A Change in Altitude (11 page)

The building at Met Station was a banda made of wood, with a covered veranda. First making a fire, the porters set up camp. The trekkers would have a hot lunch that would in fact be dinner. To keep hunger at bay until the lunch was cooked, the group was offered tea and bananas. They sprawled on the veranda, letting their backpacks slide off their bodies. Willem had been right. Though part of an afternoon and evening stretched before them, no side expeditions were planned. No games proposed. No conversation offered. They wanted only food and a place to sit, later followed by a place to lie down, which turned out to be on the canvas cots in the banda, lined up the long way. There were ten cots. A party of three young German climbers had arrived at Met forty-five minutes after the group had. Flushed and fit, they spoke enough English to be polite. They’d intended to go straight to Mackinder’s Camp, they said, but had gotten a late start. Diana explained that it was just as well they hadn’t. Met was there primarily to provide an overnight at altitude so as to acclimate trekkers. The Germans smiled, and it was impossible to tell whether they were smiling because they thought Diana was funny or because they were glad to be reminded of this important point.

It was impossible also to tell if there was a view. Low cloud still surrounded them. Night fell closer to seven o’clock because of the altitude. So that they could pick out their cots and set up for the night, a lantern had been hung just inside the bunkhouse. Trips to the latrine were accompanied by a porter. A flashlight was turned off at a discreet moment, but it couldn’t have been a pleasant duty for the poor African assigned the job.

Nearly everyone had lain down within an hour of sunset. Dinner had been filling. Arthur and Willem seemed exhausted, which was, Margaret thought, still a residue of hangovers. Diana, who claimed the cot closest to the door, argued with Willem for the spot. Theoretically, a man should have the cot closest to the door in case of danger. But Diana was adamant, making fun of Willem for pretending chivalry. Margaret thought,
Careful, Diana,
as she came dangerously close to insulting the man. To Margaret, the matter was simple. Diana’s constant need to get going compelled her to have the cot by the door and to be the first out in the morning. In the way that one couldn’t help but wonder from time to time about another’s marriage, Margaret could not imagine Diana making love with any pleasure. Margaret guessed she would be brusque and quick and eager to get on to the next item on her agenda.

They lay side by side: Diana and Arthur, Saartje and Willem, Margaret and Patrick. Margaret didn’t relish sleeping so close to Willem, who was uninhibited with his farts. She faced Patrick in complete darkness as soon as the lantern was snuffed out. She fell asleep listening to German and woke in precisely the same position as she’d been in the night before.

The first challenge of the second day was the treacherous vertical bog. The mud sucked at Margaret’s new boots with ferocity and made her think the bog was alive. If there had been a distance between Margaret and the others during the easy part of the climb the day before, the distance increased exponentially. Margaret grew panicky with the gap, which by now was too far even to make herself heard. Though the porters never left her, she wished for a companion, someone to encourage her on as Arthur had, to make sure she didn’t break an ankle. Patrick did occasionally wait for Margaret to check that she was okay, but even when she told him, “This is pure hell,” he nodded in agreement and then, as if he were captive to his feet, went on ahead of her.

Perhaps the others had conversations. Margaret guessed they didn’t. They all had sticks for balance, and in some sense they propelled the group upward, though Margaret thought it was more a case of holding steady so that no one fell backward. Her windpipe hurt as with the sorest of throats, simply from the effort to breathe. Mouths were wide open to capture whatever air could be found. She was sweating within ten feet of the beginning of the bog. Instead of taking off her jacket and tying it around her waist by the arms, as she should have done, she felt she couldn’t spare a minute as she watched the others move farther and farther ahead. She hated the mud, hated the climb, hated everyone ahead of her, even her husband. Each effort to extract a boot from the muck dragged at her knees.

