{Morgenblätter}
Keith Laufenberg
The Highest Mountain
-1-
THE PLAN
Wither the fates lead, Virtue will fearlessly follow.
—Lucan, De Bello Civili. Bk. ii, 1. 287.
Gary ‘G-Man’ Greb stared at the photograph and nodded his head slowly, as a beguiling smile spread across his face. His eyes flicked to his wife and she nodded slightly, then put her hands on her enlarged belly and giggled. “Oh-whooo—he kicked me again—Gary.”
The G-Man smiled then his eyes reverted back to the picture of an immense mountain so high its peak was lost in the clouds. He had climbed six of the world’s highest mountains and now there was only one left to climb; he wanted to climb the world’s highest mountain, Mt. Everest, and become a member of the Seven Summits Club—those few mountaineers to have climbed to the peak of the world’s seven highest mountains. Greb was only thirty-five years old and had scaled the other six peaks all within the previous six months and wished to claim that as a record also. His wife, a Swiss mountain-climber herself, understood his unusual yearning to reach the summit of Everest and, even though eight months pregnant, she blessed his venture, only wishing him to return in time to witness the birth of his son—due within the next thirty days—in the middle of September. He stared longingly at the photograph of Everest, but then moved to his wife’s side and placed his hand on her now ample belly, for he longed for Everest with all his heart but he would have forgone it if his wife had wished it, for she lived in his heart and soul and he could not have abandoned her—even for the only thing left standing between him and immortality.
-2-
THE CLIMB
The Alps, the palaces of Nature.
—Byron, Childe Harold. Canto iii, St. 62.
There were six of them altogether—besides Gary ‘G-Man’ Greb, there was Richard ‘Dick the Pick’ Pickens, a climber who was said to have ice-picks in place of hands and the balance of a mountain goat, Bill ‘Goat’ Grandy—a six-foot-six-inch, 250-pound monster—who was said to be able to eat anything, including raw meat, and have the stomach of a goat—John ‘Dr. John’ Smith, a physician from New Jersey, whose presence and only input into the expedition was monetary, as he had paid a very necessary fee of seventy-five thousand dollars to Greb, Pickens and the Goat, a trio who were looking to cash in on Grebs’ seven conquests in the same number of months, as they were planning to reach the summit of Everest in under thirty days. The other pair of climbers were two Sherpani guides, Ngawang and Lopsang Sherpa, both men—as many Sherpa’s were—tremendously skilled in climbing ability, learned from living twelve-thousand feet above sea level, in a village that caressed the great Everest herself, climbing her being an everyday occurrence for them and, being accustomed to the thin air, much more adaptive to being able to survive without an oxygen tank in all but the highest altitudes. The Nepalese actually charged a seventy-thousand-dollar fee for access to Everest, a mere pittance to Smith, a plastic surgeon whose fee’s had made him a millionaire many times over, but the trio of Greb, Goat and Pickens had actually paid a fee of only twenty thousand dollars to Chinese officials in order to be allowed to scale Everest from the Tibetan side. As they all stared at the impressive mountain, silence reined for a minute, as they were all awed by her very majesty and magnificence—even the Sherpas.
****
In 1996, most aspiring climbers would take a helicopter to an airstrip in Lukia, ninety-two hundred feet up, in the Himalaya, but Greb wished to acclimate the men on the expedition and to walk everyone into shape, even though he had just come off Mt. McKinley—less than a week ago. Pickens and the Goat had agreed and Dr. John, who the other three were all wary of climbing with, as another climber’s mistake could be life-threatening to say the least, had no say in any climbing decision; he was a respected physician who had his way in his clinic in New Jersey but on this trek he had absolutely no say at all and he was quickly made aware of the fact, as he was sliding his crampons into a pair of brand-new mountaineering boots and they wouldn’t fit properly. Dick the Pick quickly found out that the good doctor wore a size eleven boot and pulled out a well-used pair of eleven’s and threw them at him. “Try these boots Doc,” he said, “you never wanna walk in brand-new boots—believe me.”
Smith frowned, he had just come off Mt. McKinley the week before with Greb, where he had agreed to finance this expedition, and looked immediately towards him, hoping for backing—or at least a kinder word—but the G-Man merely shook his head and smiled languidly. “Better lis’en tah the Pick Doc,” he said, smiling. “He’s climbed all fourteen ah the eight grand meter peaks yah know. I ain’t even done ‘at yet! Those crampons’ll fit the Pick’s pair.”
