Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

“You hear that?” Curtis said, appearing at my side. He started climbing slightly faster than me. “What’s that sound?”

I listened. “Sounds like … running water …”

We reached the first of many plateaus to see a waterfall clear across the valley spilling into a forested gorge. Through its mist a rainbow projected, and I could see more of those great black birds swooping down toward the water for food. If this were a movie, it would be the part where the orchestrated music would kick in while the director of photography panned the camera for the breathtaking panoramic. For us, we were content to pause in our ascent just to watch and take it all in. Even Andrew, who’d seemed to be in a bad mood all morning, leaned against the crags, arms folded, and observed the spectacle in absolute silence.

By lunch, we had crested a ridge of fir-lined rocks that overlooked the entire valley. No longer could I make out the Valley of Walls nor the tiny huts and pagodas of the villages through which we’d passed. Here, we were utterly alone. There could have been a thousand of us, and each one of us would have been alone.

The Sherpas distributed cuts of burlap on which they piled steamed rice, boiled leaves, and cubes of grayish meat. Andrew wolfed his food down, then vanished through the trees, either to take a leak or continue with his meditation. The Sherpas read books and

ate very little, though they continued to stoke the small fire.

I set my food down and trotted off toward the trees. After I’d urinated, I crept deeper through the firs until I made out Andrew’s shape on the other side of the brambles.

“Not much farther,” he commented as I approached. He was staring at the face of the mountain, running one palm along its surface. “We’ll set base camp on the next plateau and bed down for the night.”

“How far up is it?”

“Depends. If we keep spiraling along the path, it’ll take till nightfall. If we go straight up, we’d save some time.”

“It’s steep.”

“It’s doable. And there’ll be steeper along the way.”

“Are we in some kind of hurry? To save time, I mean.”

Andrew rubbed his forehead, then turned to me. I felt him scrutinize my entire body. “How’s your leg, the one you broke?”

“It’s holding up.”

“And your head?”

“Fine. Just a little ringing in the ears.”

“Listen,” he said, looking hard at my eyes, “I’m glad you came. Means a lot. I’m sorry I’ve been distant out here, but … well, there’s been a lot on my mind.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not really. Not now, anyway. Maybe later.” He cast another glance toward the invisible mountaintop. “Let’s worry about setting up base camp first.”

After lunch, it was decided we would continue winding our way to the top by sticking to the path. Whether or not my brief conversation with Andrew had anything to do with his decision, I didn’t know. Only Chad suggested we climb straight up, but the Sherpas had no interest in scaling the vertical face of a mountain.

It took four hours to reach the summit. We were all exhausted. The air was much thinner and colder, searing my lungs as my inhalations grewdeeper and deeper. I dropped my gear in the fronds and pulled my shirt over my head. The cool air against my sweaty flesh felt exhilarating.

“We’ll set up base camp here,” Andrew said. There was a smear of dirt across his right cheek. “We’ve got twenty-four hours before we start the ascent of the south face.”

“I can’t see the top,” Chad marveled, looking up with one hand shielding the sun from his eyes despite the fact he was wearing sunglasses. “There’s a mist hanging low on the next ridge. Cloud cover’s heavy over the first buttress, too. Looks like rain.”

I poured a splash of water from one of the plastic water bottles into a cupped hand, then lathered my bare skin—arms, chest, stomach, shoulders.

“You still jonesing?” Chad asked me.

“You starting up again with this?”

“Don’t be so quick to jump down my throat, Shakes. I’m offering to share with you.”

“Share what? You got a bottle of bourbon in that pack?”

“Not quite.” He withdrew a cigar vial from his belt and unscrewed the cap. A joint the width of a thumb slid partway out into the palm of his hand.

“I take it that’s not a Swisher Sweet,” I commented.

Chad grinned. “One toke and it’ll feel like someone put your head on backward.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You sure? I’m lighting this fat fucker up as soon as the sun’s down and the fire’s going.”

“I’m sure.”

Chad shook the joint back into the vial and replaced the cap. “Anyway, you’re welcome, Overleigh,” he muttered and strode away, his heavy boots crunching the gravel.

The Sherpas coaxed a sizable bonfire from a nest of branches at the center of camp, while the rest of us set up the large canvas tentthat would serve as our communal shelter. It was approximately the size of a carport with reinforced plastic sheathing for windows and a floor of double-ply tarpaulin. It was hardly tall enough to permit any of us to stand without stooping over, and we quickly ran out of corners to stash our personal gear.

By nightfall the Sherpas had prepared a fine meal of hot vegetable broth, freshly baked bread, and boiling green tea, which we all devoured in silent reverie. With the darkness came the cold; while the tent kept the wind at bay, the most heat was generated outside by the large bonfire. I took a seat on the ground, sipping my third cup of hot tea, to warm my feet at the base of the fire. Petras’s looming shadow fell across me, followed by Curtis’s, and they both sat on either side of me.

“Cheers, boys,” I said, raising my cup and taking a sip.

“Not to tell tales out of school,” Curtis said, “but you guys catch the way old Shotsky was huffin’ and puffin’ coming up the ridge today? I thought the poor bastard was going to keel over at one point.”

“He won’t make it,” Hollinger opined, coming up behind us. “There’s no way.”

Curtis slid a slender black finger beneath his nose and turned his gaze toward the fire. “What’s he doing here, anyway? He’s not a climber. He’s a goddamn greenhorn. Should be hoisting crab pots onto a boat in the Arctic.”

“Let him be,” Petras said. “He’s here for his own reasons. Just like we are.”

I thought about telling the guys that Andrew had paid Shotsky to be here. In fact, I opened my mouth but decided against it at the last minute.

No one except Petras noticed; his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. After a moment, he turned and looked at the fire.

Curtis’s face soured. “You can be as polite as you want to, Petras, but fact is fact. And fact just might be someone’ll have to hike backdown to base camp when the poor bastard cramps up or suffers a heart attack or stroke or something.”

“Men will surprise you,” Petras said.

“Shit,” said Curtis. “I know that’s true.”

As if summoned by the sheer mention of his name, Donald Shotsky materialized on the other side of the bonfire. His face glowing in the flames and shadows dancing across his features, he grinned a big, stupid grin and raised a hand at us. “Hey, guys.”

We mumbled and nodded at him.

He came over, followed by Chad. God knew how long he’d been lingering close by in the shadows.

Chad slid his cigar vial off his belt and unscrewed the cap. “I feel—,” he began but was interrupted by a growl of thunder.

We all looked up, mouths agape. In the distance, above the cover of low-hanging clouds, bleached blue light flared and resonated in the filaments of our retinas.