When she reached the top of the bog two hours later, the others lay on the ground as if slaughtered. Margaret began to shiver inside her wet clothes and knew she wouldn’t be able to rid herself of the chill until they got to camp and she changed into clean ones. She discovered that always being last had serious drawbacks, apart from embarrassment. When she reached the point at which the others had stopped, they’d already had their rest and thus were eager to get going, ensuring no rest for the slacker. Always being last suggested the pip-squeak in gym class, as well as the one who
wasn’t really trying
. There was a kind of good-natured understanding at first. But Margaret felt a subtle resentment gathering. Why had she been asked along anyway? Why was she holding them up so? Did they dare leave her behind with the porters? How exasperating Margaret was in keeping them from a meal and, even more important, from a hut with a bed. Patrick began to show a touch of impatience as well at having to wait or climb down to check on his wife. “That’s it, Margaret!” he would say when she accomplished a big step, as if he were encouraging a child to learn to walk. There was an enormous irony in their impatience, which Arthur had mentioned the day before. Margaret, of all of them, was thoroughly acclimatizing herself.

Her companions, from having fallen where they stood at the top of the bog, were covered with muck from behind. Because they’d had their rest, Margaret was given a short drink of water and asked to keep up (with no pause for her). As they trudged along a ridge with what might have been the glorious Teleki view, Margaret felt as though she were following a family of troglodytes. Heads down, with little appetite for the dismal and almost nonexistent view, they seemed to be headed back to a cave. Even Diana, in her bright-red parka, was smeared from hood to boot.

Margaret wondered how they would manage when they reached the hut. They would have to find a stream in order to wash the backs of their jackets. But could any of them withstand the cold when a parka was taken off? Were they to climb into their sleeping bags in dirty outerwear? The dilemma preoccupied her for quite a time, even though, since she had never had the opportunity to lie down, her own jacket was relatively clean. Later that day, she would discover just how much mud she’d kicked up onto her jeans.

And they were all cold. Due to Margaret’s stupidity, she was shivering, but nobody was comfortable. Well, perhaps Willem was, in his total ski outfit. Generally, though, the jackets were inferior to the task. It felt to Margaret as if they were children, inadequately dressed, sent out to play.

The camp they reached was a shack made with vertical boards and covered with a tar-paper roof. Sleeping accommodations, Margaret discovered when she went inside to change her clothes, were rudimentary. The mattresses on the ground were filthy, and Margaret blanched to think how many unwashed bodies had lain on them. With some gymnastics, she managed the feat of changing her clothes without touching the putrid pillow ticking. Patrick would have to set out the ground cloths. She was puzzled by Arthur’s pronouncement that the huts held thirty. Margaret couldn’t imagine thirty bodies on the mattresses. Ten, maybe, and even that would be cozy. She wondered if they would be joined again by the Germans.

She felt better once she was dry and had had her turn by the fire. The others looked haggard, if not worse, and everyone seemed grateful that the climb was over for the day. Margaret took a stool next to Patrick.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Better now. You been inside yet?”

“No.”

“It’s hideous. I am not exaggerating.”

“It’s a bed,” Patrick said. “It’s shelter. I can’t remember being so reduced to basics and appreciating them. When I saw the hut, I thought I’d cry.”

“Rough on you, too.”

“God, yes.”

“But you kept up.”

“Did my best.”

“And I didn’t?”

He was surprised by the question. “Of course you did.”

“I feel like an idiot,” she said as she poked at the dirt with a stick.

“No one minded. Everyone understood.”

“You’re a liar. Diana hasn’t spoken to me since we got here.”

Patrick shrugged.

“How were the others?” Margaret asked.

“Willem wanted to chat. Can you imagine?”

“No.”

“He and Diana seemed to be jockeying for head position behind the guide. It was weird and silly.”

“And Arthur?” she asked.

“He was quiet. Trying to conserve his energy, I think. We pretty much kept pace with each other.”

“Saartje?”

“Right up front with her husband. She seemed the least taxed of all of us.”

“Really?” Margaret said, having new respect for the woman. “Patrick, I’m not sure I can make it.”

He was silent a moment. “You have to, Margaret. We can’t leave you here. You wouldn’t be safe, even locked inside the hut.”

“I know,” she said.

“Get a good rest. I’m sorry to say, the hardest part is yet to come.”

Margaret groaned.

She accepted a cup of sugared tea from the cook. He passed around a tin of cookies.

“Glad we didn’t run into anything bigger than a sunbird today,” Willem said. “Thought we were done for yesterday.”

“I’m still amazed it didn’t charge,” Arthur said.