Smith, who wasn’t sure what fourteen peaks Greb referred to, but saw that the crampons fit the boots the Pick had thrown to him, simply shrugged and began slipping the crampons in place. He glanced at the two Sherpas and one smiled at him, revealing a row of shiny white teeth. “Ahehhh, the Pick know everthin’ Sah’b, he the man!” The two Sherpas had actually descended their mountain home to meet the Americans, guiding them through a route that they had travelled many times. Both Sherpas were being paid two grand for a month’s work, about what Dr. John made in a day, but for people whose annual income was less than ten times this amount, it was a fortune and they were happy to carry the supplies and do the back-breaking labor that was required on all expeditions to the highest peak in the world.
Dick the Pick hadn’t been on Everest since 1990 and in that six years alone, progress had struck down acres upon acres of forest-land, as teahouses and other commercial entities sprung up everywhere, as hydroelectric power was brought in to the villages surrounding Everest. Video players and other electronic media had been shipped in quickly, as the Capitalists smelled profit and many teenagers from Nepal and Tibet and the other villages would become as addicted to the numbing games and screens as their Western counterparts were.
It took them two weeks to make it to Everest Base Camp, commercialized Western-style, with a place to eat, sit, sleep and plot which course you would take to the top of the mountain that loomed everywhere, as far as the eye could see. When the sun was up, you could actually strip down to short-sleeved shirts, as there was very little wind, but as soon as the sun disappeared the temperature could easily drop to single digits and you had better be prepared to either put on a coat or freeze. The air was so thin at this altitude of eighteen-thousand feet that many of the inhabitants walked around with oxygen tanks strapped to their backs. Although they would take oxygen with them, the Greb team had acclimated themselves better by making the climb up the mountain for the past two weeks and would only climb a thousand feet and than back to Base Camp twice before beginning their historic attempt. There were cell-phones aplenty and Greb called his wife at every chance to check on the progress of her pregnancy, as the others called their families as well, until on a crisp, clear September day in 1996 the team began their final accent, in their attempt to scale to the top of the highest mountaintop in the world.
****
It was at least a four-day journey from Everest Base Camp to the summit, depending on the weather and the condition of the climbers. Most expeditions would make the climb in stages, making up to four or five different camps along the way, where they could rest and store their oxygen tanks and gear. They would wait for the right day and then make a valiant effort to reach the peak but the Greb party had decided to make only two camps, one halfway to the summit, at an altitude of 24,000 feet, normally a two day walk, but done in just twelve hours by the group, led by Dick the Pick, after the G-Man had deferred to him, due to the fact that the Pick had climbed Everest four times in the past and had come within less than a football field’s length of scaling her to the peak, only a raging ice-storm stopping his party, for, as all experienced climbers knew, it wasn’t the climb to the top that was the most dangerous part of the climb but the descent after reaching the top. Their other camp, Camp Two, would be just 2,000 feet from the pinnacle.
They would rest up at Camp Two for the assault to the top, figuring on about an eight to ten-hour climb, depending on the weather condition’s, as well as the condition of the men. They were all wearing oxygen masks, including the two Sherpas, by the time they reached the summit where they would make Camp Two, an elevation of just over 27,000 feet, where it was determined that Dr. John would in no way be able to proceed any further, as he was totally dehydrated and vomiting uncontrollably—and appearing not to know where he was.
And so, on a clear morning in the middle of September, 1996, the G-Man, Dick the Pick Pickens, Goat Grandy and Lopsang Sherpa would make the accent to the pinnacle of Mt. Everest, the dream of all climbers, while Dr. John would be guided by Ngawang Sherpa down the mountain, towards Camp One and from there back to Everest Base Camp, where he could attempt to survive to climb yet another day.
-3-
MOTHER EARTH
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever.
—Old Testament: Ecclesiates, i, 4.
They reached the top of the mountain at around noon on September 18, 1996 and Greb radioed the Mt. Everest Base Camp, where the news was passed on to the wire services, and faxes and wires were sent out to the families of the men and the major wire services world-wide. Lopsang pointed towards an approaching snowstorm and everyone took their eyes off of Goat Grandy, who had just ripped off his oxygen mask and thrown his tank on the ground and was removing his coat, when the storm surged quickly towards them, huge snowflakes whipping past them, as the whistling winds ripped their bodies sideways. The G-Man frowned and nodded at Pickens. “We gotta get the Goat down—he’s messed up.”
“Okay Gare—hey man—you got any Dex?”
Greb shook his head sideways, signifying he didn’t and Pickens quickly reached into his pocket and came out with a syringe that contained dexamethasomne, a steroid that was known to alleviate the harmful effects of the thin air at altitudes above fifteen to twenty-thousand feet. But, before he could grab the Goat, Grandy screamed and jumped off the summit of the mountain, into the blank, obscured whiteness of a now raging blizzard. Greb screamed at Pickens, who screamed back. “He’s gone G-Man, let’s go or we’ll never make it off this mountain.” Greb and Lopsang exchanged nods and the trio hurriedly headed off the pinnacle, walking through thickening clouds and snowflakes that made a white blur of virtually everything, as the trio stumbled and groped their way down the treacherous northside of the mountain.
