But a lot could happen during the three hours plus it would take to get to Camp II, that distant blip at the head of the Khumbu where the jagged slopes of Everest met the ridges of Lhotse.
Replacing her water bottle on her rucksack, Allison turned, and let her eyes track down the Cwm to the tall, distinctive figure of Ricky Bouchard. The mountaineer was climbing between her and Lou Silvers this time, trailing a bit closer to the attorney. Lou was keeping up, but the distance between them had widened slightly, and Allison knew that Ricky would be dropping back a bit to make sure he was okay, reminding him to stay hydrated. Capturing the red and black clad mountaineer in her gaze, Allison did not wave. Instead, she focused on conserving her energy at this altitude in such heat, where your every move had to be parceled out and planned for in advance. But she could tell by a subtle incline of Ricky’s dark head that she’d seen her, and she allowed herself to feel the calmness, the encouragement of that connection.
Ricky Bouchard. Her bunkmate and climbing partner. Who would have thought it?
They had arrived at a truce of sorts that first night in the tent. Ricky had her habits and routines, that was for sure, and although she rarely spoke, when she did there was plenty of good advice to be found in those words, if she were willing to listen. And as for Allison, well, she realized that she herself maybe wasn’t the easiest person to live with. Perhaps she had some shaping up to do.
And so last night she’d made sure to check with Ricky that it was okay to keep the lamp burning while she’d made her final journal entry, and had decided to move her boots in from the vestibule, after all. Because they’d been pretty damn frozen the morning before, as Ricky had predicted.
So… they were still getting used to each other. It would take time and patience, but something told Allison it would be worth it. And then some.
Allison shoved off again, working her way carefully along the icy slope. It was amazing, she considered, how dramatic the difference in the weather was from when they’d started out. It had been another bitter cold dawn when they’d left Camp I, the objective being, Jim Harris had told them, to avoid the broiling heat of a bright late morning in the Cwm.
Quickly, once the sun had blinked an eye over Lhotse, the valley had turned from a freezer into an oven.
"Keep drinking, and keep your glasses on," Ricky had warned them all before they’d departed. "The last thing you want in the heat of the Cwm is to feel dizzy, or to come down with a high-altitude headache."
And so here she was, dressed more for a hike in the Green Mountains than for an Everest trek. There were the thick glacier glasses that could’ve passed for beachwear, not to mention the comfort she took in the familiar scent of the coconut based sunscreen that coated her face and glove-less hands, and the feel of the perspiration gathering under the band of her Peak Performance cap. Her mind struggled to grasp the contrast between those warm weather associations, and the crackling of her crampons digging into the surface of the Cwm; the wet, cool smell of the ice. It reminded her of the spring skiing she’d done a few years back in Telluride.
Allison smiled to herself, sparing a quick glance upward at the jet stream ripping off the summit. All in all, she felt pretty damn good. The trail was well marked, and she took care to avoid the occasional ‘wanded’ crevasse. Each season, the Sherpas posted bamboo wands at the sites of what might otherwise appear to unsuspecting climbers as secure snow bridges. In fact, many of the bridges were little more than a house of cards. Without adequate warning, a climber might start across the bridge, only to break through the unstable surface and plummet into the fissure below. Roped or not, inside a crevasse was no place where Allison Peabody intended to be. Her experience last week in the Icefall was close enough for her.
Keeping her feet moving, Allison fell back into her step breathing, pushing herself just hard enough to maintain a steady pace upwards without blowing through her energy reserves.
Heat and ice.
In many ways, very much like Veronique Bouchard.
What? God, maybe I am getting dizzy from the heat, Allison thought, hearing herself draw in a startled gasp. She shoved the unexpected thought of the mountaineer to the back of her mind, muzzling it. Now was not the time. Step. Breathe. She had bigger things to worry about, like making it to Camp II before she was broiled alive.
Instead, she let her mind trip to less confounding subjects. Step. Breathe. Idly wondering what was going on back at the office, before quickly deciding that she didn’t much care. And then there was Lionel. Ugh. Step. Breathe. Hoping that Lou Silvers could find the power somewhere within himself to realize his dream, and return safely home to the wife and two little girls whose picture he’d shown her already about four or five times. Step. Breathe. Would the good weather hold, and was Ricky Bouchard involved with anyone?
Whoa. Dammit, Allie! Cut that out. Like it’s any of your business anyway!
