his fortitude. Grateful for the walking stick, she had discovered that transferring weight from her knees onto it greatly reduced joint stress. How porters made it down with those heavy, awkward loads was beyond her comprehension.
* * * * * * * * *
Dorje had been furious with Ang Tharkay for assigning these grandmothers to him, but already he had developed a fondness for both and wouldn’t trust them to anyone else. Rain the previous night had made the trail muddy. To calm their jittery nerves, he sang the rhyming lyrics he’d learned from porters who joked about conditions they dreaded most. “ Raato maaTo, chiplo baaTo.” Giggling, the ladies asked what it meant. “Red soil, slippery trail,” he answered and glanced at Beth who smiled.
“It’s slippery enough to ski,” she commented and nodded at his cap. Rolling his eyes towards the brim, he remembered it said SKI VAIL. When he was nervous or scared as a young boy, it felt as though little field mice were scampering all around inside him. As he watched the breeze play with her hair and curl it around her cheek, the mice invited all their friends out to play and were running amok. Hopping on foot as he’d once done for Hillary wasn’t going to impress her. Perhaps this would.
Taking a deep breath to calm the mice, he bent his knees, yelled, “Geronimo,” and pushed off down the muddy hill. Arms flailing to keep his balance, one leg flying into the air and then the other as he hopped over rocks, he skied with no concept of how to stop other than falling flat on his face. And that was not an acceptable image. He took his eyes off the ground just long enough to see the trail turned sharply to the left with his momentum about to propel him straight off a cliff. With a quick prayer to the god of the mountain, he leapt up and grabbed an overhanging branch with both hands. His legs swung forward trying to tear him loose but he held fast and dropped down. That wacky Marty made me do this foolish stunt, he muttered to himself as he brushed mud off his Levis. Him and all his talk of smacking life in the head. The man’s a menace. But the clapping and cheering behind him soon turned Dorje’s mood around. He forgot about the American for the moment and slogged back up the hill with mud sucking and spitting at his heels.
When Beth smiled and said, “That was truly remarkable,” in a voice as warm and pure as the first blush of sunlight, it was worth all the aggravation.
Everyone’s mood changed when they reached a temporary bridge constructed of branches woven together and spanning forty feet over the water. Rushing wildly downstream, the river swelled in a never-ending torrent, wrenching and twisting at tree roots on the bank while enormous white waves crashed into boulders shooting water high into the air. Due to rain, the water had risen considerably since Dorje and Marty had crossed only four days earlier. Uncertain of the safety of the bridge now, Dorje stepped on to test it. As he watched his feet and carefully placed each step, the rushing water beneath him was dizzying. Instinctively, his toes spread to grip the branches as they had done all of his life but now met only the hard insole of boots that slid on mud deposited by those who had crossed before him. His confidence faltered. “ Om mani padme hum ,” he chanted, praying to nagi, the river spirit, to help him. After reaching the other side, he quickly returned, noting the most slippery spots.
As he told the ladies he would take them one at a time, his gaze wandered to Beth, wanting to be her hero and lead her safely across too. Like a male dog guarding his bitch, Eric stepped between them. “I’ll go with you, Babe. Let the Sherpa take the women.”
The Sherpa . Not Dorje or the sirdar, but the Sherpa . With those two words, Eric had reduced him to a non-entity, stolen his individuality and dignity in front of her. Dorje would not forgive him for that.
By
* * * * * * * * *
Dorje had been furious with Ang Tharkay for assigning these grandmothers to him, but already he had developed a fondness for both and wouldn’t trust them to anyone else. Rain the previous night had made the trail muddy. To calm their jittery nerves, he sang the rhyming lyrics he’d learned from porters who joked about conditions they dreaded most. “ Raato maaTo, chiplo baaTo.” Giggling, the ladies asked what it meant. “Red soil, slippery trail,” he answered and glanced at Beth who smiled.
“It’s slippery enough to ski,” she commented and nodded at his cap. Rolling his eyes towards the brim, he remembered it said SKI VAIL. When he was nervous or scared as a young boy, it felt as though little field mice were scampering all around inside him. As he watched the breeze play with her hair and curl it around her cheek, the mice invited all their friends out to play and were running amok. Hopping on foot as he’d once done for Hillary wasn’t going to impress her. Perhaps this would.
Taking a deep breath to calm the mice, he bent his knees, yelled, “Geronimo,” and pushed off down the muddy hill. Arms flailing to keep his balance, one leg flying into the air and then the other as he hopped over rocks, he skied with no concept of how to stop other than falling flat on his face. And that was not an acceptable image. He took his eyes off the ground just long enough to see the trail turned sharply to the left with his momentum about to propel him straight off a cliff. With a quick prayer to the god of the mountain, he leapt up and grabbed an overhanging branch with both hands. His legs swung forward trying to tear him loose but he held fast and dropped down. That wacky Marty made me do this foolish stunt, he muttered to himself as he brushed mud off his Levis. Him and all his talk of smacking life in the head. The man’s a menace. But the clapping and cheering behind him soon turned Dorje’s mood around. He forgot about the American for the moment and slogged back up the hill with mud sucking and spitting at his heels.
When Beth smiled and said, “That was truly remarkable,” in a voice as warm and pure as the first blush of sunlight, it was worth all the aggravation.
Everyone’s mood changed when they reached a temporary bridge constructed of branches woven together and spanning forty feet over the water. Rushing wildly downstream, the river swelled in a never-ending torrent, wrenching and twisting at tree roots on the bank while enormous white waves crashed into boulders shooting water high into the air. Due to rain, the water had risen considerably since Dorje and Marty had crossed only four days earlier. Uncertain of the safety of the bridge now, Dorje stepped on to test it. As he watched his feet and carefully placed each step, the rushing water beneath him was dizzying. Instinctively, his toes spread to grip the branches as they had done all of his life but now met only the hard insole of boots that slid on mud deposited by those who had crossed before him. His confidence faltered. “ Om mani padme hum ,” he chanted, praying to nagi, the river spirit, to help him. After reaching the other side, he quickly returned, noting the most slippery spots.
As he told the ladies he would take them one at a time, his gaze wandered to Beth, wanting to be her hero and lead her safely across too. Like a male dog guarding his bitch, Eric stepped between them. “I’ll go with you, Babe. Let the Sherpa take the women.”
The Sherpa . Not Dorje or the sirdar, but the Sherpa . With those two words, Eric had reduced him to a non-entity, stolen his individuality and dignity in front of her. Dorje would not forgive him for that.
By
Similar Books
