The Courage of My Companions
The Courage of My Companions
By Keir Graff
Chicago Reader, December 29, 2006
(Illustration by Bill Dunlap)
My name Lobsang Sherpa. I am Sherpa. Carry big load up mountain. Climb Sagarmatha, mountain you call Everest, seven time. My English not so good. OK to speak Sherpa, you make into English?
* * *
That’s better. I can speak enough English to make myself understood on the mountain—I know the words for crampon, altitude sickness, and Gamow bag, which is a device that simulates the air pressure of lower altitudes—but for a story like this, I’ll need to employ a greater degree of nuance. And my English is—how do you say?—inelegant.
I first met Andrew Assenmacher at Base Camp on April 11 of last year. I’d never heard of him, but he stood out from the other climbers because he was tall and handsome with curly gray hair so pretty it looked as if he had flown in a stylist from Kathmandu, which I found out later he had.
It was morning, and I was sitting on a flat rock drinking some tea. I’d had a long hike the day before—I was just joining the group—so it felt good to stretch out in the sun. Assenmacher walked up wearing a Gore-Tex snowsuit with about 70 zippered pockets and squinted at me.
“Do you golf?” he asked. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
He pointed at my chest and I realized that I was wearing a Tiger Woods T-shirt I’d gotten at Pacific Place mall in Seattle. I also surmised that he was the type who likes his natives picturesque. So before he could say “I thought you fellows all wore homespun yak’s wool sweaters,” I flashed him a big grin and said, “Gift from mighty American climber, Sahib.”
Assenmacher nodded and walked off. Naturally he didn’t pick up on the Sahib. That’s an Indian thing, not a Sherpa thing. I felt a little dumb giving him the shuck-and-jive, but it worked. He left, and I was alone with my tea.
The reason I was late joining the party was that I’d just come down from K2, where I’d guided three Germans on their first attempt. They weren’t the friendliest bunch of guys, but I totally dug their shtick. They wore matching outfits with their names silk-screened on the back and did calisthenics together every morning, shouting, “Ein! Zwei! Drei!” We didn’t summit— after an avalanche killed the leader, numbers zwei und drei decided to pack it in—but I admired their team spirit.