Okay…. Step. Breathe. The heat… summer, summer, summer. Uh… how were her parents doing, anyway? Elizabeth and Richard. Or, ‘Liz and Dick,’ as she referred to them in her less charitable moments. She wondered if they had even realized she was gone. Or cared, if they had.
The scent of the sunscreen in the air catapulted her back in time, through a rushing blur of colors, of memories, of triumph, and of hurt.
Summers on the Cape, and the house they’d had there.
The ‘cottage,’ her parents had called it, although it was bigger than the year-round homes of most of her school friends. They’d been conceited enough to give the damn place a name. ‘Driftwood,’ they’d called it, and Allison supposed it was fitting enough. How adrift she’d felt there, how invisible, like the gnarled, weathered pieces of wood that the tide purged itself of one day, only to reclaim on the next; the wave action smoothing away the indentations of the wood upon the sand, as though it had never been there at all.
The pool at the Yacht Club, where Allison had been sent along with other children her age, to learn how to swim. Allison hated the swimming lessons. Some small part of her child’s mind couldn’t stand being told what to do. But until she could learn to swim, her parents had said, she wouldn’t be allowed to go in the ocean past her ankles. So, pouting, she’d given in.
The club was all right. As an only child, it was an opportunity for her to meet some other kids, to make friends. But she missed the sandy beach at the rear of the cottage, where she would play for hours on her own, building sand castles and making up stories about the beautiful princesses and handsome princes who lived in them, never even minding how the sun burnished her pale skin.
She remembered that one mid-summer morning at the club. A an overnight thunderstorm had pelted the grounds, leaving scattered branches loose on the lush, manicured lawn, and raising the level of the water in the pool until it nearly reached the tiled rim. The early morning air was warm and muggy, with a faint mist still rising from the drenched grounds.
She’d been taking the swimming lessons for what seemed forever, although it had probably been no more than two or three weeks. Today was the day they would attempt to swim the length of the pool, earning those bands with the ducks on them that the big kids wore, signifying that they were indeed certified swimmers and allowed to venture into the big pool on their own.
She recalled the morning as though it were yesterday.
The yellow-flowered bathing suit she wore. The scrape on her elbow from the day before when she’d slipped on the gravel drive of the cottage. Walking reluctantly on the darkened, wet concrete to the edge of the pool; slipping into the rain-chilled water with the rest of the kids, her teeth chattering as the cold temperature chased her breath away.
One after another, they started up the lap lanes. There was Bobby, just ‘Bobby,’ who lived near them at the cottage, she knew, but he never played with her. He was off, flailing his way through the water, without a single backward glance.
More children went, until it was that little brown haired girl’s turn. She didn’t want to go. She was afraid. She was crying so hard that she could barely speak, and Allison felt badly for her, although she’d never learned her name. After a few moments of low words from the instructor, the bawling girl was scooped out of the water, her chance lost.
And then, "C’mon, Allie! Your turn. All the way to the end. You can do it!"
‘You can do it.’ The words of Miss Ingstrom, a woman she hadn’t seen in more than 20 years, now. But the instructor had believed in her. Told her so. Made Allison believe it, herself.
Taking a deep breath, puffing her cheeks, she’d gingerly lowered her face in the water – the part that was so scary – and then pushed off with her feet from the side of the pool. Oh God, what if she sank like a stone? What if she forgot everything she’d learned? What if--?
It was like a movie that should be starring some other little girl, only she was in it. Like the pieces of a puzzle, suddenly, it all clicked. And there she was, swimming! Legs pumping, arms whirling, head swiveling to the side to take gasping breaths of air just like she’d been taught to do. Knowing she was moving into the deep end of the pool, where it was well over her head, but not caring. Not caring at all, because she could swim!
Conscious of the blurred form of Miss Ingstrom walking along side her on the pool deck, cheering her, encouraging her on. Her hand bumped the far wall and then, spluttering, she’d realized there was nowhere else to go. She’d done it! The rest of the kids were clapping and cheering, even Bobby. How proud she’d felt when she’d slipped the duck band over her foot; the first thing she ever remembered earning on her own.
The lesson was over.
All the kids had completed the swim, save for the red-eyed little brown haired girl. Allison had heard the instructor whispering to her that she could try it again tomorrow, if she wanted, and that made Allison feel better for her. She would have her chance, after all.
The crowd of wrinkled but victorious children was released and, heeding a silent siren, they began to scamper over to a cabana where the parents usually waited. There, the adults might have a morning juice or an eye-opener, conversing amongst themselves, waiting for the lessons to conclude.
