PROLOGUE - Tasmania, 2010
I have been watching her sleep for hours; the grey silhouette of her face now looks unfamiliar. Finding no answers, I quietly slide out of bed and numbly pull on faded track pants. Too tired to cry and too stressed to rationalize, I sneak out of the room. It is insane to be awake at this hour; maybe I am going insane. Outside, I sit on the hard concrete next to a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. As I light up, a disquieting whimper escapes my pursed lips and hangs in the pre-dawn still. I try to numb my racing mind with a long pull on the bottle. Two sleeping pills didn’t work, maybe this will. *Avoid alcohol with this medication* Seven years ago when I joined the pharmacy as a partner, it felt like all the right decisions were being made. My life story had been roughed out and was just awaiting further details. My older business partner and I would work well together and prosper, I would meet and marry a beautiful girl, we would have bright children and watch them grow; maybe I’d buy a sports car at middle age. Increasingly however, it is becoming painfully obvious that I am on the wrong train traveling the wrong way. I fantasize about
changing direction, but that would mean taking a risk and leaving this safe but stressful carriage. At work, I used to enjoy a laugh and a joke with the customers but now when I smile, my eyes don’t. For too long I have been waking with stomach cramps and running on coffee, cigarettes and nerves. Every time I walk into my pharmacy, it seems as though only bad news awaits: “Ben, this customer has a complaint...” “The nursing home is on the line with a problem...” “I have issues with one of the girls...” “Dr Smyth has a problem...” At least my business partner does not constantly hit me with bad news. To do so would require communication levels beyond a morning grunt and the occasional email. Despite being surrounded by a very capable team, I feel adrift and alone. I earn decent money but my career has totally stagnated; every month follows the same tedious routine. I try to stay positive but the business keeps pushing back that little bit harder. Each day takes with it some of my color. The positivity challenge spills over into my personal life, but I promise myself I will examine that later. Chin up, keep popping out the pills, put off any decisions.
Hiding behind a wall of excuses like “maybe next financial year” or “I’ll wait, it may improve,” I push on. Not surprisingly, things progressively worsen. I have always dreamt of exploring what the world holds rather than staying inside this gilded pressure cooker. However, every time I have come close to making a change, feeble excuses come easier than facing one looming reality: I simply do not enjoy my life. The whiskey is now gone. Stubbing out my cigarette, I rise stiffly from the cold concrete and sneak back to bed. Deep down I know this existence will soon cost more than indigestion and the occasional vomited breakfast. Tomorrow will be the day, I promise. I don’t sleep a wink. You know when a bit of dry biscuit gets stuck in your throat? That is exactly how I feel the next day, multiplied by a thousand, when I finally choke out, “I think this partnership has reached its use by date.” To be honest, as I search his stony face for a reaction I am deflated to find nothing. For years I have imagined and catastrophized this scene to biblical proportions. Throughout many sleepless nights, I have stared into blackness and
imagined my business partner jumping over his desk with his hands clawing at my throat, saying through gritted teeth, “After all I have done for you, you ungrateful bastard,” or, “This is how you repay my belief in you?” Worse yet, I imagined him not accepting my resignation. Eventually something flickers across his eyes. Resignation? Triumph?
Certainly
not
surprise.
The
spark
of
emotion
disappears before I can pinpoint it as he evenly replies, “I know you want to travel and explore, Ben, I have been expecting this day. We’ll work something out.” That night I return emboldened to my unhappy home and sit down with the stranger who shares my bed. We try to figure out if this relationship can be fixed. It can’t. Trying to explore my emotions, I find none. The feeling is like moving through a dark room and bracing to bump into furniture, then realizing that you are just walking through a black void. My countdown to freedom flies by in a whirlwind of sales agreements, baffling financial spreadsheets and, for me at least, a mounting wave of excitement about casting off. Before I can say,
“Holy-cow-have-I-done-the-right-thing?”
I
stand
surrounded by staff at my leaving function. My business partner
loudly gets everyone’s attention and says all the right things. His carefully considered speech ends with, “Thanks for all this ’cause you helped build it. You go away and have a great time, mate.” All eyes turn to me but I am daydreaming about adventure in foreign lands. Caught by surprise, I look around at these familiar faces but like a man absently watching television, I feel detached from the scene. Awkwardly fiddling with an oversized farewell card I mumble, “I s’pose you want some words of wisdom from me now?” In front of me, an older, somewhat paternal pharmacist jokes, “No! We know you too well.” “We don’t expect wisdom from you,” a cheeky young shop assistant teases, as everyone laughs and jokes. I chuckle quietly because they are right. What wisdom can they expect from a guy who drinks too much just so he can sleep? A guy who drives to work welling up with tears and impotently punching his car steering wheel. The boss who says he has a meeting but really, he just drives around in a daze, chain-smoking and thinking dark thoughts. What wisdom is there? When
the
laughter
settles
I
compose
my
thoughts.
