Millions of tourists flock to Nepal every year, and most of them are there to gaze on Mount Everest. Getting to Everest Base Camp takes less than two weeks of walking—not climbing or doing anything technical—and doesn’t even have a view of the mountain, since it’s so close. It’s unimaginable to me, really. The idea of traveling so far and paying so much money to walk up and see the side of a glacier where climbers pitch their tents. The prize isn’t there, among the junk left behind by the expeditions. The prize is at the top.
Chapter Four:
Tate
(Four Months Earlier) January 5
Paradise, Mount Rainier, Washington
5,400 feet above sea level
It’s a perfect climbing day, if brutal icy winds, frozen eyelashes, and mild frostbite can be part of perfection. On Rainier in winter, it definitely can be. It’s day one of our winter summit attempt; we’ll make camp in a few hours and wake at midnight to push for the top. I grin, even though nobody’s around yet. This is my happy place. I adjust my earbuds under my helmet and wait for the others to catch up.
Rose, when she gets to me, looks a little less pumped. “Argh! I think I’m in worse shape now than I’ve ever been! I’m sucking wind already.” She takes a few deep breaths, and she groans.
“You’ve been slacking, Keller. I told you to keep training with me at Rockface. Time for beast mode.” I keep my voice easy, trying not to sound like I’m saying I told you so. But I’m totally saying it. She was so busy this fall with her millions of extracurriculars and honors classes and volunteer hours, all laser-pointed at getting her into Yale, that her climbing time definitely took a hit. It’s fine—I can usually find someone to partner up with at the gym or even for a day trip into the mountains, but Rose is kidding herself if she thinks she can blow off training and zoom up Mount Everest in a few months. I glance at her, and her mouth’s smashed together, which is Rose code for pissed off, usually at herself. So I lay off.
“At least you get to look at this view while you catch your breath. That doesn’t suck, right?” I say, gesturing around me.
Below us, ribbons of white and fading-purple mountain peaks blaze in the late afternoon sun. I wave my hands around like a game show host or something, and finally Rose grins. So far we’ve barely climbed. We’re just hauling ass up the trail. There are hikers and skiers and all kinds of outdoorsy types who have no intention of spending the night at 10,000 feet and leaving at midnight for the crux of the climb—a rocky and wind-scoured cliff. Suckers. They’re missing the good stuff. The older we’ve gotten and the more we climb, the more it becomes the best part of my day, my week, my year. Unlike Rose, I’m not really looking for five hundred other things to do every minute of the day. Especially now that Everest is finally—finally—in our sights.
Partly to keep moving and partly to keep from bitching more about training to Rose, I bend down to make a snowball, and the next time she’s looking all gooey-eyed at the view, I pelt her on the back of the head.
“Oh, it is ON!” She spins and starts hurling snow so fast her arms look like those cartoon circles. I duck, then figure it’s easier to put her in the snow than the snow on her and pile-drive her. We both go down right as Dad and Maya join us. Maya used to lead, every single time, but lately whatever bug she’s fighting keeps her slower than the rest of us. She tries to smile when she reaches us, but her hands are on her knees, and she’s breathing hard.
“Tate! Enough with the games! This isn’t exactly a playground.” Dad is level-orange annoyed, despite the fact that we’re on a plateau that is literally as safe as a playground. Probably safer, since there’s none of that crappy mulch that always gets stuck everywhere.
“Chill out,” I say, trying to get snow out of the neck of my jacket. Rose gestures for me to bend down and brushes it out, then I do the same for her. “We’re all good. According to Rose’s master plan, which is never wrong, we’re still fine to get to Muir Camp by four thirty p.m. to set up. Rosie, I swear you have a bright future in trail guiding if architecture doesn’t work out.”
Dad snorts. “I’m sure she’s been banging away at AP courses for four years so she can haul tourists up mountains. No, I suspect we’ll be reading about her in either Fast Company or Architectural Digest, or both. I know you’re holding out to get off the early decision waitlist for Yale, Rosie, but you’ll have plenty of options. You, on the other hand, buddy…Well, hopefully we’ll get some good news in the next few months. I hope your personal statement and recommendations are enough to let them see what you’re actually capable of.”
Maya and Rose both start talking at the same time.
Maya says, “Jordan, let’s enjoy the view and worry about the future later,” while Rose bursts out, “I’m sure schools will be all over him! Tate’s an incredible artist and designer. He’s a lot more likely to be famous than I am. The stuff he designs is real genius!”
I do love to design stuff, though I don’t think it falls into genius range. First with Legos when we were little kids, now with fancy software (though let’s be real: Legos are still completely dope). Somehow my whacked-out ADHD brain settles into some kind of holding pattern when I’m working on these kinds of projects, and I can totally focus. Hyperfocus, according to Jimmy the Shrink, and one of the reasons ADHD people can go on to greatness. I’m not counting on greatness; I’d settle for consistently decent.
Dad shakes his head and smiles a tight smile. “You two—maybe you should have written Tate’s personal statement.” But he stops. Maya changes the subject, and the two of them examine a crampon that has a busted strap. Maya’s had my back forever, trying to tamp down the constant stream of Tate-Do-Better-Tate-Just-Concentrate-Tate-Can’t-You-Please-Just-Put-Some-Effort-Into-It.
Now she grins at us, her smile like Rose’s. “Last chance for photos. The cold is draining the battery something fierce. Better make it good!”
She points the camera toward us, and I immediately lean over and pretend to lick Rose’s face.
“Don’t lick my zipper! Remember what happens to a tongue on metal in this cold.”
We both laugh. “Remember the ski lift?” I say. “Dad, you kept saying, ‘Yank it off, son! Come on, we’ve got to get off the lift!’ And I was all, ‘Uh-uh!’ ” I mime shaking my head with my tongue stuck to the metal bar in front of me.
“They had to stop the lift and pour the lift guy’s coffee on it,” Dad sighs. “What a fiasco.”
Maya looks at the sky. “We should keep moving. It’s going to get dark fast, and we want to be well set up at camp by then.”
The others agree, and we start moving again, a straight line of bulky bodies against the white of the mountain. Everyone’s moving slower now. It’s the slow, slogging parts that I hate.