Allison could feel the excitement in the air, hear the peals of joyous laughter ringing from her classmates. Shoving limp strands of blonde hair behind her ears, she found herself running too, caught up in it all, racing with her friends towards the cabana. They fell into their parents’ arms, chattering about their triumph, and how they’d prevailed against all watery odds.
Even now, Allison could feel a sharp squeeze in her chest as she remembered raking the throng with her eyes, searching for a pant leg or a hem of a skirt that she could recognize.
She saw the little brown haired girl getting a hug from her mommy. And Bobby, too, although he was trying to squirm his way out of it. Her mommy wasn’t there, she remembered with a start.
There was no one to tell.
She felt the smile leave her face, replaced by the blank ‘I don’t care’ look that she was already well on her way to perfecting. But her heart felt it, and the burst of joy that thrummed within her began to melt away, like a spilled ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day.
"Allison?"
It would all be okay. Her mommy and daddy had good reasons for not being there. They’d told her so, right?
"Allison! C’mon, let’s go!"
Allison lifted her head. It was the nanny. ‘Cindy’ or ‘Mindy’ – it didn’t really matter, they came and went so fast, and they always seemed to be more interested in their yucky boyfriends and the big schools they went to in Boston, rather than in playing with her.
"Sorry I’m late. Where’s your tote bag? C’mon, we’ve got to run to the grocery store!"
So she’d sullenly stuck a thumb in her mouth while her shorts and top were tugged on over a damp bathing suit, and off they had gone.
By the time her mother had deigned fit to motor over for the weekend, just in time for the Gibsons' annual cocktail party, her good news had dulled and soured. She’d told her, and shown her the duck band, but only so her mother would let her go in the ocean. "That’s nice, Allison dear," she’d told her, giving her a pat on the head before picking up the phone to make a call.
She never did tell her father. A man she rarely saw from Memorial Day to Labor Day. He stayed away from the Cape, as a rule, content to let his wife and daughter enjoy the fruits of his labor.
"There’s work to be done," he’d told her. "You’ll thank me someday, Allison. You’re too young now to understand."
No.
She hadn’t understood. And when she finally did, when she was finally old enough, she’d found she didn’t care, one way or the other. They were just people to her, by then. Strangers who, sadly, happened to also be her parents.
But it had been a long, painful road, getting her to that point. For far too long, it had always been about struggling to find ways to get what she craved, what all her other friends seemed to receive so freely: her parents’ attention, their acceptance, their love.
What she wouldn’t have given, to be just like everybody else.
But she wasn’t.
Hell, they’d driven that notion home into her head often enough. She was Allison Peabody, of the Boston Peabodys. A rare, exotic bird in a cage, with her wings kept clipped and her emotions held in check. Never to be liberated, or to know what it was like to really fly. A thing to be trotted out and admired, only when it was convenient.
"You know our daughter Allison, don’t you? She a student at Smithfield Academy."
‘You’re special, different, better than everyone else,’ they’d told her. Even then, Allison had wondered how that could be, when they’d barely even noticed she was alive.
Well, she’d tried. Thought that maybe she could earn her way into their good graces; pay her dues. So she’d obediently taken the music and dance lessons; performed in the recitals, and remembered searching the faces in the crowd during the applause, looking futilely for ones she might recognize. Received the top grades in all her report cards that were expected, but never closely examined, or questioned.
She tried her best, crying her heart out in the dark of night, smiling during the day, and excelling at everything she tried. After all, a Peabody would never fail, right? But none of it worked. Perhaps if there had been a cross word or a raised hand, at least she would have felt… something. But it was their cool indifference that wielded the cruelest cut of all.
It was during college, she knew, that she’d started to go in the other direction. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she’d decided that if being a good girl didn’t work, she’d do the opposite. And so she’d started acting out, undertaking these crazy adventures: the white water rafting, the parachuting - everything, and then, most recently, the climbing. Taking those first uncertain steps that had finally brought her here, to this place.
One thing Allison knew for sure, was that she wasn’t the same woman who had first stepped on that plane in New York some weeks back. Things had changed. She… had changed. And it felt good.
Letting out a great gust of air, Allison thought about the mountaineer behind her, winding her way up the Western Cwm, watching her back.
Ricky Bouchard was right.