“Anyway, I just want to say I have learnt something from working
with every one of you. It has been a long road and I’ll cherish the friendships.” It’s true, I have learnt a lot. After seven years in business, I now know that I am terrible at managing people and stress. I take everything too much to heart and am hopeless at pulling staff members into line. I know that faking smiles through panic attacks is near impossible and that Zoloft and alcohol is a horrible combination... I know I need to find myself. Being at this dinner feels like attending my own funeral. Maybe this is the wake; could this halfhearted pub meal herald the death of stressed, boring Ben? The following morning as I pack my life into boxes, the sheer brilliance of my situation hits. Up to now I have known on an academic level that my impending freedom would be great, but now a full emotional understanding hits like a tsunami. Sweeping my arms theatrically across the empty room I say to no one in particular, “I can go anywhere I want, with anyone I choose and for as long as I want, good sir... and by Jove, I bloody well shall!” Between negotiating a fair sale price and signing away my ties to the business, I have booked a twenty-one day climbing expedition in Nepal followed by a trip to Mongolia to visit an old uni mate. Already on order are guidebooks for South America
and Europe, and the floor around my feet is littered with bright pamphlets screaming out other adventuring ideas at me. Disregarding my tired state, I throw on my red rucksack and do a little happy dance alone in the living room. It is time to unfurl the spinnaker, time to stop living vicariously.
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CHAPTER ONE - Kathmandu Airport
The departure lounge of Kathmandu Domestic Airport is smelly, chaotic and electric.
Eager trekkers excitedly scuff an already
filthy floor with shiny new boots and sharp trekking poles. They are as impatient as me to be gone from here. It seems I have arrived at the airport during a waiting time, so I pile my equipment in a corner, buy some bitter coffee in a plastic cup, and wait. An English company is charging a sizeable sum to take me away from hot water, electricity and television for twenty-one days. With me are nine likeminded individuals who also think it’s a great idea to forego relaxing beach holidays to push physical and mental limits on big, scary mountains. For what? I wonder. Why am I doing this? A nice photo? Bragging rights? At this stage I have no idea what to expect apart from a much needed break from the real world and boy, am I excited. Like most flights passing big mountains, flights to Lukla are totally weather dependent. Boarding, flight times and seat allocation are sporadic and flexible which makes securing a seat on departing planes something of a cattle sale. Dowar, our
stocky sirdar, or head sherpa, goes into the fray to negotiate seating on the next plane. He disappears looking like a determined broker diving into a Wall Street negotiation—albeit in trekking pants and boots. All is quiet on the tarmac as pilots sit lined up in their planes waiting for a ‘go’ signal. When the green light is given all hell breaks loose; the ageing air fleet is frantically loaded and shoots off into the sky like a flotilla of mobility scooters racing toward a knitting supply clearance. One of our group, Kevin, is a lanky but chiseled Irishman about my age. He wears a constant friendly smirk despite a facial structure lending itself to sternness; it is as though he sees a perpetual joke that everyone else is missing. Kevin sits slightly apart from the others and quietly observes the group. Keen to meet some of the other climbers I sit next to him. “So Kevin, what do you do in Dublin, mate? He looks at me with a grin that automatically has me grinning back. “Well, my dad and I are builders. Houses mainly but we sometimes tackle bigger developments.” Kevin’s smirk now has me chuckling for no reason. “Sounds cool, I have always wanted to have a useful job, like, at the end of the day you can point to something and say, ‘I built that’.”
Leaning back in his chair, Kevin steers the conversation away from work. “Yeah, it is satisfying but I would rather be in the hills... You done much climbing?” I quickly learn one of the unspoken commandments of mountain expeditions: Thou shall not talk about work. That is unless you’re stuck somewhere and your skills could save someone’s life. Andy, a Welsh policeman with a chest like a refrigerator, joins us holding a steaming paper cup captive in his massive paw. An intimidating presence, he saves me from admitting inexperience to Kevin when he says in a rumbling Welsh accent, “Hi lads. Keen to go?” “Yeah, we are just talking about past trips,” I lie, looking up at Goliath. “You done any big climbs, Andy?” Clearly not a braggart, Andy pauses to inspect his coffee. It is like a confession when he admits, “Yeah, well, I climbed Denali last year. I couldn’t get time off work this year for a big-un so I thought I’d join this expedition and practice my Nepalese.” Almost in chorus Kevin and I say, “Holy Christ! Denali! That is amazing!”
