Читать книгу No Magic Helicopter - Carol PhD Masheter - Страница 10

Twelve days before I was scheduled to fly to Kathmandu, Guy Cotter telephoned me from New Zealand. “This whole thing may be off. The entire mountain is closed,” he said, his voice cracking, as though he were about to cry. As part of the build up to the 2008 Summer Olympics, a Chinese team of climbers was taking the Olympic Torch to the summit of Everest from the Tibet side. Chinese officials did not want to risk any chance of protesters disrupting the torch relay and closed the Tibet side of Everest. Officials from the Nepalese Ministry of Tourism claimed they did not want to jeopardize their friendly relationship with China and had closed their side of Everest. Guy added that he would fly to Kathmandu and try to persuade the Nepalese Ministry of Tourism to let us climb Everest in the spirit of the Olympics.

I tried to sound reasonable and understanding as I talked with Guy, because he sounded so upset, but I did not feel reasonable or understanding. I felt like I would explode with frustration. After 11 years of developing skills for the climb of a lifetime, now it would not happen. I could not imagine postponing the climb another year. I was not sure I could put myself through another year of the most rigorous physical training of my life. Though I had paid for travel insurance, I was not sure I would get any of my money back. Paying for another chance to climb Everest seemed out of reach, as did getting another unpaid leave for 10 weeks.

Over the following days the news was scary and depressing. Violent demonstrations sprang up around the world protesting the Chinese occupation of Tibet. The Dalai Lama threatened to resign his leadership of exiled Tibetans. Climbing Everest seemed frivolous in comparison, but I still felt sorry for myself.

Friends from the Wasatch Mountain Club were planning a farewell potluck dinner for me. Instead of looking forward to it, I felt dull and discouraged. I would have to tell them the climb would not happen. When I arrived at the condominium clubhouse where the dinner was being held, my work colleague and outdoor friend, Dave Rabiger, was hanging a string of bright Himalayan prayer flags across the fire place. I sadly told him Everest was closed. He looked confused. I tried to explain Guy’s phone call, as a few more friends arrived and gathered around. “They can’t do that!” they protested indignantly. I replied wearily, “They can do whatever they want. Things don’t work over there the way they do here.” Their indignation touched me. I shrugged and said to Dave, “Go ahead and hang the prayer flags. They can’t hurt.”

As the flags went up, my spirits lifted. My friends were throwing a party for me. I was not going thank them by being negative. They had knocked themselves out and prepared a feast. After dinner, I slipped into the bathroom and put on my huge down pants and parka, massive three-layer plastic Millet mountaineering boots, balaclava, and ski goggles. I glanced in the mirror. I looked like a Teletubby from Mars. I burst out laughing. I staggered comically out of the bathroom making Darth Vader sounds, fighting an imaginary head wind. My friends looked at me uncertainly. Then they giggled, crowded around, and bombarded me with questions. The guys particularly were fascinated by the design of my mountaineering boots and the many pockets and zippers of my down parka and pants. Their excitement and interest in my adventure surprised and moved me. I was glad I did not let discouragement about the closure of Everest spoil this lovely evening with friends.

After the farewell potluck, I alternated between immobilizing anxiety and bursts of frantic activity. I made last minute arrangements for being away, knowing I might have to cancel them. Dave Rabiger hung the string of prayer flags from the farewell potluck dinner outside my cube at work. Dave had climbed glaciated peaks in South America, had some close calls, and knew the dangers first hand. Those bright little flags were a ray of hope. I went to International Mountain Equipment and paid for my special-order down sleeping bag rated to minus 40 degrees. The lean wiry climbers who ran the shop had been graciously holding the bag for me, pending further news about whether we would be allowed to climb Everest. They grinned and wished me luck. I needed it.

Several days after Guy’s phone call, I received email from Adventure Consultants. The Nepalese Ministry of Tourism still had not issued our climbing permit, but Guy instructed us to fly to Kathmandu, as though we would be allowed to climb. Time sped up and slowed down unpredictably. Sometimes I feared I would never get everything done, before I left home. Other times, the days seemed to drag on endlessly, and the departure date would never come. I did my hardest workouts then tapered my training for the last few days, giving my body time to recover. I put the finishing touches on my gear, like zipper pull tabs I could operate while wearing big gloves. I checked and rechecked my piles of gear against my equipment lists. I squashed everything into two large duffle bags and two carry-ons. I was as ready as I could be.