Something as big as Everest… you had to be doing it for the right reasons. The margin of error was so thin, that to give it anything less than it deserved… than you deserved for yourself, could prove to be disastrous.
Shifting her eyes skyward to regard the plume, she realized that now it wasn’t about her parents. Or Lionel. Or her job.
It was about her – period.
About proving something to herself. Accomplishing something – for herself. Finding a peace in that, letting that peace be enough.
When the ill-fated George Leigh Mallory had been asked why he desired to climb mighty Everest, he had answered with his typically dry, British aplomb: "Because it is there."
Allison had asked Ricky that same question last night in their tent, after she’d extinguished their light. The mountaineer had been silent for a moment in the dark, considering that age-old question.
"Why do I want to climb Everest?" she’d finally repeated, in her low, slightly accented voice. "Because I am here."
Well. Allison Peabody had to admit it; she kind of liked the sound of that.
**********
Even before she got to the spot where the climbers were huddled, pointing, Ricky Bouchard knew.
Knew by the twisting in her gut that they’d stumbled upon the first frozen evidence of the ultimate price Everest exacted from those who dared its icy slopes.
A body.
She’d seen the small crowd begin to form as they’d advance up the Cwm. One by one, climbers had peeled off the main trail, attracted by a small splash of color that did not otherwise belong in this barren, glistening place.
Kevin MacBride, Phil Christy, and Paul Andersen were there, as well as several climbers from other expeditions. Directly in front of her, Ricky had watched Allison stop, and then move over to where the rest of the climbers had gathered, beckoned by their excited calls. She stood there now, on the periphery, a stricken look on her face.
Ricky quickened her pace, not an easy thing to do on the slick glacier, but she was fueled by the jolt of anger she felt coursing through her veins. Bodies were a fact of life on Everest, so common up high that they virtually became a part of the scenery. They were more rare at this lower elevation, but it was not unheard of for a climber’s remains to tumble down from above, dislodged from the mountain’s icy grip after a hard blow or a monsoon storm, months or sometimes years after they’d been killed.
It was next to impossible to transport the deceased back to Base Camp from a high altitude world where merely planting one foot in front of the other required supreme physical effort and mental discipline. As a result, the dead were mourned, true enough, but were mostly left where they’d fallen in a final, permanent joining with the mountain.
But Ricky Bouchard believed that didn’t mean they deserved any less respect.
As the mountaineer approached, her blood began to boil. She saw several of the climbers poking, prodding at the pathetic frozen bundle of tattered clothing, shrunken flesh, and blanched bones. They stared at the corpse in a perverse fascination, unwilling to really touch it, yet unable to look away.
All except Allison Peabody. The young woman had partially turned her back to the ghastly scene, her face ashen.
"Is it a westerner or a Sherpa?" Phil Christy asked, dubiously eyeing a boot that lay not far away from the figure crumpled face down in the snow. A translucent white foot jarringly poked out from the edges of torn blue gaiters and a down suit; this man had obviously been climbing up high.
"Can’t tell," Kevin MacBride answered him. He worked his way around to the head of the figure, where tufts of dark hair ruffled in the light breeze. "Maybe if we can get a look at his face." He pushed at the head of the body with his boot. The figure remained immobile.
"What’s going on, here?" Ricky breathlessly demanded, shooting an accusatory glare at Paul Andersen.
"We… ah, we’re just checking out—"
Ricky shoved past him. The idiot. He should have known better. Some senior guide.
"He must’ve been here a while," Phil was saying. The young man had dropped to his knees now, and had crouched over low to peer at the small, silent figure.
"Christ, he’s frozen solid!" Kevin swore. The burly climber gave the corpse another shove with his foot, and then another, harder. "Like a freakin’ iceberg!"
"Back off," Ricky growled, pushing her way to the front of the onlookers.
"Hey, Ricky!" Kevin MacBride did not even lift his head. "Check this dead guy out!" So intent was he on his examination of the body, that he was blissfully ignorant of the danger signal flashing in the mountaineer’s tone.
"I said," she stepped closer, "back off!" And with that, she gave him a shove, hard enough so that he slipped backwards to land on his rump in the snow. She grabbed at a ragged dark blue tarp that was half on, half off of the body. Probably placed there earlier by Sherpas fixing the ropes along the route, she thought.
Kevin sat awkwardly on the glacier like a toppled snowman, indignation coloring his cheeks. "What the fuck is your problem?" he angrily shouted, his voice echoing hollowly in the Cwm.
