As the freeze-dried beef Stroganoff was simmering away there was a knock on my door. I thought it was housekeeping again. They had come by earlier asking to clean the room, but I told them that I had everything I needed and to come back tomorrow. I slithered out of the tent, carefully stepped over the stove (so I didn't tip it over and burn down the hotel), and cracked open the door, hoping they wouldn't smell the gas burning or the food cooking.
It wasn't the housekeeper. It was a Nepalese boy, about my age but two inches shorter. He was smiling up at my head, which is all I had revealed through the crack. Below my head I had nothing on but my boxers because I had been trying on gear all day and it was getting hot in the room from the stove and the sun coming through the window.
"Peak Wood?" he asked.
"Actually, it's Peak Marcello, but yeah, that's me."
"My name is Sun-jo. Zopa sent me over to bring you to him."
"Oh sure ... uh..." I glanced at the mess behind me. I didn't want to leave him standing in the hallway while I got ready, which was going to take a while.
Appearing like a total idiot won over being rude. I let him in.
Sun-jo looked a bit shocked at the setup, but he didn't burst out laughing, which I might have done if I had stumbled onto something equally as stupid-looking as my indoor camp spot.
"My dad ... uh, I mean Josh, got me some new gear and I was ... uh ... testing it out, so I would know..." Ah, forget it, I thought. "I'm just making some lunch. Are you hungry?"
Sun-jo said he was.
As I got dressed, I watched him checking out the equipment, and I knew he was a climber. No one else would fondle gear as lovingly. He picked up various items like they were more valuable than gold, which they were when they were the only thing keeping you from falling off a rock face or into a dark bottomless crevasse.
I cleared a spot for us on the bed and served him a bowl of Stroganoff and an energy bar for dessert. It turned out that Sun-jo's father had been a Sherpa. Unfortunately, he had died up on K2 the previous year trying to rescue a group of climbers. Only one of the climbers survived.
K2 was discovered in 1856 by a surveyor named T. G. Montgomery. The K stands for Karakoram. The 2 means it was the second peak Montgomery listed on his survey. At 28,250 feet it's a bit shorter than Everest, but most climbers agree it's a lot harder to reach the summit.
I told Sun-jo how sorry I was to hear about his father, but he shrugged it off, saying he hardly knew his dad. He and his two younger sisters had spent most of their lives at a private boarding school in northern India.
"My sisters and I only came back to Kathmandu on holiday," he said. "My father was usually up on the mountain during those times."
Hearing about his sisters caused a little ache in my belly for Paula and Patrice, but it went away as I watched Sun-jo casually tie a length of Spectra cord to a hex slung with a triple fisherman's knot.
"Where did you learn to climb?" I asked.
"My grandfather instructed me," he answered.
His English was better than mine. He had kind of a British/Indian accent. Mine was kind of a Bronx/Cody, Wyoming, accent—which did not sound nearly as cool or refined as his.
"So, you're on holiday?"
"No," Sun-jo answered. "When my father died we did not have the funds to keep all three of us in school. The tuition is very expensive. My sisters are still in school and I am here to find work so they can stay there. Without a formal education there is no future for girls in Kathmandu. I would like to go back to school myself, but it is unlikely I will be able to. It is more important that my sisters attend school than it is for me."
Sun-jo wasn't much older than I was, and I wondered what kind of job he could get that would pay the tuition.
He looked at my altimeter watch, which he had been playing with throughout lunch. "We should leave soon. Zopa is waiting for us at the Indrayani temple."
I turned off the stove and put the dishes in the bathroom sink.
"Did you know there is a dining room here in the hotel?" Sun-jo asked. "I have not dined there myself, but I hear it is quite excellent."
"Yeah, I ate there this morning. It's great. The reason I cooked ... well, you know ... the new gear..."
Sun-jo smiled. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
OUR TRANSPORTATION to the temple was the saddest motorcycle I had ever seen. There was more silver duct tape on it than chrome.
It took him six vicious kicks to get it started, and when it finally caught, the motorcycle belched out a column of gray smoke so thick I thought the bike had burst into flames along with my new friend. But the smoke cleared, revealing a coughing Sun-jo with tears running down his face and a mostly intact motorcycle—except for the bolt lying in a pool of oil under the engine.
"It is much better when we are moving forward." He gasped. "In this way the smoke cannot catch us."
I thought about running up to the room and grabbing my climbing helmet, but I was afraid Sun-jo might die of asphyxiation before I got back out, so I climbed on behind him and we lurched into traffic.
Sun-jo yelled something that sounded like, "Only two root beers, last go!" But I think he meant that the motorcycle only had two foot gears, fast and slow. He was right about our exhaust being behind us; the problem was that we were now speeding through everyone else's exhaust. For the next twenty minutes I squeezed shut my burning eyes and buried my face in his back, thereby missing most of Kathmandu.
"We have arrived," Sun-jo announced.
I unclutched my sweaty hands and opened my eyes.
"You must remove your shoes before entering the temple."
I took them off and put them next to about fifty other pairs of shoes and sandals.
"If you don't mind my asking," Sun-jo said, "what happened to your face?"