“You’re ponces, the lot of you,” Diana announced. It was meant to be a somewhat good-natured tease, but it came out as a scold.

“We’re all doing our best,” Arthur insisted as he moved his stool closer to the fire.

The cook made a flurried motion, indicating that Arthur might burn his boots.

Arthur nodded. “I’ll take my chances. Can’t get my bloody feet warm.”

“Change your socks,” Diana suggested practically.

“Don’t dare take my boots off.”

Diana sighed. “My point exactly. You’re a ponce.”

“I, for one, am starved,” Patrick said. He kept sniffing the air, trying to determine which stew the cook had on the boil.

“My legs are twitching,” Margaret said as sparks ignited the muscles along her thighs.

“You really haven’t done any climbing, have you?” Saartje asked.

Margaret didn’t think this was the moment to mention Monadnock. “Not really. And I’d just like to say to all of you that I’m sorry for being so slow. I shouldn’t have come. I’m slowing you all down.”

Diana looked away, a brief turn of red hood and white fur.

“Nonsense,” Willem said. “We’ll make a climber out of you yet. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

“But I thought tomorrow was the worst part. The scree and the glacier and all that.”

“The glacier requires no strength, just nerve.”

“You’ll be fine,” Patrick said. “Just do as the guide says.”

Diana was having none of it, and she sighed pointedly. So loud in fact that Patrick looked sharply over at her. Diana was undoubtedly sorry that she and Arthur had asked Patrick and Margaret to come along, but even she wouldn’t suggest leaving Margaret at the hut.

“Bloody long time to get here,” Diana said, in case anyone had missed the point.

The cook ladled out in tin cups what looked to be a beef stew. A hunk of bread went with it. Margaret asked for water.

Her legs continued to twitch all through the evening as if tiny electrodes had been implanted in the muscles. When the meal was over, people shifted and changed positions as various needs were seen to. Margaret had already been to the latrine, a ditch dug far enough away from the camp so as not to be troublesome. Managing the latrine required deft moves, a shovel, and courage. Who knew what was out there?

They had had precise instructions from Willem. “When there’s no toilet, bury your feces in a fifteen-centimeter hole.” Margaret tried quickly to convert to inches. “At higher altitudes, soil lacks the organisms to break down the feces, so leave them in the open where UV rays from the sun can break them down. Spreading it facilitates the process. Always carry your own toilet paper.”

Margaret sat next to Arthur.

“What I wouldn’t give for a stiff drink right now,” he said.

“What I wouldn’t give for a clean toilet.”

Arthur glanced at the porters. “Can’t imagine doing this every day.”

“Their lungs must be as big as inner tubes.”

Arthur had a candy bar in his pocket and offered Margaret half.

“Diana is a good climber,” Margaret said.

“Has to be first. At everything. She’d be leading the guide if she thought she could get away with it.”

Margaret let the chocolate melt and sink into all the spaces in her mouth. It felt like a rare and exotic treat.

“Sun’s going to set in fifteen minutes,” he said. “You’d better get all your gear together, claim a cot.”

“There aren’t any cots. It’s all mattresses.”

“We’re going to the mattresses?”

An exhausted Arthur making a joke. Margaret smiled in appreciation.

Patrick, who had a wonderful voice, began to sing, partly to entertain himself and partly for the rest of them. Margaret had heard him sing a hundred times, and she’d never tired of it. He had a clarion tenor and might have sung professionally had he not gone into medicine. Margaret watched the expressions on the faces of the rest of the climbers. Each was surprised and then pleased. One didn’t expect a serenade on a cold and grim mountain. Margaret could scarcely believe that fewer than two days before, she’d been standing in the hot sun.

Patrick sang “If You Leave Me Now” and “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” and “Imagine,” because everyone else wanted to join in. When even Patrick’s Irish repertoire started to wear thin, the guide and the porters started up with their African songs. Margaret could understand none of the words, but they must have been humorous in nature. Periodically, the Africans would be overcome with laughter midsong and fall apart from one another, infecting even her with the giggles, though no one had any idea why the Africans were laughing. Margaret imagined the songs being about stupid wazungu trying to climb a tall mountain in Africa.