"Leave this man be." Ricky slung off her backpack and fished out several ice pickets, intending to drive them through the tarp to secure it over the poor man.
"We were just checking it out," Kevin retorted, struggling to regain his feet. "It’s not like we’ve ever seen anything like this before!"
Ricky started to cover the dead climber, gathering any loose fragments of his personal effects close. The empty boot. A ragged, worn section of rope. Shorn pieces of clothing. "Well, get used to it," she muttered, trying to calm herself. "Because you’re gonna see more." She shook her head, not really caring that here she was, picking a fight with a client. Kevin MacBride was a yahoo asshole, and that made him dangerous while he was on the mountain.
"This man had friends," Ricky said tightly. She drove a picket through the tarp, securing it down deep into the snow and ice. "A family. For God’s sake," her voice shook, "show a little respect."
"Well where were his friends up here, huh?" MacBride obstinately thrust his chin out as he dusted himself off, unwilling to let the subject drop. "They just left him."
"He’s a Sherpa," Ricky said, gently pushing a tattered segment of homespun cloth, the colors faded, back under the tarp. "He knew the risks. He probably died up high, and his body fell or got blown down here recently," she explained, her mouth set in a tense line. "He hasn’t been here long. I would’ve heard about it. All it takes is a night out here to freeze to a particular spot. But…" she took in the poor condition of his remains, "he’s been dead for a while. Years, I’d guess."
"Don’t you care who he is?" Phil Christy piped up, determined to show his friend some support. Some of the other gawkers had already begun to continue the climb up the glacier to Camp II, uncomfortable with the scene they were witnessing. "You’re just gonna leave him here, too? Nice."
"Have you got a better idea?" Ricky snapped her head up, her eyes boring through the darkness of her glasses into Christy. "Because I’d love to hear it."
"Can’t we move him?" MacBride was nothing, if not persistent. Obviously, he was used to getting his way.
"Where to? Are you offering to dig him out and carry him down?" Ricky’s voice was harsh. "The Sherpas know he’s here. That’s enough."
"Well…." MacBride looked suddenly lost as he considered this notion, like a child who’d misplaced his favorite toy.
"She’s got a point, there, buddy," Phil said at last, giving his buddy a nudge. "Like I’d ever be able to haul your fat ass outta here."
"Ricky’s right," Paul Andersen said, feeling the time was right to step in and try to regain some control over the situation. "It’s what happens on Everest. It’s hard enough sometimes to get the living out, let alone the dead."
A sudden gust of wind blew down the Cwm, lifting a corner of the tarp. Ricky grabbed at it, weighing it down with her knee while she reached for another picket. This was as close to a burial as the poor man would ever get, and she wanted to do right by him, as she hoped one day others might do for her, if need be. He deserved to rest in peace. Hell, they all did.
"C’mon, guys," Paul said, the anxiety plain in his voice. "Let’s get going, huh? We’ve gotta get to C2."
Ricky ignore the mutterings as the men departed, though she did glance up as the climbers moved out. She was surprised to see that Allison was still there, looking directly at her, now. Lou Silvers had also arrived, and stood solemnly behind her.
"You better get going," Ricky sighed, turning a practiced eye to the sky. The sun had disappeared behind fat, low-hanging gray clouds, and the air was starting to chill. "The weather’s changing, and it’s still another half mile or so to Camp."
The wind picked up again, and Ricky returned her attention to the disorderly tarpaulin. She heard a crunching sound in the snow, and then there was a pair of small, chapped hands next to hers, holding the tarp down.
"I want to help."
"No."
"Please. I want to stay."
"No I—" Ricky caught herself, and removed the sharpness from her voice. This had nothing to do with Allison. Her new partner had done nothing wrong. "Thanks," she started again, softly, earnestly. "But I won’t be much longer here. I’d feel better if I knew you and Lou were on your way to camp, eh?" She tried a frozen smile. "Maybe you can make sure there’s a cup of tea waiting for me."
Ricky held her breath, watching how Allison’s delicate features ebbed and flowed as she considered this offer. She didn't want the young stockbroker anywhere near this… this reminder of what could happen to the best of them while they were on the mountain. This was her own duty, and she would handle it alone.
"Okay." Allison pushed herself to her feet. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure. I’ll be right behind you. Just let me finish up here. Lou," she leaned behind Allison to regard the attorney, "you okay with that?"
"No prob, Ricky," he said, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I’m getting colder by the second, just standing here."
