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.
Lift Off
March 26. Even with the marvels of modern travel, getting from Utah to Kathmandu took three days of long flights interspersed with additional long hours of waiting in airports. After the short flight from Salt Lake, I clumped through the Los Angeles International airport wearing my red and black Millet mountaineering boots, waiting for the midnight flight across the Pacific to Hong Kong. Though the boots were heavy, hot, and made walking awkward, they would be the most difficult piece of equipment to replace if lost, so I wore them. I got plenty of stares. One grandmotherly woman asked whether I was going river rafting. River rafting? Then she said her son enjoyed river rafting. Apparently she was proud of him and welcomed an excuse to talk about him.
Later, two tall young guys asked me to settle a bet. “Are your boots for skiing or mountaineering?” one asked with a friendly grin.
“Mountaineering,” I grinned back.
“I win!” he said to his friend. “Where are you headed?”
“Everest.”
“Hiking?”
“No, I will try for the summit.”
“Awesome! Good luck!” We shook hands. The interest of friendly strangers helped distract me from worry about the closure of the mountain. Their encouragement reminded me of how much attitudes toward women mountaineers have changed in recent years.
After the long night flight across the Pacific, I enjoyed doing yoga in the nearly deserted new airport in Hong Kong. As the sun rose, rain clouds turned smoky orange, then peach, then pale gold.
The next day, during one of my walks up and down the aisles during the flight to Kathmandu, another passenger named Brian remembered me from Aconcagua in early 2007. Brian had climbed Everest a few months afterwards. At 21,000 feet elevation, he developed high altitude pulmonary edema, a life threatening condition, and had to descend to Pheriche, which is at 14,000 feet elevation. He lost 30 lbs. After about 10 days he felt better. He and a guide, Willie Benegas, then climbed back up and summited. He was back with his wife and two young daughters to share a little of his Everest experience with them.
Brian’s accomplishments were impressive and intimidating. I wondered whether I would get seriously sick like him. Would I even get a chance to try for the summit with the current closure of Everest? Questions wheeled like vulture through my mind. I firmly told them to leave. I had prepared as well as I could. Some things, like closure of the mountain, were beyond my control. Worrying about them would not help.
In Kathmandu at last, the lines for baggage claim, customs, passport stamps, and visa approval were as convoluted as I remembered from previous visits. In the crowd, I could hear French, German, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and various Nepalese languages. I was part of the international community of tourists drawn to Nepal. It was exciting and exhausting, especially after three days of travel with little sleep. I collected my duffle bags at baggage claim and threaded my teetering cart through customs then through crowds of eager porters and taxi drivers vying for my business.
I spotted a small neatly dressed Nepali man with an Adventure Consultants sign. He and two wiry little porters grabbed my bags and rushed through the airport parking lot to a van. As I tipped them, a third man asked, “Something for me?” I was not sure whether he had helped with my duffels or not. I gave him a dollar. He looked at it sadly for several seconds. When he concluded that I was not going to give him more, he disappeared into the shadows. The night air was mild and pleasant. It felt wonderful to be outside after three days of flights and airports.
As the driver wove through a confusing maze of narrow, dark streets, I noticed how quiet and empty Kathmandu seemed. During previous visits, it had teemed with crowds even late at night. Tonight we passed only a few small groups of soldiers in camouflage uniforms with automatic weapons and one family, a mother in her best sari and two small girls in frilly dresses. I wondered where they were going so late in their finery. The contrast between the vulnerable little family and the armed soldiers was a chilling reminder of the tense political climate and protests about the Chinese occupation of Tibet.
At Hotel Shanker, a tiny aged porter, his face as brown and creased as well worn leather, insisted on wrangling all of my bags, which taken together weighed more than I did. I helped him cram them into a crotchety elevator then we hauled them into my room. I gave him $3. His lined face beamed as he bowed his thanks and left. My room smelled like musty old wood, reminding me of my grandmother’s basement in Kansas. As I settled in bed for the night, party music squawked from a nearby bar. Tired but too wound up to sleep, I read for a couple of hours. Finally I slept from 2 am until 6 am, my longest sleep in four days.
March 29. I got up, dressed, and found the breakfast buffet in the hotel. It included an eye-popping array of local fruits and juices, hot and cold cereals, yogurt, sausage, bacon, eggs, potatoes, curry dishes, rolls, muffins, toast, butter, jam, tea and coffee. A smiling Nepalese chef offered to prepare a made-to-order omelet. This spread was far more opulent than my usual breakfast of oatmeal, sliced banana, and soy drink. I especially enjoyed the fresh papayas, mangos, pineapple, watermelon, and Asian pears.
As I was eating, I saw Mike Roberts, our expedition leader, enter the dining room. I waved. He joined me at a table near a window. Mike looked as fit and strong as when we had met three years ago on Cho Oyu.
“Hey, Mike, you and I have the same haircuts,” I joked, as I ran a hand over my closely cropped hair, while he sat down opposite me. I had my hair cut very short before this trip figuring haircut opportunities would be scarce on Everest. Mike eyed me warily and replied, “I