"It got frozen to a building."
Sun-jo laughed. "No, really..."
"Climbing accident," I said.
"That's what I thought."
I followed him into the Indrayani temple, which was like walking into another world. One where people whispered rather than shouted. There were no wandering cows (we had narrowly missed three of them on the way over), no horns honking, no screeching tires. The smell of flowers and incense saturated the air. Worshippers were kneeling in front of shrines, spinning prayer wheels, lighting butter lamps. Mystery, possibilities—this was the Kathmandu I had expected.
Sun-jo led me to a teak bench in the shade of a banyan tree. We sat for a while watching the orange-robed monks talking quietly to visitors and offering them blessings.
"Which one is Zopa?" I whispered.
"None of these."
"Shouldn't we let him know we're here?"
Sun-jo shook his head. "He'll be along when he's ready."
Waiting again, but I didn't mind. I spent the time trying to figure out how to gracefully bow out of a return trip to the hotel on the death motorcycle.
"Here he comes," Sun-jo said.
I expected Zopa to be a frail old holy man. And the monk striding toward us was old, but he was anything but frail. His arm and calf muscles (what I could see of them beneath the hem of his orange robe) were well defined and powerful.
You'd expect a Buddhist monk to have a spiritual presence, but whatever spirituality Zopa had was overwhelmed by his physical presence. When he reached us he put his palms together and bowed. I followed Sun-jo's lead by getting to my feet and returning the bow.
Zopa looked me over, frowning at the scabs on my face and ear.
"Climbing accident," Sun-jo explained.
Zopa pointed at my bandaged fingers.
"Split nails," I explained nervously. "They're almost healed."
"You look like your father," Zopa said. Actually, I looked more like my mother, but I wasn't about to disagree with him.
"How did you get here?"
"Motorcycle," Sun-jo said.
Zopa shook his head in disgust. "When you go back take a taxi." He reached into a fold in hi
s robe and came out with a roll of rupees as big as his fist.
I didn't think Buddhist monks were even supposed to look at money.
He peeled off half an inch of bills and handed them to Sun-jo.
"What about my motorcycle?" Sun-jo asked.
"If you are lucky," Zopa said, "someone will steal it. Wait for me at the hotel."
The monk turned and walked away. I was relieved about the taxi, but that didn't explain why we had come all the way down to the Indrayani temple. When I asked Sun-jo about it he just shrugged and said that Zopa had his own way of doing things.
Mysterious ways, as it turned out, because when we got back to the hotel, Zopa was already waiting for us in the lobby. I didn't recognize him at first because the orange robe had been replaced by regular street clothes and an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses made him look like some kind of celebrity, which I suppose he was to the trekkers and climbers gathered around him. It had taken us ten minutes tops to catch a taxi outside of the temple. We drove straight to the hotel, and traffic wasn't any worse than it had been on the motorcycle on the way to the temple. And yet, there was Zopa chatting with the hotel staff and guests as if he had been there all afternoon.
I looked at Sun-jo, expecting him to be as shocked as I was. He wasn't.
"Zopa does things like that," he said.
"How?"
Another shrug, which I learned later was everyone's answer to questions about Zopa.
"You'll get used to it," Sun-jo added, then went over and greeted the vacationing monk.
Now, you're probably wondering why I didn't ask Zopa myself. Believe me I was tempted, but I didn't think he would tell me. Or worse, he might give me some reasonable explanation. It's sort of like asking a magician to tell you how he does a trick. Or asking a tagger how he got those seventeen freight cars painted in a single night. It's all about the mystery. Sometimes it's better not to ask.
Up in the room, Zopa sorted through the gear, putting it in different piles while Sun-jo and I watched. Once in a while he would stop and have me try something on saying, "Fits," or "Doesn't fit."When he was finished there were three piles.
He pointed to one of the piles. "We will take this and trade for things that fit."
My boots, blue snowsuit, and several other items of clothing were in a separate pile with some other stuff. I pointed out that none of the things in that pile fit, either.
"I have another use for it," Zopa said.
I didn't know what that could be, but I didn't pursue it. Instead I pointed to the trade pile, which had several hundred dollars' worth of pitons, cams, ropes, and other expensive equipment.
"This gear is brand-new," I said.
"You won't need it to get up Sagarmatha."
This is what the Nepalese call Everest.
"My dad bought it," I argued. "He might need it."
"Your father told me to make sure that you have everything you need to climb the mountain. How much money do you have?"
I told him, but I didn't mention the credit card Mom had given me. I didn't think she'd be happy about a huge bill for Everest gear.
"It's not enough to get the things you will need," Zopa said. "Hopefully, we will be able to trade all this." He started to gather up the gear from the trade pile.
"Best not to argue," Sun-jo whispered, and he and I helped haul the gear downstairs, where a Toyota truck and driver were waiting for us.
IT TOOK HOURS to get the replacement gear. In the process I got quite a tour of Kathmandu. It seemed that most of the places Zopa liked to shop were located down dark scary alleys. He was warmly greeted wherever we went, until the bartering started, when he and the proprietor would end up in a shouting match until a bargain was struck.