"Get moving, both of you," Ricky said firmly. "See if you can’t beat the weather."
With a final look backward, Allison took off up the slope, followed closely by Lou Silvers.
Thank God.
Ricky knew this whole… episode had rocked Allison, that was plainly evident. And still… she’d want to stay, to help. That took guts, though by this time the mountaineer was not as surprised as she might have been at that offer. She’d been finding out for some days now that there was a lot more to this Allison Peabody than she’d ever originally given her credit for.
Looking around the impromptu burial site, Ricky saw another segment of cloth, about the size of a long handkerchief. It was once white, although now it was yellowed and stained with the weather and grit of the Cwm. But Ricky immediately recognized it for what it was: a khata; the Sherpa’s prayer scarf.
Whether it had served him well in life, or not, she would never know. But in death, she was determined that he would keep it with him. Reverently, she slipped her hands under the tarp, and tied it securely around a frozen arm, silently reciting a brief Buddhist prayer.
A final swing of her ice ax, and it was done; the tarp was secure.
Ricky Bouchard sat back on her heels, catching her breath, wondering about this man whose life had come to an end here, trapped in the frozen embrace of a mountain in whose shadow he’d probably lived his entire life.
Was it worth it?
The breeze picked up again; cold. The light was growing flat, diffused. But the mountaineer had no desire to move, not yet. Thick, wet snowflakes began to fall, slowly at first, and then faster, spinning and whirling a path down to the earth, coming to rest on the battered tarp where the Sherpa lay.
**********
It was a ‘siege process,’ or so the experts called it. But Ricky Bouchard knew that for many climbers, it was a process that brought them to nothing but a frustrated end. Bodies screaming for air, dizzy, and nauseous, they would have to retreat down the mountain, their dreams for summitting Everest - over.
The idea was to gradually work your way towards increasingly higher altitudes, giving your body time to adjust. And so you hop-scotched from camp to camp, spending several nights in each at a time, alternately descending to the lower altitudes for recovery. The final push, from Base Camp to Summit, took five day’s time, if the weather cooperated. The first day was a non-stop trek from Base Camp to Camp II. The following day was a last chance for would-be summitters to rest, and do one final check of their equipment.
The third day, the altitude weary climbers would make their way to Camp III, at 24,000 feet. The battered, exposed tents comprised a much smaller camp, defiantly chopped out of the wind-swept ice of the Lhotse Face. From Camp III onward, oxygen-starved men and women would change into full body down suits and breathe bottled gas, providing some measure of relief against a ‘death zone’ environment that was incapable of sustaining life. At that altitude, your system would rebel and begin to shut down, your organs clamoring for oxygen that simply can’t be found in the thin atmosphere. And so your body begins to consume itself for energy, a last, final step in the ‘process’ that has been slowly leaching you of sense and strength from the moment you first stepped foot on the mountain.
Ricky had seen the altitude hit climbers more times than she cared to count. It reached out its cold, indiscriminate hand to the best of mountaineers and tentative novices, alike. Those who valiantly fought against the pain, the confusion, the dullness of body and spirit, those who struggled their way to Camp III, oftentimes made it no further. For those able to go on, they could look forward to an exhausting, dangerous six hour hike to Camp IV at 26,000 feet, situated on a godless, rock and ice strewn mesa known as the South Col.
There would be no night’s rest to be had at Camp IV. The objective was to spend as little time in that inhospitable environment as possible. There might be a short, restless nap, or time for one last ‘brewing up’ on hot beverages and soup. The strongest climbers would have arrived at the South Col by mid-day. By 10PM or so, it would be time. Time to gather what remained of your power and your wits for the final push to the top of the world. If you were lucky, you might make it in another 12 to 14 hours.
Or not.
And then there was the getting down.
Ricky Bouchard knew all about the science behind acclimatization. As a mountaineer, she made it her business to know. She also understood that her own body was different… able to handle the punishment of altitude much better than others. In the thin air, her lungs were better able to draw in the O2 and process it, and her red blood cells were able to carry and store more oxygen, directing it to vital muscles and tissues.
But those physiological benefits would never make her completely impervious to the effects of altitude. Eventually, in the wrong conditions, she knew it could hit her, too. Rather, she was simply smart in how she went about it; gradually increasing her altitude, monitoring her recovery time, making sure she kept physically active the higher she went. That way, she felt, she gave her body’s natural advantage an even better shot at going the distance, without needing supplemental oxygen. It had suited her well, until now.