With his serious demeanor and piercing eyes, Andy already has me intimidated. The fact that he has climbed Denali only adds to my respect, which is tinged with a little fear. Mt McKinley—or Denali—is the highest mountain in North America and something of a mountaineering Holy Grail. Despite a modest height by world standards at 6194 meters above sea level, it is Denali’s location in remotest Alaska that makes it so coveted. To climb Denali one must lug literally a mountain of gear in rucksack and toboggan over miles of glaciated terrain to the mountain base—this is before even beginning the climb. Added to this, the weather is so cold and unpredictable in the Arctic that recruiting local help is difficult and rescue options are severely limited. Many people fizzle out and head home before even setting foot on the mountain. Many expedition companies rate Denali as physically harder than Mount Everest. Kevin’s musical voice interrupts my thoughts. “What is the hardest one you’ve done, Ben?” I cannot admit that my experience is limited to having my hand held on a ten-day mountaineering course. “Yeah, well I’ve done a bit of climbing in New Zealand. It’s the closest we have to home. Apart from that, mainly trekking in Tasmania and Asia. You?”
Kevin glances quickly at Andy with admiration. “Not much, I’ve done a bit in Europe and South America. I would love to do a big one like Denali. Maybe one day.” Thankfully ‘Little’ Andy, our short, energetic leader bounds over. Little Andy does not look at all like I imagined him. With rounded shoulders and a slender upper body perched on ridiculously
muscly
legs,
he
looks
more
Tour
de
France
competitor than Himalayan mountain guide. With an enthusiastic smile and nod at each of us, he interrupts our soon to be awkward conversation. “Ready to go, lads? Grab your stuff; never mind those Germans waiting in front, we are next on the plane. Dowar knows people...” Saved from any more questions I gratefully pick up my bag and, failing to make it look light, follow in Big Andy’s wake. The Germans jealously watch our progress onto the tarmac. We walk past a security guard who frisks us all for weapons. For some reason I get an extra thorough frisking around the crotch region. I think he wants to check that I have a penis. Feeling violated, I board and sit down on a sling seat of faded canvas. Despite the inherent dangers of being on this dodgy plane, I excitedly peer around after doing up my frayed restraint. From behind, Kevin’s
bony knee is pushing into my lower back as he heckles my reddening neck. “You know, mate, what happens in the hills...” “Ha bloody ha. Don’t be like that, Kev, us single blokes gotta take what we can get. It was kind of nice, kind of weird.” “Each to their own,” Kevin laughs. “Man, how old do you reckon this plane is?” The first thing we notice about our plane is its age. Despite a recent paint job, the chipped interior and dented fuselage betray
advancing
years.
The
plane
looks
to
have
been
commandeered from the early Cold War era. Development on the twin otter started in 1964it would seem to have stopped the following year. Their STOL or Short Takeoff and Landing abilities make them perfect for use in mountainous regions and makes them a very popular choice for commercial skydiving operations. Looking around the scruffy interior, I would love a big yellow parachute strapped to my back right now. Not wanting to put too much stress on their frail planes Yeti Airlines strictly regulate checked-in luggage allowances. To reduce
our
checked
luggage
we
all
wear
hefty
plastic
mountaineering boots and cradle our packs on our laps. I can smell aviation fuel in the cabin and am able to see right through to the cockpit where two very young pilots pull levers and
scratch their heads. The pilots look at each other, nod, then yank back a big black lever. My vision starts to blur as the cabin fills with noxious fumes. Takeoff is a convincing argument that man was never meant to fly. The wheels lose and regain hold on the runway twice before finally shedding contact for good, or bad. Once airborne we fly straight into a cloud. I watch the two pilots chatting away as an ocean of stark white dominates their forward view; they seem blithely unconcerned about both lack of modern equipment and visual bearing. When we pop out above the cloud, the view is stupendous. I turn back to see Kevin also pressing his nose against the shabby glass with a contented smile. Nepal lays spread out below like a perfect scale model. Little villages, farms, trees and valleys
float
by
as
we
rollercoaster
over
an
increasingly
mountainous landscape. Every time we shudder over the crest of a hill, our little nineteen seater catches an up draught and rises sharply before dropping back to its original course. Conversation ceases as we ignore our rattling surrounds and bathe in the breathtaking view. A particularly violent shudder draws my attention back to the cabin, which still smells of petrol.
