Everest

by Zelma Bowers.

My name is Zelma Bowers and this is the first instalment of  a trilogy about mountains. This is a differing topic to my usual books because I usually stick to hills. 

Multi-coloured flags fly in the harsh wind. Each thread being pulled in every direction, unravelling the hard work of the local women and dancing up to the highest point on earth. Each thread taken by the wind is a prayer to be answered. Red represents fire, blue represents the sky, white represents the air, green represents water, and yellow represents the earth. Together they provide the perfect balance of life. Their aim is to wish good luck to those hoping to climb Everest. There are thousands of flags in the camps; each one has a prayer perfectly printed on it.

The flags are carefully hung up above the tents. If they touch the rocky ground it is considered to bring destruction instead of peace. An array of neon greens, yellows and oranges are positioned in a neat circle. Excited faces pop out from the doors asking those coming down about their experience, their eyes glowing and ears ready to hear stories of hope and triumph. Instead they are met with blank faces and teary eyes. Completely ignored.

One climber comes down sobbing; he clutches a woman’s frozen blue glove in his shaking hand. I am certain he went up there with some-, the realization hits me like a punch to the chest. I had heard of the overcrowding on the peak this year, the queues as long as the ones at home in the supermarkets on a busy Sunday night. I had heard myths and rumours of guides falling off the precariously placed ladders and left there to die. Frozen bodies littered the white ground, the weirdest graveyard anyone will see. But what could people actually do to help? Everest is the ultimate goal for any climber or explorer.

Creeping away to his two-man tent, the climber had to pack his gear away, spend the first night without his daughter and call his family to inform them of the horrific news. I debated asking to help him, making him some coffee or just talking, but I was a stranger and selfishly I did not want to let him talk me out of my dream of climbing Everest.

After years of training, life changing injuries, job losses and people telling me it was impossible, I wasn’t going to turn around now. I had made it this far. Tomorrow I would start the ascent and in 24 hours, I would become the first over 70-year-old to climb Everest.

A high whistle of the kettle and the bubbling of packet curry made my stomach grumble. I devoured it in seconds, burning my tongue and throat. That was the best way to eat it, so the taste went away. It was a mix of bitter and sour and looked like cat food, but it had thousands of calories so I would be safe to climb. Well as safe as you can be climbing Everest.

I said a weary goodnight to my group. Almost instantly, my head hit the pillow and I fell asleep.