The most difficult things to find were my boots. I'd try on a pair I liked, tell Zopa they fit great, then he would make me walk, and shake his head.
"Not right," he'd say.
"What do you mean?" I'd insist. "They fit great."
"Too small," he'd say. "But when your toes fall off inside from the swelling and pinching they will fit perfectly."
We finally agreed on a pair that did fit great, but they were pretty battered up on the outside. In fact, all the stuff we bought was banged up.
"I hope this gear wasn't taken from dead climbers," I said offhandedly.
Zopa looked horrified. "Bad luck to use gear of the dead. No, this is from people who come to Kathmandu to climb and decide it is better to stay in bar and drink."
I must have looked horrified myself.
"Don't think ill of them," he said. "They lived."
Zopa also bought a few things for himself and Sun-jo, who I guessed was coming with us to Base Camp by the gear he was getting. Unlike me, he listened carefully to Zopa's opinions and bowed every time the monk gave him something.
It was late when we got back to the hotel. We went up to the room, packed everything, then loaded it into the truck.
"We leave for Tibet tomorrow morning at six," Zopa said.
He and Sun-jo got into the truck and drove away.
TIBET
THE NEXT MORNING Sun-jo, Zopa, the driver, and two Sherpas were sitting on the tailgate drinking tea. By the look of their disheveled hair and rumpled clothes they must have slept in the truck.
Sun-jo confirmed that they had. "But only for two hours," he said. "We were out getting supplies up until then."
He wasn't kidding. There was so much stuff piled in the bed, I didn't know where we were going to sit.
We squeezed ourselves between the gear along with two Sherpas (brothers, named Yogi and Yash) and left the blue haze of Kathmandu behind us.
WE TOOK OUR TIME, stopping at Buddhist temples and monasteries along the way, where Zopa picked up boxes of food and supplies. We already had plenty of food and some of the food he was given wasn't going to last very long up on the mountain. I asked about it but got the standard shrug in reply.
Away from the city, Nepal was everything I had imagined it to be. Beautiful valleys, rustic villages, fields tilled by oxen-pulled plows, all against the backdrop of the massive, sparkling Himalayas. I had been up on Mount McKinley and Mount Rainier, but they would be dwarfed by these snow-covered peaks.
We stopped for the night outside a tiny village. Sun-jo and I started to help set up camp, but Zopa waved us off.
"You two go climb." He pointed to a wall about a quarter mile away. "Don't fall. Come down before dark."
He didn't have to tell us twice. We jogged over to the wall. It wasn't a difficult climb, but about halfway up I had to stop to rest and catch my breath. Sun-jo, who had picked a more difficult route, scrambled up the rock like a lizard, smiling as he climbed past, which taught me a couple of things about him. He had much better lung capacity than me—and he was competitive.
Climbers will tell you that the thing they love about climbing is that it's just them against the rock, blah, blah, blah.... That may be true if they are alone on the rock, but put another climber next to them, and the race is on.
I was shocked when he blew by me so effortlessly. I was the kid who was going to climb Everest, and Sun-jo was just along for the ride up to Base Camp. Then I reminded myself that ten days ago I was clinging to a skyscraper a few hundred feet above sea level—not exactly the best training for scaling the highest peak in the world. If I was going to summit I was going to have to do better than watch Sun-jo's butt disappear over the top as I hung below him gasping for breath.
"I think you picked the more difficult way," he said when I finally sat down next to him on the rim. We both knew this wasn't true, but I appreciated his saying it.
We sat on the edge for a while taking in the view. It was too late to climb down before dark, so we decided to rappel to the bottom. Sun-jo offered to let me go first, but I shook my head. First up, first down.
When we got back to camp dinner was ready. Zopa didn't say anything about the climb, but there was a spotting scope set up on a tripod pointed
at the wall. He must have watched the whole thing.
The next morning Zopa told us the truck was overloaded and that Sun-jo and I would have to walk with our heavy packs.
"Why did Zopa do that?" Sun-jo complained as we watched the truck drive up the road. "The truck is fine. We haven't picked up more than fifty kilos of supplies."
I shrugged, but I thought I knew the answer. Zopa thought that a hike with a full pack would do me good and didn't want me to walk alone. Sorry, Sun-jo.
The walk was hard, but it was better than bouncing around in the back of a truck, and it gave Sun-jo and me a chance to get to know each other better.
Sun-jo's father didn't want him to become a Sherpa.
"The reason I climb," he had told him, "is so you won't have to."
"Does your mother know you're on your way to Base Camp?"
"No. And she would be very upset if she knew."
Later that day I spilled my guts about climbing the skyscraper, which I immediately regretted. When Sun-jo figured out that I was telling the truth, he stopped in the middle of the road and laughed for at least five minutes. It didn't seem that outrageous to me, but I guess to someone who lives in the shadow of the highest mountain in the world, climbing a skyscraper is pretty lame.
"Does your mother know you are on your way up to Sagarmatha?" he asked.
"I don't think so. And she would murder me and my father if she knew."
We finally caught up to the truck that evening. Zopa suggested we take another climb before we ate, but Sun-jo and I revolted and told him to forget it.
The next day he made us walk again.