****
Dr. John shivered and rolled up, inside his sleeping bag, into a fetal ball; there was a raging snowstorm outside and he was sure his tent would be soon be blown away and him with it. He had started down the mountain with Ngawang Sherpa when Ngawang a dozen feet ahead of him stepped into a crevice and disappeared and Dr. John, his oxygen lines frozen solid, turned around and barely made it back to Camp Two, where he struggled into his sleeping bag, as a blinding snowstorm raged all around him.
He had to pee so bad he couldn’t restrain himself but it was below zero. He would give a million dollars if he could just stand up in a warm room and pee, and he had the million to give. But it wasn’t to be, as the raging winds blew first the tent away and then Dr. John’s sleeping bag. As he was removing his heavy down pants and holding his penis in his hands the wind slammed him face-down into the snow—where he would be frozen solid within an hour.
****
Totally blinded by the raging storm, the G-Man, Lopsang Sherpa and Dick the Pick, held each other, huddling beside a large boulder. It was quickly becoming obvious that they would all soon die, if something drastic didn’t happen, soon. Greb exhaled and felt as if his throat was completely frozen; they had all discarded their oxygen tanks as the lines had totally frozen up, preventing any oxygen from getting through. Dick the Pick wrapped his arms around Greb, as did Lopsang, the G-Man being in the middle. “What was the Goat yelling up on the summit Pick?”
“He said he saw God and wanted to embrace him before it was too late—G-Man, we’re in the Death Zone man.”
“We’ll make it Pick—what ah you make ah what Goat said?”
Before the Pick could reply, Lopsang bobbed his head up and down. “It happens many time Sah’b—Sagarmathaji is mother of the earth,” he said, “you know? We are not meant to stand on top of her and proclaim we are superior beings. She does not approve.” There was silence after Lopsang said this; all three men were half-frozen-to-death and crumpled to the ground, all together. Just before he lapsed into unconsciousness, Greb heard the Pick say he had seen God. He stared into the night air and saw something floating away from him. “It is pleasing to my mother now that we will soon join with her,” Lopsang said, “and become as one—and I am happy now.”
Greb pushed against the Sherpa’s body and wondered why he wouldn’t respond—he distinctly remembered that the Pick had told everyone that Lopsang’s mother had died in childbirth and that Lopsang had verified it. He pushed against the Sherpa’s body again, several times, but nothing happened, he appeared to be dead, and so the G-Man rolled over, on the snow, and struggled to his knees. He saw the Pick’s body and fell onto it but the Pick didn’t budge. He shook the Pick several times but nothing happened. Then he collapsed onto the snow and stared into the whiteness everywhere. Then he saw the figures floating above him and smiled, they had wings and they were happy and they beckoned for him to join them but all of his being resisted, as his wife’s face came into focus and he smiled at her and she smiled back—he must make it and get back to her—she was about to give birth to his son and he must be there, he must, but then one of the floating apparition’s came closer and embraced him and his soul relaxed and he knew it would be all right; it was meant to be this way, even though his humanness could not understand it, his soul could, and so he let go—immediately peace enveloped him—as he floated upwards, and his earthly body, appeared farther and farther away. Then he saw the baby but who was it? Who? He had to know and his soul screamed: ‘who is it? Who?’ but then peace returned to him, as he recognized the infant—of course it was him—how simple, of course, it was him.
-4-
THE FACE OF GOD
Whoever falls from God’s right hand
Is caught into his left.
—Edward Markham, The Divine Strategy.
She had just received the news, her beloved husband had made it to the top of the world’s highest mountain and now she was deep into labor, delivering his son. She breathed deeply and pushed again and the baby was out—he was out and he was screaming—screaming for all he was worth. She felt woosy and faint but demanded to see her child and the doctor held him just in front of her face and she smiled even as she began to lose consciousness but she could clearly see that the boy was the spitting image of her husband, Gary ‘G-Man’ Greb, and it warmed her heart, then she felt very strange and alarmed and the last thing she remembered was staring at her child—and then she passed out.
****
It was September 18, 2001, and little Gary ‘G-Man II’Greb Jr. was celebrating his fifth birthday. His mother hugged him to her and he hugged her back. She had given birth on the very day that her husband had climbed to the top of the world’s highest mountain and then had lost his life, which had later been determined to have been three hours after he had scaled the peak of Mt. Everest. She put her little boy down and explained to him that she would be right back, she had to pick up his birthday cake, but he only hugged her tighter and wouldn’t let her go. Finally, his aunt, Andrea Greb’s sister, pried his little fingers from around her neck and he went into the living room, where they were playing birthday party games; it was often remarked that he and his mother were inseparable and it was true, except for very unusual circumstances they were never apart.