Ricky hated the damn oxygen apparatus. Those masks that always fogged up… the lines that sometimes froze, and the way the bulky equipment reduced your field of vision. It was a wretched contraption; it made your throat run as dry as a sandy desert, and how disgusting it was the way the mucus built up inside the mask, with nowhere else for it to go.
It was all bad business, and there was a part of her, the traditional part, who believed that if you couldn’t climb Everest unassisted, without bottled gas, then you shouldn’t do it at all. Because the one thing she was certain of was that no matter how good a climber you were, if you disturbed your body’s natural acclimatization process with the use of supplemental oxygen – and you ran out – you immediately got into serious trouble. Like a toy that had wound down, or a tire with the air blown out, you just ground to a stop, unable to move, until you got to another O2 source.
And in the vagaries of an Everest climb, where nothing was a certainty, Ricky hated like hell to have to rely on something other than herself, to get up and down. Something that might get her killed… like that Sherpa they’d found.
As she’d suspected, the other Sherpas had known he was there.
"Maybe it be Ang Sherpa, or Tashi Sherpa," Jangbu had told her, when at last she’d plodded into Camp II just as the snowfall had intensified and really begun to blanket the Cwm. "Ang lost five seasons ago, Tashi, seven."
Ricky had found the wiry sirdar in the small Camp II cook tent, where she’d wandered to scrounge a thermos of hot tea from Dawa. All of the Peak Performance team had made it in safely, Jim Harris and the Donaldsons, last but not least. After the hot, draining climb, completed in the beginnings of a snow squall, everyone was content to collapse in their tents to recover. The mountaineer hadn’t seen Allison, but she was sure the tent was where she would find her.
"It’s not going to be an easy climb," Ricky had told the Sherpa, thinking a bit of a nap in her own tent sounded like a pretty fair idea.
"We have good power. Good Sherpa," he’d grinned, referring to the strength of the team of Sherpas working with Peak Performance. "We go all the way to top. Like always, right, Ricky?"
"Maybe." She’d turned to leave the cook tent, and then stopped. "What’s it look like up high. Any news?"
"Deep snow. Snow very deep. But no worry," Jangbu had assured her. "Sherpa fix ropes. No problem."
"I may help you out some, day after tomorrow," Ricky had told him, thinking the exercise would serve her well, in terms of acclimatization. "Bring a load of supplies up to Camp III, at least. I know I can make good time."
"You like Sherpani," her old friend had chuckled. The female Sherpas were just as capable as their male counterparts at handling high altitude climbing. "Jangbu use you next season, okay?"
"Depends on how many rupees you’re offering," Ricky had laughed, giving the Sherpa a parting wave before ducking out into the blowing snow.
There was little activity in their camp, and she could see a few huddled forms moving about through the snow in the next camp over. It was the British team, she thought. The snowfall was not entirely unexpected; the weather on the mountain could change in a heartbeat. The storm might last until evening, or it could last for three days, you never knew.
For Patsy Donaldson’s sake, she hoped the snow eased off by morning. The plan was to spend a total of three nights at Camp II, but Patsy was showing symptoms of altitude sickness again. According to Jim Harris, the small woman had done her best to keep up with her husband on the trek up the Cwm, but a headache and nausea were hitting her hard. Jim had been in contact with Sandy Ortiz in Base Camp, and the doctor had advised that if Patsy wasn’t feeling better by the next day, she should be brought down the mountain to recover. Oftentimes, just a quick descent was all it took to shake off the symptoms, but Ricky knew that Patsy had been laboring all along, and she seriously doubted the woman’s chances to summit on her own.
The mountaineer didn’t know Mike and Patsy Donaldson well; they weren’t the sort of people whose company she would normally keep. With Mike’s Fortune 200 bravado and Patsy’s garden club mentality, she wondered at times just how well they understood the deadly seriousness of making an attempt on Everest, where sometimes if you got yourself stuck and let out a cry for help, there was no-one there to answer. Mike was driven, determined to make it to the top, as though you could summit on demand, and he seemed hell bent on dragging Patsy along with him. Ricky got the sense that if she were left to her own devices, the bone-tired Patsy would’ve backed out long before now.
"Hey, I—" Ricky stopped short. Allison was in her sleeping bag, asleep. She lay on her side, facing the interior of the tent, her blond hair tousled, her right arm curled up under her head.
