The Ascent(19)

When I awoke, the wall of windows was black. I took a long shower, then dressed in a pair of cargo pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I grabbed the book on George Mallory I’d brought, then crept out into the night.

The lodge was comprised of one main building and several smaller four-bedroom units scattered in no discernible fashion about the property. The buildings looked run-down and forgotten, but I could tell they weren’t cheap. This trip must have cost Andrew a fortune.

I entered the main building and crossed the lobby to an iron stairwell that wound down to a subbasement. It wasn’t a bar per sebut a small eatery, poorly lighted, with a bar along one wall and large wooden tables and chairs spaced out along the floor. At the far end of the room, a fire blazed in a stone hearth.

There was no alcohol at the bar. A dark-skinned woman with horrible teeth served me a mug of hot tea, which I carried over to the fire. Situating myself in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, I thumbed through my book while sipping the tea. It was scalding hot and tasted like pine needles. My mouth watered for some liquor.

As I read, a few people shuffled in and out of the room. They whispered in a language I couldn’t comprehend. A few times I craned my neck to see them; their shadows, amplified by the proximity of the fire, danced along the stone walls.

I returned to my book, skipping all the way to the final chapter, which described Mallory’s demise on Everest’s north face. I felt a twinge of claustrophobia, and I couldn’t help but recall that night nearly two years ago when I’d almost died in that cave in the Midwest.

Andrew’s voice popped into my head—What were you doing in that cave by yourself?—and it was simultaneously Marta’s voice as well. A good question.

Someone appeared behind me. When he spoke, his voice startled me, and I sloshed some hot tea into my lap.

“It’s a good book,” the man said. He had a low, meaty voice.

I looked up and found he was less bulky than his voice had me believe but in good shape. His face was sunburned and creased with ancient gray eyes, though he looked about my age.

“Course, you skip to the end like that and you miss all the details.”

“How’d you know I skipped to the end?”

He sat in one of the empty chairs and held his hands up to the fire. “You were on the tram with me from the airport this afternoon. I noticed by your bookmark you were only about halfway through the book. Unless you’re a speed-reader …”

I closed the book. “No, not a speed-reader. Just a cheater.

Caught red-handed.”

“I’m John Petras,” he said, extending his hand. “But just call me Petras. No one save for my mama calls me John.”

I shook his hand. It was a firm grip. “Tim Overleigh.”

“Where you from?”

“Maryland.”

“Wisconsin, myself,” said Petras. “Land of cheese.” “Are you here with a tour?”

“Nope, no tour. I’m here for the same reason you are.” I grinned, thinking he was putting me on. “And what’s that?” Petras returned my grin and said, “Because Andrew Trumbauer told me to come.”

3



MY EXPRESSION CAUSED PETRAS TO CHUCKLE. IT

was a rumbling sound, reminiscent of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down an empty desert highway.

“How do you know Andrew?” I said.

“Ice climbing. Canadian Rockies. We were in the same group. There were about fifteen of us. Spent a good two weeks in the hills, then spent another week getting drunk in Nova Scotia.” I was still confused. “I mean, how’d you know …?” Still grinning, Petras said, “I heard you ask the man on the tram about the Canyon of Souls.” He scratched behind a large, sun-reddened ear with one massive hand. “Ain’t many folks come out here searching for the Canyon of Souls. Hell, most have never heard of it.” “I’ve never even heard of it myself.”

“See, this place, it’s practically Disney World for mountaineers, climbers, the whole lot. Even the amateurs come in their guided tours to say they’ve set foot on Everest or took a piss on the Khumbu Icefall and watched it freeze. I know this because I’m usually the guyguiding the tours. These people don’t care about making it to the top of anything. Most of them wouldn’t know a crampon from a tampon.” He pointed to the book in my lap. “There are very few George Mallorys left in the world. What’s become important to folks is being able to say they’ve done something. The doing it part … well, that’s just what has to happen in order to tell their friends. There’s no heart in it, no spirit. And these people sure as hell ain’t here to cross the Canyon of Souls.”

“So why are you here? What’s so special about the Canyon of Souls for you? Or is it just because Andrew Trumbauer mailed you a plane ticket?”

Petras’s gaze flicked toward the fire in the hearth. After a moment, he said, “I guess it’s because it’s never been done before. No one’s ever crossed it. Few that I know of have even bothered to try. The place, it’s not in any of the guidebooks or maps. Few care. Forgive me for cribbing Sir Edmund Hillary, but I’m doing it because the damn thing is there to be done.”

“That’s a good answer,” I said.

“So how about you? What made you drop everything and run the hell out here?”