Paths of Glory

GEORGE SLIPPED OUT of camp just before sunrise, a knapsack on his back, a compass in one hand, and an ice axe in the other. He felt like a schoolboy off to have a smoke behind the bicycle shed.

Through the early morning mist, he could just about make out the unnamed mountain rising high above him. He was estimating that it would take at least two hours before he could hope to reach its base when he heard an unfamiliar sound. He stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see anything unusual.

By the time he reached the lower slopes of the mountain, he’d been able to consider several different routes to the summit. The first thrill for any mountaineer contemplating a climb is deciding which route to take. The wrong choice can result in disaster—or, at the least, in having to return another day. George didn’t have another day.

He had just decided on what looked like the best route when he thought he heard the unfamiliar sound again. He looked back down the valley along which he had approached the mountain. Half of it was bathed in morning sunlight, while the shadow of the mountain made the rest of it appear as if it had not yet woken up, but he still didn’t spot anything strange.

George double-checked his chosen route, then began to attack the stony, rough terrain at the foot of the mountain. For the next hour he made good progress, despite having to change direction several times whenever an obstacle blocked his way.

He could now see the peak ahead of him, and estimated that he would reach the top within the hour. That’s when he made his first mistake. He had come up against a rock that not only blocked his path, but appeared to be insurmountable without a partner to assist him. George knew from bitter experience that much of mountaineering ends in frustration, and that he had no choice but to turn back and search for another route. He also knew that if he was to get back to camp before sunset, there would come a moment when he could no longer risk chasing the sun as it sank beneath the unfamiliar horizon.

And then he heard the sound again, closer this time. He swung around, and saw Nyima approaching. George smiled, flattered that the Sherpa leader had followed him.

“We’ll have to turn back,” George said, “and try to find another route.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Nyima, who simply jumped up onto the rock and began to scale it effortlessly, his arms and legs working as one unit as he moved across the uneven surface. George watched as the Sherpa followed a route he’d so clearly taken before, and George wondered if he’d seen Everest before. Moments later, Nyima had reached the top of the obstacle, and all George could see was a hand beckoning him to follow.

George tracked the route the Sherpa had taken, and grabbed a ledge he had not noticed before, but that opened up a direct path all the way to the summit. This simple maneuver had saved him an hour, perhaps two, while at the same time Nyima had become George’s climbing leader. It was not long before he had joined the Sherpa, and as they made their way up the mountain it was clear to George that Nyima was familiar with the terrain, as he set a pace George could only just keep up with.

When they reached the summit, they sat down and looked toward the north, but everything was enveloped in a bank of thick cloud. George reluctantly accepted that he would not be introduced to Chomolungma today. He opened his knapsack, took out a bar of Kendal Mint Cake, broke it in half, and handed a piece to Nyima. The head Sherpa did not take a bite until he had seen George chewing away for some time.

As they sat staring at the unmoving clouds, George concluded that Sherpa Nyima was the ideal climbing partner—experienced, resourceful, brave, and silent. He checked his watch, and realized they would have to leave soon if they were to be back in camp before sunset. He rose, tapped his watch, and pointed down the mountain.

Nyima shook his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Mallory.”

As the Sherpa had proved right about which route they should take, George decided to sit back down and wait for a few more minutes. However, there comes a moment when every climber has to decide if the reward is worth the risk. In George’s opinion, that moment had passed.

George rose and, without waiting for Nyima to join him, began to descend the mountain. He must have covered about 150 feet when he felt the breeze picking up. He turned around to see the clouds drifting slowly away. He quickly retraced his steps and rejoined the silent Sherpa at the summit, when he found that, like Salome, Chomolungma had already stripped away four of her seven veils.

As the breeze grew stronger, Chomolungma removed yet another veil, revealing a small range of mountains in the foreground that reminded George of the French Alps, and then another. He didn’t believe that such beauty could possibly be surpassed, but then a gust of wind removed the final veil, proving him wrong.

George was lost for words. He stared up at the highest mountain in the world. Everest’s radiant summit dominated the skyline, making the other peaks of the mighty Himalaya look like a kindergarten playground.

For the first time, George was able to study his nemesis more closely. Below her furrowed brow projected a sharp Tibetan nose made up of uneven ridges and unapproachable precipices beneath which wide nostrils belched out a wind so fierce that even on level ground you would have been prevented from advancing a single stride. But worse, far worse, this goddess was two-faced.

On her west face, the cheekbone was made up of a pinnacle of rock that stretched high into the heavens, far higher than George’s imagination had ever dared to soar, while the east face displayed a mile-long sheet of ice that never thawed, even on the longest day of the year. Her noble head rested on a slim neck, nestling in shoulders of granite. From her massive torso hung two long, supple arms, attached to large flat hands that offered a slight hope until you saw her ten thin, icy fingers, one of the nails of which was where they hoped to set up base camp.

George turned to see Nyima gazing at Chomolungma with the same fear, respect, and admiration that he himself felt. George doubted if, alone, either of them would be capable of climbing onto even the shoulders of this giant, let alone scaling her granite ice face—but perhaps together…

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AFTER THEIR MIDNIGHT dispute in Bombay, George was relieved that the General invited him to be a member of the diplomatic mission that would present their credential

s at the border post.

Thirteen members of the expedition team, thirty-five porters, and forty-eight mules had bedded down for the night on a flat piece of land by a fast-flowing river on the India–Tibet border. George and the rest of the party spent a convivial evening enjoying the General’s excellent wine and cigars over dinner.

At 5:45 the following morning, the General was standing outside George’s tent in full dress uniform, carrying a black leather attaché case. Sherpa Nyima stood a pace behind him, wearing his traditional woolen bakhu and carrying a large black box with the words LOCK’S of London printed on the lid. George crawled out of his tent a few moments later, dressed in the suit he’d worn for the Governor-General’s reception and his old school tie. He accompanied Bruce out of the camp toward the border post.

“Now, I am not expecting any problems, Mallory,” said the General, “but should any misunderstanding arise, leave everything to me. I’ve dealt with these natives in the past, and have the measure of them.”

George accepted that the General had many great strengths, but feared he was about to witness one of his weaknesses.

When they reached the border post, George was taken by surprise. The little bamboo hut was well camouflaged by the dense undergrowth, and certainly didn’t look as if it welcomed strangers. A few paces later, George spotted a soldier, and then another, holding ancient rifles pointing in their direction. This show of hostility didn’t cause the General to slacken his pace—if anything, he speeded up. On balance, George felt he would have preferred to die on the top of a mountain rather than at the bottom. A few paces further on, George could see exactly where the Tibetan border lay. At the only break in the bamboo barrier that stretched across the narrow path, two more soldiers sat in a dug-out fortified by sandbags, their rifles also aimed directly at the advancing British army. Still undaunted, the General marched straight up the wooden steps of the hut and through the open door, as if the border post was under his command. George followed cautiously in his wake, Nyima a pace behind.

Inside the hut, the General came to a halt in front of a wooden counter. A young corporal seated behind the desk stared at the three strangers in disbelief and, although he opened his mouth, he didn’t speak.

“I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” barked the General. Sherpa Nyima translated in a soft voice.