Beyond the Summit Read Online Free PDF Page A

Dorje scolded and tugged him down. “You are a crazy man.”
     
    “No. But a little wacky maybe.”
     
    “What is wacky?” Dorje asked, wanting to add this word to his burgeoning English vocabulary. Four years ago, he’d figured out that speaking the language of the mikarus guaranteed larger tips and more promotions. He’d been badgering foreigners to teach him ever since. Marty pulled his hair out at the sides and wiggled his tufted eyebrows to demonstrate. Curious word, this wacky thought Dorje .
     
    “Life is like a stubborn old mule,” Marty said. “So you have to smack it across the head every once in a while just to keep it in line.”
     
    Even though he understood the individual words, Dorje had no idea what the American was talking about and changed the conversation by explaining that young people take herds up high to graze at summer camps called yersas when summer rains sprout new grasses. Three months of unchaperoned work and play.
     
    Marty abandoned leaping over fragile crevasses and sidled up to Dorje. “You have a girlfriend?”
     
    “Yes,” Dorje answered with a grin and swagger. “A most beautiful Sherpani.”
     
    “Huh. Well, American women would go crazy for you too. When you want to attract one, just slowly comb your fingers through your thick black hair and flash that big grin of yours.”
     
    “You have a woman?”
     
    “Oh, no, that’ll never happen. I’d have to grow up!” Pushing his arms out to make himself look larger, Marty drew his eyebrows together in a fierce look and growled. “But I have this really big dog.”
     
    After growling too, Dorje started laughing so hard he almost tripped over an ice block, still not accustomed to these boots. Even though his feet were warm now, he missed the connection with the earth he used to have. Chuckling to himself, he remembered his first few days in them. He had earned 300 rupees carrying a French woman for twelve days when she sprained her ankle. After buying boots for himself and his brother, he ran outside and jumped in the mud to verify the footprint matched those of the trekkers. His entire being singing, he swaggered up and down every path in the village, kicked the dirt, crossed over sharp rocks, and stomped in puddles. Running up the stairs to show Nima, he discovered his feet had acquired new dimensions. His toes kept hitting the risers, making him stumble all the way and catching himself on his hands.
     
    He glanced at Marty’s feet and wondered at what age he had first worn shoes. Noticing the American was now breathing harder, he warned, “You must go slowly, bistarai, bistarai, or you will get sick this high.”
     
    As they followed cairns up the center, the glacier twisted and undulated in its unrelenting downward progress. Recalling Marty’s comments about women, Dorje amused himself with memories of the first time he and Shanti made love last summer at Gokyo. The breeding of yaks and cows all that week had imbued the air with a heightened sensuality. Conversations between the sexes were full of innuendoes and boy/girl roughhousing occurred frequently. With all that excitement surrounding him, Dorje couldn’t contain himself any longer. One afternoon when the sun sneaked out between downpours, he ran to the hut where Shanti was churning nak butter and asked her to come outside.
     
    The entire pasture had blossomed into a field of alpine flowers glistening from the rain: deep-blue poppies, pink geraniums and wild roses, dark purple bellflower and primrose, pink lilies and dwarf rhododendron. Leading her over a low ridge away from the huts and grazing animals, he intended to gently ease her onto a blanket of yellow buttercups, thread a deep-pink orchid through her long black hair, and whisper sweet things, but she never gave him a chance. Shanti stuffed grass down the back of his pants and took off running with her long skirt sweeping over the meadow. He could suddenly sympathize with yaks trying to mate