Doesn’t work.
My footsteps get faster, and sure, they’re probably too fast for this crap we’re skating on, but I need to get off of this, need to get somewhere where I can climb, or stop, or anything but this. Moving faster still, I glance up for a second to see how far ahead Rose is.
I take one more step without looking down.
Chapter Seven:
Rose
April 6
Lukla, Nepal
9,380 feet above sea level
“Did you know this airstrip was on the Discovery Channel’s special on the world’s deadliest places to fly into? It was number one.” My voice sounds weird, even to me. “The landing strip actually runs uphill to help the planes cut their speed, but it stops right against the mountain. I guess takeoff is the worst, right? I mean, thinking statistically—”
“Rose. Shut the fuck up. Please. I’ve never puked on a plane, and I would really like to keep my record.” Tate doesn’t look at me.
The Soviet-era plane, which only seats around sixteen people and gives a definite impression of age—with duct-taped upholstery and a ripped, sagging ceiling—is bouncing badly. Making things worse—much worse—is that out one side of the plane, the mountains are reallyreallyreally close. Like, reach out and touch them close.
Next to me, Tate squeezes his eyes shut.
“You okay? You never get sick. Are you—”
“PLEASE!” His voice comes out kind of as a yelp.
I shut up and place a mint in his hand, which he puts in his mouth without opening his eyes.
“Sorry. That helped,” he says finally.
“You’re doing better than those two,” I say, gesturing toward the back of the plane, where two New Zealand women, trekkers who are going to some monastery, are wailing and shrieking.
“At least Luc stopped yelling ‘Ahhhhh merdemerdemerde!’ a few minutes ago,” I say. Luc had been ridiculously excited about the whole roller-coaster effect.
Tate sighs, dropping his head on my shoulder. “I’m going to be really happy to get off this plane.”
But when we finally land, staggering off the plane onto the cracked concrete, he doesn’t look much better. I feel fine as soon as my feet are on the ground. We are only at 9,000 feet, barely an altitude gain by Himalayas standards, and we’re officially in the mountains. Peaks surround us on three sides, glorious and huge, sending long shadows over the tiny airport. As with every climb, the bureaucracy takes forever, and we’re ushered inside while Finjo and the other guides deal with five hundred pages of permits and paperwork. Tate slumps on a bench.
“I’m fine,” he says, anticipating my question. “Just glad to be off that stupid plane. And ready for a nap.”
I hand him my water, and he gulps it down while I stare around me. Finjo and his minions are all huddled in a corner. In fact, now that I look up, every single Nepali and a few Western guides are in that corner too.
“What’s going on?” I poke Tate, who is leaning against me while I tickle his arm.
“Mmmmm?”
“Wake up. Seriously. Do you think something’s wrong? What if the permits aren’t ready? Doesn’t that happen sometimes?”
Jordan, who also looks a little pale from the flight, stands up. “I’m sure the permits are fine, Rosie. Let’s not assume the worst. I’ll see what I can find out.”
I stare around at the tiny room. “Not much of an airport, is it? I want a Starbucks.”
Paul looks up from his book. “Actually, there’s apparently a fake one, right here in Lukla! I read about it in the guidebook.”
We are laughing over the response I would get if I ordered a grande no-foam skim mocha latte when Jordan’s voice breaks through the room.
“Jesus Christ! How bad is it?”
Everyone turns to stare. I am halfway across the room, Tate right behind me, when Paul calls us back.
“But—,” I start.
“Wait. Let’s hold tight,” he says, and maybe it’s his professional therapist voice, but we all do what he says.
Voices buzz like swarms of wasps, rising to high pitches and dropping again, but I can’t understand any of it. My stomach twists, and the Dread shows up, hungry. Could there be news from home? Were there messages waiting for us?
Finally, Finjo and Jordan walk over. With them are Dawa, Asha, and Bishal, three of the other Sherpas who’ll be guiding us up the mountain. No one is smiling, not even Finjo, whose Cheshire Cat grin is his most constant feature.
“So.” Finjo rocks back on his heels, looking around. “There has been a very bad accident. A tragedy. The Icefall Doctors—the group of Sherpas who set all the fixed ropes up the route to the summit before we arrive—they have encountered an avalanche.”
He pauses, and no one says anything. No one wants to ask the question.
“There are two confirmed dead, several more still missing,” he continues finally.
“Oh no.” On cue, my eyes fill. I swipe at them, frustrated. I have what Tate nicely calls overactive tear ducts, welling up at Christmas specials, musical numbers sung by children, and weddings of complete strangers. But this time it’s real. This time my tears don’t count enough.
Finjo nods. “Those whose bodies can be found are being brought down now for cremation and funeral. And the search effort is still ongoing. It is a very hard thing, a very sad thing.”
No one speaks, and there is no sound except for my sniffling. I bite the inside of my mouth, hard.
Finally Yoon Su speaks. “This is a terrible tragedy. I’m so very sorry to hear of these deaths, and I will pray for them.” She pauses. “But now I have to ask. Is there reason for us to reconsider our expedition? This is a very inauspicious beginning.”
I feel Tate twitch against my shoulder and put a hand on his arm. I know without him saying anything what he’s thinking; it’s blazing bright in his eyes. People died. How can it be about us? But I can’t pretend to be shocked. Climbing Everest requires big stakes, big money, and a very short window of time to reach the summit. It doesn’t stop for anything.
Finjo nods like she’s asked a reasonable question. “You are correct to ask. But as you know, we will take almost two weeks to acclimatize as we trek up to Base Camp, and even more time will pass before we are on the fixed lines. The Icefall Doctors will continue their work—”
“Once they find the rest of the bodies, I guess,” Tate mutters. I can feel him vibrating with something—rage or sadness—against me.