Just do your job, the mountaineer repeated, but it was more than a job, she knew that now, especially where Allison Peabody was concerned. The younger woman had reached out to her, God knew why, and though Ricky had tried to dissuade her, she had persisted. And now… she’d hated that Allison had had to see that Sherpa today, even though such things were a fact of life here on Everest. She worried even now how that had affected her, and what dark fears might haunt her dreams. Allison’s brow was furrowed, her eyes were squeezed shut, and her free arm and legs twitched, as though warding off some unseen phantom. Ricky felt an overwhelming desire surge through her body to protect this woman, to keep her safe, no matter what.
"Allison?"
A low whimper escaped the blonde’s lips, and her twitching became more pronounced.
"Allison!" Ricky put the thermos down, and reached out to give Allison’s arm a light shake.
"Wha—" Allison bolted up into a sitting position, her green eyes as wide as silver dollars. "What the--?"
"Sorry." Ricky edged away, giving her space. "I thought I should wake you. You were having some sort of nightmare, I think."
"Jesus!" Allison rubbed at her face, still clearly disoriented. "I—I don’t even remember falling asleep." She swallowed, and took several deep breaths. "I was just lying here, thinking about things." She lifted her eyes to Ricky. "I was thinking about this afternoon, and that poor Sherpa, and then I was climbing and so were you, and—"
"Ssssh, don’t worry about it." The mountaineer could not help herself. She scooted closer. "It was just a dream."
"Easy for you to say." Allison managed a shaky smile. "Pretty silly, huh?"
"Nah." Ricky paused. "I get nightmares, too."
"You do?"
"Uh-huh." Ricky grabbed for the nearly forgotten thermos, anxious to change the subject now. Dwelling on bad dreams certainly wouldn’t be of any help to Allison. Best to forget about it. Help clear her head. "Look what I’ve got." She produced the thermos. "My turn for the hot tea."
"Hey, thanks!" Allison brightened, cheering at the sight of the steaming liquid.
Ricky poured two cups, and soon the women were silently drinking, oblivious to the snowy winds picking up outside, snapping at the tent.
The tea helped, but Ricky could see that there was still something on Allison’s mind. Her face was quiet and still in the dimness of the tent, her lips set in a tense line.
"Ricky?"
Uh-oh, the mountaineer inwardly sighed. Here it comes.
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you a question?
"Sure.
"Why do you climb? How did you get started?"
"Well, that’s two questions, isn’t it?"
Allison apprehensively regarded her, worried that the mountaineer had slipped into one of her sour moods. But Ricky didn’t mind, not really, and she saw her tent-mate visibly relax when she curled the corner of her mouth into a wry grin.
"I don’t remember actually starting," she told her. "It’s just something we – me and Jean-Pierre, I mean – we’ve always done." She hesitated, lowering her eyes. "And I’m going to carry on. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do." She played with the handle of her cup. "It’s all I know. And that’s enough for me."
"But you can’t climb forever," Allison blurted out, "Can you? What about the future? Your future."
Ricky felt the heat rise to her face. She wasn’t angry, but here Allison was, pushing her again, prodding. Making her think about things in her life that she preferred to leave unexamined. After all, it was far simpler that way.
"I guess I never thought that far ahead," Ricky answered slowly. "Or… or thought that I’d ever have to deal with it. After all, Jean-Pierre didn’t."
Before the words even finished leaving her mouth, Ricky had already regretted uttering them. She could see Allison’s jaw drop and her face pale, as she absorbed the full implication of the mountaineer’s statement. Well, it was true.
Veronique Bouchard, sitting on a rocking chair, old and gray?
Not likely.
She knew… eventually, that the life she led would catch up to her. Even she could buck the odds for only so long. No matter. When death came, whenever it came, she would be ready.
"Geez, Ricky, you’re scaring me." Allison’s voice wavered in the deepening gloom. "You’re not planning on going anywhere, are you?"
Ricky could sense the stockbroker’s growing panic, and so she decided to reverse course for the time being. No need to get her so frightened. After all, once the expedition was over, Allison Peabody would leave, and that would be that. And Ricky’s destiny, that silent companion who never left her side, would be there just the same.
"No," Ricky forced a faint smile to her face. "I’m not."
"Good." Allison leaned forward, keeping her eyes locked on Ricky’s. "Because I need you. To get to the top, I mean. You promised me."
"That’s right," Ricky answered, averting her eyes from the challenge of Allison’s gaze. "I promised."
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