Before leaving for Nepal I spent some time researching this flight. One of the more interesting facts currently rattling around my skull is that the short sloping runway we are hurtling toward is renowned as the most difficult landing strip in the world. Lukla’s runway is cut into a cliff halfway up a mountain. This means the pilots only get one chance to approach and should they get it wrong we will become part of the cliff, like nine unlucky flights before us. A short career life may explain why most of the pilots I have seen look so young. Kevin nudges my back. “Check out the geezers in the cockpit.” I note a hint of concern in his voice. One of our pilots is looking around the cockpit with a bemused look trying to choose a lever. Through the front window I can see a hill looming; I cannot tell if we are meant to be going over it or landing there. The hill grows but the pilots don’t show alarm. I try to relax. All nineteen passengers are startled when we are reunited with terra firma by a sudden jolt. The pilots are immediately hard on the brakes with reverse thrust whining. Without slowing noticeably we are steered off the runway and squeal to a stop in a parking bay.
We watch as a short Nepalese man runs towards the plane to fling open the cabin doors abruptly, no doubt releasing a puff of the headache-inducing exhaust fumes, before the wobbly stairs are lowered and bags and passengers unceremoniously jettisoned onto the tarmac. More workers scurry quickly to load fresh luggage and passengers. All the while other planes hurtle in within spitting distance. When the plane is full to busting again, we watch the same man slam the cabin door before our plane shudders down the runway to rattle and zigzag its way back to Kathmandu. For the next twenty-one days, our only form of transport will be our feet and yaks for most of our gear. The rattly engines fade in the distance leaving me on the runway clutching my bag nervously and wondering what the hell I have got myself into. Little Andy slings his pack over his shoulders and breaks the collective revere using his ‘guide voice’ to get our attention. “Okay people, time for a cup of tea and equipment sorting, then we are on the trail. Yasa ba de, de, de.” He bounces lightly up to the tea house singing an unrecognizable song and looking for all the world like a happy, dancing leprechaun. In a brightly colored tea house, we meet our team of sherpas and climbing assistants, then spend some time fussing
over equipment before quickly setting off on the trail. I am simply thrilled to see my expedition duffel lurching ahead on a yak’s back. We are away. Off to tackle three mountains in Nepal’s Everest region: Pokalde, Island Peak and Lobuche East. I am beyond excited. Two days wandering through deep green rhododendron infested valleys sees me fighting my way up the final big hill towards Namche Bazaar, gateway to the Khumbu region and main provincial trading town. My stomach is feeling uneasy but I put this down to altitude gain over recent days. We settle into a palatial lodge overlooking the town, which manages a cozy feel despite being constructed almost entirely out of rock. Serious looking mountains with stern eyebrows peek through thick clouds. I sip my tea and get a violent urge to survey the view from the toilet. I skip dinner and spend the evening enjoying this amazing view between explosive bouts of diarrhea, disabling stomach cramps and vomiting. Despite feeling like my stomach has inherited a hornet’s nest I can still, on some remote level, appreciate the view. It honestly is incredible; the toilet window looks out towards Thamserku, the rocky mountain that presides over this eclectic town.
My enthusiasm for the view is soon dampened by illness. Five hours and over fifteen visits to the toilet later I am completely exhausted and glad to have a rest day tomorrow. With sweat dripping from my forehead, I rummage through my bag and pull out my cache of medication, which, as a recently retired pharmacy owner, is significant. Suffice to say I am determined that no illness will rob me of climbing a Himalayan mountain. I can cure nearly any bacterial, viral or alcohol induced illness that has been discovered and likely some yet to be. Like a wine expert selecting a vintage for guests, I rummage through my bags. Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we will be sampling 1500 milligrams of Australia’s finest Ciprofloxacin, followed by a Gastro-stop digestif. I hope this is to your taste... Take that, bugs! Immediately my stomach rejects the choice and purges the four tablets back into my mouth. Not wanting to waste precious medicine, I stubbornly keep my mouth closed and reach for my water bottle. Lubricated by stomach mucous, the cocktail stays down this time and goes to work. I crawl inside my sleeping bag and fall asleep with fingers, and legs, crossed.
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