Andrea Greb slipped the birthday cake onto the shelf-like space behind the rear seat in her Honda Accord, then pulled out of the parking lot and onto Interstate 675, towards her home in Stockbridge—about ten miles outside of Atlanta. She imagined everyone was frantically awaiting her arrival and pushed down on the gas-pedal, as the car shot up to eighty mph, barely fast enough to keep up with the flow of traffic, for although she was in a hurry so was everyone else on this highway, many even more so, as a semi-tractor-trailer truck, traveling northbound on 675, veered across the median and plowed into the oncoming traffic heading Southbound, Andrea Greb’s Honda Accord being at the head of the pack. The truck-driver, having fallen asleep after nearly thirty hours of driving, his deadline just an hour away in the city of Atlanta, flew through the truck’s windshield on first impact, and the screeching and battering of metal upon metal, as the big rig crashed into one and then another automobile, was so deafening that it was a full ten minutes before the explosions and screams of the injured lessened, only to give way to a blathering of sirens and horns, as the police, fire engines and ambulances made their way to an accident scene that would ultimately claim the lives of an even dozen human beings—Andrea Greb being the first.
****
Barbara Greb rubbed little Gary ‘G-Man II’ Greb Jr.’s head and soothed him the best she could but he was inconsolable, he would not stop crying and she could no more understand why than she could understand the meaning of life, and so she just stared at the many parents and children surrounding him and shook her head, consoling him as best she could.
“Junior—Mommy’ll be home soon,” she said. “She just left.” But the little boy simply cried all the more.
-5-
THE BEGINNING OR THE END
Death is the gate of life.
—St. Bernard, In Transitu S. Malachi. Sermon i, sec. 4, ad fin.
Passed from death unto life.
—New Testament: John 5:24.
The G-Man II smiled, as he placed the ring on his bride’s hand, and repeated the vows, that were being fed to him by the preacher. It was September 14, 2015 and the G-Man II was marrying his high school sweetheart. From the very first time he had laid eyes on her he knew it was meant to be, for she reminded him of his long-departed mother and he always had the strange feeling that he had known her all his life; she was born on the day his mother had died, his fifth birthday. Gary Greb Jr. was an ironworker and one who loved working on the high steel; he even worked with an all-Indian crew of ironworkers, the only Caucasian on the crew, most ironworkers terrified to work that high in the air but Greb, known vicariously as Junior and the G-Man II believed he was blessed with the ability to scale the heights—anywhere—anytime. He had heard the stories about his father and meant to climb a few mountains of his own someday, maybe after he settled down a bit with his new wife and had a family—maybe then—but only if his wife gave her blessing to it. He kissed her now, as the preacher bid him to, and the organ music droned on, as several bridesmaids threw rice on the couple as they walked down the aisle and towards the church’s front door. After their honeymoon he planned on climbing some mountains, as the desire was upon him to climb ever higher and higher and he gave in to that desire.
EPILOGUE
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
I hold that when a person dies
His soul returns again to earth;
Arrayed in some new flesh disguise
Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
The old soul takes the roads again.
—John Masefield, A Creed.
The G-Man II, Gary Greb Jr., stared at the photograph and nodded his head slowly, as a huge smile spread across his face. His eyes flicked to his wife and she nodded slightly, then put her hands on her enlarged belly and giggled. “Oh-whooo, he kicked me again Gary.”
Gary Greb Jr., the G-Man II, smiled but then his eyes quickly returned to the picture of an immense mountain, so high its peak was lost in the clouds. He was now thirty-five-years old and had scaled six of the world’s highest mountains, all fourteen of the world’s mountains with summits of eight thousand meters or above and, just the previous month, he had climbed Switzerland’s dangerous Eiger Nordwand, in honor of his mother, who had also climbed it. There was but one mountain left, the highest mountain in the world—Everest—and he meant to climb it. He knew his father had died there on the day that he was born but he was determined to no longer allow it to deter him, as his wife had finally given him her blessings. He knew she was carrying his son and that he was due within the month but he would not allow it to influence him because it was his time, he felt it, the expedition had been formed and he and his backers had been contacted by a television station who had agreed to pay the fee of one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars to climb to the top of the world’s highest mountain and Gary Greb Jr., the G-Man II, his father’s son, would lead the expedition to the top. He had to, he had no choice, after all, he had no other challenges left except Everest and, as they all answered when asked why they climbed her, he would also: “It’s there—is it not?”